Quiz and Quill 1961

spring 1961

The Quiz and Published by The Quiz and Quill Club of Otterbein College

The Staff Editor-in-Chief ......................................................Peg English Assistant Editors ............................................Rita Zimmerman Carl Kropf Business Manager................................................ John Soliday

Spring, 1961

Founded 1919

THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB - 1960-61 President .............................................................. Rita Zimmerman ■61 Vice President .................................................................. Peg English ■61 Secretary-Treasurer ...................................... Rosemary Richardson ■61 Program Chairman ............................................................Carl Kropf ■61 Faculty Sponsor ............................................................. Robert Price Alumni Relations Committee ...................................... Cleora Fuller ’53 Mary Thomas ■28 Ethel Steinmetz ■31 Barbara Acton ^62 John Soliday ^62 Carl Kropf ^61 Barbara Bushong ^62 Jean Mattox ^62 Judy Stone ^62 Peg English ^61 Dallas Taylor ^61 Carol Morse ^61 Jo Ann Hoffman ^62 Rosemary Richardson ’61 Rita Zimmerman ’61 Kaye Koontz ^62

HONORARY MEMBERS Mrs. Hazel H. Price Dr. Robert Price

Dr. Harold Hancock Walter Jones

LITERARY AWARDS Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest First Prize ......................................................................... Janet Lacey Second Prize .....................................................................Carl Kropf Third Prize .................................................................... Loyde Hartley Honorable Mention .....................................................David E. Heck Jo Ann Hoffman John Soliday Phyllis Valjato

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Quiz and Quill Prose Contest First Prize ........................................................Rosemary Richardson Second Prize ............................................................... Arti Trumblee Third Prize ................................................................ Barbara Acton Honorable Mention ................................................... Mercedes Blum Charlotte Bly Elizabeth Glor Karla Hambel

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Quiz and Quill Humor Contest First Prize ......................................................................... Janet Lacey Second Prize ............................................................ Rita Zimmerman Third Prize ................................................................ Barbara Mauer

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Dr. Roy Burkhart Poetry Contest First Prize ......................................................................... Janet Lacey Second Prize ..................................................................... Carl Kropf Third Prize ......................................................................... Carol Morse John Soliday

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Kathleen White Dimke Essay Contest First Prize ......................................................................... Carol Morse Second Prize .................................................................Robert Kaderly Third Prize ............................................................Barbara Bushong

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National Society of Arts and Letters Short Story Contest—1960 (For students of Otterhein College, Capital University, Ohio State Uni­ versity, and Saint Mary of the Springs) First Prize ....................................................................... John Soliday ■62 Honorable Mention ........................................................ Kaye Koontz ■62 Carl Kropf ■61

Weinland Writing and Selling Award—1960 First Prize ................................................................Rita Zimmerman Two

■61

Church at Lambarene Hospital LOUIS WILLIAM NORRIS '28

After several minutes of bell ringing in quaint dual accompaniment one hundred and fifty gathered in the passage back of the hospital against a hill. This "street� begins at one end of the 200-foot hospital and rises sharply as it reaches the far end toward the west.

Opposite the hospital on higher elevation rest two wards for patients.

One is for "malades nouveaux� and the other for typical diseases.

Dr. Friedmann, the chief assistant to Dr. Schweitzer, leads the service in French, while a woman and a man on either side of him interpret in their respective dialects. There are people along the north side of the hospital, in the shade, sitting by families. Some look out the openings in the wards. Others sit Ijetween the ward buildings on concrete blocks, the ground, or mahogany stools, or stand.

Clothes are scant, diverse, colorful, made of cotton. Women wear brightly colored turbans, babushkas, or wrap-arounds. Many have babies who pass the time by taking a leisurely breakfast from an ample breast.

Shoes are rare, though plastic sandals are prized when available. Light brown and cream-colored bottoms of stubby feet mix up the colors each worshipper adopts.

Goats to the number of a dozen or more move up and down the street quizzically, scratching their sides against the stones or foundation blocks, or looking for handouts from patients. Two of them stand in the portable wooden garbage boxes sorting over maize cobs, peanut hulls, lian leaves, and other husks to make sure nothing is hastily sent outside their province.

One goat sneezes, shakes dustily and rubs her head just over her ear vigorously with a hind foot. Another slides down a concrete retainingwaU slab belly-bumper, settling accounts on the underside in wholesale fashion.

Chickens, aged one week to a year, wander cheerfully among the worshippers. They cheep thoughtfully as they find food of different kinds in the garbage boxes or along the alley-way behind the wards where the patients prepare their own food.

A native takes a leaf to brush away chicken droppings from a stone to find a cleaner place to sit. The results were only partially success­ fully and she sits gingerly down oblivious to adjacent leavings even more substantial. Rooster crows puncmate the sermon, while bird calls and baby cries add a curious obligato.

Odors of burning wood from the breakfast each native family has fixed float in from each side. The smell of chicken droppings and goat refuse add a rancid flavor to the damp air. From the hospital comes the reassuring smell of disinfectants, while white-uniformed nurses move quietly from station to . station in bade of the preacher. Smoke from an occasional pipe, usually the sober adornment of a woman, helps to season the salmagundi atmosphere.

Farther up, white sheets ^d other, new-washed dofhes lie drying on the bushy grass and .weeds,;, Held up by this luxuriant. growth, they baloon gaily above thetward buildihg.against.the hill. Heat waves dance

Threi-

up the hill over these cloud-like islands in a sea of grass to join the heavy blue of a sky that reaches into the palm trees beyond. The heavy rain of last evening urges the grass to an even greener hue and lays on the air a heavier load of humidity.

Amid this setting of bright color, heavy odor, la2y air, and restless goats, the preacher laid out in simple gestures a New Year’s sermon.

The tired world has done its worst, he said, in the year just ended to reject Christ and the healing of body and mind. But the new year, he declared, will be different. The love of Christ will make a difference.

Le grand Docteur will help their bodies and the love of Christ will make things new. The preacher’s bushy black moustache jutted out in a rough, emphatic way that contrasted sharply with the simple truths he spoke.

Hymns such as "Yes, Jesus Loves Me,” and the Lord’s Prayer were sung or repeated in i^ny dialects and tones, but in a common under­ standing. With no "aids-to-worship” in form of choir, organ, altar, stained glass windows, comfortable pews, or kneeling stools, eloquent or dramatic rhetoric, the simple theme of Christian comradeship is never­ theless made real. Instead of sweet incense to please the Holy One there was much that conceivably could offend Him. Instead of an offer­ ing to pay for such aids to worship, there was an offering of simple devotion in spite of poverty and illness. ^ Here the clean, rejuvenating affection of Christian faith was propagat­ ing Itself surrounded by the grime of people who have not yet tasted the antiseptic flavor of civilization. Like a flower growing from a dunghill, the Christian faith had a clear, fresh beauty it lacks in so much of the western world. A white man was saying, "We love you for what you ^e, with your stinking goats, ratty chickens, hook-worm and all, not, 'We’ll be friends, if you’ll clean up and help us make something of this cmmby wilderness.”

Is this what Christianity must be in every generation?

On Small Things JO

ANN

HOFFMAN

'62

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry I so enjoyed your letter, I'm Just sorry I never got it.

Your call was appreciated too, .•Although the line was dead on your end.

I had counted on your visit to our lovely campus, But I know that the roads were bad.

Even though the sun was out and it was 75.

But I don’t suppose that things always go right, For it's said the road of love is rather bumpy.

Perhaps that’s why the mail is always late.

Pour

Mushrooms EDNA

DELLINGER

CARLSON

’22

Run child, run Part the pearled grass blades Choose with care Pick mushrooms edible Leave the poisoned there.

No larger than a man’s hand The Cloud rises from the sea Billows to a mushroom shape Now no choice for thee Run child, run.

Three Cinquains on Life VANDWILLA

E.

HACKMAN

'60

1

Morning Awakes my soul Rudely with shrill clatter And dares me out to challenge life Alone.

2 I see The face of God, Not in the cloudy sky.

But in the kind honest eyes of A friend.

3 Night thoughts Circle my head.

Permeate the darkness.

And sink in the oblivion of sleep.

The Second Crucifixion DALLAS TAYLOR '61 Christ came again to save men From sin and selfishness. And Again they hanged Him on a tree.

He came again to teach men How to love each other and their God. But they would not listen.

Would not change the order of Their lives. They called Him Madman, heretic, troublemaker.

And they hanged Him on a tree.

This time the spirit within Him broke to see how men Would not obey. The world Did not again see a resurrection After the second time They hanged Him on a tree.

The Pulse of the City ROBERT KADERLY

’64

Alone DAVID

E.

HECK

'63

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry Upon an empty beach I stand, Blue water sweeps across the sand, Thin lines divide the sea and land, I stand alone.

And here the hand of Fate is shown.

The sea is life, that life my own.

Each wave a triumph yet unknown, I stand alone.

The waves advance across the beach.

Exhausting all their strength, then each Retreats, eludes my gra,sping reach, I stand alone.

Pulse ARTI TRUMBLEE

'64

Second Prize, Quiz and Quill Prose The big city is a sprawling giant reaching into the quiet country with grasping hands, absorbing the land, always trying to increase itself, obsessed with the idea of growing larger.

The city, its pulse synchronic with the pulse of its people, throbs with life. Its people are magically held by its spell. The city fascinates them, hypnotizes them, and charms them, for it is a past master at the art of drawing people to its heart.

The air, tainted with carbon monoxide fumes, is electric, exciting.

It leaves you expeaant, waiting, but not knowing why you wait.

The noise is everywhere. It is the droning monologue of the city, deafening. Sometimes there is no sound, but the noise is still present.

Noise, piercing noise—screeching brakes on a busy street, screaming gulls near the ocean, the steady hum of automobiles—all contribute to the noise.

The sight of giant buildings with cowering humans scurrying below strikes awe into your heart. Standing there, you suddenly feel minute, insignificant, but only momentarily, because you haven’t time for those feelings. Again, you regain your perspective and hurry on your way, no longer wondering about such achievements of mankind.

Ultraconservative residential areas, cool with shade, enveloped with quiet, are like layers of flesh covering the pulsating heart of some powerful, untamed animal.

A river, oil surfaced, supporting heavy ore boats, undulates through the industrial seaion, supplying the many factories which hunger for its traffic.

Seven

On the other side of the river are slums, slums where you couldn’t bear to live, slums where you can hear mothers screaming at their children. In the sweltering heat of summer, old men and women gather on the stoops of the buildings muttering to each other in foreign dialects. In the chill of winter, old men and women huddle around small inadequate stoves, muttering to each other in foreign dialeas.

Confection-colored houses in new development areas line the precise streets and color the landscape. Among these are schools, some old, some new, aU filled with noisy children.

Cars are everywhere, rushing here, rushing there, sometimes bumping into each other. Roads form myriad tangles as they wander through the city, following some predestined course.

The big city is busy, full of hurry. Crime is an important part of this city, my city. It isn’t pretty; it’s ugly, as ugly as any one thing could be. It is the stigma that prods men to perfea the life in their city, our city; their country, our country.

This city isn’t perfect; it isn’t always pretty, honest, or truthful. It’s jealous of other cities. It is rough, ruthless, and untamed, yet in places gentle.

This city, my city, is alternately loved and cursed by its people. It is glorious in its mass, humble with its poor, haughty with its rich, reverent with its religious, and compromising with its unbelievers. It laughs with the happy and sobs with the sad. It is a reflection of every personality in it.

The bible of my city is the street guide to all of its streets, no matter where they lie. The hymnals of my city are its newspapers, singing out its praises, or flinging out reproaches. 'The psalm for today is whichever street you set your feet upoa 'The hymn for today is the headline of today, sung to the accompaniment of all my city’s sounds.

This is the pulse of my city.

The Watering Place JOHN

NAFTZCF.R

'62

The river ran from the mountains And passing through a glade in Gaul Widened and formed a water hole.

The first to come was a wounded warrior, His wild tribe crushed by the Roman eagle.

He crawled, and drank, and died.

His long black hair making ribbons in the water. .

A man of steel followed, A knight defeated on the surrounding plain And left for dead by his chivalrous opponent.

He staggered to the bank and fell.

And left his sword to rust on the bottom of the pool.

The dark-skinned man from Chicago Stopped to drink And died by a swastika bullet, face down in the pool, Now blue and red. Who next?

Eight

Dimestore Study CAROL MORSE

'61

First Prize, Kathleen White Dimke Essay Contest "How would you like to be an Easter Rabbit?” I was asked when at seventeen, I applied for the position of a salesgirl at a local Woolworth ten-cent store. I stared up into a pair of piercing blue eyes set into the ruddy face which belonged to the store manager, Mr. E. B. Dague.

"Huh?” I replied, my mouth open. "I mean—pardon me, sir—did you say Easter Rabbit?” I wasn’t sure whether he was crazy or whether, in my nervousness, I had heard things which hadn’t been said at all.

Then his ruddy face broke into a friendly smile, and he explained that although I would later work as a salesgirl, he needed me now, during the Easter season, to dress in a bunny costume and pass out candy eggs to children of prospective customers.

Perhaps because I was in an adventurous mood and, more prob­ ably, because I needed the money, I agreed, and so began my dimestore "career” which was later to prove my source of college tuition.

This "career” also introduced me to a fascinating life behind the calm and efficient store scene presented to the customers.

Dimestores have always held an attraction for me. Even as a small child, accompanying my mother on shopping sprees, I loved to run my curious fingers over the tiny ten-cent toys piled high in their bins. Brightly colored dolls were especially interesting, and it was always a great privilege to be allowed to select one for my very own. Usually, my small treasure would be broken within a day or two, but the fun of choosing remained in my memory.

Today, I still enjoy walking up and down the aisles of my dimestore, gazing at the gaudy figurines imported from Japan, and at the fluffy red and white crinoline petticoats which dance from a pole near the ceiling over the underwear counter. I love the salty smell of peanuts roasting at the candy-counter and mingling with the scent of cheap perfume sprayed here and there by the cos­ metics girl hoping for a sale. I like to watch the small quick gold-fish which dart to and fro in large glass tanks at the rear of the store.

And I see small replicas of myself among wide-eyed children who are constantly around the toy-counter wishing for this big red balloon or that yellow truck. The dimestore is always buzzing with activity' and reminds me of a large gaudily-painted mechanical toy which is fun to watch and which moves very rapidly with much jerking and clattering.

As a child, I was never particularly aware of the dimestore clerks.

However, since I began working at Woolworth’s, I have met many, many different types of people, and I have discovered that the em­ ployees are really the most interesting part of a store.

My particular Woolworth store is a pan of the recently built.

Graceland Shopping Center located between downtown Columbus, Ohio, and the center of the city of Worthington.

The employees of this store are a mixture of various kinds of Nine

people from the areas surrounding Graceland.

Worthington is a small residential city, largely middle-class and upper-middle-class people. Most of the adult residents have at least a high-school education, and many have attained a college degree.

People from Worthington who apply for work at Woolworth’s are usually high-school students working their way through school, or housewives, whose children are grown, who want something other than housework to keep them busy. In any case, these people have no thought of making their work at the store a lifetime career and consider it only temporary employment that is not absolutely neces­ sary as a means of livelihood.

In sharp contrast to this group are the people who make up the majority of the employees. These workers from some of the shabbier parts of the city of Columbus depend on their jobs to feed and clothe a family and, because of a lack of education, can find no better-paying work. Some laugh at education and think that I am wasting my time. They inform me that it is far better to learn from life’s experiences than from a stack of books.

When I first began working at the store, I was almost ignored by this latter group. They considered me entirely different from them­ selves and would not include me in their lundi-hour gossip sessions.

This same attitude is shown to other school girls also and actually divides the store into two basic social groups, the "educated” and the "not-so-educated.”

The latter group interests me more than the other mostly because, until I began working, I had never come into close contact with people of this type. As I mentioned before, they were hesitant at first to accept me into their friendships, but after I had graduated from high-school and began to work full-time at the store, they gradually became more and more friendly, and soon I was even included in their lunch-hour discussions, which I discovered to be a very unique ex­ perience. These took place in the women’s lounge where we talked about everything and anything.

The subject most discussed is men. Most of the women have been married since a very early age, some as early as thirteen, and they re­ gret that they did not wait. They all advise me to hold out against marriage as long as I can. Generally, the women consider men very stupid and worthless. Indeed, some of their husbands seem to be just that. One woman, whom I shall call Rose, has a marriage that is a pathetic example of this.

Rose is a dark-haired, dark-eyed, rather nervous woman in her middle thirties. She speaks loudly and laughs often, even when there is nothing to laugh about, and she is always rushing about starting projects but rarely finishing them. She grew up in a small town along the Ohio River, and soon after she was graduated from high-school, she married a neighbor boy who had not gone past the eighth grade.

I believe that her marriage was an escape from her mother who was constantly afraid that her daughter would become pregnant before she was married. Rose was not allowed to attend school functions or to be alone with any male friend, even at home, unless her mother or older brother was present. Rose’s father drank constantly and was Ten

hardly ever at home. When he was, he was always drunk and often beat his wife and children. It was from this home situation that Rose sought an escape, and so she eloped with the boy next door. She was not prepared for marriage because her mother had neglected to tell her the plain facts of life, and the first time she was completely alone with her husband was on their wedding night. Today, her husband spends all of his time drinking his way through her paycheck — he does not have enough ambition to hold a job. It is no wonder that Rose feels, as do many of her friends, so bitter against men.

The men of the "not-so-educated” group turn half of their weekly pay over to their wives, and blow the other half in a bar all in one evening.

One night, shortly after I had ceased being a rabbit, I was sent to the basement to learn to mark the prices on merchandise. I shall never forget how dark and frightening everything was. Aisles and aisles of boxes ran along one side of the stockroom, casting eerie shadows on the dusty floor, and the only other person there was the head stock-man, Joe, who was to give me my instructions.

Joe was a dark muscular man in his late twenties. His black eyes were small and squinted, and the lump on his chin gave his face a rough, pirate-like appearance. His voice was so deep and gruff when he spoke that I was very ill-at-ease.

"You’re too young t’be workin’ here, ain’t cha?” His eyes traveled from the top of my head down to the toes of my saddle-shoes. He didn’t smile. "How old are ya’, anyway?”

"Seventeen, sir,” I replied. "Are you going to show me what to do?”

"Yeah,” he growled. 'C’mere. kid.” And to my chagrin, he set me to sticking sixty-nine cent tags on ladies’ underpants. I tried to dis­ guise my embarrassment by a half-hearted attempt at a conversa­ tion with Joe. At first he didn’t want to talk, but, as the evening passed, he seemed to warm up, and by the nine o’clock closing time, I felt that I knew him quite well, although he had said some un­ usually shocking things.

For instance, he told me that he was heading for Ernie’s after work.

"What’s Ernie’s?” I asked him, glad that he was friendlier to me now than he had been earlier.

"Oh, it’s a bar at the end of my street. I have a date at 9:30—some very well-stacked blonde—and with tonight’s paycheck [we received our paycheck on Friday nights] we’re goin’ to have us a real ball!”

He chuckled and rolled his eyes.

I couldn’t believe him! "I thought you said you were married, Joe.” "I am. What the hell does that have to do with anything?” He chuckled again.

"But doesn’t your wife object?” I felt like somebody’s naive kid sister.

"Sure, but a helluva lotta good it does her. Besides, she has her men friends in while I’m out, and she gets some of my money, too.”

My, I thought, what a cozy arrangement they have. Unfortunately, Joe’s relationship with his wife was not an uncommon one accord­ ing to some of the other employees who informed me that they also lived in local taverns and were unfaithful to their mates.

Eleven

There is a great amount of friction between the two groups. Each resents the other, the "uneducated” envious of the other’s more ex­ pensive clothes while the "educated” workers grow exasperated at the ignorance shown concerning the English language.

Another factor causing friction among the employees is the store totem-pole. As in every place of business, Woolworth’s has a sys­ tem by which the store is operated. First of all, there is the mana­ ger. Although he does not own the store, he is in complete charge of running it and hiring or firing his employees.

Under the manager are several assistant-managers whose many odd jobs include taking charge of the store when the manager is ill or away. After two or three years as an assistant, a man can finally be given a store of his own to manage. Before he becomes an assistantmanager, he must acquire at least two years of experience as a stockboy. This job includes checking in merchandise, putting it away, and sweeping the basement and the main floor every night. He also per­ forms many of the odd tasks such as lifting heavy objects for the women employees and catching parakeets that have escaped from their cages.

Of equal stams with the assistant-managers is the head floor-girl.

She is responsible for planning the work and the lunch-hour schedules of the women workers.

The department-managers are women, under the head floor-girl, who are in charge of specific departments in the store, such as Pets, Candy, Women’s Clothing, Men’s Clothing, Paper and Stationery, Greeting Cards, or Toys. It is the duty of these women to order their stock and keep their counters in order. In some Woolworth stores, each department has its own cash register and collects its own money. However, our store and others of the newer stores have developed a self-service system, similar to that of supermarkets, where the customer selects his purchases from the various departments and pays at a register as he leaves. Therefore, the duties of the departmentmanager vary in the different Woolworth stores. In the newer ones, these women must be handy at all times to direct customers to the merchandise they are searching for. At the same time, they should also be on the lookout for shoplifters.

Our store also hires part-time female help to run the front reg­ isters, straighten counters, and perform novelty stunts for advertise­ ment. Since my Easter Rabbit job, I have been a clown selling candied apples, a chef selling roasted nuts, and a demonstrator for hoola-hoops.

It is an unwritten rule that anyone who steps over the various boundaries of this very intricate system of store-management is avoided by the rest of the employees. For example, if an assistantmanager begins giving orders to the head floor-girl, she will remind him that she has as much authority as he, and the other workers will band together and rebel against him. Or, if a stock-boy fails to re­ spect the authority of a person one step above him, he could quite possibly be fired.

The question of seniority also causes many verbal (and some­ times even physical) battles between the workers, because often there is a conflict between a person with a high position but little Twelve

experience in a particular store and a person who has worked in that store but has not advanced his position. The latter feels that his sen­ iority should have some power, although he usually does not possess the intelligence ever to gain a higher position.

Age is another factor causing disagreement. Many of the middleaged female clerks resent orders from a young assistant-manager who is just in training but who, according to the rules, has authority over her. I have seen many instances in which women have resigned or been released from their jobs because they resented orders from people younger than they.

(Dne time, two dignified, self-respecting assistant-managers re­ moved their suitcoats and began slugging each other simply be­ cause the younger man ordered the elder to do a particular task.

The people with whom I work are very sensitive and touchy. They are quite conscious of boundaries and positions and do not hesitate to make a person below them on the store totem-pole realize their authority.

I have also noticed that friendships at the store are never very deep or long-lasting. Everyone is suspicious of everyone else. One minute a woman confides in you her most intimate secrets and the next minute will be talking about you to someone else. The employees are friendly to you as long as they need you for something—loans, ad­ vice, and the like. The store motto seems to be "Every man for himself!”

However, there are times when all of the employees do work to­ gether without fighting. Whenever a district supervisor arrives to inspect the store, within a minute after he enters the door, the news has traveled the "grapevine”, and all are warned so that they may have a few extra minutes to straighten their counters. When a shoplifter is spotted, this same "grapevine” goes again into action and soon all employees are alerted. And one night, a storm caused the electricity to go off. Everyone worked together to wash dishes at the lunchcounter by flashlight. There was no thought of authority, and there was no problem.

But the best example of cooperation occurs each year in early January at inventory time. All through the busy Christmas rush, the clerks are tired and literally at each other’s throats. This lack of Christmas spirit among employees is also heightened because we have been looking at holiday decorations and listening to carols in the store since Halloween and are rather weary of them. But soon, after a re­ laxing Christmas Day, we return somewhat rested, ready to begin putting the frazzled, shopworn dimestore back together.

There is nothing quite like inventory week. The employees arrive at work at about seven in the morning, cold and sleepy. If the man­ ager hasn’t come yet to open the door, we huddle together for warmth in the chilly darkness. Nobody speaks much, and there is an air of mystery all about. ’The manager, as sleepy as the rest of us, finally appears to give directions, and we are each given a pad of paper and a pencil and assigned a counter of merchandise to count. A strange murmur fills the entire store as everyone counts quietly to himself, writes numbers Thirteen

on pink slips of paper, and places one in each bin. We have only one thought in mind, to be as accurate as possible so that our boss will have a good yearly report to turn into his boss. The whole inven­ tory week is filled with suspense as to whether or not the report will come our well. There is a closeness between the employees during this week more than at any other of the year. Maybe this closeness develops because January is a time when many people like to think about beginning anew and bettering their relationships with others.

Or maybe it is because we all want to help our boss whom we all admire very much; under these common bonds, we just namrally get along. At any rate, inventory week is an excellent time to prepare both the dimestore and its employees for another busy year.

Space Age PHYLLIS ROYER

(Reprinted from

'55

Columbia Bible College, February, 1961) The moon is a lone lemon slice, Night is an old black tablecloth, star-stabbed.

Men’s minds are deformed slum-children.

Standing strangely, starved.

Yet, on tiptoe they grasp out at, fight over.

The juicy, tempting morsel With the bitter hope of the Devourer.

CE

be cean

Brief Abdication SYLVIA PHILLIPS VANCE '47 I am on a hillside Looking through the sunshine Up the green springtime Looking up to home.

Hiding by the maple Breathless with the running Just myself here hiding Waiting in the sun.

Then I hear the voices "All-ee, all-ee in free” Calling down to meet me Hidden where I am.

Whose are all these voices Calling through the sunshine?

Now I stand and wonder Is this my child or me?

Fourteen

Scenes ROSEMARY RICHARDSON '61

First Prize, Quiz and Quill Prose "Sammy, come on, let’s take a walk, boy.”

Sammy bounded across the room and was aU ready before I had even taken down the leash from the hook. I snapped it into his collar, and we walked toward the front door where he waited patiently for me to open it.

It was a summer day early in June. The sun shone brightly on the blossoming flowers whose fragrant aroma lingered in the air. It made strange patterns of warmth on my arms where it filtered through leafy trees.

As we walked down the street, a cocky little terrier dog stood and barked from the front of his home. I supposed it was his home since he was defending the walk with such vehemence. But when we made no move to enter his domain, his sharp barks turned into half-hearted yips, and soon I could no longer hear him as we walked on down the street.

The splash of water and rhe happy cries of children were the next sounds to reach my ears. I could hear the voices of the two little boys teasing Pam. "Look, Chuckle, look at Pammie’s twirling around just to see that silly skirt on her bathing suit stand out.”

"You boys are just jealous; see how pretty it looks.”

"Oh, come on, let’s pretend this tub is a boat. There are some sticks we can use as paddles. Come on.” The little boy, not Chuckle, seemed to be the leader of the three young musketeers.

How wonderful it would be to be a child again—free from prob­ lems, just carefree with nothing better ro do than to play in an old tub filled with water!

A woman came out of her front door with some cookies. She must just have baked and was taking them to her neighbor, because their spicy aroma reached my nostrils.

"O.K., honey, hand me another clothespin and we’ll hang up this sheet.” 'Ibe mother and her little child were busily hanging up snowwhite sheets and pillow cases on the line. How fresh they would feel and how out-doorsy they would smell to a sleepy person as he climbed between them that night.

We stopped at the corner as a car filled with giggling teen-age girls went by, probably on their way to the pool for an afternoon dip or to meet their friends at the snack bar in town.

'The open door of the church and the rich tones of the organ bade a welcome to the weary or the troubled passer-by. What could be a better way to gain rest or to solve problems than to sit quietly in the Lord’s house.

A little girl fell into step beside me. "Hi, mister, where ya goin’?” she asked in her high young voice.

"Nowhere in particular. We’re just walking.”

"I’ve been making mudpies, but mother gets mad because I always have mud smeared all over my face. Did you ever make mudpies? Did Fifteen

your mother get mad at you?”

"Well, as I recall, I did make mudpies when I was little, but I think it was my clothes that got muddy and not my face.”

"Oh. Say, that’s an awfully purty dog you got there. Whats his name?”

"Sam. Terrible name for a dog, isn’t it? But he is a very nice dog, don’t you agree?”

"Yeah, but isn’t that an awfully funny leash for him to have?

"Not really,” I replied. "You see, that’s a lead harness; he s my seeing-eye dog.”

A Miniature Phantom PEG ENGLISH '61

An evergreen tree seems to act like catnip to the youngest of our feline brood. Dinky, a half-grown black cat whose fur gives the appear­ ance of a slight auburn tint, has a bushy squirrel-like tail nearly as long as his sleek, muscular body and eyes like miniature green saucers.

Unlike his obese elders, Diriky is stiU light enough to scurry along the snow drifts several feet deep without sinking in. Having been thoroughly invigorated by scampering through a snow squall no one else dared to brave, the little black demon, requesting admittance, pawed at the door. As he entered the house, the pint-sized king immediately seemed to ascend his throne as he surveyed his surroundings.

Dinky pranced across the recently scrubbed linoleum of the kitchen and onto the forest green dining room carpet. He eyed the Scotch pine colorfully decorated with the traditional red and gold balls, green lights, and shiny silver icicles, sitting in the archway at the edge of the living room. As he paced the floor near the tree, the swish of his tail evidenced signs of disgust. Suddenly he leaped from the floor onto the piano bench and with a major chord landed on the keyboard. He perched himself beside an open volume of 'The World s Best Music” and gazed intently at the Christmas tree. "What next?” I wondered to myself. No sooner had I pondered future aaion than Dinky plotted it.

Just like a jungle cat, he crouched, paused, and then sprang into the middle of the tree. I had seen him leap with agility into the huge spruce at the edge of the porch but never dreamed he would visualize the Christmas tree to be a similar challenge! The poor animal was soon to be disillusioned. As he tried to curl up on the branches, he dis­ covered, to his dismay, that they had the same agility as he when a springy branch tossed him off onto the floor. He recovered his dignity as he brushed off his hun pride, smoothed his ruffled fur, and stalked off to resume his relaxed position in the middle of my bed.

Sixteen

Babysitter’s Answer to Whittier JANET

LACEY

'64

First Prize, Quiz and Quill Humor Contest Curses on thee, little wreck, Sorry mess and pain in neck!

With thy twenty-dollar jet, With thy jiffy rocket set, With thy trains that really run.

With thy cute repeater gun.

With thy many baseball bats.

And thy fool Lone Ranger hats.

And thy great eternal clutter.

And thy love of peanut butter!

Double curses, junior rock.

Being raised by Doctor Spock, No, thou canst not shave the cat Nor pat him with thy baseball bat.

No, thou canst not drink that glue, And that goes for Rover, too . . .

Thousand curses be on thee!

Thou dost cause much grief for me.

And, thou stupid, foolish dunce.

I’ve not seen thee bareftHjt once!

Spring Idyll STONE '62 “Come and dance on hillsides green,’' The pretty piper cries, “And while away the time with me 'Til Luna lights the skies.”

JUDITH ANN

“Nay,” the shepherdess exclaims, “I have to tencl my sheep Until the course of Phoebus wanes Within the shadows deep.”

"Come and play the pipe of Pan,” The funny fellow woos, “And run and catch me, if you can; Now come, do not refuse.”

"Nay,” the merry maid replies, “I know not how to play.

Nor how to catch you by surprise; I’ll run another day.”

“Come and let me hold your hand And place a kiss or two Upon your ruby lips and hand.

And .say that I love you.”

“Yea,” the shepherdess exclaims, “You are a pretty Pan, I know that I shall like that game, Love’s rules I understand.”

New Orleans ROGER

SHIPLEY

’64

New Orleans CAROL

MORSE

'61

Third Prize {tie), Burkhart Poetry Contest Bitter words Dart From distorted mouths To become a part Of tense and heavy air.

Twisted faces, purple in rage.

Fuse together to form a mob Whose furious, accusing fingers Point In one direction To four Very small Persons.

Four little girls Huddle together.

Confused.

Fear Steals across their little black faces.

And in their hearts.

They wonder . . .

Why.

A Successful Man ROBERT E. KADERLY

'64

Second Prize, Kathleen White Dimke Essay Contest If a person were to ask the question, "What is the basis for judging the success of a man?” the answers would probably be many and varied.

Some people categorize a man in regard to success by the amount of money in his bank account, the number or tj^e of his friends, how much schooling he has had, his leadership ability, or, j>ossibly, how he is regarded by his community. Theodore Roosevelt Anderson was de­ ficient in every one of these particulars. He had no money. He possessed no leadership ability. He was an outcast from his community. He didnt even know what the inside of a school looked like. In general, he was regarded by society as a worthless tramp. Therefore, it may be con­ cluded, his life was a fruitless, wasted failure.

"Thee,” as my dad always called him, is only a memory to me but truly a very vivid one. Actually, I don’t remember much about him personally, because he died the same year I started to school. The picture of "Thee Anderson has come largely from my father and his two brothers who tell many stories about him.

My dad owns a ninety-two acre farm which is flanked on the left by my uncle’s eighty-five acres and on the right by my other uncle’s Nineteen

thirty-five acres. These three brothers gave Theodore Anderson the job of working as a hired man on the three farms. After about two years, Thee worked only for Dad. Thee became so devoted that he was considered more like another brother to Dad than a hired man. Every morning at five forty-five he could be seen trudging up through the dewy fields to put in a day's work on the farm. Even if rain was drip­ ping off the crenelated brim of his tattered black felt hat, he would still come more than four miles through the wet fields to see if Dad had any work for him. If there was nothing to do. Thee would curl his thin, lanky frame up somewhere in the dty, smoke a thick, black cigar Dad had given him, and begin whittling on a hunk of wood.

Thee never made anything from his whittling. He would just whittle away, timing it so that when it was time to work again, there would be no wood left to whittle.

If Thee had any hobby other than whittling, it must have been digging ditches. Our farm had very poor drainage when Dad bought it.

Thee and he put in a network of tile that vastly improved drainage. I can still see him splattered with sticky yellow clay from his felt hat to the toes of his high hip-boots, methodically shoveling the soil hour after hour until the job was completed. Thee used to boast, Neveh had a ditch cave in, m’ life!” This was no exaggeration until one day when he was working in the farthest corner of the farm. My father de­ cided to go back and see how he was doing, only to find him buried up to his waist in his own ditch. Dad helped dig him out. Thee giving him a curt, "Much ’bliged!” his pride severely injured. Needless to say, he never made that boast again.

Thee loved to work in the sun. He was in his height of glory at thrashing time. I think the reason he enjoyed thrashing so much was that this was the one time in the year when the other farmers in the community who helped with thrashing treated him as their equal. The thrashers were a single unit, working toward a single goal: to gather in a wheat aop.

Not only did Thee love work, but he loved children and every living animal as well. He was paid fair wages, but almost all of the money he earned went to support his mother who was bedridden (his father had died soon after he was born). Once, I remember. Thee bought a bag of marbles for me and a wide, yellow ribbon for my sister with some money he had managed to save. I can remember vividly his grizzly, weathered face aglow when he gave us the presents.

Several times he brought us a stray cat or dog which, he said sadly, "Needs a nice home.” My mother tells of the time I fell out of my high chair while she was shopping. Thee was back in the field and came up to the house when he "Knowed somethun’ was wrong. An’ sho’ nuff, der was!”

This was Theodore Anderson as he is remembered by my family and me. Even though he was lacking in some of the qualities by which people judge success, I certainly believe the life he led was far from Twenty

being worthless. The Theodore Anderson that the community saw was quite a different person. Thee was an illiterate who cared nothing whatsoever about improving himself. He never had a nickel (some say he drank his money away), was always unshaven, unwashed and dressed in the same shabby, soiled clothes. He was more or less a hermit, living in a ramshackle frame house with his ailing mother.

Thee didn’t care to socialize with people; consequently, people didn’t care to be around him.

One day, while Thee was working around the house, he became exceedingly gruff and complained vehemently of being sick. Dad quickly took him to a doaor, who in turn rushed him to a hospital.

One of the specialists in the Emergency Room explained to Dad in a grave, professional way, "This man is half dead from leukemia!” For the next two days, my dad and my two uncles gave several quarts of blood to the dying man. Theodore Anderson’s life ended after the third day. Thee had a small, humble funeral and was buried in a desolate grave.

For a long time after the book of Theodore Roosevelt Anderson’s life was closed, the community found it difficult to accept the three brothers who had been his only friends. Maybe rhe reason was that, during Thee’s last three days, white blood had been pumped by a colored heart through colored veins.

Soliloquy for Teachers To Be RITA

ZIMMERMAN

'61

Second Prize, Quiz and Quill Humor Contest To teach or not to teach—that is the question.

Whether ’tis nobler in the end to suffer The lassitude of implications and applications Or to wage war ’gainst the ways of Ed profs And by opposing, credit lose? To daydream, to sleep— No more, and by a sleep to say we shut out The phrases and oft-repeated terms, That profs are heir to. ’Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To bear, to endure.

To endure—perchance to teach. Aye, there's the rub.

For through this gamut of courses to come An end to School Ad, Ed Psych—"431” Must give me pause. There’s the respect That compels us all to withhold our gripes.

For who would bear the books and classes four years.

The stereotyped student, the “pedigree’s” know-how The pangs of boredom, the prof’s delay.

The “busy-ness” of notebooks and the forms So oft-repeated for the dear prof’s sake When the student himself might his quietus make By fetching a change slip? Who would further bear To grunt and sweat under student teaching But that the dread of nothing after graduation.

The greatly flooded business world from whose bourn Few students penetrate, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those disgusts we have Than to switch to another curriculum that we know not of?

Twenty-one

1

Madame Sorcene KATHYRN KRUMIIANSL

Twenty-two

’61

The Time at the Tone CARL KROPF

'61

Honorable Mention, NSAL Short Story Contest, I960 Edgar stood staring at the blue door next to the pawn shop win­ dow. His gaze wandered up to the faded sign: "Madam Sorcene knows all. The cards will predict your fate. Come in ignorant — go out enlightened.”

"Disgusting sham!” mumbled Edgar, and walked away from the entrance. He shuffled to the end of the block and back again. His sixty years necessitated slow, careful steps. Long, silver hair and a graying mustache lent him an air of dignity.

"Oh well, I may as well go in,” he mumbled. "It can’t do any harm. Of course there’s nothing n this fortune telling, but I’ll try it once, just for the novelty of the thing. I never should have let Benson talk me into this. Well, she did foretell his bonus at the bank.

But that was just coincidence. It had to be.”

Thus resolved to entertain himself, Edgar entered the hovel that Benson had referred to as "her chambers.” Flimsy curtains and dirty rugs were hung around on the walls. One small naked bulb in the middle of the ceiling furnished the only lighting. Through the transparent curtains Edgar could see peeling paint and cracked plas­ ter. The stagnant atmosphere weighed on his body like slabs of marble.

A red card table and two straight-backed chairs occupied most of the space.

The curtains to his left parted, and Madam Sorcene waddled in.

Edgar forced himself not to laugh at her. She reminded him of a baby elephant walking on its hind legs that he had once seen at a Barnum and Bailey Circus.

"You come for advice, sir.^” Her voice sounded like paper bags in a dry washing machine.

"I’ve come to be ... ah .. . enlightened.”

"Please sit down. On what subject would you like to be informed?” '"The future, the next few days.”

Madam Sorcene picked the cards out of the dusty table top with a beefy hand. She made a great ceremony of arranging them face down in front of her. Edgar became uneasy. He couldn’t keep from staring at the dirt in the aeases in her copious neck.

"That human derelict couldn’t tell me the time, let alone what’s to happen in the next couple of days,” he grumbled half audibly.

"Sir?” "Nothing, nothing.”

Edgar’s white hands fumbled with the buttons of his grey suit coat.

Madam Sorcene arranged the cards once more, and picked one out at random. She caught her breath and stared at the ace of spades.

Edgar noticed a few more folds appear in her neck.

"Well, what’s the verdict?”

"I’m afraid, sir, the cards predict your death!”

Edgar was shaken. The thought of his death always caused him to tremble. But to hear it actually predicted, even by such a creature Twenty-three

as this, was no small event. He decided not to give her the satisfaaion of showing interest.

"That’s what the doaors have been saying for years. Can’t you do better than that?”

Madam Sorcene remained unruffled. She laid the cards out again and picked one up. It was the ace of spades. Again Edgar made a cynical remark, and for a third time the old lady produced the ace of spades.

Edgar refused to be serious.

"Well, thank you for the fine display of legerdemain, but I must go now.”

"I beg your pardon, sir. There is no trickery. The cards do not lie. You shall die tomorrow. The fates will give you three warnings.”

"Disgusting,” mumbled Edgar. He rumbled his chair across the cheap linoleum, and turned to go. In the dim light, he tripped over a moth-eaten rug that marked exit "Your first warning. Bevrare of the fates,” called the old woman after him.

Edgar hurried out the door and past the pawnshop window. He deplored this world of dirt and disorder. He elbowed his way through a crowd of skid row drunks listening to a sidewalk minister lec­ ture on the evils of alcohol. He crossed the street to his Buick, got in, and eased the big machine into traffic. He slowly cmised through the business section of town and out into the sparse suburbs. The warm spring air whistled through the open vents as he gained speed.

But Edgar’s thoughts turned from the beauty of the day to the black prediaion he had just heard.

"Blast that Benson and his crazy ideas. Die tomorrow? That’s rich! Of course, it’s possible — everybody has to go sometime. But if I die tomorrow, it won’t be because that old battleax said I would. I’ll just be more careful, that’s all. I can’t die. There’s no rea­ son why I should. The doctors were wrong about the cancer scare last year. I’ll not die for a while yet. I must be careful though.”

Thus contemplating his fate, Edgar braked to a halt in front of the old two-story brick structure that he called home. He walked up the same sidewalk his father and grandfather had walked in years past. He entered the front hall, hung up his hat and coat, and called the maid.

"Stella, Stella? I’m home; you can start supper.”

Stella presented herself at the kitchen door. Her white apron contrasted sharply with her dark brown skin. Old age had endowed her with numerous furrows and crow’s-feet in an expressive face.

She limped to avoid the pain of her rheumatism, but she was ef­ ficient, and Edgar enjoyed having someone around the house. Dur­ ing the years of their acquaintance she had come to respea Edgar and now looked after him like a mother. He qnjoyed the attention.

"What say. Mister Huston?” she shouted.

"Blast it woman, turn down that radio and start supper.”

"Yes, suh. But you know I can’t hear my radio unless it’s turned up.”

"Well, wait until I’ve gone upstairs to turn it on.” He had to Twenty-four

shout to penetrate the dim ears.

"Yes, suh.” She shuffled into the kitchen, and "The Second Mrs. Willow” ended with an abrupt "click.”

That evening Edgar picked at his unseasoned supper without relish.

"Stella, do you believe in . . in . . well, superstitions?”

"There’s a lot of ’em, sir.”

"Yes, I know, but do you believe in . . . say, predicting the future by cards?”

"Yes, suh. Jesse my brother, he busted an arm the day after the card reader said he would.”

"Sheer coincidence.”

"What say, suh?”

"Oh, never mind. Can’t you season this food a little more, Stella?”

"No, suh! You know that the doctor said you was to eat no high seasoned foods and drink only once a day. You got to watch your diet at your age.”

"Oh, blast the doctors.”

After supper, Stella mixed his daily scotch and soda, and Edgar went up stairs to his room. Stella already had her radio going full blast on Arthur Godfrey. Edgar lit a cigarette and sat down to his chess board to practice the Ruy Lapez opening. He asserted his pawns and covered them with his knights. He began to develop his bishops, but his mind wandered from the black and white checks to the ridiculous Madam Sorcene and the ace of spades. He recalled Benson’s words of a few days before.

"I tell you this woman is phenomenal, Edgar. She told me I would come into some money, and by George, the next afternoon old man Harrison gave me this bonus. I used to think fortune telling was a bunch of hogwash too, but now I’m beginning to wonder. Why don’t you go to her once just for kicks and find out if she can do tlhe same thing for you?”

Edgar spent a hard night. During his fitful periods of sleep, his dreams carried him back to Madam Sorcene’s chambers. The ace of spades floated in front of his eyes, just beyond his reach. He tripped over that rug again and again. When awake he tried to reason away his fear of death and the strange sense of forbidding night. "How can anyone see into the future? It’s impossible. Anyone can pick out a card and say that it means this or that. It’s all coin­ cidence. Of course, she was right in Benson’s case. I’ll just be more careful, that’s all.”

The next morning, Edgar arrived behind his desk at the First National on time, but much the worse for wear. He put his meager lunch into the left drawer, got out his pen, and prepared to listen to potential money borrowers complain about the hard times. During idle moments he chatted with Benson whose desk was next to his. He carefully avoided any mention of Madam Sorcene.

When the eleven-thirty buzzer sounded, Edgar retrieved his lunch and retired to the lounge. He nibbled absent-mindedly. Finally giv­ ing up on the cheese sandwiches, he leaned back in his chair to peel the Red Delicious apple which served as his dessert. He fumbled Twenty-five

with his silver pocket knife trying to open the blade. Suddenly the instrument slipped and the edge bit into his thumb. In a cry of pain he dropped the apple to the floor and examined the wound.

Crimson drops of blood punctuated the thin red line aaoss his thumb print. He stared goggle-eyed.

"My second warning. Damn that old woman and her infernal predictions. There’s probably nothing to this, but I certainly must be more careful. If I can avoid that third warning. I’m sure to be safe. Yes, I’ll just be more careful until the day is over.”

But despite his resolution to be more careful, Edgar made more mistakes than ever. He spelled names wrong when making out mortgage payments. His pen made blotches on the paper. During interviews, he found himself watching the second hand on the big wall clock click off the little black dots of his life’s time. By the time the four o’clock buzzer sounded, his nerves felt jangled. With­ out waiting for his customary chat with Benson, he hurried out of the bank, anxious to get to the relative safety of his own home.

He maneuvered the Buick through the rush hour traffic with special care. When he reached the suburbs, he maintained a slow speed and stopped at all intersections. At Fifty-Seventh and Front, the last intersection before home, he stopped and looked both di­ rections for traffic. He waited for a milk truck, and then put the car in motion.

Suddenly he heard the roar of hot rod mufflers. The front of the car almost hit the road as he jerked to a halt. A cut-down roadster rumbled by, inches from his front bumper, swirling dust and throw­ ing gravel against the windshield. His knuckles turned a chalky white as he gripped the steering wheel. The blood drained from his face as if someone had pulled a plug in his throat. He felt as though little sky rockets were being launched from the top of his head.

"My God! My last warning. I couldn’t help myself that time. I was being careful. I’m in other hands! The fates are playing some sort of a deadly game with me. I’m dead—all that remains is the for­ mality of dying.”

Thus resigned to the fates, Edgar arrived safely home. Stella was fluttering around in the kitchen.

"Hullo, Mister Huston, want your supper now?”

Edgar nodded his consent. He watched her set the table with careful and practiced hands. The pork chop smelled good, but he had no appetite. He only sipped at the milk.

"Ain’t you feelin’ good. Mister Huston?”

"Yes, I feel fine.”

"You ain’t eatin’ much.”

"I know I’m not eating much.”

"Your stomach botherin’ you again?”

"No, I’m all right.”

"I can call the doaor, you know. He won’t mind at all. You know he told you to call him if you had any more trouble.”

"Now Stella, why don’t you listen to your . . .”

"What say, suh?”

"Oh, take this mess away, and let me be.”

Twenty-six

"Yes, suh.”

Edgar went to the living room to read. The words clicked meaninglessly through his mind. He couldn’t help thinking about the ace of spades and those three warnings. He nervously picked the lint from his black trousers, and thought of Madam Sorcene’s correct prediction in Benson’s case.

"There must be something to this formne telling business. Look at that bonus that Benson got after it was foretold. She was right that time. A card reader was right about Stella’s brother too. And look at me! I’ve certainly had the three warnings she predicted.”

"You want me to fix your scotch and soda now. Mister Huston?”

"No, I don’t think I’ll . .

"What say, suh?”

"I said, no!”

"You sure ain’t sick, suh?”

"No Stella, I’m not sick. Now go listen to your radio or something.”

"Yes, suh.”

Edgar went to his room and turned on a light. He glanced at his watch. It was ten-thirty. He sat down at the chess board to practice the discovered check. He moved his queen into position and blocked her path with a knight, only to discover that he had left a rook unprotect­ ed. He cursed himself for his carelessness. While hunting for a way to protect the rook, he took out a cigarette and lit a match. Downstairs, Stella’s radio blared out a message about aspirin.

Somewhere a loose shutter banged against a sill. Edgar started up, upsetting the chess table. He stood for a moment inanimate as a show window mannequin, and then suddenly all his joints turned to water, and he collapsed into his chair. He stamped out the glowing match.

Downstairs, the radio wailed "The Blues in the Night.”

Edgar examined the mass of paper and tobacco in his left hand.

When he tried to brush the little brown strips away, they stuck to his sweating palms. He took out another cigarette, and lit it with trem­ bling hands. He glanced at his watch. It was eleven o’clock. Only an hour to live!

He listened for strange noises. There were none. He felt his pulse. It was normal. He tried to think objectively about his simation, but he was too involved, and the phantoms born of fear clouded his reason. He noticed a twitch in his left arm that he couldn’t control.

Somewhere a stray cur howled at the moon. A big truck roared by the house, shaking the windows in the loose putty. Edgar crushed out the spark of his cigarette, and lit another.

He picked up the table and gathered his chess men. He arranged them as best his shaking hands would allow. He talked to himself in a hushed voice. "How shall I die? Fall against the corner of that chess table?” He pushed the table into a corner of the room. "A heart attack?” He felt his pulse and decided that it was normal. "A stray bullet from some unknown gun?” He slammed the shutters and then resolved to stay away from the windows altogether.

"I must lie down or I’ll kill myself with worry.”

He pulled off his shoes and lay down. The bed springs squeaked Tu/enty-seven

under his trembling body. Downstairs, on the radio someone was singing Spring in the Air.” Edgar glanced at his watch. It was eleventhirty.

Realizing that he had only a half hour to live, he abandoned all reason and his emotions took complete control. His nerves knotted to­ gether and drew as tightly as violin strings. He felt as though centi­ pedes were crawling over his neck and face. He tried to brush them off, but coiUdnt move his arms. He tried to count the lines in the paper but his eyes wouldn t focus. Green and yellow spots clouded his vision. They grew bigger and darker. Everything went black.

Downstairs, the radio blared out the latest news.

Edgar awoke and sat bolt untight in bed. He was dizzy and his hands shook violently. He glanced at his watch. It was twelve-thirty!

He fell back on the bed and looked at the watch again to be sure.

I should have known better. Fortune tellers are humbugs. I’ll give that Madam Sorcene a piece of my mind! Imagine, a grown man . . .

Where are my shoes?” e > a , . ^5 shoes from under the bed, and untied the knots his fumbling fingers had caused earlier. He slipped them on and ran to the stairway. The voice of a local disk jockey floated up to him.

Stella, Stella, bring me that drink now, will you? Bring several, and fix one for yourself. Stella? Stella? Oh, blast that woman and her infernal radio. IU get them myself, after all, this calls for a cele­ bration.”

He pushed his right foot quickly to the first step. He felt the shoe string mg part way from under his left shoe and stop. For a moment he waved his arms wildly in a frantic effort to regain his balance. For a split second his body trembled like grain before the cutter bar, and then plunged head forward down the stairwell.

He landed in a meaningless heap of arms and legs. He heard a sickening "snap” and pain shot down his back and up behind his eyes.

The radio still blared. "And don’t forget to set your watches back for Daylight Saving Time tonight, folks. The time at the tone is eleven-thirty.”

Edgar didn’t hear the tone.

Bittersweet Reflection JANET

LACEY

'64

Seventeenth winter.

Only one.

Silvery-white, and a winter sun.

Coasting down a wind-swept hill; Two on a sled and it’s more fun still.

Though it may freeze, you’re never cold.

For you’re not too young and you’re not too old; And the wind blows free, and you know, somehow.

It won’t be again as it is right now . . .

Icicle-dusk, and the day is done.

Seventeenth winter.

Only one.

Twenty-eight

'Twenty-nine

r

A Real Nightmare MERCEDES BLUM '63

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose The events which took place on the night of October 15, 1957, changed the lives of my entire family. My father and I were watching the late, late movie, which had, as usual, put me to sleep. Suddenly, the sharp, penetrating ring of the telephone jarred me to my senses.

Father looked at me and said, "Who could be calling us at this hour of the morning?”

1 fumbled in the dark for the telephone, picked up the receiver, and answered drowsily, "Hello.”

The voice on the other end of the line was my sister Mary’s; her voice seemed stilted, peculiar. I thought she sounded as though some­ one was standing behind her, holding a gun at her back, and telling her what to say.

"Is that you, Pat?” she inquired.

"Yes, it’s me.” I replied.

"Are you doing anything right now? Please come over if you can.”

I asked her why she wanted me to come, but she refused to be ques­ tioned. My father told me not to go, but I would not listen. All sorts of thoughts ran through my mind as I hurried to her house, which was only a block away. Was a thief in the house holding a gun on her, and if so, what could I do?

Out of breath, I reached the house to find the side entrance door swinging suspiciously in the cool evening air. There were no lights burning on the first floor of the house, but the second floor was ablaze.

Fearfully I walked into the kitchen, mrned on the light, and called my sister’s name. I received no reply.

I picked up a carving knife from the kitchen table and cautiously climbed the stairs to the second floor. Each step squeaked loudly sending out a message to whoever might be upstairs.

When I reached the top of the stairs, I looked into the bedroom on my left but saw no one. I peered into the bedroom on my right, and there by the window stood my sister holding her two-year old daughter, Carol, in her arms. Relief spread through me like a flood when I saw that she was unharmed; however, clearly written on her face was raw fear.

"What’s wrong?” I said, "Did someone break into the house and frighten you?”

"Pat, Oh, I am so glad you are here. A patrol car has been going by the house for the last hour. They are coming to take me to jail.

My husband is going to leave me, and my neighbors want to take my baby from me.”

I was utterly astounded; I was speechless. Was this my sister talking? 'Then I laughed because I thought she was joking; I knew my brother-in-law would be home from work soon. When she did not laugh, I realized that she was quite serious. I tried to reassure her that nothing was going to happen, but she did not seem to listen.

The shrill ring of the telephone startled both of us. I dashed to Thirty

the second floor extension, picked up the receiver, and heard a voice heavy with sleep say, "Pat? I want you to come home right this minute! ” While I was trying to explain to my mother that I would be home as soon as possible, my brother-in-law. Jack, came home. With a hurried, "I’m coming right now,” to my mother, I slammed down the receiver, and ran downstairs to tell Jack what had happened.

As I walked slowly home I thought, '"ITiis is certainly a horrible nightmare. I hope that I wake up soon.”

The next morning, however, I found that my nightmare was real.

That afternoon my sister was taken to St. Francis Psychiatric Hospital.

She had suffered a complete nervous collapse.

Thoughts on October JANET

LACEY

'64

First Prize, Quiz and Quill Poetry It’s hard to breathe October air When days are brisk, and skies are blue And think that this will still be there When we are through.

It’s hard to think that other feet Will tread these same October ways; Crunch leaves on this same autumn street In later days.

Some say another world’s more fair.

(But half in hope and half in fear.

I would not trade for doubtful there A certain here.)

Yet we must look and smile, then pass.

Leaving October and the rest.

The falling leaves, the windswept grass.

Those we love best.

But think, would He who put this there, —Us, the stars, the fields, the skyjust let us have it once to share.

Only to die.

Not ever knowing why or how We and October came to be; Not quickening to another ‘now,’ Etcrnallv?

No. He knows that we can but give Our hearts and souls to what He gave; He knows that we can only live.

That we can save Nothing of here, to take along Wherever life at closing goes.

Not even jtist a snatch of song.

He knows. He knows.

Thirty-one

Just a Twist of the Wrist CHARLOTTE BLY ’63

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose The fertility of the minds of the American advertisers has gone rampant with originality in designing myriads of trick combinations with which to open the equally numerous cartons and boxes in a modern supermarket. You will recognize such classic lines as these: "Squeeze to Open,” "Press Here,” "Twist Off,” or "Squeeze Gently.”

Take it from me, this facility with which the boxes praaically open themselves is purely theoretical. Observe the plight of the hanky user, who is told, "Take one, up pops another.” Not until later when he is madly rushing to the tissue box with his hand over his face, suppress­ ing a threatening sneeze, does he realize the full implications of this misleading simplicity of word. He finds that the catch is this — you must first get the box open. There is a section on top that you just punch out and . . . Ah, Ah, Ahh-choo! Oh, well (sniff), he takes out the perforated section with a knife and after prodding, digging, and tearing, he winds up with a mutilated box containing tissues that are so torn and shredded that they look as though they have been rehabilitated after previous use.

Detergent boxes are only slightly less exasperating. On the top you will read, "Tear back to here.” Only a trained eye will spot the danger involved in following this innocent group of words. If you are so unfortunate as to be a novice at using one of these detergent boxes, you will doubtlessly overestimate, as I did, the amount to emanate from the seemingly tiny opening. As you tease the soap flakes from their box, you will inevitably reach a point of equilibrium beyond which it is disastrous to continue, for after reaching it, the detergent will suddenly shift to the top of the box and cascade into the water before you can retrieve it.

Or, how often have you heard a line like this: "Buy 'Goo-o’ peanut butter with the new, easy-to-use twist-off cap.” Upon your first en­ counter, you no doubt found that the deceptively simple "twist-off” directions were the understatement of the millenium. After ruining several table knives, you must resort to a hammer to loosen the lid to a twistable condition. By that time the lid is beyond recognition and strongly resembles the raw material for an abstract sculpture.

Could it be that the manufacturers overlooked putting the entire phrases on their containers? Perhaps they don’t intentionally intend to plague us as they do. Maybe on the peanut butter jiar they decided to cut production costs and just put, "Twist Off,” instead of the entire phrase which should have read, "Twist Off. It will give you more prestige than tearing a dictionary.”

If Pandora thinks she had troubles, she should live now, in the "convenience” of the twentieth cenmry.

Thirty-two

Molly CAROL MORSE

'61

Pick up a salt-shaker and come with me. I want to introduce you to Molly Cddwell, and you’ll need a grain of salt. You’ll know what I mean when you meet her.

Molly and I both work in a five-and-ten-cent store, but that is about all that we have in common. I work part-time on the lunch counter to pay my way through college, and she, at sixty-seven, devotes forty hours a week to the goldfish, hamster, canary, and plant department which occupies one corner of the back of the store. Often when business is slow, Molly will slip over to the lunch counter for a small Coke and a large chat. We chat about many things—^rather, she chats and I mostly listen. "Gawd, girl,’’ she says to me as she slumps down on to a stool. "My feet are killin’ me!” She groans dra­ matically. She’s a very effective groaner—so effective that the cus­ tomers sometimes turn around to stare, but they don’t seeem to bother Molly. She continues to complain, "No sooner do I have those cages clean than those damn birds mess them up again!”

Molly is not overly fond of her goldfish, hamsters, and canaries, but since they are included with the plants that MoUy adores, she tolerates them. She even manages to smile patiently as she has to dip again and again for just the right goldfish to please small, freckle-faced boys who insist that they don’t want that one, they want this one! But Molly prefers to dig in dirt and play with plant-food until she produces a lovely green, growing philodendron which she will bring proudly over for me to see. "How do you think this’ll sell, girl?” she asks, knowing full well that I always admire her work. She loves compliments but will usually pass them off with a "Huh! Anybody can do that!”

Sometimes, on our lunch-hours, Molly and I share sandwiches and conversation in the women’s lounge. She will usually flop into the nearest chair. With a groan for each foot, she pulls off her shoes and drops them on the already cluttered floor. "I should quit this place, y’know. I’m not gettin’ any younger!” She props her feet on another chair and leans her head back into the leather upholstery. "I don’t have to work anyway, y’know. My man is filthy rich! ” What’s the matter, Molly?” I ask in a teasing voice. "Are the customers giving you a rough day today?”

"Gawd, girl,” she says in her deep, coarse voice, "I thought I never would get out for lunch. People, people, people—always yellin’ at you to do this and that. I should’a’ told ’em to go to hell until I’d had a chance to eat my lunch!” She laughs wickedly.

Molly usually has some bit of advice or a spicy story for me during those lunch-hours that we spend together. Sometimes, when I tell her that I’m tired, she will become very disgusted. "Tired! At your age? ^^7; girl> at your age I had ten kids—I was married at thirteen, y know—and I was runnin’ a farm all by myself.” I hear these and other stories quite often, but Molly enjoys an interested audience, so I pretend I haven’t heard them before.

"Where was your husband?”

Thirty-three

"Shoot! I was a widow at nineteen. My man left me with ten kids to raise up, and I did it, tool And you think you’re tired! Huh! They don’t make young’uns like they use ta’.’’ She sniffs and snorts and swallows a bite of her bologna sandwich.

"Did you remarry, Molly?” I pretend to be interested.

"Land, yes. Three times in fact. Honey, I wish you could’ve seen me when I was your age.” She smiles, and I know from the distant look in her eyes that, momentarily at least, she is again a gay, young girl of twenty. "I was the prettiest girl in the county. All the young men begged to dance with me at parties. I had the reddest hair, like fire, and the prettiest clothes.” Her bright blue eyes were glowing.

"I just wish you’d seen me, honey.”

"But, Molly,” I intertupt, "What about your ten kids and the farm?”

"Oh, my grandmother took care of them once in awhile. She wanted me to have fun so’s to catch another man. And I did, too. I was real pretty then.” Suddenly, she turns to me and demands, "And why haven’t you caught you a man yet? Twenty-one and not even married.

Gawd, girl, do you want to be an old maid? Huh?” Then she adds, "Maybe you’re better off at that. Men ate such weaklings.”

"Oh, I plan to be married next summer, after I graduate,” I defend myself.

"Huh! You and your book-learnin.’ 'Them things can’t tell you a damned thing I can’t. Experience—that’s what you need. That’s where you really learn somethin!”

When Molly finishes eating her lunch, she plants both feet squarely in front of the mirror and goes to work on her appearance. She is a tall woman and rather plump with bulges around the top and bottom of the stiff corset she insists on wearing. "Gawd, girl. You should wear a corset with whale-bone. These silly things they call girdles today are for the birds!” She adjusts her corset and smdies the effea in the mirror. "I should go on a diet,” she says solemly. Molly loves diets and goes on and off them regularly. She pats, pushes, and pins her thick hair into two bushy balls at the back of her neck. Her hair is a streaky shade of dull, dyed brown except at the roots where the natural grayness is beginning to show through. Molly frowns at her reflection, and takes a clear-plastic cosmetic case from her huge black patentleather purse. She applies a dark red-purple layer of lipstick to her full lips and rubs them vigorously together. She smiles and winks at her reflection, unaware that I am watching her. Next, she colors her round cheeks with rouge and covers her long, thin nose with powder. Her large eyes fill with tears as she plucks a few hairs from under her thick eyebrows. "Gawd,” she mutters as she knocks her purse onto the floor and struggles to bend over and pick it up.

"How do I look?” she asks, almost childlike. She fluffs out the full skirt of her red dotted-Swiss dress which is entirely inappropriate for winter weather.

I want to tell her that she looks like a painted old lady who is trying to be young again, but she is very sensitive about her appearance, and so I say instead, "You look fine, Molly. Red is a good color on you.”

She leans over to me and whispers, "Well, I know that some of the old biddies (she refers to her fellow-workers) around here laugh Thirty-four

behind my back because I like bright colors. From some of the blacks and grays they wear, you’d think this is a morgue!” She frowns and purses her lips. "I intend to wear reds and yellows and purples until the day I die!” She will, too! She will probably be buried in an orange satin ball-gown with a purple ostrich feather in her hand.

Molly pours half of a bottle of cheap-smelling cologne on her arms and neck, forces her fat feet back into her high-heeled shoes, and teeters out of the room, wiggling her hips and swishing her skirts as she goes. She is ready to go back to work.

Molly is right about the other women talking about her. They delight in laughing, when she isn’t around, at her gawdy rhinestone earrings and brooches and the flashy colored rings which she wears on her short, plump fingers. But they also listen solemnly, day after day, to her countless stories about her four husbands and ten kids.

Some of the newer women sit wide-eyed as Molly explains to them that she was an orphan, brought up in a convent, or by a very strict Southern grandmother, or lived with her parents in Alaska and went fishing with the Eskimoes. But after a short while, even the newer salesladies begin laughing and mocking her behind her back.

One afternoon, after lunch as the women returned upstairs to work, one new and rather quiet young clerk about my age took me aside and whispered, "Molly just told me that she used to travel all over the world with a ballet company when she was my age, and that she was the star because she was so pretty.” 'The clerk paused for a minute while she looked around guiltily. "Her stories aren’t true, are they?”

"I don’t know. I guess not,” I replied.

"1 mean, I like her and all that—^but— well, you just have to kind’a’ take her with a grain of salt, don’t you?”

Yes, that is how you have to take MoUy Caldwell—with a grain of salt. And a little pity.

-Qy

The Enigma DALLAS

TAYLOR

'61

What a noble piece of work is man!

This man who can sail the seven seas, Fly through the air, send missiles To the sun, split atoms and put Them together again. This man Who will with intrepidity answer His country's call to arms, face the Enemy’s gun, shoot and be shot at.

Can this paragon be the same man Who is frightened and put to flight By the humble bumble bee?

Thirty-five

night - after the day • after KAIHYRN KRlnMIIANSI,

’61

night-after the day-after JOHN

SOLIDAY

'62

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry pieces of old newspaper (confetti) blow across the concrete rows of seats, catching moonlight, turning it over and over and over. a mouse nibbles in the popcorn box by the ticket booth, under the seats a cold shower still drips, drips, drips . boys played the game today. minds play it over and over and over tonight . . . .

Small Town U.S.A. KARLA HAMBEL

'64

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose Like everyone who has lived in a small town, I have liad my share of trials and triumphs. However, I would not trade those years of growing up there for anything. Those who have not experienced life in a small town have missed a wonderful experience; those who have experienced it will never forget it.

My town is located among the hills of southern Ohio. The name of it? Oh well, it is not important anyway because no one has ever heard of it. Once it was a busy town during the years when coal mining was a big business in that part of the country. Now the people who live here drive to other towns and cities in the vicinity for work because there is no industry here.

As you approach the town from the north, the hills on the right make it seem even smaller than it is, especially to someone unfamiliar with the hill country. When you round the curve, you are grated by the city gates, which are not really gates at all but cement pillars, a little crumbly with age, topped with lights which never work, because someone seems to enjoy holding target practice in the dead of night each time they are fixed.

Thirty-seven

At the right of the first traffic light are both of the funeral homes.

One sits directly to the right while the other is two doors down the street on the corner. These two places provide the town with many hours of gossip. It is not a question of who has died, but which funeral home got the business. Who does get the business usually depends upon the political party the deceased belonged to.

The business section of town consists of a row of stores on either side of the main street. At the end of the row, on the right, is a build­ ing used as a movie house and, next to that is a rickety building known to teen-agers for miles around simply as "Charlie’s”.

"Charlie’s” has provided the teen-agers of the area with a place to go for generations. 'The building shows this passage of time by obvious sags in the exterior, and the booths inside hold the initials of past teen­ agers as well !as the present.

Such valuable information as: who is going with whom, which couple just broke up, who had the latest fight, the latest song and dance, and last Friday night’s football score may be obtained by just visiting these "sacred” walls for a few minutes. These walls also hide those who, upon occasion, do not see fit to tread the halls of learning.

Let us inspea these halls of learning. The entire school system con­ sists of three buildings, made of brick, standing side by side. The two grade buildings are on either side and the high school is in the center.

At the present time, the school is headed by a man with a great deal of book knowledge but little understanding of human beings. He enjoys being important without wanting to assume the responsibility that goes with it.

Most of the faculty are, like "Charlie’s,” beginning to show the pass­ ing of time. Consequently, the same teaching methods are used genera­ tion after generation and woe be to anyone who tries to change them.

Most of the people who live here are content with their small world, and those who are not content move away only to find that this was not such a bad place after all.

To those who live in the city this sketch will give an idea of small town life, and to those who come from a small town — does it sound familiar.^

Mother Love ’.56 Lovingly, tenderly, now and forever I bind the coccoon that nothing can sever.

Over and over I strengthen each strand.

Wrapping and tucking with purposeful hand; Sealing in love to nurture and keep My dear ones protected and safe as they sleep.

SARAH ROSE SKAATES

The world that can’t touch them cannot bring them pain, And so I keep winding and binding again.

They’ll always be with me, belong to no other.

And spend all their days loving only their mother.

Thirty-eight

Thanh Mo America BARBARA A. BUSIIONG '62

Third Prize, Kathleen White Dimke Essay Contest In today’s newspapers, headlines carry reports of the current Com­ munist threat to the kingdom of Laos. Supplemented by radio and tele­ vision news broadcasts, the press desaibes infiltration and aggression within the tiny Asian monarchy. For many of us, the diffimlties ot l^os are a relatively new concern; but for Thomas Anthony Dooley, these problems were his way of life.

He was born in St. Louis, Missouri, on January 17, 1727. 1 he city of his birth wiatched him mature into a tall, ambitious man. Upon gradua­ tion from high school, he entered Notre Dame. , c However, World War 11 interrupted his college career. October ot 1944 witnessed his enlistment in the United States Navy where he served as a hospital corpsman until discharged in July, 1946, as a pharmacist’s mate second class.

Back to Notre Dame he went to complete his pre-medical training.

The St. Louis University School of Medicine conferred his Doctor of Medicine degree in March, 1953. , r ,• Before receiving a medical internship with the rank of lieutenant in the Medical Corps of the U.S. Naval Reserve, he smdied French at the Sorbonne in Paris. Then, during his Naval career, he volunteered for duty aboard the U.S.S. Montague transporting refugees away from the southward movement of Communist Viet Minh to safety in Saigon.

As the only medical officer on the ship, he had to oversee the care and treatment of numerous cases of tropical disease and malnutrition and provide sanitary facilities for 2,000 refugees. In addition, he had the dif­ ficult task of dispelling the prejudices which the natives — long exposed to Communist propaganda — harbored against Americans. Neverthe­ less, he was successful in this phase of operation Passage to Freraom.

Upon completion of the trip, he wtas transferred to duty as a French interpreter and medical officer for a Navy Preventive Medicine Unit in the port city of Haiphong. There, he built camps to shelter the dise^d and frightened refugees until they could be transported to safety. The camps served 600,000 refugees in the eight months before Haiphong fell to Communist Viet Minh.

For these services on January 22, 1957, Look magazine named him one of the ten outstanding men of 1956.

'Through those months. Dr. Dooley with a smaU staff of medical corpsmen had the formidable problem of requisitioning supplies, caring for the constant influx of refugees, and preventing the spread of com­ municable diseases. In addition to the physical care which he and his staff provided, they made friends with the natives, gave parties for the children, and distributed milk and clothing.

For work in this area, he was given the highest award of the nation of Vietnam and was made an officer of the Ordre National de Vietnam

by President Ngo Dinh Diem. In similar recognition, the U.S. Navy awarded him the Legion of Merit for "extremely meritorious” service.

He spent the summer of 1955 in Hawaii recording these experiences Thirty-nine

in his first book, Deliver Us from Evil. Advised by a Naval doaor, Mr. Dooley wrote to free himself from the tensions created by his ex­ periences. Not only was he capable of releasing his emotions but he was able to produce a successful book. More than 26,000 copies have been sold Md the U.S. Government has distributed issues in information libraries throughout the world. The April, 1956, issue of Reader’s Digest reatured this account as the book condensation of the month.

In the opinion of the critics. Deliver Us from Evil is a naive, straightforoard account of the epic transition of Laos from Communist rule.

This personal narrative displays a combination of Dr. Dooley’s intelli­ gence and resourcefulness.

Following its publication, Tom Dooley traveled throughout the United States under the sponsorship of the U.S. Navy. He lectured to medical societies, and to milita^ and state department groups on the Navy’s ^ in the vast Indo-Chinese evacuation operation. Then, in the spring of 19^, he resigned from the Navy to organize a small private medical mobile unit that he took to Laos in August of the same year.

Previous Naval experiences influenced his decision to volunteer medical services to the remote Asian kingdom. He qualified his deci­ sion for reporters of the New York Times by saying, "Right now Laos IS the ripest plum for Communism.” He told newsmen from the Wash­ ington Porr and Times Herald that Laos was his choice "because it’s so backward medically. The country is loaded with malaria and con­ genital diseases. There’s plenty of work to do.”

Earnest Tom manned the expedition himself accompanied by three mm who had served with him in Haiphong. 'The excursion was partially subsidized with the royalties of Deliver Us from Evil. American pharmaceu^al companies donated financial aid and medical and drug suppies. The remaining expenses were provided by individual contributions.

Ihe Laotian Ambassador in Washington, D.C., provided a sound track narration in his native dialea for the Walt Disney cartoons they took movies were their greatest asset in aeating friendships.

Under the auspicies of the International Rescue Committee, the pil­ grimage was approved by the U.S. Department of State, the International Cooperation Administration, and the Laotian Government.

A devout Catholic, Dr. Dooley maintained that the aim of the ex­ pedition was not to convert the people whom he visited. Instead, he intended to give the Buddhists a brief touch with democracy that built on a more permanent basis later. ... puq>ose in mind, he traveled into the remote and primitive village of Nam Tha. Beyond the reach of modern medicine, he established a hospital and trained a staff of natives to continue treating the sick when he should return to the United States.

For the completion of this project, the U.S. Junior Chamber of Com­ merce selected him as one of ten outstanding young American men on January 19, 1957.

Shortly after his return. Dr. Dooley recorded the mode of living, attitudes, beliefs, superstitutions and needs of the Laotians in his second successful book. The Edge of Tomorrow. helping Dr. Peter Comanduras launch MEDICO. MEDICO is a non-profit organization that raises money to send doctors Forty

to underdeveloped countries. Dr. Albert Schweitzer accepted Honorary Chairmanship on February 4, 1958 — the day notice of its creation was released to the press.

Following the development of MEDICO, Tom Dooley toured and lectured across the country in search of a new medical team. Finally, he chose Earl Rhine and Dwight Davis to accompany him to Muong Sing in the northwest corner of Laos.

As a team, they remodeled a string of dirty grass huts to form a clean neat-looking MEDICO compound. The returning "Thanh Mo (Doctor) America” — as the natives called him — found it easier to relieve disease and suffering this time, as well as to create lasting friendships, for praise of his work had spread through the mountains from Nam Tha. Heeding his motto, "Help one Asian help another,” he trained native students to maintain the compound and improve sani­ tary conditions. The ground-work and results of this program were simi­ lar to those of the first hospital he established in Laos.

In the middle of the project. Dr. Dooley was ordered back to the United States for immediate cancer surgery. His illness coincided with two other important events: the first Communist guerilla depredations of and infiltration into Laos and the burning of the mountain which surrounds Muong Sing.

After the operation at Memorial Hospital in New York, he apprec­ iated the true significance of the mountain holocaust. At the time, though, he considered the fire a symbol of the raging and ravenous threat of Communist might in Asia — the same force that threatens to overtake the little kingdom today.

He spent his convalescent period making a whirlwind speaking, radio, and television tour of the United States to raise funds for MEDICO. On November 10, he stopped in Nebraska to receive the 1959 Mu­ tual of Omaha Criss Award of $10,000 for "outstanding contributions to the medically underprivileged peoples of the world ... an out­ standing example of a free man helping other free men on a personto-person basis.”

Resting in Hawaii, he hurriedly recorded the events of his journey to Muong Sing in his latest book. The Night They Burned the Mountain.

His literary treatment of the founding of MEDICO, the establishment of the compound, the development of cancer and the acceptance of the Criss Award for $10,000 was considered warm, sincere, enthusiastic, and dedicated by the critics. Because The Night They Burned the Moun­ tain is written by a non-professional on the limited topic of establishing medical care in a remote Laotian village, it is difficult to compare with other current books. It is direct and easy to follow. It contains enough background of Laotian political and economic history to satisfy the practical reader. Communist infiltration is described. The pioneer ele­ ment and the struggle to accomplish appeal to romantic and adventurous spirits. Last but not least, this story gives an example of brotherly love — of one man helping others help themselves.

When he had finished The Night They Burned the Mountain, Dr. Dooley returned to his beloved Laos in time for Christmas. The day he departed, the Gallup Poll reported him in seventh place on a list of Forty-one

"Most Admired” men selected by the people of the United States.

Since that joyous Christmas, the tiny kingdom has witnessed the malignant damage of continued Communist infiltration just as Dr. Dool­ ey suffered the fatal growth of cancer. Today, the Laotians struggle to solve the problem of Communist aggression, but their "Thanh Mo America” is no longer there to help his people.

Love Is Bom TAYLOR '61 Love is born in humble ways.

It comes not from the womb Of pride, envy, or contention.

DALLAS

Love is born as silently as the Dew on a rose at dusk and as Quietly refreshes the heart.

It is in a mother’s kiss, a fond Embrace, a word of kindness To a grieving soul.

Love comes like a phantom In the night and leaves a Mark that cannot be erased.

-Qy

JUDY BLUE

Forty-two

’61

A Silent Generation CARL

KROI’F

’61

Second Prize, Quiz and Quill Poetry

•:

My father handed me the world the other day.

He said, "Son, here's your heritap, the good earth.”

Then he blushed and stepped aside.

I looked at my elders and laughed.

I looked at a map and frowned.

I looked at my heritage And wept.

So I went to my father and asked, "What’s the matter with Things?”

But Father was strangely silent.

I went tor long walks in deep woods Asking, “Why?” But met only profound silence.

Finally, I sat down in the shadow of a skyscraper And asked myself, "Why?” But my Self could only babble meaninglessly.

So I crept downstairs To where the door gaped open on the bomb shelter.

I crawled into the darkness.

And behind me the door closed With a metallic ring of finality.

Aspiring Peaks ROSEMARY RICHARDSON

’61

What is there about a place that says "Welcome”? What is there about a place that makes you feel as though it were home? What is there about a place, when you leave after the first visit, that makes you cry?

The majestic range of the Teton Mountains is simated in the Jackson Hole area of Wyoming. Perhaps their uniqueness is that there are no foothills rising before them. One drives and then, all of a sudden, there they are, rising some rhousands of feet into the air from the valley floor.

Just to sit and watch the mountains is a fascinating pastime. In the early morning, the rays of rhe rising sun cast golden pinpoints of light in the crevices and recesses; and, as the day becomes afternoon, the mountains take on stiU another appearance. The grey rock seems blue, purple, or brown; and as the sun sets behind the gigantic peaks an even more rewarding sight is there to view. The summits are black against the star-studded sky. The most beautiful sight of all, if the observer hap­ pens to be lucky enough, is to see the mountains silhouetted in the red blaze of the descending sun.

What makes these mountains so different from any others? Maybe it is because I know them — know them intimately from ten summers of observation and hiking, know them when they are still snow-covered, know them when they are bare in the hot summer, and know them once again when the first snow Ms upon them. I have yet to know them in the depths of winter when twenty feet of snow covers the road and Forty-three

buries the land in a soft blanket of white.

Jenny Lake, icy, glacier-fed, mirrors the peaks on windless days, but becomes a white-capped, wave-ridden thing in a high wind.

A walk along the rock-covered shore reveals a crystal clear door to rocks and boulders beneath the surface of the water which, from a dis­ tance, appears as blue as the sky. Giant pines dot the glacial moraine surrounding the camp side of the lake and chattering pine squirrels scamper along fallen logs or high up into the branches. Occasionally a deer crashes through the trees as she catches the oder of human bodies.

She stops and looks over her shoulder at these same intruders, ready to run again if they get too close for her liking. Ah, too close, and away she goes, her spotted body blending into the undergrowth of huckleberry bushes and brush.

But this is getting away from the mountains themselves. A ride across, or a hike around the lake, brings one to the base of the smaller peaks and a path invites the hiker to explore their lower levels.

The path leads upward into a shady, almost sunless glen; but soon winds its way onto the ridge overlooking Jenny Lake. Into the narrow ridge between two peaks it continues, following the rushing stream which pours down from the glacier high in the mountains. This icy stream rushes gaily, madly over rocks and boulders, then moves slowly and quietly into a rockless pool. If one climbs down to its edges, he sees the prints of a deer or moose that has been drinking from the cold re­ freshing water. Sometimes this fellow is still in sight on the other side, or further up the slopes of the ridge.

Each bend in the trail presents a different angle and view of the mountains themselves, either to the side or up ahead; always they beckon the hiker onward and upward. The slopes are dotted here with shrubs and pines, there with huge boulders; and sometimes the hiker is able to hear the sharp whistle of the rock coney. He is that little fellow who gathers grasses, lays them on the rocks, dries them in the summer sun, and then drags his harvest into his rocky home for winter meals.

One walks onward, through the deep forest and then, at the next bend of the trail, into a mountain meadow where wild mountain flowers grow.

There is the paintbrush and the purple gentian; there is the glacier lily and the elephant’s head; and, when one hikes high enough, the Perry’s primrose. The meadow is a blaze of color — orange, red, yellow, white, violet, blue, and rose — a blending of different hues, each one more' beautiful than the last.

As one goes higher, the path becomes narrower, rougher, and of course steeper. ’The mountains loom higher and more jagged the closer one gets to them. The small patches of snow once seen in the distance are now before one, not small, but covering the whole hillside.

At last there, before the hiker, is the destination he has been seeking, a small mountain lake unseen by the campsite sitter. Fish gleam in the depths, swimming around rocks or darting toward an unsuspecting bug zig-zagging on the top of the blue, blue water. Small chunks of ice float on top of the vvater, slowly melting in the brightly shining sun. Oh yes, the sun is shining, but the wind blowing down from the mountains is still quite cold.

Forty-four

The ground may be marshy, but it is covered with a velvety green carpet of grass, here and there sprinkled with rocks and boulders. Water seeping from beneath the ground and minerals glittering in the rocks give the appearance of a large-scale velvet-covered gem display case.

Here the mountains seem touchable by a reaching hand; however, the hiker knows he would have to travel onward and upward for a long time to reach their peaks and so he must be content to wait until another time for this rewarding experience.

He must be content to linger here in this quiet, beautiful paradise for a while, and rhen begin the trip home to view the mountains from still other vantage points.

He is content today for he knows that there are more trails and more vistas for another day.

The Difference ROBERT C. KOETTIX

’64

Almighty Master, I acknowledge your omnipotent influence in the universe. Though I can see evidence of Your complete authority, al­ lusions to Your supreme might, I cannot comprehend the magnitude of Your greatness.

You are responsible for man’s ascent from savagery to civilization.

I am thankful for such a gracious Lord who guides man’s development toward a uniform world society.

I pray that Your benevolence will not be destroyed by man’s vanity, indolence, and ignorance. O Master, do not allow the world to become diseased again with selfishness and pride. Do not permit her fate to be the fate of Rome, who like a dead animal has been left to rot.

'The decomposed body of a mighty civilization now serves only as a warning to future cultures who might forsake You. Once the core of mental stimulation Rome became the essence of stagnation.

What makes the difference. Lord?

What makes the difference?

O Custodian of life, creation or destruaion is Your prerogative. As the destiny of society depends on Your will, so the fortune of each human being relies on Your discretion. Controller of the heart beat.

Co-ordinator of bodily movement. Interpreter of sensory impulses, with­ out You existence would merely be suspension in a sea of blackness.

Warden of all emotions, how can love, compassion, sympathy, envy, fear, and hatred exist within a single being and become manifested in a single day? Why do these emotional forces struggle against each other until one inevitably triumphs and dominates the being which it inhabits?

When the shaft yields to the earth, why does one man shriek and cry, while another bows his head and heaves a sigh?

On encountering a person afflicted by spasmodic convulsions: Why does one man laugh and jeer While another sheds a tear.

What makes the difference. Lord?

What makes the difference?

Forty-five

Cultivator of character, You have already conceived every good or evil deed. You procreate artists, philosophers, and scientists who con­ tribute to society worthy gifts. You nurture murderers, rapists, and thieves who offer gifts of violence and deceit. Two men arise from the same origin.

One man by healing brings relief Another stealing causes grief.

What makes the difference, Lord.^ What makes the difference?

Commander of my life, who has instilled within me creative powers, forgive me when these powers lie dormant. I am weak, but through Your guidance, I may become strong. I may become another Caesar or another "barrack-room” emperor. What makes the difference. Lord?

'Thought," You say. Your fragmentary answer forces me to ask for the complete solution. Tell me the origin of thought and how it is stimulated.

By knowing this I’ll never feel defeat And only then will life become complete.

In Your name I humbly pray for this knowledge, O Mind that per­ vades the universe, O Mind that lives in me.

AMEN

Pink Clover EDNA DELLINGER CARLSON '22

Today I smelled pink clover. That was the fragrance of the cloudy pink shaving lotion that Papa used to use on Sunday mornings. When a whiff of that perfume reached me I felt that I was back again in the farm kitchen. Of course that was impossible, for I was standing on a pier in New York City, waving my hand in farewell, but suddenly I could see in my mind’s eye that old farm kitchen.

It was Sunday morning. You quietly watched Papa as he stood in the wash room, his lathered-covered face reflected in the oval mirror.

You watched as he carefully took from its worn brown leather case the razor that had been grandpa’s. You saw him strop and test the edge and adjust the blade and handle until they were at right angles to each other. Then he began the soft 'scrape, scrape’ across his face.

You were motionless lest any sudden sound or movement cause him to hurt himself. You took a deep breath as he laid down the razor and you waited for him to wash the soap away and pat his face dry again.

When he reached for the bottle of cloudy pink shaving lotion, that was your signal and you ran to him begging, "Give me a drop. Papa, give me a drop!” He poured a drop into your tiny hand. You clutched it tightly, cupping your hand to enclose the precious drop, but it was sure to escape through some unguarded corner.

Papa, sensing your disappointment, cried, "Open your hand! Open your hand if you want to keep it.”

Forty-six

How hard it was for you ro accept that admotiition, but after a while you were able to prove it to yourself. Sure enough, whenever you opened your hand wide there was a small, deep hollow in the palm, and in that hollow you kept that cherished drop of perfume.

The morning sun streamed in through the east window, picked up the luster of the Sunday School pennies on the window siU beside the geraniums and caught on the thin film of smoke rising from the hot pans on the stove. Three pairs of little mittens lay warming on the hearth and three pairs of freshly polished litrle shoes rested beside the wood box. The table was set for breakfasr: a lump of yellow butter on the leaf plate, maple syrup in the pewter-topped pitcher. Mamma sang softly as she whisfed to and from the 'buttery’ for milk or eggs or sugar.

She deftly turned the lacy buckwheat pancakes and sausage links. The odor of coffee blended pleasantly with the odor of apple wood burning in the cook stove.

Surrounded as you were by things comfortable and familiar you felt secure and beloved: you held your little fist up to your nose and there was rhat lingering and delicate fragrance of pink clover.

Today as I sttxxl on the pier I smelled pink clover again. The fragrance nestled in the swishing folds of a white satin wedding gown, and was borne back to me on those waves set in motion by a huge ship as it slipped silently out of the harbor.

She Cares . . .

BY CAROL ALBAN

'64

'The grey haze lay like a sombre giant over the dimly-lit city.

People scurried, ant-like, from door to door, hardly daring to brave the grey ocean without the aid of the stable landmarks. Far above rhe city, beyond the dimness, the sun glimmered its first rays which the haze sent back to the nothingness which was sky.

As the giant stretched and awoke and rose, the white light of day penetrated the dull brownstone buildings and curled around the alleys, illuminating the dank crannies where drunks slept the sleep of the dead.

The young man stood at the entrance of the alley, knowing the pic­ ture that lay beyond, yet instinctively repulsing rhe job he had to do.

His face was hidden by the shadows of a light not yet complete.

Wavering reflections from a still-deep puddle lit his grey trench coat, accenmating the wrinkles and stains. His foot stepped forward, seeminly unattached to the body, into the puddle, splashing mud onto his cuffs to lodge and settle there as just one more mark.

He walked mechanically, his hands in his pockets, kicking aside the dented cans and broken bottles in his way. He walked until he was stopped by a wall. He turned his head to the right. One could see then the deep furrows of age in a face intended to be still young. The corners of rhe mouth, already set in a thin line, became even more fixed as he stared coldly at a pile of brown rags.

Forty-seven

"Get up!” he said sharply, kicking the pile with his foot. From deep within the pile came a low groan followed by silence.

"Get up, you bastard!” He kicked again, this time more viciously.

"She wants to see you.” He turned away, intending to go, but turned again and, searching under the pile for a hand, extracted a bottle. To this bottle was attached, in a viselike grip, the hand. He dropped the bottle and walked down the alley into the light, thankful to be releas­ ed from the closeness of the enclosure.

At his back the pile began its slow movements of extracting itself from the entanglement. A pair of eyes emerged, red and swollen, half hidden by heavy grey brows which overhung the dark circles and the hollow cheeks. The balding head rose and the body followed, stumbling against the walls, groping for support, the hand still clutching the bottle. He slid against the cool bricks until he reached the brighter light where he sat down and retched into the puddle. Sitting there, he reflected upon the words which had given him the impetus to rouse himself.

"She wants to see you,” he had said. She wants . .. How often had he heard those words? She wants . . .” He struggled to his feet and moved down the street by instinct, by habit.

After a time, he came to a larger brownstone, one whose face was not scarred. He paused and then walked blindly up the steps. A maid opened the door.

"I’m sorry, we . . . .”

And seeing who it was, she stepped aside and let him enter.

He turned left, through massive oak doors, and into a large study.

The woman at the desk looked up. He sat down heavily in the nearest chair, keeping his eyes, or what vision he had, on the woman at the desk.

"She’s aging,” he thought, seeing beyond the mask of powder, base and emollients to the wrinkles of age. Her grey eyes stared at him searchingly and he shifted his gaze to the blonde crown piled decorous­ ly on top of her head. Behind her loomed a portrait of her father, large and forbearing, the polished gilt frame a heavy backdrop for her delicate features.

"John?” She spoke deliberately, hoping for the glance of recognition that would mean he still cared. But it was not forthcoming, so she con­ tinued ...

"John, I’ve asked you to come again and we both know why.”

He was gazing around the room, detached, taking in the elaborate furnishings in every detail, as though he had never before seen them.

She stood and walked to where he was sitting, her thin heels clicking on the tiled floor, then becoming silent as they reached the deep-pile carpet. He was staring at her feet, her ankles.

Not as thin as they used to be,” he thought.

John, look at me, please,” she pleaded.

His eyes slid up her slender body, clothed in the latest suit from Paris, to stop at the crown.

Why are you torturing yourself and me? We’ve talked to the doc­ tors. You can be cured. It will take time, but you can . . . .”

There was a click of the doorknob and the massive doors again Forty-eight

swung wide. She turned expeaandy, leaving the sunken, lethargic form in the chair. The young man of the alley entered and stood on the light rug, leaving muddy imprints of size-twelve shoes.

"I found him. Mother.” He ignored the mass in the chair.

"Yes, I know. Now go and take off those hideous clothes. You look as bad as your father.”

At these last words, a look of repulsion passed over his face and the grey eyes smouldered as he turned, retracing the mud tracks, closing the doors behind him.

As she turned back to the chair, the mass suddenly came alive and spoke thickly.

"He’s my son, too. Why have you turned him against me? He called me bastard . . . my own son.”

He dissolved back into the chair, becoming again a part of the chair, silent, unmoving, unfeeling.

But the woman had grasped this one sign of emotion, this one sign that said all was not lost.

"John.” She spoke earnestly, knowing that this would perhaps be her last chance, yet unable to find the right words. "People in our position can’t let themselves become what you have become. The years that my family . . .” and she launched into the family history that never failed to sicken him, no matter how well fortified he was with liquor.

"People in our position,” he thought, "that’s what it’s always been ... in our position . . . pillars of the community . . . benefactors of everything . . . giving money to people who never deserved it . . . put­ ting on a front so that the papers could keep our name at the top of the society page . . . animals crawling and clawing at one another in the putrid fi^t for survival . . . survival ... for what? ... to die? ... whether by natural causes or the man with the button .. . and to live .. . on whose money? . . . not money gotten from hard work ... no, people don’t know what hard work is . . . just money . . . who pares where it comes from? ... Grandfather, or the embezzeling teller at the bank or the red light houses . .. who cares where ... as long as it is there.”

He felt the need of a drink and could feel the bottle in his coat pocket. But he could not drink here, it wouldn’t be proper. It occurred to him that perhaps he should have entered by the back door like a common servant. He snorted at the thought and turned his attention to the woman.

Now she was saying something about the doctors . . . treatment . . . rest . . .

"When you are cured, you can go back to your executive’s job at the of­ fice. My brothers will be glad to set you up in your own office. The family realizes the bad mistake that you’ve made, but we’re all willing to forget it if you will submit to treatment.”

The same old trivia . . . submit to treatment ... go back to work at that dump ... do as we say and everything will be fine ... be like everybody else, the job is free . . . you didn’t even have to work for it ... all you have to do is stay sober, be a good husband hnd meet the right kind of people.

He had been too long without a drink. The pit of his stomach was beginning to churn and he extraaed the bottle from his pocket.

Forty-nine

He stared at the ibottle, focusing his vision on the inviting liquid ^ peaceful shadows of stupor. Once mor^ he boke^t the rwin and at the old woman, standing uncertainly before him. '^en he lifted the tettle to his lips and let the cool liquid triS down his throat to ease the churning. ^ Lticsie He heaved himself waveringly from the chair, toward the door stumbhng across the soft carpet He tripped on the edge of the mg li? doorknobs. The small kno£ felt c<^l in bis hands, he turned them and stumbled on, past the mab past the young man, and down the steps. ^ ^™

My Second Mother ELIZABETH GLOR '64

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose A sea of faces looked on as our train mUioj ■ , They were searching for the students whn Berne station. suminer. We in t^n gazed out „n^ T ^^e those excited people we could call from the train, I rested my eyes on the warm looking woman who was rapidly aDornarh' offered me her hand and df

wondering which of ^ ^ distinguished

first acquaintance I learned to love the of my new "Swiss mother.” Also at that he, f„, he, pride i„ he,

hp^M""Sbe?T„^LrSe,7

i, and friendliness LLT"* "

™

which her husband had designed she

tile-roofed house

Much of her time was spent in rh,. i v u her family. She made a spedal effoS to ^mn'^ P^^P^tng meals for she made her salads with spices and oils from^ “ prepared mixture as is often used in Z tables were freshly cooked . ^ Ud fri After the preparation of a meal her kitchen i""*" “"tamers for her! phance display, for neatness was’one of her n ^P' In almost every room lingered the fr ““"'""^ing characteristics, one of her habits was to reflfl Jat ZT"" placed throughout the house. On anv^warm^^^ vases which she had could be found among the bright hiie« nf Stauber for dahlias, marigolds, pemnias phlox greens, her careful attendon. ^ sunflowers begged for Multicolored Oriental carnets rr.„e,-.nj ing room floors, but also the hall bedrrnm^" d ware, dating from the Medieval Ages liM^rr'^i room wall. Over the fireplace in th^ ’li, ■ had belonged to King Suis of France *Mv’^'^'” articles which could claim their nriorin' Fifty

^

dining

j "’"^^er” treasured derived from centuries

long past. She often remarked that there was nothing that is "really old” in America for the nation itself is young.

Mrs. Stauber also placed great emphasis upon ancient architecture.

While on tours of her country, she enjoyed viewing churches that had been built centuries before. However, most of all, she was proud of her city, Berne, which dated from the year 1100 A.D. In contrast to the antiques she admired, her wardrobe was com­ posed of the latest fashion creations. Her hair style could be seen on the cover of any of the magazines showing the most recent women’s fashions. Because her husband was appalled at the appearance of women who were even mildly plump, and because of her pride of her figure, the soup and potatoes which she fixed for the family were left untouched by her. Walking also helped her keep trim, although she did not consider it exercise. Even on rainy days, accompanied by an umbrella, she would venture out for her daily enjoyment of nature.

Every Sunday during the summer, weather permitting, she en­ gaged in a mountain hike in the Swiss Alps. With high rubber-soled shoes on her feet and a knapsack on her back, my "Swiss mother” really enjoyed the day’s journey. It was a Sunday following a "gettogether” at a friend’s home, when she pointed to one of the snow­ capped peaks and said, "Leez, thees ees Switzerland, not parties!”

"That she held great pride /or her country was evident in every phase of her daily life. The smile she threw to the Swiss peasant at the market place, the fresh carrot she gently tossed to the bears in the barren groben” (bear pits are symbols of the city of Berne), and the brightness which appeared in her expression when her at­ tention was fixed on the revolving bears and knights which per­ formed every hour on the "Zeit Khlocken”, all testified her love of her country.

She raised her family with a love and firm discipline which bound each member to the other.

After several months in Berne, the day came when Mrs. Stauber accompanied me to the train. After a warm handshake and a long fare­ well, I started my trip home.

Almost two years have passed since we parted, but our corres­ pondence keeps this marvelous woman’s friendship dear to me.

Last Year’s Christmas Cards LOYDE

HARTLEY

'62

Third Prize, Quiz and Quill Poetry Dusty and warped Last year’s Christmas cards lie heaped On the attic floor.

Here’s one from Aunt Ida— She was killed in an auto crash Last June.

And here’s one from Hobart Grimes— I wonder Why he sent me a card?

He doesn’t even speak when we pass On the street.

Mice have nibbled on this one; I can’t tell who sent it, And the glitter has turned yellow!

Pifty-one

no fear SOLIDAY â&#x20AC;&#x2122;62 a bird flies against the window; shatters glass. snow filters through. a child sits in the glass playing with a snowflake.

JOHN

Beatnik Poetry: Around Campus JANET

INNER MEANING:

INNER MEANING:

INNER MEANING:

LACEY

'64

Silently, slowly The monster approaches.

I cower, I tremble, I stammer.

Fear renders me speechless.

It draws nearer, nearer . . .

My time is up, and I am lost.

GoshI What an awful blind date!

I wander in an abyss of darkness.

Searching forever, blindly Reaching out and drawing back.

Seeking something invisible.

In the pounding, rushing waves of rain.

Oh, nol My contact lenses went down the shower draini I stand on the edge Alone, the outcast, I try to hide my shame But I cannot.

You all condemn, scorn, and mock.

You point and laugh; I am The Different One. Why didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you tell me you were all going to wear Bermudas?

A sound rends the silence - Rising, falling, screaming, crying.

Insistent, clanging and furious.

A few muttered words, and then Everything ceases.

Silence reigns again.

Fifty-two

Fifty-three

Wild Violets, Daisies and a Bicycle Basket BARBARA ACTON

'62

Third Prize, Quiz and Quill Prose The shadows of the century-old elm tree hid her from view. It was not until I was almost next to her that I noticed the small figure silhouetted against the dusk. She could not have been older than ten, but something about her struck me as being quite adult.

I pondered this for a moment and then I realized what the adult­ ness in her was. It was the wisdom in her deep, blue eyes that said, I know you, World. I know your goods and your bads, but most of all I know your hurts.”

As she stood motionless, her ebony hair flowed loosely down her waist. In her delicate hands she clutched a bicycle basket rmed with wild violets and daises. Solemnly she stared at the three freshly dug graves at her feet. It was too late for me to turn back so I stood by her side also looking at the graves. I wanted to say sornething — anything to help — but the words wouldn’t come. She broke the silence.

My mother always liked violets. I think they’ll make her happy, don’t you.^” I nodded my head and tried to smile. When she looked at me.

It was as if she realized she would have to take pity on me and help me.

My name is Ann. Mommy and Daddy always called me Annie Mcept when they were mad at me and then they called me Ann. You look lonely — why don’t you call me Annie?”

My voice shook a little as I replied, "I’d like that, Annie.”

Thats my Mommy’s gtave and the one on the right is Daddy’s ^d the left one belongs to Johnny. He’s my big brother. They were accident two weeks ago.”

Im so sorry, Annie,” I said quietly, trying to think of something comforting to add.

Everyone says that. Then they say that it’s such a shame Mommy and Daddy died so young.”

She stopped and laid the hand-picked violets tenderly on the middle grave. As she gracefully arose, she spoke: "Mommy was only twentyDaddy was twenty-nine. My Mommy’s a beautiful lady.

Cjrandma says I get my hair and my eyes from her, but I get my fair complexion and sense of humor from Daddy. Daddy laughs all the time and he makes me laugh too.”

With these words, she gently laid the daisies on the biggest grave.

I was arnazed that (part of the time) she spoke of her parents as still being alive. When she realized they were not, much of the excite­ ment in her voice left, leaving only a serious quality.

Daddy calls me his little sun daisy. Every night he used to hold me in his lap and tell me a story just before I said my prayers. It was so good to have his arms around me. Daddy was so good and so. . . .”

The tears welled up in her eyes and two trickled down her soft cheeks. I handed her a handkerchief and she quitely brushed the tears Fifty-four

away. Then she walked over to the smallest grave and laid the biqfcle basket softly on it.

"Today is Johnny’s birthday. He’s eleven now. He loves his bi­ cycle and he said it needs a new basket. I saw him staring at this one in the store window. They do have bicycles in heaven, dont they?

"Yes, Annie, I’m certain they do.”

At this answer, she smiled. Suddenly her face shone with radiance and her eyes sparkled. She looked like the little girl she was.

"You know. I’m really, very lucky.”

At the astonished look in my face, she explained, "You see. Mommy, Daddy, Johnny and me always did things together. We were so happy. Yesterday, a little girl moved in the house next door. Her name is Candy. She has a nurse who takes care of her. Candy says her Mommy and Daddy never play with her like mine did. You know, she doesn’t even have any brothers or sisters to fight or play with.

Can you imagine never joining hands when the blessing is given at the table?”

"No, I can’t, Annie. Candy must be a very lonely little girl.”

"She is. Don’t you see - that’s why I’m so lucky. I’ll never be lonely because I know Mommy and Daddy and Johnny love me and are thinking about me in heaven.”

"I’m sure they are.”

"I think it’s nice that they all went to heaven together, don’t you?

Mommy and Daddy can take care of Johnny up there. Someday I’ll go stay with them too and maybe I can take Candy with me - then she’ll be loved and wanted, too. That must be why God didn’t take me. I can be Candy’s sister. She needs me.”

Then Annie knelt beside the graves and began to pray. I went humb­ ly down on my knees beside her to pray but my prayer was different.

"Dear Heavenly Father, thank You for this little girl whom many people need. The faith, hope, and love which she conveys is like that of Another Whom all the world needs. . .

My Love PHYLLIS

VALJATO

’63

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry I loved a man on a tall white horse; He said he loved me true.

Then why, oh why, when he loved me thus Did he ride away to you?

Perhaps it was your wild blue eyes Or hair so long, so black . . .

No matter what wile called him thus; He gave not one look back . . .

Not back to where I am waiting still For the man I love yet dear.

Where, given the chance. I’d gladly slit His throat from ear to ear.

Fifty-five

ROGER SIIII'LEY

â&#x20AC;&#x2122;64

Rebel Brother JOHN SOLIDAV

'02

First Prize, NSAL Intercollegiate Short Story Contest, I960 The campfires flickered and cracked, shooting sparks high into the evening sky. General Briggs’ troops covered the entire Missionary Ridge, surrounding the Union soldiers, who, under Thomas and Grant, were camped in the valley below. Smoke hung close to the ridge, mix­ ing with the mist that shadowed the Tennessee mountains. A mixed aroma of cooking beans and stewed rabbit filled the cool late-November air.

Around the fires, huddled together, sat the Southern soldiers, dirty and tired. Their uniforms, if the gray rags could be called uniforms, clung to their dirt-tanned bodies—matted with mud and stained by grass and blood. War had hardened their eyes with hatred and a longing for home. Young as fourteen and old as seventy, they sat together, staring hollow-eyed into the fire, nervously enjoying the few moments of peace left before dawn.

At the edge of the circle a tall figure appeared and moved toward the fire.

"Howdy, Ryder,” someone greeted heartlessly as he sat down. Ryder didn’t answer. He peered into the fire shaking the bushy, black hair out of his eyes and scratching his three-weeks-old beard with long, dirty fingers. His shoulders were humped, supporting large hairy arms that made him seem much older than twenty-nine. He walked with a slight limp, dragging his left foot like a wounded animal. All was quiet for a moment; then he spoke. His deep, coarse voice rattled in mockery.

"What ya carryin’ a gun fer, Taylor.^” he asked. "I ain’t seen ya use it none today.”

Jim Taylor, who was sitting on the other side of the fire, pretend­ ed not to hear.

"This makes the third day in a row that ya ain’t used your gun.”

Sam’s yellow, decayed teeth gleamed; a smirk spread over his face, and he spit lazily from the side of his mouth. 'The brown juice followed a scar which parted his beard and ran from his lower lip to the edge of his chin where the liquid dripped onto his gray, wool coat.

"Jimmy boy’s got a brother fightin’ fer the Yankees,” he said, "and Jimmy here’s afraid he might kill him.”

Jim, a sandy-haired boy of nineteen, turned to face Ryder. He rubbed his muscular arm with smooth, sensitive fingers. The fire threw twisting shadows across his light skin, working into the shallow grooves around his eyes, across his well-formed nose, and down under the edge of his solid, smooth-shaven chin. His blue eyes looked troubl­ ed, yet understanding, and he spoke in a smooth, but forced voice.

"Okay, So I’m afraid I’ll kill someone. Why don’t you keep your mcmth shut, Ryder?”

“That’s what war is, ain’t it?” Sam roared. "It’s killin’! Jus’ cause you got a kid brother marchin’ on the other side of the line don’t mean ya kin stop killin’.”

Jim stood up and walked with strong, sturdy strides to the fire. "Ya Fifty-seven

really like to kill, don’t ya, Ryder?” he asked.

Sam glared up at him. Having placed a log on the fire, Jim walked back.

"Your brother’s a traitor anyhow,” Sam chuckled. "What’s wrong, couldn’t your old lady bring ’im up right?”

Jim wheeled, his eyes burning with anger. "Damn you, Ryder! If you don’t shut up, I’U kill you!

An old man sitting beside Ryder looked slowly up from the ground.

"Yer askin’ fer it, Ryder,” he warned.

"Aw shut up, old timer!” Ryder turned, shoving the old man back­ wards over the log.

The other men around the fire lunged to their feet angrily. Jim jumped in front of them. "Help Higgins back up, Ryder!” he com­ manded.

Ryder, wiping the tobacco spittle from his beard, laughed loudly. "So you’re gonna kill me, are you? Why, you couldn’t kill an ant. You’re scared, baby boy. Don’t try to scare me!”

A large, bulky man stepped towards Ryder, his fists clenched tightly with rage. Jim held him back.

"Let me at him,” the man’s voice roated.

"He’s mine. Smith,” Jim argued.

"Yea, always yours, ain’t he.” Smith’s voice grew sharper. "Why don’t he pick on someone his own size for a change?”

Jim yanked at Smith’s arm, and the man moved backwards toward the fire.

Ryder’s face grew stern as he continued. "I’ve seen you out there.

You’d let them kill you before you’d kill them. You’re really scared, ain’t you? We oughta string you up like that spy last week. Make your eyes pop—” "Ryder, I’m warnin’ ya!” Jim cut in.

"Shut up an’ run home to your mammy,” Sam sneered. "You ain’t brave enough to fight an ant!” He heaved to his feet. His massive body rose a foot higher than Jim’s medium height.

"Sam!” Jim watned.

"I’ll bet you couldn’t even whip a nigger!”

Jim lunged madly at Ryder’s feet, throwing Ryder to the ground.

'The men rushed in to separate the two bodies rolling in the mud.

Smith yanked Ryder up by his coat collar. "Damn bastard!” he sneered as he swung a clenched first into Ryder’s massive jaw. Ryder rolled backwards and several of the men quickly pinned him to the gtound.

"Break it up!” Sergeant Wells barked, running into the group. "We got enough men gettin’ kiOed without killin’ each other.” He looked angrily at Ryder. "I’ve had about all of this I can take out of you two. I’ve got enough to tend to, let alone breakin’ up a couple of hot-headed fools!”

'The sergeant, sure that everything was under control, turned and walked down the hill toward the white hospital tents.

Jim rose to his feet and walked away. Blood was running from the left side of his mouth.

Ryder called threateningly to him, "Jus’ let me warn you, baby boy.

Fifty-eight

If you don’t kill at least one blue coat tomorrow, I’m gonna kill you!’’

Jim turned around; his lower lip was trembling. "You know I don’t like shooting people,” he said.

"Then you’d better be headin’ home,” Ryder answered, climbing to his feet. '"Were flightin’ fer somethin’, an’ I ain’t gonna let no scaredycat bastard like you keep us from gettin’ it.”

"Lay oflF, Ryder!” Smith warned as he poured the stewed beans and rabbit into each soldier’s cup. "How ya know they’ll be a battle tomorrow?”

Ryder broke a twig and threw it into the fire. "You expect ’em to sit down there an’ starve. 'They’re pinned in, an’ nothin’ ever stays pinned in without tryin’ to get out.” He turned, looking at the knoll which rose high to the right. "Yesterday they got Orchard Knob; today they got Lookout. You expect ’em to leave us sittin’ here on the ridge?”

No one answered.

Jim, having stopped the bleeding, took his cup, began drinking slowly, and looked casually around the group of soldiers. He had hardened to the sight by now—^young boys just out of the crib, old men too weak to climb a good hill—all sitting around the fire as if it held some kind of protection for them, or offered some peace.

As he did each night, Jim walked to the hospital tents at the foot of the hill. The tents were filled and some of the men were lying on the ground outside. One of the men moaned; Jim moved over to him. Around the man’s forehead was wrapped a soggy, red piece of doth and his face was streaked with mud.

"Ed Allen!” Jim exdaimed. "I didn’t know you got hit.” '"This mornin’,” the man replied slowly, opening his eyes. "Over on Lookout.”

"Can I do anything to help?”

'The wounded man turned his head from side to side. His eyes blinked thankfully. "No, it just hurts.”

Jim dampened an old rag with a little water from his canteen and began to wash the man’s face gently. "Graze your head?” he asked.

"Left side,” the man mumbled. "Doc said I was awful lucky.”

"Did you get any supper?”

"No, 1 don’t feel like eatin’ none.”

"Here,” Jim picked up his cup, "we can’t have any of this. How do you plan to get any better if you don’t eat?”

"1 ain’t gettin’ any better.” The soldier’s voice quivered and he began to sob in long, deep sighs of pain. "I’m dyin’.”

"Now—,” Jim comforted.

"It’s hell, ain’t it, Jim?” He paused for a moment; then he looked back at Jim. "My wife an’ me had six kids. I’d never had ’em if I’d knowed I was gonna leave ’em like this.”

"You ain’t gonna leave ’em, Allen,” Jim insisted. He tried to feed the man the stew left in his cup. The soldier swallowed what he could in long, painful gulps. Part of the greasy liquid ran down over the edge of his mouth into the folds of his brown blaoket. '"There ya are. Now ya feel better?”

"Thanks, Jim.” 'The man’s lips parted in a small smile. "Thanks.”

Fifty-nine

"Sure, Ed.” Allen licked his cracked lips. "Remember when your pa used to bring ya down to Boonville?”

"Sure, that was when we sold logs to the Slater Mill.”

"You was jus’ a little feller then. You sure have grown . . . My how big . . . you’ve grown. . . .

The soldier seemed to lose consciousness for a moment, breathing hard and deep. Then he opened his eyes again.

"Quiet night, ain’t it?”

"Too quiet—,” Jim mumbled softly.

Everything remained silent for a while. Looking down at the soldier, Jim saw that he had fallen asleep. He pulled the damp blanket up around the man’s shoulders. After picking up his bedding at the supply tent, he moved quietly back to the fire.

'There was a rustling in the bushes at the edge of the clearing.

Jim looked up startled. A plump girl appeared and moved slowly up the hill from behind a pine sapling. Her thin gray dress sagged low around her shoulders; long, dark hair fell freely about her neck. ’The evening sky etched dark shadows across her face as she smiled luringly at the men.

Look a standin’ over there,” one of the men yelled.

"Damn woman!” Smith said, turning his head the other way.

One of the men started to whistle but stopped. John Day, a younger boy of the camp, rose quickly to his feet.

Ryder picked up a rock and threw it into the fire causing the sparks to flare up around it. Stalking to his feet, he shoved the younger boy harshly to the ground.

Take it easy. Day,” he warned. "You wouldn’t know what to do anyhow.”

'The boy fought madly to his feet; then gaining control of himself, he slowly returned to the ground. Ryder laughed sneeringly and limped quickly to the girl. ’The rest of the men watched him go.

Id like to kill him,” young Day mumbled.

"You don’t want a girl like that,” Smith whispered, patting him on the knee.

Ryder put his arm around the girl’s waist, and they disappeared in the undergrowth.

A full moon had made its way into the dark sky, causing the tree tops to turn silver as they shimmered in the soft, cold breeze.

Somewhere in the distance, a farm dog howled his warning. Down in the valley, flashing faintly across the fields, were the Union fires.

Because both sides could observe every movement of the other, no attempts had been made to hide the fires. Occasionally a shot was fired, but for most of the evening it was quiet.

Hal Adams, an older man in his middle forties, moved over to Jim and sat down on the log beside him.

"Howdy, Jim,” the older man replied. "Sure are a lot of the men tense tonight, ain’t they?”

Jim nodded in agreement.

"It’s gettin’ colder! On nights like this I used to sit with my wife in front of the old fireplace an’ talk till bedtime.”

Sixty

"Wish I was home myself now,” Jim said dreaming.

"Got a girl, eh?”

"Yeh. On winter nights, I used to go over to her house an’ talk with her folks—” "Until her ma an’ pa went to bed,” Adams cut in, a smile spreading across his face.

Jim laughed. "Yea, then we’d curl up there in front of the fire an’ talk about what it was gonna be like when we was husband an’ wife. ’ Adams turned to Jim; his face became serious. "It’s wonderful, Jim. Enjoy those moments while you can. Most of the guys around here talk about love like they was animals — me an’ Nel jways looked at it like somethin’ . . . holy.”

"That’s the way I’d like it to be,” Jim whispered. "Like somethin’ that Gc^ had made jus’ special for us.”

"Ya believe in a God?” 'Sometimes,” Jim turned toward him. "Sometimes I do an’ sometimes I don’t.”

There was a pause. Then Adams broke the silence. "What was your brother like, Jim?” Adams asked in a soft, dazed voice.

"What makes you ask that?”

"I jus’ wondered.” Adams spit into the fire, and picking up a small branch, he lit it on the coals and watched it burn slowly toward his hand.

Jim, also watching the twig burn, yawned sleepy-eyed and began de­ scribing his brother.

"He ain’t as tall as me — about five-six, I reckon. He’s got real rosy cheeks; the guys used to kid him about paintin’ ’em. His eyes are blue an’ he’s got long, sandy-colored hair like mine.”

"Are ya’ sure he’s on the other side of the line?”

"Not completely,” Jim continued.

The stick had burned near Adam’s hand and he threw it into the fire. The tip curled and twisted like a snake, falling into ashes.

"He joined up with the Fifth Kentucky an’ I reckon he’s still with ’em, that is, if he’s . . . still alive.”

The man looked up at the sky, then down. "They’s a lot of the men that have kin folk in that camp down there, ain’t they?”

Jim nodded his head slowly.

"Funny, ain’t it,” Adams continued, "how when kids git a certain age, they think they know it all.”

"Yeh, I guess so, but Tim wasn’t like that when he left.”

"My boy was,” Adams said weakly.

"Your boy? I never heard you talk about your ...”

The man looked dazed into the fire as it flickered deep shadows on his face. He ran his fingers slowly through his hair and wiped his sweaty forehead on his ragged shirt sleeve.

"The boy turned rebel,” he started again. "He didn’t care what his old man believed, so he ran away an’ joined the North.”

Everything was quiet for a while. All of the other men had deserted the fire, going to join another group or bed down for the night. At one of the fires on the side of the camp a group of men sat laughing as they took turns drinking moonshine from a brown pottery jug.

"I don’t know why Tim joined the Union,” Jim said, slowly following Sixty-one

Adam’s gaze into the fire. "Maybe it was because he always liked Lin­ coln so much. I remember once when we saw him, he was campaignin for president up in Jackson. Tim an’ me went up to hear him speak.”

"My boy saw Lincoln once, too,” Adams said, looking up from the fire in time to watch a falling star blaze into the horizon. "He was workin’ up in Illinois when Lincoln was havin’ them talks with Douglas.”

"Who’d yer boy join up with, Hal?” "The Kentucky Volunteer Infantry, I guess,” Adams answered. "It was right at the start of the war. TTiese men came marchin’ around playin’ their drums, an’ tellin’ how good it was gonna be.”

"That’s the way it was back home —.”

Some of the men had wandered back and were warming themselves by the fire.

Adams continued as if he were unaware of anyone else.

"The first week after I joined up in ’62, I saw him. It was after this battle when we was runnin’ in to get the prisoners. 'This one guy was crumpled up in a muddy ditch ... I bent over ... to pick up his gun ... an’ then I . . . .”

Adam’s voice broke. "I recognized ... it was my boy.”

The men by the fire turned to see what was wrong, then walked away.

Jim reached for Adams’ arm. "I’m sorry, Hal.” Adams looked down at his feet and then back into the fire. "It’s a terrible thing to see someone you love all shot up. His leg was gone an’ his face was all twisted an’ cut like he’d been to hell an’ back.” His voice grew weak, but he continued to talk. "I wouldn’t wish it on any­ body . . . It’s horrible!”

"We’d better be beddin’ down, Hal,” Jim comforted. "It’s about time fer taps.”

Adams looked slowly at Jim. His eyes were red and misty. "It was hell, Jim. Oh . . . it was hell!”

A drum slowly rolled out "taps” from somewhere near the head­ quarters tent. Over the ridge a sentry cautiously scanned the dark undergrowth for signs of life. The hills themselves seemed to be sleep­ ing. A crisp, cold wind whispered back and forth between them and a dark front had moved into the sky, blocking off the moon.

Just before he went to sleep, Jim heard Ryder slip back into camp.

Someone on the other side of the fire asked, "What’d you promise this gal, a big white house in Atlanta, like the rest?” But he didn’t hear Ryder answer. He fell into a deep sleep. ♦

*

#

*

Jim woke up early the next morning and shook Adams out of his sleep.

"Time to git up, Hal,” he informed the uninterested sleeper.

Adams slowly opened one eye. "It ain’t even day yet,” he yawned, looking out the tent flap.

"Come on, Hal,” Jim coaxed. "You say the same thing every morning.”

"I mean the same thing every morning.”

"If the sergeant catches you sleepin’ again this. . . .”

Adams started to argue, but he realized that he didn’t stand a chance and sat up, pulling the blanket around his shoulders.

Sixty-two

"It’s cold,” he shivered, blowing out a white frosty breath of air.

The whole ridge soon came to life. Fires were built up and thick, black coffee was put on to get hot. Jim shook the dirt from his blanket, rolled it up, and carried it over to the supply tent. As he went by the hospital tents, he looked for the wounded soldier.

"Looking for someone?” the doctor asked walking over to him.

"Ed Allen. He was layin’ here last night. Is he in a tent?

The doctor shook his old head slowly from side to side. ' Died during the night.”

"He had six kids,” Jim said a little dazed. "Six little. ...

"I’m sorry, son,” the doctor shook his head understandingly.

A friend of yours?”

"He was from a town near home.”

"It’s been a bad night, boy,” the doaor said wearily. Taking out an old rag, he blew his nose. "We lost twenty-two.”

There was a moan from inside one of the tents and the doctor went in to check.

When Jim got back to the fire, the men were drinking coffee and munching on small squares of hardtack. He took his cup and began to drink slowly. His body was cold, and the hot liquid felt warm and tasted good. *

*

*

*

A shot was fired near the edge of the hill.

"They’re cornin’!” someone yelled.

Jim quickly gulped down the rest of his coffee, fastened the cup to his belt, grabbed his rifle, and ran toward a trench over the edge of the ridge.

"Be careful,” Adams yelled, slapping Jim on the back.

"You do the same, Hal.” A bullet whistled by them and they fell to the ground.

"Let’s head for over there.” Hal pointed toward an old fallen tree.

"See anything?” Jim asked, looking over the edge of the log.

Adams yanked him back down. "What you want to do, git your head blown off? Don’t look, jus’ shoot.”

Jim loaded the rifle and pointed it into the valley. TTie sun was coming up, throwing long shadows through the pines. There was a clearing at the foot of the hill, but he couldn’t see anything except the maze of tents in the valley. His hand started shaking.

"I can’t shoot unless I see who it is,” he whispered, falling back to the ground.

"Still got ya, eh?” Adams asked with a worried tone to his voice.

All along the ridge the men were lying behind logs, rocks, or in some places along an old stone wall. Bullets cracked on the trees down the hillside and shotgun smoke filled the air.

"Hold it, men!” the sergeant ordered, shouting down the line. Every­ one stopped but one man at the other end of the trench.

"Ryder!” the sergeant yelled. "Save your ammunition till ya see ’em cornin’, or I’ll send ya back to camp.”

Adams looked over to Jim and smiled. Everything grew quiet.

"What we gonna do, Serg?” one of the men yelled.

"Jus’ wait till they start in again. At the looks of this mist that’s Sixty-three

settlin’, they won’t be able to see enough to come any farther.”

"Have they taken the picket line?” ’The sergeant turned to leave. "I don’t know for sure, but somethin’s wrong down there.”

"I’ll go get us some shells,” Adams said and crawled back up the hill.

Jim nodded, pushing the gray hat back over his head and brushing the long hair out of his eyes. He blinked cautiously, squinting his eyes as though he had seen something. In the trees at the foot of the hill, something had moved. He cocked his rifle. Just then someone moved behind him. He jerked around suddenly. It was Ryder.

"What’s wrong, baby boy?” A wide smirk spread over Ryder’s face as he spoke. "Ya gertin’ scared?”

"Git out of here, Ryder!”

Ryder stared blankly at Jim. "I said I’d kill you if you didn’t shoot a. . . .” His voice stopped suddenly. His eyes were resting on something in the undergrowth below him. He jerked his gun up to his shoulder.

"No,” Jim yelled, pushing Ryder’s gun sideways. '"This one’s mine.”

Ryder lowered his gun to the ground. '"This one’s yours .... but you’d better git him.”

Jim grabbed at his belt for the knife.

"What ya doin’?” Ryder growled.

"I’m gonna’ sneak down behind him. Tell the men to hold their fire.”

Ryder laughed mockingly.

"I’m goin’ down, Serg. Have the men hold their fire!” ’The sergeant tried to stop him, but he had jumped the log and was moving slowly and cautiously down the hill, darting behind trees and crawling behind rocks.

Jim turned the cold, rusty knife tightly in his hand. The tips of his fingers were white; the blood rushed to his head, throbbing madly at his temples. ’The Yankee soldier had worked his way behind a small knoll and stop­ ped. Cautiously, Jim moved down then up behind him. His hands were numb and the cold mist made his eyes water. He was within six yards of the Yank when he stopped behind a tree. 'The soldier was lying on his belly. Jim couldn’t see his face, but his hair looked muddy brown. He grasped the knife tightly in his hand and lunged towards the man. The soldier heard him coming and wheeled around ready to shoot. ’Then he stopped. For a mere second the two gazed at each other; neither one spoke. Then the younger boy leaped to his feet and began running down the hill.

Jim looked up to see Ryder climbing from the trench and aiming his gun at the running boy.

"Stop, Ryder,” he yelled, dropping the knife.

"You chicken!”

"Stop him!” Jim pleaded, running up the hill. But before he could reach Ryder, a shot rang out. Jim whirled back. ’The running boy staggered forward and fell.

"You’d better start runnin’ too, damned bastard!”

'The sound of Ryder’s shot brought the enemy guns into action. '"They’re comin!’ the Sergeant cried. "My God, come and see Sixty-four

’em run. Git back up here, Taylor!”

Ryder quickly loaded his rifle and turned to Jim. "I said I’d. . . .”

He stopped. Jim watched the massive body fall forward into the mud and roll to a stop against an old stump.

"Got the bastard!” he heard someone yell. It was Hal, looking over the top of the log. "Get up here, Jim!” Both sides had resumed shooting. With unsuppressed vigor, the rebels were charging up the hill. Hal ducked behind the log. "Git up here! You’ll get shot!”

But Jim turned and ran blindly towards the aumpled body below him. "Tim,” he sobbed. "Tim . . .!”

You’re Only As Good As Your Library LOYDE HARTLEY

’62

It is quite well known that the books displayed on your household bookshelves are valid indications of the intellect of your family. Guests are likely to notice the library and will rank you according to the books they find displayed. It is quite easy to acquire an impressive library if you carefully select the works to be displayed. However, catastrophe can occur if the wrong color, shape or size of books is chosen.

There are certain principles you must use as objectives when selecting your books. First, take note of the room in which they are to be displayed. Is it a small room? If it is, keep away from the larger books, for they appear gaudy and overbearing if they are aamped. Do not over-fill the shelves. You should leave spaces for attractive items such as creeping vines, high school football trophies, and souvenirs from far distant places. 'These novelties will provide conversation pieces and prevent the boredom of wall-to-wall books. 'The color of the volumes is the most important single problem you must face in selecting.

If this becomes a difficulty, you should immediately consult an interior decorator.

Before I proceed further, I must assure you that the books need not be read. In faa, it is better if they are not read.Thus, you prevent any unnecessary wear and tear on the volumes.

Now, we shall turn to some specific examples which are musts for your home collection. 'The National Geographic is an essential for the modern library. I would even suggest, if you are a beginner, that you invest in several years of back issues of this magazine - book hybrid.

These volumes will express for you a deep interest in international affairs, color photography, and savage pornography.

Another basic essential of your home bookshelf is at least one matched set, consisting of anywhere from seven to eleven volumes. Any set will do—a Bible commentary or The Congressional Record; the complete works of Shakespeare or The Annual Peanutbuyers’ Report—just as long as it fits into the general scheme of the shelves. Beware of overdoing this part of your collection because too many identical volumes create monotony.

Sixty-five

In order to complete your basic library, a group of books in assorted sizes and multi-colored jackets must be added. These may be purchased in a block, or acquired the painless way through any number of monthly book clubs. Books with pastel covers are more desirable than those of a flashy nature. Nevertheless, a bit of colorful zest adds flavor to an otherwise ordinary coUeaion. Here, as before, it is possible that this section of the library can be overdone, the result being a general cheapening effect.

Certain special touches may make a remarkable addition to the appearance of your shelves. For example it is wise to purcliase a volume printed before 1800. This "valuable” antique should be placed lying open to some significant page. Maybe you would have the oppormnity to call the attention of a guest to a water mark which will enable you to determine the papermaker’s name.

You should determine a policy as to how long magazines should remain on the shelf. After due consideration, I suggest the following time limits; Look, Life, and The Saturday Evening Post should stay no longer than three weeks; The New Yorker may accumulate up to five copies; The Atlantic Monthly and Harpers are acceptable for as long as a year; news magazines should be removed as soon as their covers are not relevant to the most recent current events.

If you carefully follow the above suggestions, the success of your library will be assured, and, thus, your prestige will be greatly improved.

The Skeptic JANET

LACEY

'64

First Prize, Burkhart Poetry Contest i know what real is real is the concrete pavement real is a car with blue seatcovers real is anything i can see hear feel touch smell and what is not real is not (would God drive a ranch wagon) still sometimes in twilight or in snow or anytime you can’t see the cracks in the pavement and how worn the houses and people are when nothing has any edges then you can’t tell where the real ends something else begins and things there are i can’t explain there is this voice which speaks listenlistenlisten . . .

Sixty-six

The Sunday School Picnic BARBARA MAUER

'64

Third Prize, Quiz and Quill Humor Contest Teaching a Sunday School class of first, second, and third graders is actually no picnic—unless you are taking the ants’ point of view.

The little darlings, as we call them in our more sanguine moments, have the astute habit of raising a question every time they open their mouths. And anyone who knows children at all realizes that they al­ ways have their mouths open—even when they are eating.

It wouldn’t be so bad if children would ask questions which adults are able to answer or even questions which aren’t embarrassing; but children have the uncanny knack of asking the wrong questions at the wrong time.

At the present time, my little darlings (I’m quite sanguine at the moment) are intensely perplexed because their teacher who has at­ tained the ripe old age of nineteen, has not yet married a Prince Charming. The time they don’t spend worrying about this enigma, they use trying to remedy it. Each time I appear before the class, they bombard me with questions concerning my love life. During Christ­ mas vacation they changed their tactics a bit. As I walked into the classroom, conversation verged on every subject but this important one. Being one who enjoys all good fortunes, I gratefully ignored their silence and proceeded with the lesson. All went well until the super­ intendent walked in.

Instantly Debbie’s hand began to wave in the air and with childish glee she said, "Barbie, did you get a diamond for Christmas?” As I stood before the class, red of face and minus any poise which I may have had previously, a thousand answers ran through my mind; but all I could stammer was a very weak, "No.” Debbie’s little friend then told me of her cousin, a handsome young man of approximately my age, who, she was positive, would be very happy to marry me. This, my whole class firmly believed, would re­ move me from my life of misery and transport me into paradise.

Besides holding the record for offering the largest number of mar­ riage proposals by proxy, my class undoubtedly holds the record for causing the most laughs during serious moments. Who else, but one of my charges, would drop a communion tray, yell, "Barbie”, in the middle of the sermon because he suddenly noticed that I had come home from college unexpeaedly and was glad to see me, or squeal, "Look at all the money,” when the colleaion plate was passed.

These moments are embarrassing, but not half so embarrassing as rheir questions which I am unable to answer. For instance, during a discussion concerning the devil’s temptation of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, this question was asked in a sly tone by one of the young male members of the group. "If the devil came like a snake, why didn’t Eve scream and run like other girls?” In this case, every assurance that Eve was not afraid of snakes was to no avail.

But every blushing moment and all the work are worthwhile when they say, "Gee, Barbie, we’re glad you’re back.”

-Cy

Sixty-seven

The Month Before Christmas CARL

KROPF

'61

Second Prize, Burkhart Poetry Contest ’Twas the month before Christmas, And all through the town The Thanksgiving trimmings Were all taken down.

The streets were all garnished With pine boughs and lights By businessmen anxiously Waiting the nights When shoppers would rush To the stores with down-payments On toys for the kiddies And daddy’s new raiments.

The counters were loaded With all they could carry, With chocolated mangers.

With dolls dressed like Mary.

A Bethlehem star Was hung in the square Beneath which the shoppers Could sputter and swear.

A cardboard and plastic Nativity scene Grew grotesque in two spotlights That turned red and green.

Though business has made Christmas very complex.

It has simplified one thing: For "Christ" we write “X.”

night city JOHN

SOLIDAY

'62

Third Prize {tie), Burkhart Poetry Contest an apartment - floor six; room six-six-c. mourning bodies huddle, silent thoughts transcend. words best unsaid, sometimes, as a warm wind whistles soft and low .... grown children play in dreams on fire escapes - rigid worlds that will not meet present worlds - as a warm wind whistles soft and low .... someone hears the wind whine, sees the silent stars sift strains of music heard only in the mind. mind music felt only in the soul. as a warm wind whistles soft and low ....

Sixty-eight

"I looked on young love . .

(To Tish) Published in the 1961 National Poetry Anthology BLANCHE CEHRES '60 I looked on young love tonight.

And as I looked, I felt a strange longing— A longing tor the love that I once knew.

I saw the happy gleam Ot love-light in her eyes.

The sweet smile ot innocent love Upon her tace.

From her whole being burst forth The exuberance ot a love ncwly-tound.

Its rapture Now hiding in the silence ot her thoughts, Now darting out through the firefly-twinkle of her eyes The sott giggle ot delight.

The cute little bunny-way ot crinkling her nose As she speaks his name.

Yes, I looked on young love tonight.

And saw all that once lived in me.

I saw the joytul beauty ot young love, .And my tear-filled heart cried out in longing.

Song of Christians '28 You tasted milk, Felt Your mother’s skin.

You walked, and talked.

And then learned to look within Until You found Your Father’s kingdom there.

"For He and I Are one,” You said, " and share A common spirit.”

MARCELLA HENRY MILLER

Now here’s our joy.

Dear Older Brother, That in Your lite And death there lies another .^nd possible Pattern for its, — that when We live a while.

And die, — we rise again.

IN MEMORY OF CARY O. ALTMAN, 1879-1961

Member, Department of English, 1915-1948 Founder, Quiz and Quill Club, 1919 Faculty Sponsor, 1919-1947

Tribute J. GORDON HOWARD

’22

Bishop, Evangelical United Brethren Church Cary O. Altman, often called Buck or Buckeye, was a favorite pro­ fessor. He was not the only one, but he is the one to whom tribute is paid here.

He was interested in me personally in class and out. He talked to me man to man. He had that sixth sense or ESP, so somehow the antennae of his concern would catch the signal of my puzzlement over some question or problem. On repeated occasions he helped me con­ front issues regarding campus life or career after graduation.

He was not fluent or flowery in speech. He was down to earth and came to the point quickly. In those days I leaned toward jour­ nalism and writing, and it was natural that I should look to him as mentor.

A long line of Otterbein students will testify to his patience and his skill in helping words to make sense on paper. He was not only an astute writing critic and a top-notch writer’s coach, but also he knew how to strengthen self-confidence and encourage that persistence without which a potential writer never becomes a produaive writer.

It is well known that he was the founder of Quiz and Quill, and was ever zealous to build up from every source scholarships and awards for creative writing. He was the kind of person on whom one reflects as the years pass and finds no diminution of luster in the memory of him. He was that rare and perfect combination of a good man, an able teacher and a warm friend.

The greatest tribute of all is that if he were here to read these words he would merely half smile, twitch his shoulder and be noticeably embarrassed that any fuss at all should be made about him.

Seventy

Table of Contents Church at Lambarene Hospital, Louis William Norris ..............................

On Small Things, Jo Ann Hoffman ..................................................................

Mushrooms, Edna Dellinger Carlson ..................................................................

Three Cinquains on Life, Vandwilla E. Hackman .........................................

The Second Crucifixion, Dallas Taylor .............................................................

Alone, David E. Heck ...........................................................................................

Pulse, Arti Trumhlee .............................................................................................

The Watering Place, John Naftzger....................................................................

Dimestore Study, Carol Morse .............................................................................

Space Age, Phyllis Royer .....................................................................................

Brief Abdication, Sylvia Phillips Vance ...........................................................

Scenes, Rosemary Richardson ...............................................................................

A Miniature Phantom, Peg English ......................................................................

Babysitter’s Answer to Whittier, JaneP Lacey ..................................................

Spring Idyll, Judith Ann Stone ...........................................................................

New Orleans, Carol Morse ....................................................................................

A Successful Man, Robert E. Kaderly ..................................................................

Soliloquy for Teachers To Be, Rita Zimmerman..............................................

The Time at the Tone, Carl Kropf ....................................................................

Bittersweet Reflection, Janet Lacey .......................................................................

A Real Nightmare, Mercedes Blum ....................................................................

Thoughts on October, Janet Lacey ......................................................................

Just a Twist of the Wrist, Charlotte Bly .........................................................

Molly, Carol Morse .................................................................................................

The Enigma, Dallas Taylor .................................................................................... night-after the day-after, John Soliday ................................................................

Small Town U.S.A., Karla Hambel ....................................................................

Mother Love, Sarah Rose Skaates .........................................................................

Thanh Mo America, Barbara A. Bushong...........................................................

Love is Born, Dallas Taylor ..................................................................................

A Silent Generation, Carl Kropf .........................................................................

Aspiring Peaks, Rosemary Richardson ................................................................

The Difference, Robert Koettel ...........................................................................

Pink Clover, Edna Dellinger Carlson ...................................................................

She Cares, Carol Alban ..........................................................................................

My Second Mother, Elizabeth Glor ....................................................................

Last Year’s Christmas Cards, Loyde Hartley ..................................................... no fear, John Soliday ............................................................................................

Beatnik Poetry: Around Campus, Janet Lacey ..................................................

Wild Violets, Daisies and a Bicycle Basket, Barbara Acton ..........................

My Love, Phyllis Valjato ........................................................................................

Rebel Brother, John Soliday .................................................................................

You’re Only As Good As Your Library, Loyde Hartley...................................

The Skeptic, Janet Lacey ........................................................................................

The Sunday School Picnic, Barbara Mauer .........................................................

The Month Before Christmas, Carl Kropf ......................................................... night city, John Soliday ........................................................................................

"I looked on young love . .

Blanche Gehres ................................................

Song of Christians, Marcella Henry Miller .......................................................

Tribute to Cary O. Altman, J. Gordon Howard................................................

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Seventy-one

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