Quiz and Quill 1962

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

The Staff

.................. Barbara Acton Cede Blum Loyde Hartley Jo Ann Hoffman Jean Mattox Carol Shook Judith Stone Alumni Editor ......

................. Ethel Steinmetz

Business Manager..

.........................John Naftzger o

Spring, 1962

Founded 1919

One

THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB-1961-62 President ....................................................................................Judith Stone ’62 Vice President ............................................................................ John Soliday ’62 Secretary-Treasurer ...................................................................Jottn Mattox ’62 Program Chairman ...........................................................•'...... Kaye Koontz ’62 Faculty Sponsor ........................................................................ Robert Price Alumni Relations .....................................................................Cleora Fuller ’58 Mary Thomas ’28 Ethel Steinmetz ’31 Barbara Acton ’62 Jo Ann Hoffman ’62 John Naftzger ’62 Mercedes Blum ’63 Kaye Koontz ’62 Carol Shook ’63 Barbara Bushong ’62 Janet Lacey ’64 John Soliday ’62 Loyde Hartley ’62 Jean Mattox ’62 Judith Stone ’62 Christina Hoffman ’62 Mary Alice Parks ’62 HONORARY MEMBERS Mrs. Hazel H. Price Dr. Harold Hancock Dr. Robert Price Walter Jones LITERARY AWARDS Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest First Prize .............................................................................. Janet Lacey '64 Second Prize ...................................................................... John Soliday ’62 Third Prize ...................................................................... Loyde Hartley ’62 Honorable Mention ................................................... Sandra BrenCleck ’64 Martha Deever ’64 Kathy Kanto ’64 Judy Lynn Solmes ’b.')

Judith Stone ’62 Quiz and Quill Prose Contest First Prize.......................................................................... David K. Sturges ’64 Second Prize .......................................................................... Janet Lacey ’64 Third Prize ............................................................... Judy Lynn Solmes ’65 Honorable Mention ............................................................. Barbara Acton ’63 Kay Blackicdgc ’65 Priscilla Secrist '64 Nancy Staats ’63 Elizabeth Ann Werth ’62 Dr. Roy Burkhart Poetry Contest First Prize .............................................................................. Janet Lacey ’64 Second Prize ............................................................... Jody Lynn Solmes '65 Third Prize ...................................................................... Kay Plowman '65 Quiz and Quill Humorous Poetry Contest First Prize ............................................................................ Judith Stone ’62 Second Prize ............................................................... Jody Lynn Solmes '65 Third Prize ..........................................................................

Janet Lacey ’64 Quiz and Quill Humorous Prose Contest First Prize ........................................................................ Phyllis Barber ’63 Second Prize ........................................................................ Janet Lacey ’64 Third Prize (tie) ................................................... Jody Lynn Solmes ’64 Sondra Spangler ’64 Kathleen White Dimke Essay Contest First Prize ...................................................................... F. Spencer Ott ’64 Second Prize ........................................................................ Janet Lacey ’64 National Society of Arts and Letters Short Story Contest (For students of Otterhein College, Capital University, Ohio State University, and Saint Mary of the Springs) First Prize ......................................................................... John Soliday ’62 Weinland Writing and Selling Award — 1961 First Prize .................................................................. Rita Zimmerman ’61 Walter Lowrie Barnes Short Story Contest — 1961 First Prize .......................................................................... John Soliday ’61 Second Prize ....................................................... Rosemary Richardson ’61 Cover Design ..................................................................... Roger .Shipley ’64 Cover Lettering.................................................................... Robert Kaderly ’64 Two

Beside the Darkened Door DAVID K. STURGES

’64

"Meet me here again in five minutes,” said Dieter. "Be careful and don’t joke around!” Filled with apprehension over Dieter’s warn­ ing, Brian paused to let a car go by, then walked resolutely across the street. He stepped up on the sidewalk and stopped to look up at the monument before him. He was just another tourist, one only eighteen years of age. The people passing him seemed to notice something strange about his appearance, something American. He was outward­ ly calm, yet he kept rubbing the rewind knob on his camera as if there was some substance on it that wouldn’t come off.

Steps led up to a white marble arch that was bent in a crescent shape like the backdrop of an amphitheatre. On the top, in the center, a cast iron infantryman, about twelve feet high, stared defiantly across the city, with his left hand clenched tightly about the muzzle of a rifle. His features were rough and hard; fold and muscle, knuckle and nail seemed to radiate prowess. On low pedestals, at either end of the arch, were tanks with drab turrets and bodies pitted by rust.

In front of the columns, two sentries, pacing from right to left continued to the end and vanished behind the last column. They were there — Brian had to get a closer look at them no matter what the consequence. He climbed the steps stealthily and stopped at the place where he had first seen the sentries pass moments before. He waited to see if his presence would send them dashing toward him, but they failed to re-appear from the end of the arch. Raising his camera to his eye, he quickly photographed the columns and the view of the street below framed by the barrels of the tanks. This time the people on the sidewalk passed unconcerned back and forth occasionally look­ ing up and away again without expression.

Brian walked behind the columns to the other side. Below him was a courtyard surrounded by walkways that led to a small guard­ house in the center of the far end. Out in front was parked an empty truck with a gold star painted on the door facing the monument.

Suddenly, he was alerted by approaching footsteps, and he turn­ ed to see the sentries pacing toward him from the far end of the arch.

His conscience told him to go back, as he remembered Dieter’s words, but he felt a deeper urge to stay on, to live an experience that he could treasure all his life and relate audaciously to his friends back home. Closer they came; the taps on their boot heels made a click­ ing noise that echoed off the arch. Their polished black boots glisten­ ed in the sun as they jutted forward in perfect, pendulum-like pre­ cision. They seemed to blend with the dark olive green of their uni­ forms. The footsteps were loud, rhythmic, steady, hard.

As the guards came nearer, Brian could see the sub-machine guns slung over their shoulders, in a position from which they could be drawn in an instant. The weight of the guns pulling downward made wrinkles in the coarse material of their tunics. Their rank shoulderboards and bands of their service caps were of a deep lavender color.

There were gold seals on the front of the caps, seds in which was embossed a hammer and a sickle. He noticed too that their necks fitted loosely in their high collars, and that they stared at him with a long­ ing, studious gaze. When they were only a few feet from him, the two sentries stopped, as if they had been given a perfunctory command.

Three

turned on their heels and strutted away in the opposite direction. The clips on their guns rattled as they took each step.

The impression of those firm but innocent faces burned like a branding iron in Brian’s mind. How harmless they were! Yet the uniforms and what they represented spoke fear to him, fear whose hollowness he wished the rest of the world could know. He knew now, he had seen it. He was satisfied. Catching Dieter’s distant signal out of the corner of his eye, he turned and walked sullenly back down to the street.

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The Search Party ETHFX STEINMF.TZ

’31

Ho, JessI Come out and help us look for Tom And Nancy Warraan’s little girl. It seems She didn’t come home from school today, and Tom And Nancy too, of course, are right upset.

—Best bring a lantern, it will soon be dark— No doubt some childish whim has took her off To pick some flowers ’long the way and she’s No mind how late it is. Fact is I saw Her just today go crost my pasture land A headin’ towards the brook. I often saw Her go that way. A pretty thing she was With hair the color of ripe wheat with sun A shinin’ on’t — Let’s go this way; the men Are searchin’ through the bottom lands. Some thought To go up through the woods, but I says, "No, She would not go that way.” — Oh, there they are— I guess they haven’t found her yet. Poor TomI I reckon that a bachelor like me Most likely can’t know how a father feelsl Now, look! They’re turning toward the woods. Hey, men.

Don’t go that way. Stay down here by the brook.

Mayhap if we should follow ’long this path We’d find some trace of her. — Well, if you must.

Go that-a-way: but stay hard by the road And keep amovin’ left. That thicket there Is not a likely place to look. Hey, Joe, This way; the thicket is too wild. Come back!

Come back, I say; you must not go that way!

Stay back, don’t follow him—there is no use— There’s nothing there but brush and leaves, dead leaves Come ’way, there is no use. There’s nothing there.

You see-come way. 1 tell you they’re just leaves.

Don’t kick those leaves away. — Ob, God, my God! 1 told you not to come this way. — .So now You’ve found her and for what? She’s dead all right.

For all her hair’s so bright, her face is blue.

But this you must believe — I only meant To stroke her hair — that shiny hair — and then— She started in to scream, and, don’t you see?

You understand, I could not let her .scream.

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spring Song ’64 First Prize, Quiz and Quill Poetry JANET LACEY

I was too proud, and would not sell a song That bubbled from my heart one day in spring; 1 kept it, lest the summer days be long And I be lost without my song to sing.

I could have sold it to the ice-cream man For brightly-colored icy-chill delight.

Or to the gypsy, for his caravan.

Or to the sandman, for a slice of night.

But ice-cream cones are pleasures brief indeed.

And caravans are awkward, for a girl.

And I think I have all the night I need, So I will let my happy song unfurl To the four winds, to sunshine and to me.

1 would not sell it, but I’ll give it free.

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CAROL M. ALBAN

’64

world - tiny whirling entity tumbling downward through infinity ball of glue pullingstickingalladhering to its surface humans? existing unmindful te aringfig htingcut tingbonds by flight into a world - beyond breaking forces that pull coreward defyinglaws pushupandforeward break man? that unseen ribbon pulling forcing ever in — break itl but return forever — SLEEP

we all go

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under

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Mountains ’65 Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry JUDY LYNN SOLMES

Mountains are proud and old men, smoking frozen pipes in the icy air.

They recall white-hot youth, rocking in velvet valleys, and child foot-hills crowd at their feet to listen in awe.

Two Children CYNTHIA DONNELL

Six

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Two Children DALLAS TAYLOR

’61

Two children from neighboring houses went Out to play after a warm summer rain.

They waded in the swiftly flowing gutter, Sailed boats of twig and watched them Disappear down the storm drain. ThenI Oh, nol they sat down right in the Middle of a mud puddle. And there they Splashed until they were both the same Color and you could hardly tell one from The other. Oh, they’d suffer for their Play when their mothers found outi Yet Strange it is how little children will Sit down together in a mud puddle.

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An Afternoon on a Mountain JANET LACItY

’64

Second Prize, Quiz and Quill Prose The long climb up the mountain had left my heart pounding and my breath coming in gasps. My companion, however, did not seem to be affected by the exertion. Standing composedly on the peak, she merely made a sweeping gesture and said, "Just look!”

I looked. Below me lay the village we had left an hour ago. The ugly stucco houses with glaring orange tile roofs looked squalid and dusty. The buildings were all so similar that the village would have resembled a housing development had it not been so old. A few vacant houses near the edge of the cluster had crumbled to dust, and at a small distance from the village mouldered the ruins of an old mill.

Olive trees grew near the hamlet, and all around were golden fields of of grain and startling purple fields of carefully cultivated lavender.

Shifting my gaze southward, I saw the green-gold slopes of the mountains of Provence and, far in the distance, the acquamarine waters of the Mediterranean. I closed my eyes and pinched myself, but when I looked again it was all still there. It was hard for me to believe that I was actually standing on a mountaintop in France, and that my home was far away across thousands of miles of mountains, fields, and ocean.

"Can you see our house?” my friend asked. "It’s that one over there, the third from the left. See it? That’s the back of the house, where your room is.” I could not see my window since were were so high up, but I could distinguish the small flower garden upon which my bedroom looked out. I was eager to turn away from the ugliness of the village and look at the mountains again, but she was not to be diverted. "See that square in front of the hotel? That’s where the old men gather.

They smoke, talk, and whistle at the girls. And the old women sit on their doorsteps and gossip.” She giggled. "My beau lives in that funny little house on the corner. Next year I am going to marry him.”

Seven

Marry him! I stared at her. She was eighteen, a year older than I, but she wore long braids and no make-up, and as a result she looked like a child. I remembered my manners then, and said, "How nice. Do you — go out with him very often?”

She laughed at me. "Oh, hardly ever — and never alone! But our parents decided that we were to marry, before we were born.”

I could not believe it! Born and reared in a modern, enlightened community complete with P.T.A. and sex education in the sixth grade, I had come halfway around the world to meet with customs I had only read about and had believed gone with the Dark Ages! For some crazy reason, I wanted to ask her if she believed in witches. "Do you approve of this situation?” I asked carefully.

Approve? Oh, I guess so.” She looked at me quizzically. "That’s the way things are. I am old enough to marry. And he is strong and kind.”

"What will you do after you are married?”

Work in the fields with him. And cook, and take care of the house, and have children.”

I threw caution to the winds. There were some things I had to know. Don t you want to do anything else? Didn’t you ever want to be a famous actress, or something like that? And, well — what if he hadn t been strong and kind?” ’The whole idea seemed so unfair. I had only lived with my French "sister” for one day, yet I knew that she was witty and intelligent. Many girls who had much poorer mental equipment than she were stylishly strolling American campuses and leading a gay, carefree life, yet she was foredoomed to hard work and poverty on a tiny, dirty Fren^ farm.

She looked at me soberly. "Yes, of course I’ve wanted to do other things! I ve always wanted to go to Paris and be the secretary of some­ body famous. Then I would have oodles of money and Dior clothes.

But I know I can’t do that. I’ve no money to get started, you see, and to learn. Besides, what could an uneducated little village girl do in rhe big city?” She smiled, and blushed a little. "As for your third question, he just is. My parents would not let me marry him if he weren’t nice, even though we have been betrothed since we were born. So, you see’ it isn’t as bad as all that!”

I started to say that it was a pity she did not live in America, the land of opportunity, where she could go to college and be a secretary, or a teacher, or whatever she wanted to be. I started to say this, but something stopped me from showing myself to be the typical bump­ tious, heavy-handed American. Perhaps tact silenced me. Perhaps it was the sudden feeling that, for me, being a farmer’s wife near the lavender fields would be infinitely more pleasant than driving a station-wagon from the grocery store back to my split-level house. At any rate, I said nothing, and we stood and gazed at the countryside for a while in silence.

It was getting late when we began our descent. I took one more look at the valley before we left the peak, and at last glance the vil­ lage and surrounding fields looked like a giant patchwork quilt that someone had thrown carelessly against the side of the mountain. The descent was steep, and the mistral, that cool, dry wind that sweeps through southern France, was blowing inward from rhe Mediterranean.

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Comfort Me With Apples JUDY LYNN SOLMES ’65 Second Prize, Burkhart Poetry Contest

A summer day floats slowly into view— A listless, languid, loving summer day.

Love kissed my lips, as love is prone to do, And with its kiss it dashed my mind away.

Astride a distant hill, an apple tree Bore fruit to please the blazing summer Sun Who watched the toil of sacrifice with glee.

Departing when his pagan game was done.

This tree and I now weep in soft despair For foolish love’s untarnished, carefree grace, For inner warmth that used to lace the air, For that one burning, yearning secret face.

Love nibbled at the fruit but left the core.

My fleeting, fickle love — I love no morel

The Last Time - - JO ANN HOFFMAN

’62

Rain pounded monotonously against the window pane, nearly lulling me to sleep as I sat in the big chair, staring into the fireplace.

Even the flames of the fire seemed to be charmed by the rain. Sleepily they carried out their duty, even though each flame leaped less high and more slowly than the preceding one.

In the adjoining room I could hear my brother. Bob, talking to Dad. "Can’t I have the car this afternoon? The gang’s counting on me. Please, Dad, just this onCe.” "Are you doing something special that you need the car on an afternoon like this?”

"Well, we thought that we might go out to the park when the rain stops.”

“And I suppose you’ll just drive around until then. No, I don’t think you’d better have the car if that’s the case. Remember what hap­ pened the last time.”

The last time — it seems impossible that three words could bring back such painful memories. The last time I was the one who had been begging, and that time the answer had been "Yes”. It had been a dreary day like today; and having nothing to do, my best friend, Dick, and I had decided to see what we could find to do around town.

But the town offered no excitement or entertainment for two active boys.

It was then that I offered the suggestion, "Let’s play follow the leader. I’ll lead the way in my car, and you follow in yours, Dick.” So I proceeded through town with Dick tailing me. Soon we reached the edge of town and came to the railroad crossing. The railroad lights flashed their red warning, and suddenly the rain began to come down in sheets. I did not heed the warning since I thought I could make it across the tracks in time. I made it just in time, but I had forgotten that Dick was following me. With a fearful heart I stopped the car and looked back just in time to see the train plough into Dick’s car and carry it down the track like a toy. Dick had been intent on the silly game we were playing, and, not noticing the lights, had followed me across the tracks. Now I have no best friend.

Nine

My hands and feet are numb, and I shiver with the cold. But that is not unusual, for this happens every time I remember. Then I realize that the fire in the fireplace has almost gone out, and the room is deathly cold. Only live coals remain — live coals which can be stir­ red to life. But Dick can never return. o <> A Ox>l Crystalline Creation CHRISTINA HOFFMAN

'62

Evening came Drenching the campus with sheets of cold rain And thinly coating walks with ice.

Three hours transformed the wet outside into a White way of wind-borne wonder.

The sleeting rain-snow had glassed the campus in white frost And through the beauty crashed the cracking ice-laden limbs As branches crumbled on ice-crusted ground.

The sun shone little.

Ice remained.

Sunday.

The sun is shining with a radiance that Reflects, mirrors, sparkles, twinkles . . .

Crinkling through the brilliant glare tinkles sounds like Splintering sparkling crystal As ice, loosened from wires and trees by warm sun.

Sprinkles to wet walks.

Eleven-thirty a.m. reveals a land of Shimmering scintillating glass spun in crystal-clear fibers Around Alice-in-Wonderland-giant statues of Trees and shrubs and telephone wires and drainpipes and signs and cars and . . .

Streams of water line car tracks in the alley Glisten like freshly scrubbed diamonds.

The twinkling spun glass dances first in the air, then on the giound.

Reflecting in sun-swept pools of melting ice.

Telephone wires swaying low with ice are Jogged by the breeze Cool invigorating air lifts the coats Of people walking from church Overhead, a powder-dusted pale blue sky.

Across campus church bells chime.

A New Year '62 Another chance to begin Again To face responsibility Bravely To finish a job Completely To accept each challenge Intelligently To fulfill a New Year Successfully JEAN MATTOX

Or to make the same mistake.t Again.

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Sand Castle JUDY LYNN SOLMES

’65

Third Prize, Quiz and Quill Prose Even at first glance one could tell there was a difference between the two little boys who sat, legs extended, in the sand box at the city playground.

Billy Joe was quiet of voice but spoke a volume of Keats with his enormous, thickly-lasked brown eyes. His hair was fine and curled about his soft, chipmunk cheeks in a halo. His hands, long-fingered and piano-delicate, rolled each separate grain of sand along their length, enjoying the ecstasy of its scratching roughness.

Timmy, on the other hand, dug deep into the cool stuff with his red shovel and placed his prize upon the monument that he was build­ ing to some distant god. His grip on the metal handle was strong and tight as his tiny muscles once again plunged it into the sand. He en­ joyed feeling the cool grains tumble over his skin, so he thrust the tool deeper and deeper until his whole hand was covered.

He giggled slightly as the shovel, jerked at the wrong time, lost its booty. "Biwwy Joe, wanna help me make my castle?”

"No,” came the almost inaudible reply. His voice was as soft as his baby’s skin.

"Please, Biwwy Joe. It’s lots of fun. See.” Once more the shovel went deep and hard, and this time it was rewarded. The thick, rich sand was added to the growing castle mound. "See, and you can be the' chief engineer and put all the sugar sand on the top when we’re done.

Okay?”

There was no reply, but the second child simply slid nearer to the first, leaving little indentations in the sand as his bottom bumped along it.

The building progressed at a very slow rate, and it was easy to guess that Billy Joe was letting his half of The Vision wander. He had seen an ant making its perilous way beside his finger and had been so caught Uip in its antics that all dreams of buildings and monuments were whisked away on a cloud of ant-thoughts. ' "You can use the shovel, if you wanna, Biwwy Joe,” said the stronger child’s voice as he thrust the red handle into the other’s hand.

"Timmy?” said the timid one, and, as there was no reply, "Tim­ my?” it came again.

Timmy, who was already re-engrossed in his castle and on his knees leaning over, it looked up. Yesh?” he said.

Timmy took little steps on his knees toward Billy Joe, whose eyes did not ever wander from the insect as he spoke. "He looks like a brown snowman, only littler.”

"Only wittwer. Why doesn’t he come apart when he lays down, like a snowman?”

"Maybe cause he’s hooked together in the middle.”

There was silence. Billy Joe spoke again, "1 wonder if he’s too warm? Snowmans melt when they get too warm.”

"Maybe we otta take him home where it’s cool.”

"Maybe.”

"But first we otta make the castle, huh, Biwwy Joe?” As before there was no reply. Billy Joe just picked up the shovel! from the sand where he had allowed it to fall and began to dig. Soon, Eleven

a large mound had been erected, and Billy Joe patted the sides loving­ ly with the back of the shovel, while Timmy made a swimming pool for the people who were to reside in the castle. The pool was fashion­ ed out of the hole that had been left after the material for the castle had been dug away, and Timmy was extremely proud that he had been clever enough to make it into a place fit for swimming. Even though he could not fill it with water, he told Billy Joe that he knew that the people who were going to live in the castle would do that after they moved in.

Now, as the sun was sinking toward the horizon, the boys were putting the finishing touches on the castle. The people who were to live there would certainly want windows, so two little fingers were stuck into the sand of the castle next to each other. The sand parted, and finger touched finger. Both children giggled in surprise, and then wiggled their fingers up and down and made a game of the meeting.

Then while Timmy finished the windows, Billy Joe collected the fine sugar sand and dribbled it with care over the top and the sides of their castle.

"Timmy, the sand isn’t so warm anymore,” marveled the chief engineer.

"No. We’d better go soon. Mommy always wants me home be­ fore dark.”

The sun was almost in its bed, and from opposite directions two mother-silhouettes converged upon the sand box. Each chose the same moment to call her child so that the single name that emerged sound­ ed like "Timmy Joe!” One woman stopped and called her son again, while the second continued toward the children. She reached the two and with control­ led bitterness of good upbringing spoke, "Timothy, dear, tell your little playmate good-bye.”

"See you tomorrow, Biwwy Joe.” "No. Billy, I’m afraid that he won’t be able to see you tomorrow or any other time. Timothy has his own little friends who expect him every day. Come along with Mommy, darling. Your Daddy and I have been very worried about you. We love you very much, and you must never go away like this again.”

She condensed their fond farewell into a hasty So long, and as Mrs. Blanchard and a rather bewildered Tinimy headed rapidly across the playground with his small white hand in hers, Billy Joe ran to­ ward his mother who still stood where her steps had been interrupted.

"Was he a nice boy, Billy Joe?” said the soft, tired voice.

"Yes, Mommy.”

"Then it is just as well you will not play together again. If he was a nice boy, you might have become friends.”

They, too, mother and son, returned in the direction of their com­ ing. She clutched the small warm dark brown hand of her son and averted the question that overflowed his eyes. She could not think of further words to justify those that had already been spoken.

As the voices died away in the air, and the sun set, the little black snowman trudged its way over the sand. By morning the casde and the swimming pool would be reduced to just a mound and a hole, and by noon the sand would not even show that the boys had bean there.

o Twelve

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Ode to Escalloped Potatoes JUDITH STONE

’62

First Prize, Quiz and Quill Humorous Poetry Out; damned spots! out, I say!

One; two; why, ’tis no time to do’t.

Pans are mucky!---- Fie, my friend, tie! a dishwasher and afraid?-----What need we fear who knows it, when none will check a job well-done?

Who would have thought these old pans to have so much food in them?

Mrs. Jacobs has the hiccups; where is she now? ---What! Will these pans ne’er be clean? —— No more o’ that, my friend ' no more o’ that!---- You slop water with all this jumping.

Here’s the smell of food still I All the soap of Barlow will not sweeten this little pan. Oh! oh! oh! Wash your hands! Put on your school clothes! Look not so guilty; I tell you yet again, the pans are buried; no one will know they’re dirty.

To class! to class! there’s ringing at the Tower.---Come, come, come, come! Give me my books. —- What’s dirtied cannot be undirtied.----To class! to class! to class!

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The Play’s the Thing ETHEL STEINMETZ

’31

The scene is the main room of a keeper’s cottage on an estate near Stratford-on-Avon; at a desk in the center of the room, a man sits deep in thought. He writes, then stops to read what he has written.

At the sound of a knock at the door, he lifts his head and says, "Come in,” in a resonant, cultivated voice. A rough farm hoy of about fifteen enters.

Boy. Marlowe'.

Mr. Shakespeare’s here to see you, Mr. Marlowe.

Be careful. Lad; even here you must remember to address me as Martin. Except for My Lord and his loyal band, only you and Will know who I really am. To all others, I must be nought but a rustic keeper, too much concerned with his own thoughts to be good company.

But {sarcastically) bring the famous playwright in; we must not keep him waiting who has won such favor at Bess’s court. {Boy leaves and ushers in a well-built man of me­ dium height. The visitor’s balding head is fringed with black hair which matches his elegant pointed beard. He carries himself with the assurance of a successful busi­ ness man).

Shakes:

Well, well. Kit, how are you? I must say you have the best of it — here in these peaceful surroundings, while I try to beat those morons into a semblance of actors!

Marlowe:

I’m well, thank you. Will, and grateful to be here, when for these many years I should have been dead by the headsman’s blow.

Tell me, what of the rehearsal? Did all go well?

Thirteen

Shakes-.

Excellent. We have a good play here, Kit. It has every­ thing: royalty and grandeur, intrigue and treachery, youth and age; the natural and the supernatural; unrequit­ ed love, filial love — even an Oedipus complex. We have death by suicide, death by mistaken identity, death by poison, death by duel — and through it all, the tragedy of indecision. You really have done it this time. Kit, my boy; this is a lu-lu!

Marlowe:

But what of the actors — are they good? How do they read the lines?

Shakes:

They’re shaping up all right, though we had some trouble with the lad who plays Ophelia. He’s well cast though — more girl than boy he is, I think. He acts as though he’s some kind of prima donna. You ought to see how he hams up the mad scene. (Shakespeare shakes his head and smiles at his memory of it.) But the pit will love it — they’ll eat it up.

Marlowe:

What of Hamlet, Will? Can the actor who plays him handle the part? A poor Hamlet could ruin the play.

Shakes:

Don’t worry about Hamlet — we’ve got a good man. I’ve given him considerable time and coaching and he has really gotten hold of the character. But, no wonder! It’s a great role. Kit, one that any actor would like to get his teeth into.

Marlowe:

Yes, Will, I believe that this is my best play. ( He gives Shakespeare a side-long glance.) I really hope that you won’t spoil it by adding that low comedy you’re so fond of — you know — drunken characters like that Falstaff - ugh. {He makes a gesture of distaste.)

Shakes:

Now just a minute, friend, just one little minute. What do you think’s been p>utting these plays over, anyway?

Your precious soliloquies, maybe? Hah! {He turns and walks across the room disgustedly, then comes back and speaks placatingly.)

Look Kit, I grant you, you say something in those soliloquies and they are quotable; but God, what a ter­ rific build-up it takes to put them over. We’ve got to pull out all the stops. And then after the build-up, we’ve got to have some comedy-relief! You just leave that part to me. I know what goes over — and remember the Queen! Our Bess likes her bawdy joke, — as does the rest of England — and, by St. George, as long as she wants it, I’m going to give it to her!

Marlowe:

Of course, I know you need relief, but I gave it to you in the Grave Digger scene.

Shakes:

The grave diggers! You call that comedy? "Alas, poor Yorick!” Ha, Ha. Look, I’m laughing. {He makes a ges­ ture of disgust; then, again changes his mood.)

But, Kit, I did think of a gimmick to save the scene

Fourteen

— I got hold of a real human skull to use as a prop; you sre, that’s a shock technique. The yokels love to be horrified. They’ll be talking about it for weeks! It’s go­ ing to be great!

Marlowe'.

{laughing) O.K., O.K., you win. Go ahead and do it your way. I admit that you know your business. {Seriously) You really do, Will. You take my plays and make them live. By your direction, and, — yes — manipulation, my poetry gains its soul. I’m grateful to you. Will. Without you, my work would find no audience.

Shakes'.

{laughing) And without you. I’d have no plays.

Marlowe'.

Granted: We need each other. I would like to ask one favor of you, though. Will you please stop writing those lousy sonnets? You’re going to ruin our name!

Curtain oA Graduate of the Old School JANET LACEY

’64

The summer I was fourteen, my parents, deciding that I was too well acquainted with hot-dog stands and second-rate movies and knew too little of the social amenities, held a grave consultation and then shipped me off to a small New England girls’ school to hobnob with the daughters of the rich.

When I remember that school now, I always think of high-heeled shoes and white gloves. Indeed, for two years after that summer I could not even look at a white glove without revulsion. We Westbury girls had to be impeccably dressed in stockings, heels, gloves, and hats every time we went to town. 'The tiny business section was one black away and the summer was hot, but we wore our Sun­ day clothes anyway. You see, there was a Rule. We also dressed up to go to tea every afternoon at the directress’ residence. What a quanti­ ty of tea I must have consumed that summer! And I hated tea. I soon learned that, if I was very quick about it, I could sometimes dump a cup of tea into one of the many flowerpots and ornamental vases that cluttered up the huge old room. But even with such lifesavers.

I had to drink a lot of tea. Attendance at those teas was another Rule.

I must explain about the Rules, and to do that I must first tell about our directress. Miss Elizabeth Kingston had graduated from Smith College some thirty years ago. She was the sort of woman who should have had three names, but somehow she had never acquired a third one. She would have been wonderful — and much less dan­ gerous — as a wealthy Boston matron, presiding at meetings or ban­ ning books. Robbed by chance of these pleasures, however, she con­ centrated her attentions and her money upon collecting a group of young ladies and teaching them the traditions and manners that she had been taught. She alone had founded Westbury School for Girls, an establishment composed of four large houses on a fashionable street, ten teachers, a nurse, and a book of Rules.

When Miss Kingston spoke, certain words always seemed to sound heavier than others and to hang, mournfully threatening, in the Fifteen

air We awed students imagined these words written, capitalized. She spoke of the School, of Tradition, of Honor and Duty, of Loyalty, and of course, of the Rules.

The Rules were a subject of great consternation to all of us. Up­ on arrival, we were each handed a list of them; within thirty sec­ onds we were all chattering excitedly. To the best of my recollection, the list read: 1. No lipstick or make-up is to be worn at Westbury School for Girls.

2. Stockings, heels, hats, and gloves must be worn whenever a student leaves the campus.

3. No Westbury smdent may smoke under any conditions.

4. No student may fraternize with a member of the male sex.

5. Every student’s attendance at all Westbury social functions is required.

6. Unseemly behavior will be punished by immediate dismis­ sal.

At first glance, the list produced laughter and groans. We new arrivals all stood at the foot of the long, winding staircase in Miss Kingston’s residence and talked excitedly.

"At least I can drink!” shouted one heavily-mascaraed girl.

"Whiskey in my bedroom! Wow!” "I think that is covered under 'unseemly behavior,”’ someone suggested.

"Wonder what they mean by 'fraternize’.?” a willowy girl pon­ dered. "After all, a little necking isn’t really . . .”

"Ssh girls, she’s coming!”

There was suddenly complete silence as Miss Kingston slowly descended. She was dressed in the Westbury uniform for going offcampus. She was stout and a little bit popeyed, and she looked apolo­ getic.

"I’m dreadfully sorry to have kept you waiting,” she began.

"Won’t you come in and sit down?” The twenty-five of us trooped in­ to the room where we were to attend so many unhappy teas and sat down in valuable Chippendale chairs. The room seemed spacious even with all of us in it. "I am so glad you are here. I am sure that after a few days you will feel right at home here at the School.” She smiled a light, weak smile, and went on. "You all have a list of the Rules, which I don’t believe need explanation. I just wish to make clear that obedience to these Rules is an essential part of Westbury Tradition, and that those who will not conform. . .” again that feeble smile. . . "will have to be sent home. I am sorry, girls, but this is the only way we can maintain the Reputation of the School. But before too long, you will have so much Loyalty and Respect for the School that you will never consider breaking a Rule.” She then gave us a half-hour lecture on Loyalty and Respect and asked if there were any questions. There weren’t. The tall girl was not bold enough to ask about fraternizing, and so we were dismissed.

At first, no one was afraid of her. We all felt sorry for her; she was a tired, aging woman whose one love was the School. But we did not know about the iron hand within the dainty white glove. At the end of the first week, a girl came back to my dormitory red-eyed and packed and left without a word. "Fraternizing,” somebody whispersixteen

ed. The second week, two girls were dismissed for smoking and one placed on probation for going into town with neither hat nor gloves.

Rumors began to fly. Miss Kingston was said to be a sadist, a drug addict and a drunkard. One or two girls left every week. We whisper­ ed curses at our directress when she passed by in the street, but in her parlor we smiled, drank tea, and were very polite.

The third week, one of my best friends left. One Saturday after­ noon she had gone for a ride with a boy she had known all her life.

The directress’ sister had seen her. Before leaving, my friend defiant­ ly smoked a cigarette in the middle of the street in front of the School, but that passed unnoticed.

My stay was terminated in the fifth week. I did not smoke, fra­ ternize, or forget my gloves, and I downed my tea with a grim smile.

I guess my misdemeanor might be considered "unseemly behavior.”

I fell through the porch ceiling.

Two friends and I had found a lovely small attic. We could not stand up in it, but we could sit there in Bermudas and drink cokes.

It was heaven. But one day a board split, and two of us fell, shriek­ ing, amid much plaster, dust, and cotton batting onto the beds of the sleeping porch below. This fall resulted in bruises for my friend, a sprained wrist for me, and the immediate dismissal of all three of us, although my second companion did not take part in the actual fall­ ing.

"You have broken a Rule,” said Miss Kingston, as we stood, bruised and battered in her office. One of my friends began to giggle hysterically. I kicked her. Miss Kingston did not seem to notice. "I feel that you would be happier and more successful at home. You are not Westbury material.”

After we left the office, we tried a shamefully childish trick. We filled a balloon with water and stood at the highest window, wait­ ing for Miss Kingston to pass in the street. We wanted to destroy that uncanny, ridiculous dignity once and for all. We stood there for a full hour, but she never came. I don’t know whether we would have thrown it or not.

Project Mercury CARL V. VORPE

’51

As when a child, I rolled a paper up To look for the mid-day moon Or reached for tlie golden sand in a ray of sun: So I saw morning clouds round an open cup To the orange dawn.

Stars in the fleeing dark bade me come!

On the hem of a cloud I moved and flew Away from this green home To another room where the clock is new; Far shores, warm sands Await this child’s reaching hands.

This crocus blossoms toward the sky; New hearths lie high, away: Rush to the morning wind! To the east I Will go, will go to stay.

Seventeen

On Gandy Canes JO ANN HOFFMAN

’62

It’s a cold winter's night in Harlem, The sky is brightly filled with golden glitter, The streets are decked with old stovepipes painted red and white.

Supposedly candy canes.

Dirty urchins play in the street.

Nothing else to do, except fight.

For this is no special night.

To the little urchins who play in the street.

The factory smoke covers the sky like a huge, soft grey blanket, ITie only one people of Harlem can afford.

Soft flakes of snow begin to fall.

Is it fake or real? It’s hard to tell in this place where so much of life is false.

But it’s real all right 1 It’s cold and wet.

For this is a cold winter’s night in Harlem, The sky is brightly filled with golden glitter, 'Most everything is real here tonight, It’s Christmas. o o

ROGER SHIFLEY

Eighteen

’64

Sisyphus JANET LACEY

’(54

First Prize, Burkhart Poetry Contest The first time was the best. They had not said (Although They should have-it was written sol That he, so strong, for such a short time dead ' Would not soon find success. How could he know The heavy stone would roll back down the hill?

He sweated in the red internal light.

But, all the time, his heart longed for the thrill Of seeing the smooth stone jounce out of sight And being given then a greater task ® ’ To try his strength against the evil powers Oh. he could do whatever They could ask But that was in his younger, quicker hours.

And, as he pushed, his scornful songs They heardHe sang again the second time ... the third . . .’

Poor Sisyphus! He thought himself to blame He thought that he had not yet reached his goal Through some fault of his own. He bore the shame.

And so he spurred his panting body-soul On further, and his rippling muscles made The lesser demons whispered stories tell About the futile recklessness displayed By that untiring Hercules of Hell.

But Sisyphus is older now, and wise.

He's older by a thousand thousand years, And hope and scorn have vanished from his eyes As well as his capacity for tears.

Now grey and bent, he toils on without wrath.

And never lifts his eyes up from the path.

One October Day . . .

MARTHA DEEVER

'64

A leaf Flutters To the ground At my feet.

Its fingers Are dry And curled with age— Its palm Is young and firm.

Green— Yet brown; Alive— But dead; No longer summer— Not yet fall.

<>-

o Nineteen

"Rabboni” JUDITH STONE

’62

We speak of you in eloquent phrases From high places, eulogizing Events we never knew.

Until we create a misty fabric Woven together by cobweb threads of Fantasy.

We lisp your name through Poor, uneducated lips, never quite Expressing an abysmal knowledge Of you, except by a reddened face Or a raised voice Or a frustrated imitation of a Rolling, howling dog.

We straiten your life in Catechetical categories and classify you as The third member of the Trinity, The .Son of the Virgin Mary, Who was crucified, dead and buried; Who descended into Hell, and Rose again on the third day; Making these facts our religion— And the lack of them, somebody’s Hell.

Our knowledge of you is a shallow farce.

And we bask in ignorant error.

And we fail to share our thoughts For fear that that somebody’s Hell May be ours.

So, we look at the cross where you died And were stripped of ethereal powers, And we gaze at the grave where you Gained all you had, only more, And we tremble and cry, "Rabboni, Rabboni - forgiveness ....’’

o

<>

Lighted in Darkness SYLVIA VANCE

’47

We are caught up in seasons; in the mist.

When white into the winter sycamores haunt sleeping woods.

In the warm ruffling wind that spreads the whispered spring like gossip.

Pulsed to the steady sun of summer, day on wide day Into the bitter sweet of harvest.

Ebb tide and flood, upon the curve of earth We trace the shifting path of shadow into night And on through night into the daybreak silent blazing.

We know of day for having lighted candles late in darkness And found them lasting futile in the sun.

So am I traitor? Having known the year, the day and night, the sea.

When ebbing tide reveals some lost Atlantis, Traitor, then, to cling to rock emerging?

To swear the foolish oath of drowning men?

"I will not let it go.”

<>■ Twenty

<>■

Spirit ARTI TRUMBLKE

'64

Cold air strikes me as I walk along the avenue. There is no noisy din of traffic in the usually bustling metropolis, no screeching brakes, no honking horns, but then, it’s a Sunday morning.

The store windows on either side of the street wear large sale signs. Every store has a sale "Final Clearance!” "Last Chance to Buy!” each signal the would-be customer to hurry. The stores are closed, their counters shrouded as in death. No busy aching feet pound the aisles — no one buys, no one sells. The stores are quiet. It is Sun­ day.

I pass a restaurant, seats are empty — counters bare — no life.

The doors are closed tight. On my right a newstand quietly awaits the delivery of the morning papers, but they are late.

As 1 walk my footsteps echo in the city canyons eerily.

The public park is still but for the murmured whispering of the trees — or is it the statue’s soft curses mocking man, his maker.

Where are these mundane gods? Where are they who created these stone likenesses?

This quiet is stifling — my footsteps echo louder and louder. I pass shop after shop — faster, faster. The quiet pounds in my ears, deafening. The shop windows whirl by.

Ahead the tall spires of a church stab the sky. The doors are open, awaiting the congregation. Two staunch trees stand as ushers to wel­ come in the wayward comers such as I. Of course, that s where every­ one is, it’s Sunday.

The door slowly swings toward closure with a quiet creak. I run, I must hurry, I can’t be late for church!

Inside. No one is here. I’m early — that’s it! I must be early, and I ran so fast — no need to have hurried at all no need at all.

Outside. I’ll walk for awhile. The hazy sunlight is unusual, giv­ ing everything a touch of the unreal. Morning air sometimes does that. The silence is peaceful now, funny how your imagination can run away with you.

I walked up the streets, then down, passing again the downtown shops. ’This quiet gets on one’s nerves, even if it is peaceful. Even for a Sunday, it’s quiet.

I pass a shop window and stop to look at my reflection in the glass. It isn’t there. This must be the new non-glare glass. I’ll go to another window. Still no familiar face, no image greets my eyes.

What’s wrong with this glass? Another window, and then I’ll see my­ self, but again and again, no likeness is mirrored. What kind of a game is this?

In desperation, I raise my fist and strike the glass, it is hard, I feel its smooth coolness beneath my fist, but it doesn’t shatter or break, there is no impact or vibration from my fist.

I run down the street to the park, and gaze into a still pond, surely my image will be there, but no reflection, no image. Have I no body? No arms, no hands, no legs or feet? This is utter nonsense.

I am myself. I am no figment of my imagination. I am a human be­ ing, put on earth by God. I am on earth. I am here, in my own city, what has happened?

Twenty-one

In anger, I throw a pebble into the water, causing the surface to break into a hundred ripples. I submerge my hand in the now still water but no ripple marks its entrance. What’s wrong with me? What am I? What has happened? A stame sneers down at my despair.

A piece of newspaper flutters across the grass a few feet away.

As I reach for it, maddeningly it blows further away. Each time I reach for the paper, it taunts me and crazily skips across the lawn.

When the wind dies, and the paper lies on the ground, I read the death knell of the world in the headlines. Man’s own ingenuity has cost him his world. The banners spell out the doom of the land.

Man’s frantic search for power has destroyed him.

The paper bids a last farewell to the people of the country and laments upon their inevitably short struggle with death. I sense man’s futile struggle. I can read no further, the paper is torn. Slowly I turn away, my footsteps hollowly echoing again on the pavement.

Who am I? I am the spirit of man, walking in the footsteps of man, walking in the wake of man, in his own domain.

It is Sunday.

Ceramic Charm JEAN MATTOX

’62

So gracious and erect she is, Standing alone, with her black eyes staring through years of space.

Her maroon dress wavering slightly as though caught up by a breeze; She saw it all.

The first hometown boy bravely leaving the security of home to defend his country.

He never came back to the house burned by rebels.

She remembered the sweeping flames which sent families scattering from aristocratic homes.

As thunder pierced the sky!

As lightning sought the stars!

She reflects it all in her knowing eyes.

Is that a fleck of dust?

It almost mars her face.

The billowing green leaves are growing fast.

They are beginning to hide this shiny ceramic statue.

•<$>■

o

Sincerity CAROL SHOOK

'63

Angels, their hair full of permanent and peroxide.

Pose delicately on a chiffon cloud.

Snowmen with a shovel in one hand and a pipe in the other.

Wink knowingly.

Actual photographs of expensive centerpieces.

Reflect true color.

Little girls dressed in red velvet and ermine.

Smile beamingly.

Still scattered here and there, one finds A nativity scene ..........................and a warm greeting.

-o Twenty-two

Twenty-three

The Last Feather of an Indian Summer SANDRA BRENFLECK

'64

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetiy It snowed Only a few days ago But Winter Doesn’t win his victory Without a fight Fall lingers Reluctant to leave us She breathes The last warm breath Of a dying Princess I see Where failing Fall left a Moccasin paUi In heaps of dead brown leaves Now crumbling and powdery I hear A whisper on the wind Of Death Drums Sounding the slow sad beat Of an Indian burial I smell The smoke of funeral pyres Of leaves Burning in huge piles Along the way to Winter Fall lingers But the icy fingers of Frost Slowly squeeze Warmth strength color from the Tall straight Warrior and his Bride Snow comes Again and this time wins The battle For the lives of the Weakened Warrior and the Maid They sleep At last enfolded in a Downy comforter And make the long journey Fo the Happy Hunting Ground

I May Not Sleep SARAH ROSE SKAATES

'56

1 may not sleep while asters bloom, While crickets’ call is shrill and high; I may not close my eyes or dream If tendril clouds are drifting high.

I may not waste one ripened hour — Who knows the minutes left to keep?

When pine trees sing the night winds’ song ■And love is near, I cannot sleep.

■<>

<►

Perhaps They Are , . .

LEWIS F. SHAFFER

'59

The wind rushed over Muralta and descended into the valley whip­ ping small clouds of dust against the stone wall. It pushed across the land and Pietro could feel it change. The full heat of the day was gone and within minutes a fresh scent began to cool the land.

Pietro brushed his heavy black hair from his dust-covered face and stood for a moment with his spine as straight as was possible. He could feel the strength ebbing from his body as the sun began to pull its great rays behind Muralta. His skin was rough with great creases.

His teeth looked as sun tanned as his body. He had once been a good sized man, but forty years of working in the fields had bent him lower and lower to the ground. As it was he looked levelly into the eyes of his eighteen-year-old daughter, Marissa.

Marissa and Roberto were stumbling across the rock studded field toward their father. Roberto was twelve and did not go to school.

Not a word had been spoken but each knew the work day had ended.

The high wheeled cart stood waiting beneath a distorted olive tree at the south side of the field. Pietro, Marissa and Roberto turned into the small rock hut which served as their eating and resting place during the long days in the field. They came out carrying two horsehair blankets and a dirt-smudged canvas sack which had contained their noon meal of bread, cheese and wine.

Pietro followed his children to the cart and slowly climbed onto the high seat. With a shudder the bony, brown horse slowly turned the cart toward the road. Pietro affectionately called "Ronzino” (old horse) partially to hurry it on and partially just to lend moral support.

As nature would have it, the return journey at night was uphill and Pietro subconsciously wondered if the next day he would have to walk.

The sun had almost disappeared behind the town now and by the time they reached home some lights would probably be on. The paved road began its slight rise from the valley up to the almost majestically situated white city.

Across the road another cart passed out through a break in the rock wall and slowly moved in front of Pietro. It was the Chentore family. The two families exchanged a word of greeting and then fell silent again. The only sound was of the two horses and the grating of the high, painted wheels on the uneven road.

Pietro was not a jealous man, but sometimes like this evening he did in some measure question his fortune. Chentore had three teenage daughters, a young horse and a dog. Pietro had only one daughter and a boy who showed little interest in the family trade of raising olives. "Ronzino” was just that — a tired, old horse, and Pietro did not have a dog. Well, he did once, but it died. Pietro had tried to have food from the family table, but there never seemed to be enough and the dog just was not able to provide for himself.

Maybe someday Pietro could afford a dog.

Marissa sat against the side of the cart and pensively looked back down the road behind them. She brushed at a large cobweb that had Twenty-five

caught in her dress. The dress didn’t really fit we 1 and she had ripped it under both arms while picking rock out of her father s new field. It was too short for she could not kneel on it in the dirt, but her knees were strong now after the easier winter months had softened them.

Marissa was not ugly but she probably would be some day Her hands were already coarse and very large. Her hair was straight and very heavy from the dirt that collected on it.

But Marissa really didn’t worry about her looks; she was only 18. In several more years her father would allow a boy from town to visit her and then he would be permitted to court her, provided all the family was with them on their dates. She locked to those days as inevitable and, outside of a few inner desires best forgotten, she was content to walk through town arm-in-arm with her mother on Sunday evenings.

Roberto wasn’t quite the same. He was very strong for his age and possessed a keen, even if it were uneducated, mind. He learned many things from a radio his friend Fusco had. He heard of places far away and wanted very much to see them. He had talked to several of the Air Force men in Muralta who told of areas in his country where great mountains had snow on their tops all during the summer.

His father didn’t like his talking to these men but Roberto could not resist.

By the time the high cart rolled its painted wheels into the city of Muralta, a few lights had in fact come on. The sun was completely gone now and the breeze was cool to Pietro’s hands as he loosely held the worn leather reins. At the end of a small street Pietro allowed the old horse to station itself beside a white hut out of which streamed a faint glow of light and an even fainter smell of cooked tomatoes.

Marissa was first inside. Rosanna, Pietro’s wife, greeted each and set a large plate of pasta on the wooden table in the main room of the house. Acmally, there were only two rooms—the other being a bedroom. The latrine was out back and shared by four other families.

Roberto was first to wipe his hands on the damp cloth and take his place at the table. As Pietro took his place all bowed their heads, and, after making the sign of the cross, he returned a prayer. The pasta was covered by tomato sauce and complemented by a large glass of goat’s milk that Rosanna had purchased that morning from Serola’s goat herd as it passed through town.

Pietro was especially tired this evening. He seemed deep in thought most of the meal, only answering his wife’s questions about the olive grove, the new field, the lack of rain, etc. He never offered more than an answer to each.

Once the plates were cleared and the dining room transferred into a living room, Rosanna brought Pietro a piece of yellow paper that had been placed under the door that afternoon. Pietro held the paper so the light hit it best and read: "To All Communist Party Members: Russia’s Yuri Gagarin became the first man in space yesterday, as he orbited the earth. Attend grand rally in city square at 2000 hours in celebration of this great event”.

Twenty-six

Pietro had voted communist during the last election. He did so because it was the only sensible thing to do. He had always been under great mental strain about this vote he possessed. For many years of his life he never heard of such a thing and now to possess this great responsibility was almost a burden to him. He was Catholic above all and yet he was still unable to see why what the communist promised him would be in conflict with the church.

Wouldn’t communism give him a new horse — maybe two, plenty of food — certainly enough for his family and a dog besides, and also enough money with which he could build up his daughter’s dowry.

He needed that money if he hoped to marry her off to some good man. 'These things seemed so sensible, easy to understand. They didn’t mention such terms as technological assistance, Marshall Plan, or Peace Corps, terms which didn’t make much sense to Pietro.

He still wondered though, and with a mind for seeking basic truth, he attended the large celebration for Yuri Gagarin. He had difficulty understanding how a man could actually fly around the world.

The square was packed with people and the large bandstand at the far end was engulfed by shouting people. 'The bandstand was rigged with a P.A. system and hung high above it was the red com­ munist party flag. Presently, a nicely dressed townsman — his name was Annonni — shouted into the microphone "Buona Sera”. The crowd screamed in unison. Pietro backed a few steps away and stood leaning against a tree. He was very tired.

Annonni spoke for about 30 minutes about such things as the race to space, Russia’s great achievement, and the superiority of a communist society. He eventually got into the normal subjects of how Americans were warmongers and what Russia was doing to give people freedom and a better way of life. Pietro understood most of what was said and appreciated a fellow townsman’s explaining it to him.

As Annonni^ finished speaking, the town band began playing and pictures of Yuri Gagarin were hoisted above the crowd. Pietro decided the day had been long enough; still thinking about the things he couldn’t understand, he walked back to his home.

The family was waiting for him when he arrived and Rosanna asked him to tell of what was said. Pietro told them all he could remember. He was interrupted once by Roberto who stated his airmen friends said America was not a warmonger but that Russia was.

Roberto mentioned Korea, Berlin, and other far-off places that Pietro knew little about. He reprimanded his son for interrupting and then finished telling of Yuri Gagarin. Then they all went to bed in the same room.

Just about sunup Pietro woke his family and Rosanna started to fix breakfast as Marissa and Roberto put on their work clothes.

There seemed to be a certain spirit in the house that morning __ perhaps because it was Saturday, market day, and tomorrow was a day of rest.

After a breakfast of greasy, black coffee and heavy bread, the three climbed aboard the cart and started for the country. Rosanna gathered her pail and went to buy some goat’s milk.

Twenty-seven

It was a usual clear morning and already the warmth of the sun could be felt on their faces as the cart slowly moved down the long grade toward Pietro’s olive grove. It must have been 6 a.m. already.

Marissa jumped from the cart and took the blankets and food into the round rock hut. Roberto tied "Ronzino” to the largest olive tree and went into the field. Marissa joined him and they automatically began digging stones from the hard, dry soil.

Pietro hesitated this morning. He leaned against the stone wall and peered up at the hill that rose above him. He could see uni­ formed men climbing out of a bus. Two were American officers.

His eyes turned to the guards and the double fence. He once again studied the white objects his neighbors called "Missili”.

He thought for several moments about what he had heard the night before. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps Americans are war­ mongers.

o

At the Edge of the World ROGER SHIPLEY

Twenty-eight

’64

r Screen-door Summers JOHN NAFTZGER

â&#x20AC;&#x2122;62

I remember screen-door summers.

The newly washed sheets hung on the lines to dry, their shadows made little islands in the back yard.

The screen-door slammed, it was my mother, come to tear down or build up new worlds.

o-

At the Edge of the World REBEKAH ALLEN

â&#x20AC;&#x2122;65

The sea, and the tide, and the wind, and I sat down at the edge of the world.

We spoke of the sky, and the birds above, as we sat at the edge of the world.

We thought of the past, and tomorrow, and now, seated there at the edge of the world.

We prayed for the world, and ourselves that day, on that beach at the edge of the world.

The sea sprayed its tears on the soft moaning tide and the wind and I wept at its side.

The sea, and the tide, and the wind, and I, on a rock at the edge of the world.

Twenty-nine

The Gift RUTH HUNT GEFVERT

’36

Shy and timorous she proffers it Painstakingly molded in clay Fired in heat the imperfections and the beauty, Outspread forever and generous as the giver, "See, it is my hand,” she says.

Willow’s Song '65 Small seed planted To tender singing, I begin in such a way.

While bells are ringing; The village welcomes Its newest babe, born just today.

ROSEMARY GORMAN

Sapling sturdy Near gushing runlet, I hear the mother call to him, A little one yet; I sway in rhythm— A willow’s dancing — graceful, slim.

Tall we both grow As years are flying; Toys once dear are cast aside.

His interests dying; He seeks new treasures — ’Neath my green arms his rare thoughts hide.

Blossomed fingers Reach to the quick stream; A maiden sits beside him there; She shares his dreaming.

They wed, and quickly These two are blessed with infants fair.

Life is gracious Until one cruel day — She is beckoned on to rest; Now I sway, mourning.

In doleful sorrow.

While she is buried on my breast.

Time fleets quickly — Both aged are we.

Sobbing links are brown, not green; A single willow Will soon be dry — When he is laid beside his qtieen.

o

The Double Image ROBERT WERNER ’63 Stopping by a mirror, I chanced to see A second image, much similar to me.

This second image recalled happier days Which time has taken, the memory stays.

Stopping by a mirror, A second image, much After peering awhile, I Now the second image

o

I chanced to see similar to me. had to move on— is also gone.

•<>

The Dumb One JO ANN HOFFMAN

’62

I never really realized how utterly stupid I was until poor Dr. Neff tried to teach me this perfectly simple technique of inserting my contaa lenses. I really felt sorry for him. There he stood, all of five-foot eight inches, trying his best to teach me something in the simplest language he knew. But dumb me! I never felt so ridiculous in all my life.

"You merely place the lens on the tip of your middle finger,” he explained. "Then you hold up your upper eyelid with the index fin­ ger of the free hand, and hold down your lower lid with the middle finger of your free hand. You then place the lens on the eyeball. It’s all that simple.”

Simple, he says. I bet! I might as well give it a try. Place it on my middle finger and prop up the upper lid and hold down the bot­ tom lid and . . . oops!

"That’s quite all right, dear,” he said calmly. "Let’s try that one once more. Only this time get a good grip on those lids before you try putting the lens in.”

He seems so perfectly calm about the whole m.atter. But I bet his eye doesn’t feel as though you had just pushed a hole through it. I must realize that this is to be tolerated at first. I just have to make up my mind that I am going to come out of this situation the victor.

Well, here goes again!

"That’s right. Get a good grip on them and then just. . . Fine.

Keep your eye closed for a minute. There. Now open it. Fine.”

But I can’t see a thing. I’m going blind! Oh yes, it would help to open the other eye. Yes, that’s much better. It sure is a funny sen­ sation. Something like getting a fly in your eye.

"Yes, Dr. Neff, things are a little blurry, but I suppose my eyes will get used to this,” I replied calmly to his question.

"It may take a few minutes,” he reassured me. "Now let’s try the same thing with the other eye. Go through the same process. First place the lens on the tip of the middle finger. Yes, that’s right. Fine.

Now keep both eyes closed for a minute or so.”

"Kind of scratchy aren’t they? Did you say that they were made of plastic or sand? They sure feel like they’re made of sand. In fact, I think they took all of the sand from the beach at Cedar Point and made these especially for me.”

"No, they’re really made of plastic,” he said. "Soon you will be able to wear them and not even notice them.”

That’s what you think, buddy!

"You can open your eyes now,” he said calmly. "Look down in your lap at first and blink your eyes at a fairly fast rate of speed. And blink them gently, don’t bat them.”

Open them slowly now. Take it easy. That's right, gendy. My hea­ vens, 1 hadn’t realized that there was a spot on my skirt. These things must really be powerful. Why Dr. Neff, you look absolutely adorable.

'There must be something wrong here—^Dr. Neff look adorable? Impos­ sible. Yes, now they’re coming into focus.

"Now slowly look up at me. Yes, I see that you already have,” he said in that calm tone of voice. "Now look around the room. How do they feel now? Keep blinking.”

Thirty-one

"Oh, they feel fine.”

Sure they do! Why in the world did I ever think that I wanted contacts anyway? Well, I asked for it, and I got it!

You sit there for a while and read this magazine holding it in your lap. Don’t try to look up. Just concentrate on the magazine and keep blinking.”

"I’ll try.”

He seems so terribly calm and collected about this matter. And he s so patient with me. No wonder everyone likes him so well. Oh yes, I must remember to ask him how to take these things out.

Low Blow JEAN UNGER CHASE

’43

I’m well resigned to greying hair.

May even look quite sporty; But must the very first one sjjrout The morning I turn forty?

O-

o

Dissertation on Peanut Butter JANET LACEY

’64

Third Prize, Quiz and Quill Humorous Poetry I don’t like peanut butter; that’s all that I know.

My psychiatrist says that perhaps, long ago, A cruel aunt stuffed great quantities down my small throat.

My reply to this statement, I don’t think I’ll quote.

And then, he informs me it also could be Peanut butter’s a symbol of something to me.

Like failure, or hate, maybe slow strangulation Or any extremely unpleasant sensation.

He always consoles me. He says he is sure That for every neurosis there must be a cure.

And by starting out slowly — a teaspoon a day — I’ll some day put great pots of the vile stuff away.

And if he should succeed (oh, that sadistic sinner!), I will gulp it down daily for lunch and for dinnerl No thank you, good doctor. It’s sad, but it’s true — I feel nothing but villainous malice toward you.

And when “creamy” or’’ thunk style” is offered to me I’ll continue to exit precipitately!

Emptiness KATHY KANTO

’64

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry Emptiness is an unloved lover, A winter that lasts all the year.

The eyes of an orphan at Christmas, A heart that’s been nourished with fear.

The sob of a lonely old grandad, A hope that has burned and grown cold.

The sky when its blue has been stolen A field when its prize has been sold.

Emptiness is a blackness that keeps growing,

o

Thirty-two

o

Till the Long Trick’s Over DAVID K. STURCES ’64

First Prize, Quiz and Quill Prose Two blasts of the whistle sounded from the freighter just off the eastern side of the island. Two persons hurried down the hillside path, skirting, as they went, the slippery, moss-covered stones. A damp breeze blew in from the lagoon; the sun had not yet torn the blanket of bluish-grey clouds that hung solidly in the dawn sky. The palms rustled and the Pacific surf boomed down along the beach. Mrs. Bor­ den waddled breathlessly along as fast as her heavy legs could carry her. She was hampered by her plain gingham dress that bound her portly figure. Behind her was her son, Cary, a towheaded youth of about fifteen, clad in a threadbare, bouble-breasted suit with the jacket unbuttoned. His plain-colored necktie flapped back and forth between the lapels as he walked. With his right hand, he carried a battered, pasteboard suitcase.

"Come on! ’’ his mother said. "Didn’t they tell you to be out there by six?”

"Yes, yes, I know!” replied Cary apprehensively.

At the bottom of the hill, they followed the path out to the road along the edge of the beach. A misty spray, flung up by the waves, added to the dampness of the air. They proceeded down the road to an old pier that ran several hundred yards out into the sea. Toward the end of it stood an open-sided shed, where a man was waiting. As they walked briskly down the pier to the shed, Cary noticed a sign nailed to one corner; its painted letters, chipped but still legible, read: "Mersey Island Transportation Ltd. K. Evertsen Hansche, Ed­ mund Keeler, owners.”

They both stopped in front of the shed. Keeler, the man inside, walked out from b^ind a jeep and greeted them in a harsh. Cockney voice.

"G’mornin’—if yer redy th’ Kaiser’s got ’er all set t’go.”

"Now remember, Cary,” Mrs. Borden said, "Keep your money with you, be obedient, and write as often as you can. You’re on your own.”

Except for these words their parting was brief and without emotion. Cary muttered a brief "goodby,” picked up his bag, and fol­ lowed Keeler through the shed to a dilapidated steam launch wait­ ing at the end of the pier. He passed his suitcase down to Hansche, who grunted and then tossed it in back of the engine. Using a piling for support, Cary jumped down into the cockpit. As the launch drew away a few moments later, he waved; his mother winced, then smiled and waved listlessly back.

The rusty launch pushed against the headwaters of the lagoon as it made its way out to the freighter hove to in the distance. The whoosh of the spray breaking against the bow intermingled with the steady, rhythmic beating of the engine. Keeler leaned against the for­ ward gunwale and brooded, nervously licking his gums. His gnarled Thirty-three

body reflected years of life on the sea. Hansche sat in the stern his swarthy frame hunched over a shiny brass tiller. He chewed vigor­ ously on the stump of a dead cigar clenched between his teeth. He buttoned his greasy leather vest and clutched the collar of his soiled shirt to ward off the chilly wind.

He looked up suddenly; something had caught his eye.

"Iss dot the ship?” he yelled to Keeler.

Keeler cupped his ear and replied, "Oi cawn’t hears yer, Kaiser, the bloomin’ engine’s maikin’ a bl(X)dy - Nehver mind, shoddup anyvay!” bellowed Hansche obviously aroused by the word "Kaiser.”

Cary huddled by the boiler. Smears of rust were visible under the rivet heads. Grey, sooty smoke poured from the funnel on top. He turned and stared confidently out at the freighter getting nearer and nearer.

Up forward, Keeler also stared at the freighter. He saw two wisps of smoke issue from the side of her funnel and then heard the sub­ sequent blasts of the whistle.

See if you can get more outa’ ’er!” he yelled back to Hansche.

"She’s maikin’ redy for sea!”

They both understood each other this time, for Hansche nodded and then jammed his foot against the throttle. The engine puffed and wheezed more violently as if ready to jump off its mountings, The vibration shook loose fittings all over the boat. Almost drowned out by the racket, the wind was singing in the guywires of the fun­ nel.

In about twenty-five minutes they reached the freighter. Hansche eased the old launch up, cautiously, to the gangway extending down the side of the ship. He idled the engine, reached over grabbed one of the gangway stanchions with his burly fist, and held’the boat fast.

Keeler, with all the adroitness of a hotel doorman, came back, pick­ ed up Cary s bag and laid it on one of the steps. Cary stood and look­ ed up the side of the ship. Several crew members lining the rail were looking down, thoroughly amused at the three persons in the battered launch. Again in his doorman manner, Keeler took Cary by the arm and helped him up onto the gangway from the launch.

Up yer goes lad! Not a bad ship yer signin’ on,” he said ap­ preciatively.

On the gangway, Cary bent over, picked up his bag and started to climb the steps, slowly, looking bewilderedly at the men above. One of them, a grimy, stubble-beaded stoker, clad in a sweaty T shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his shoulders, hawked and spat out his quid of tobacco. The quid hit the top of the launch’s boiler with a sharp hissing noise. Hansche stood up in a fit of indignation and, brandish­ ing a straight wrench that he had picked up from the bilge, let loose a tirade of German invective at the boorish stoker, who laughed with his cohorts at the stunt he had just pulled.

Thirty-four

Hansche motioned angrily to Keeler that he wanted to c r der way. Keeler shoved the bow out from the side of the ship with ^h' boathook; his shoulder muscles bulged inside his shirt as he did ‘ Cary, at the top of the gangway, yelled, "Thanks” and vanished below with an officer. Now that he had the launch clear of the h' ^ Hansche jerked the throttle back; the launch shuddered then rh ^ slowly toward the island. ’ An hour had passed during the journey. The sun had risen mark mg the beginning of a beautiful day. Its rays hit the sides of the island mountains with sharp light, revealing the lush, tropical growth Back on the pier, Mrs. Borden saw only the last streaks of dawn as she stood alone watching the freighter becoming fainter and fainter on the hori 2on. The waves slapped against the pilings in steady succession She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, and walked back up the pier her feet gently thumping the old boards. ’ o

o

The Wasp’s Oversight LOYDE HARTLEY

’62

Third Prize, Quiz and Quill Poetry Two wasps bruise battered wings buzzing at the window.

"The obstacle exists only in imagination,” chirp busy buzzers, bravely bumping that which, they insist, does not exist.

“Freedom is ours if we believe the nothing which binds us ends with sweet nirvana.

“We can master our lives; We can do what we please.

All we want will be ours If we only believe.”

I, playing God, my scepter a swatter, said to the brawling brutes: “You have flown to a fate That you will not escape.

And cannot comprehend That your lives shall soon end.

“Hal Foolish, trapped waspsi!”

I, breathing a blessing, with one sweeping slap, sent both to bliss.

O- -O' Thirty-five

On Bomb Shelters (with apologies to Yeats) ’62

LOYDE HARTLEY

I will arise and go now, but not to Shelter E, But to my small cell behind the house, of blocks and concrete made.

Nine bean cans will I have there, six months’ provisions there will be; And I’ll live alone in my bomb proof cage.

And I shall have some peace there, while bombs come dropping slow.

Falling from scores of bombers to where the shelterless wails; Outside the midnight will be on fire, and burning cities glow; Earth will be covered by fall-out trails.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear the enemy’s planes roaring over our little town While standing in the doorway, close to my rifle I stay.

I’ll keep the neighbors out. I alone go down.

■«» Triolets: Ah! Leisure JEAN MATTOX

'62

My work is piled high.

I’m really quite busy.

No one could deny My work is piled high.

And if one come by.

He’d even be dizzy.

My work is piled high.

I’m really quite busy.

To finish my work Is my earnest desire.

My conscience will jerk To finish my work.

The memory will lurk The end I’ll admire.

To finish my work Is my earnest desire.

My work is completed.

At last it is over.

The end is succeeded.

My work is completed.

It won’t be repeated.

I’ll bask in the clover.

My work is completed.

At last it is over.

o oShadow

MARTHA DEEVER

’6S

Sunlight following the flight of a yellow butterfly reflected on sidewalks still wet from yesterday’s rain illuminating the dry dead stalks of summer flowers Disappears behind a cloud And Summer Is Gone.

Thirty-six

Job College SONDRA SPANGLER

’64

Third Prize (tie), Quiz and Quill Humorous Prose There once was a student in the land of the intelligentsia whose name was Job; and that man was an ordinary, happy-go-lucky college schnook, one who did his homework regularly and attended chapel faithfully.

Job had everything a guy could want. There was pinned to him a beautiful girl, 36"-23"-36". He received good grades in all his classes, having pleased his family by making the dean’s list once. His past football record had earned for him a full-mition athletic scholarship, thus leaving him enough money for the necessities of college life such as a 1961 T-Blrd.

Now there was a day when the trustees came to present themselves before the President, and Satan also came among them. And the Presi­ dent said to Satan, "Whence have you come?” And Satan answered saying, "From going to and fro on the campus, and from walking up and down under it.” (Satan had recently discovered the steam tunnels.)

And the President said to Satan, "Have you considered Job, my friend, that there is none like him on the campus?” Then Satan answered saying, "You’re just partial! You’ve put a hedge about him.

But put forth your hand now and touch his special privileges and he will turn against you.”

'Then the President said—"Very well, do what you will to chal­ lenge him, but spare his health.”

Now there came a day when Job was eating lunch at the fraternity boarding club; and there came a mailman delivering a letter stating that a room-mate had just wrecked Job’s car en route to Ft. Lauderdale.

While he was yet reading, a friend arrived announcing that Job had failed a ROTC test, thus "flunking” the course. While he was yet think­ ing, there came a messenger from the dean accusing Job of participat­ ing in a Peeping Tom ring and requesting that Job leave the college for a semester.

'Then Job arose, ripping his sweat-shirt, and got himself a "Yule Brenner” hair-cut, and cast himself upon the ground. He said philo­ sophically, "Well, that’s the way the ball bounces.”

In all this. Job did not swear or blame anyone, including the Presi­ dent.

Again there was a day when the Fathers of the college met in a trustees’ meeting. And Satan, not wishing to be excluded from any devilment, also came among them.

And the President casually said to Satan (during their coffee break), "What do you think now of my friend Job? He still holds fast his integrity although you worked him over quite effectively.”

Then Satan replied: "Skin for skin! All that a student has he will give for his life—but put forth a decree or two that pertain to his health, and he will curse you.”

And the President said, "I disagree, but do as you wish, in my name, only spare his life.”

So Satan went forth and posted an announcement of mandatory student health check-ups, knowing full well that Job had a rapidly growing case of mono.

Thirty-severi

Later, when Job was in the hospital, his girl came to visit him, asking him to curse the Administration and die! (Actually, she was eloping with the football coach anyway, and she wanted Job out of the way.) But Job said to her, "You speak as one of the foolish dames would speak. Shouldn’t we take a few 'downs’ with the 'ups’ in life?”

In all this. Job did not offend anyone with gripes or complaints.

Now when Job’s three friends heard of all this evil that had come upon him, they came, each from his own place—Eliphaz, Job’s adviser; Bill-Dad, his active; and Zofar, his kid brother (who had traveled 20 far from home.) 'They met by appointment to come to condole with Job and comfort him during visiting hours. And when they saw him in the ward, they knew him not; and they raised their voices (as most people do in hospitals where they are supposed to be quiet). When they saw Job, they ripped their shirts (they wanted Job to think he had started a fad), and they sat with Job day and night waiting for him to speak; for they had heard that his suffering was intense.

At length Job spoke, "Let no one ever celebrate my birthday again! Why didn’t I die in infancy? The trouble I greatly feared is at last catching up with me.”

Then Eliphaz, the adviser, spoke up politely, asking first if Job would be offended at some helpful comments. "You were a Junior Counselor once, weren’t you? And now. Job, when you need some counseling, you’re troubled and anxious. Remember, if you have been behaving yourself and following the moral code of society, you’ll sur­ vive this whole ordeal. Besides, it’s only the guilty who are punished.”

Eliphaz continued: "If I were you. Job, I’d seek out the Administra­ tion. Behold, happy is the student whom They correct, for correction is meant to awaken you from your dream of evil and lead you into a richer, cleaner life, filled with blessings.”

Then Job answered, "How forcible are right words. But what does your argument prove? Tell me and I’ll hold my tongue. Let me know where I’ve erred, for I claim that I haven’t.”

Then Bill-Dad, his active, spoke, saying, "Like the man says, Job, your problems are punishment for some goof. What have you done that is really anti-campus council?’ (Job’s active is studying to be a minister and is constantly repeating or rephrasing The Words of others.)

Job in his confusion, begins to call out, pleading his case to an imaginary administration. He wonders where justice is to be found.

But since he is still confined to the hospital bed, he is forced to listen only to the insults of his kid brother who adds: "Tough luck. Job. But you got what was coming to you!”

Job still insists that he will trust his superiors and not accuse them.

After two more complete go-arounds with his "comforters” Job gets a bit impatient. "Sometimes good and bad are treated the same. That’s all I can say to explain it.” (Job makes a final plea for understanding.)

About this time an intern named Elihu in the hospital throws in his two cents’ worth, having observed that Job’s friends weren’t making any headway. Besides, Job’s mental condition was still very miserable.

But Elihu’s comments add nothing to the unfounded accusations of the other three. And, Job, can find no answer to their taunts that only the wicked suffer . . . even on the college level.

Then suddenly, the President, having overheard everything from Thirty-eight

the corridor, dashes into the room. (This is equivalent to the whirl­ wind.) He states emphatically; "You don’t know what your Opposition is like. Where were you when they laid the foundations of this college?

(He meant, "Do you know why the steam tunnels were built under the campus?”) And the President continued, "Who has given wisdom to the inward parts of this educational institution? He that reproveth the Administration, let him answer it! (Actually the President has never been in favor of Satan’s project, but once begun, he is obligated to take a definite stand on the issue.)

Job answered, saying, 'Behold, once I have spoken, but now I plead the Fifth Amendment.”

Again the President said: "Speak up and say what’s on your mind.

Do you think you have the power to question as you have?”

FinaUy Job said: "I know You can do all things around here, and that on such a small campus, no thought is hidden from anyone. There­ fore have I uttered that which I knew not, and I rather hate myself for it.”

Then the President addressed Eliphaz, the adviser, saying: "My wrath is kindled against you and those two friends of yours, for none of you has spoken to me as righteously as my friend Job, here, has.”

(Then he privately asked them to go and offer themselves to Job, asking his forgiveness.)

Job accepted their apologies and treated them to cokes at the union. The Administration then was pacified when it found Job and company in better spirits, and the President, being all-merciful and quite compassionate, forgave the whole group.

Satan, meanwhile, resigned from the board of trustees and, miraculously. Job’s possessions either returned or doubled. His room­ mate repaired Job’s T-Bird and also bought one of his own. (This doubled Job’s worldly goods by giving him a choice of two cars to drive.) Naturally then, with the added prestige of new cars. Job’s be­ loved feminine admirers increased in number. His mono disappeared entirely after a while, and Job was permanently re-admitted to college as well as to the ROTC program.

And so Job lived for many years. And Job died, an old man, and full of days. o

o

May Snow JUDITH STONK

’62

White Mayblossoms Fall and fasten To the grass Beneath them.

Like snow in May Blossoms play With warm winds---Winter’s past.

<3> Thirty-nine

The Boy With the Curly Blond Hair JOHN SOLIDAY

’62

First Prize, NSAL Intercollegiate Short Story Contest, 1961 A young couple looked at the farm today. They didn’t act like country folk. They were in too much of a hurry to see and go. I don’t know whether they liked the place enough to buy. If it’s up to their boy, I’m sure they will. He was about twelve, I suppose, and right at that age where a home with a barn and a woods all of your own, would be like heaven. As soon as they got out of their car, he went running over the hill. His shirt tail was blowing in the breeze and the sun glistened from his curly blond hair. I took a liking to the boy as soon as I saw him. He smiled gently like his mother, but resembled his father in every other way. It was his blond hair that made me sure I’d seen him somewhere before. I couldn’t place him for a long time. I decided that it wasn’t him I was thinking of, but someone who looked like him. Then I remembered a CYNTHIA DONNELL ’63 winter night when I was younger than he is n 1 heard the knock first. Mom was the only one at home except for me and the babies, but she was doing some washing and didn’t hear it. Dad and Grandpappy were in town at a church meeting. I peeked behind the curtain on the door. It was snowing very hard onto the porch. This knotty pine room wasn’t here then. An old porch used to be where the pine room is. It had a concrete floor and two board columns about where that window begins and ends.

Grandpappy’s swing hung there in the middle. In the summer, he used to swing and watch the cars over on the road, going to or coming back from Lancaster. In the winter, he watched from his window upstairs. 'The door was there where the Dutch doors go into the middle room.

When I first looked through the window on the door, I couldn’t see anyone. 'Then I saw a boy standing kind of to the side of the porch. I knew who he was as soon as I saw his blond hair and his blue coat. That’s what the man in the gray uniform had told Mom. "Two boys are out,” he had said. "One’s twelve years, stands five feet, has blond curly hair and blue eyes. He’s in for minor delinquency. The other boy is eighteen, five feet seven inches, with long black hair and hazel eyes. He’s in for assault and attempted murder.”

Mom tried to keep me from hearing, but I had seen those men in the gray uniforms before. Sometimes during the summer they would wait at the end of the road by the neighbors. They would leave a car parked with the doors open. When the boys would get into the car, the men would come out from behind the milk house and catch them and take them back. The boys were from the Boys’ Industrial School which we sometimes call the State Boys’ Reformatory Farm. The school is located two miles over the hill from our farm. There are no fences to hold the boys, so we have lots of escapees in the summer.

Few boys run off in the winter.

Forty

"B. I. S. boys,” I screamed, running into the kitchen. I grabbed Mom’s skirt. It was blue like the boy’s coat only it had little white flowers on it. 'Mommy, a B. I. S. boy,” I repeated, breathlessly.

"What?” Mom asked, turning off the wringer of the washing machine. That was before we had these automatics. The old spinner used to sit in the little room on the back where the bath is now. It leaked oil, too. When Mom wanted to wash, she had to pull it out into the kitchen. "What, Paul?” she asked again.

"B. I. S. boy ... at the door,” I said half crying.

"Nonsense,” Mom said, wiping her hands on a towel.

Then there was a louder knock on the door. Mom grabbed my hand. I could tell she was scared because her hand was shaking.

"Who’s there?” Mom called, walking to the door. Mom never unlocked the door until she was sure who was there. Dad had told her not to and she always did what Dad told her.

"May I use your telephone, please?” the voice replied.

Mom looked through the curtains on the door; then she pulled them shut again. She glanced hurriedly around the room. "We don’t have a phone, but I’m sure you can use the phone at the neighbors down the road.”

"Then could I have a drink, please?” the boy said, after a pause.

"There’s a cup at the well,” Mom said firmly. "We carry our own in from there.”

Again, the boy was silent. Then he began crying. "Please, ma’am. I’m near frozen. I gotta . . . somehow I gotta get warm.”

Mom looked in the bedroom at the babies. There were three of them. Tim and Tom, the twins, were thirteen months old and Mary was two months. I could tell Mom was more afraid because of the babies than for herself. I had never heard of a B. I. S. boy killing a baby, but the neighbors had said, "There’s a first time for everything and it’s best not to take chances.”

When Mom looked out the door again, she saw that the boy’s hand, pressed against the glass, was bleeding.

"Paul,” she said, "I’m going to let the boy in; he’s hurt. I want you to watch the twins and Mary.”

Mom looked out the bedroom window to make sure there was no one else on the porch. Then she let the boy in.

"Hurry,” she said to him. "You’ll bring the cold in with you.”

The boy walked quickly into the room. Mom closed the door behind him and mrned the key. When she did the boy jerked away.

There was no door on the bedroom, so I watched him through a tear in the rose-colored curtains. The boy’s face was red and cut as though he had crawled through a blackberry patch. His hands were puffed up almost as big as Dad’s. The blood on them had dried to a crust from the cold.

"Won’t you stand next to the fire?” Mom asked, motioning him to the coal stove. 'That was before we put the furnace in. I still have the old stove out in the barn. I figure it’s best to hang on to some of these old things, in case we have a war.

The boy walked quietly to the stove, brushing the snow from his hair with the sleeve of his navy-blue jacket.

"Here, give me your coat,” Mom offered.

"I can’t stay,” the boy replied, suddenly. "Just a minute.”

Mom continued, "If you’ll take off your coat and sit down, I’ll Forty-one

get you some hot water to soak your feet in. They must be frozen.’

The boy turned sharply, a look of fear in his eyes. "I got busi­ ness,” he said.

"Where you from?” Mom asked.

"Over the hill.”

"Are you from the State Farm?”

The boy looked down at his muddy shoes. "Uh huh.”

"Where’d you get that blood on you hand?”

The boy jerked his hand behind him. "My bud—,” he started to say.

Mom looked at him. "Your buddy? Where is your buddy?”

"It don’t matter.”

"Where is he?” Mom prodded. "Is he hurt?”

The boy nodded.

"Where is he?”

"He got shot.”

Mom’s face grew pale. "Shot?” she said, startled. "How?” The boy shivered. "A shot gun I think. Some farmer an’ a dog.”

"Where is he?”

"Up the road,” the boy nodded.

Mom acted as if she didn’t know whether to believe him or not.

She kept looking at his bloody hand. "Is he dead?” she asked.

"I don’t know, ma’am.” 'The boy backed away from her, toward the stove. "I couldn’t drag him no further.”

Mom’s voice was quicker. "Then he was still alive when you left him?”

"I think so,” the boy nodded.

"Well, we’ve got to get to him,” Mom said, glancing at the clock on the window sill. She was checking to see how long it would be be­ fore Dad and Grandpappy got home. "Where is he?”

The boy stared into the kitchen. I don’t suppose he’d eaten for a day or more. "Just up around the curve,” he said.

Mom went to the closet and got her old coat. It was a big old black coat someone had given her. It had fur around the collar. She used big safety pins where there weren’t any buttons. "Paul?” she call­ ed. ’What?” I answered, still hiding.

"Bring me a blanket off the bed.”

I went to the foot of the old four poster and got the folded wool blanket. We always kept extra blankets on our beds, in case it got cold­ er during the night. I rolled the blanket up and pushed it under the curtain. It was one of the blankets Dad had brought home with him from the Navy.

Mom reached over to pick up the blanket; then she pulled the curtains apart where I was standing. "Paul,” she said, "I want you to watch the house for a few minutes. 'The other boy has been hurt and we’re going to get him.” Mom kept squeezing me like the day she went to the hospital to have Mary. I knew she was scared. I was scared, too.

"When we go out, you lock the door and don’t let anyone in until we get back.” Mom picked up the blanket. "Do you understand?”

"Uh huh," I sniffed.

"Remember,” Mom warned, glancing at the boy. "Don’t let any­ one in until I get back.” She put on her boots, the old black coat, and Forty-two

pulled a pretty white scarf around her head. "Be a big boy ” sh h' pered, kissing me on the forehead. ® whisWhen they left, I bolted the door and then ran to the kitch window to watch. The snow was blowing awfully hard, but I could them until they reached the curve and went around ’it. I watched^^ long time after they were gone; then I crawled down from the table Mom’s washer was still running so I pulled the plug. The house ' real quiet then, quieter than it is now, except for the wind. I ran inro the bedroom. The babies were all asleep. Mary was in the little bed The twins were sleeping one at each end of the bigger bed I crawl d under the covers of the big bed. Sometimes, when Mom and Dad were outside. I’d jump on the bed You could go much higher on Mom’s bed than on my bed. But I didn’t jump on it now.

It seems as if I was there a long time before I thought of eettine a gun. Dad kept his guns in the closet. He used the rifle to go hunting on Christmas and Thanksgiving. Grandpappy used it to go goundhoe hunting, too. I never liked groundhog meat. I got the rifle out of the closet. It was behind the clothes so no one but us knew where it was It had Dad’s name on the wood part. Grandpappy had given it to hini when he was a boy. I still have the old gun upstairs. After I got the gun, I got some shells out of Dad’s drawer. He hid them under the summer shirts, but I knew where they were. I put the gun in the cor­ ner of the middle room at the end of the couch where Mom could get it easy. I put the shells on the stand beside it. Then I ran into the bed­ room and hid under Dad’s big feather pillow.

I was there a long time before I heard a loud pounding on the door. ° "Paul? Paul?’’ I heard Mom call. "Unlock the door.”

I ran into the room and peeped through the curtain.

"Hurry and unlock the door,” Mom yelled when she saw me.

I slipped the bolt and opened the door. Mom was holding the hurt boy’s shoulders and the other boy held his feet. They were all cover­ ed with snow. "Put him on the couch,” Mom ordered. He was bigger than the first boy and much too heavy for Mom to carry. Her back hurt her for weeks after that. The boy had black hair and looked very mean. Mom had me get a towel to put under his leg because it was awfully bloody. Then she got some blankets out of the closet to put over him.

"Get some rags, Paul,” she said.

I went into the bedroom and pulled out the flowered feedsack Mom kept at the end of her cedar chest. She dumped the rags out on­ to the floor. Her red dress was there, but she picked up a worn-out sheet. "I got more compliments on this dress,” she said once. She put it on and looked at herself in the mirror the day she put it in the ragsack.

The blond-haired boy helped Mom take off the sick boy’s pants and jacket. They were wet from the snow. His leg looked awful. Mom tore the sheet into wide strips. "We’ll have to stop the bleeding as best as we can till we get a doctor,” she said. The white strips turned red as she wound them around his leg. After wra,pping the boy in blankets, she fired up the stove.

"Get out of those clothes,” she said, giving the boy a pair of green work pants and a shirt from Dad’s drawer. "And put these on.”

The boy didn’t take the clothes at first.

Forty-three

Mom pointed to the bedroom. "You may put them on in there if you’d like."

While the boy was changing, Mom poured hot water from the steam kettle into our old round tub. We kept the tub on a nail in the back room over the washer. On Saturday night, we filled it in by the stove for everyone to take a bath. I was always first, then Mom and Dad. Grandpappy always took his bath upstairs in his room. He shaved up there, too, in the mornings.

When the boy had changed. Mom made him roll up his pant legs so he could soak his feet in the tub. His feet were red and swollen like his hands. Mom stuffed the boy’s shoes full of old newspapers and put them behind the stove to dry.

It was getting colder outside because the stove pipe was red hot in back and it was just warm in the room. The kitchen was cold, but it was always cold except when Mom baked. Since she had so much work with the babies. Mom didn’t have much time to bake. We had birthday cakes, cookies at Christmas, and chocolate pie when Dad ask­ ed for it, but that was all.

Mom went into the kitchen, put on some leftover chili to heat, and made some tea.

"What’s your name, son?” Mom asked kindly, handing the boy a cup of hot tea.

"David,” he said, taking the cup. "'That’s a good name,” Mom said. She tried to give the other boy some tea, but he kept coughing and it ran down the side of his face onto the blanket. He opened his eyes and said something about kill­ ing; then he went back to sleep.

"Where’s your home, David?” Mom asked as she washed the sick boy’s face.

"Cleveland,” the boy mumbled.

"You got folks in Cleveland?”

"Step-folks.”

"When are you going back?”

"I ain’t,” the boy said. Then he used some awful words about his folks and I knew that Mom didn t want me to hear them. He told us that he had run away so he wouldn t have to go home. He said that most of the boys ran away because they got to stay three more months.

He knew he’d get a beating when he got back, but he said that was better than going home. His step-folks drank a lot.

"What’s this boy’s name?” Mom asked, getting up from beside the couch.

"Mick, we call him.” The boy put his cup on the floor.

Mom kept feeling Mick’s forehead. She kept looking at him, too.

One of the babies started crying. I don’t know which one it was because before we got to them the other two were awake and crying.

Mom and I both went running into the bedroom. I stayed close to Mom. "Well, what’s wrong?” she comforted as she picked up Tommy.

"Are my babies hungry again?”

Mom sat me down in the big stuffed chair, that chair there; no, that’s red, I forgot we junked the green one. Mom got some pillows to put at my sides, so I could hold both of the twins. Then she put Tim­ my on my one arm and Tommy on my other arm. That was the way she fed them. Dad fed them one at a time, but it took him twice as Forty-four

long. Sometimes he’d be up all night, just feeding babies. They could hold their own bottles now.

Mom had Mary on her shoulder and was walking into the kitch­ en when David stopped her.

"Would it help if I held the baby?” he asked.

"No, I can manage,” Mom answered.

"I promise to be careful.” he said.

Mom turned and looked at the boy. "I think it best not,” she said.

"I’ve never held a real baby before,” the boy pleaded. "I’ll be aw­ fully easy.”

"Are you sure you can be gentle, David?” Mom asked.

The boy nodded his head.

Mom hesitated; then she walked to the boy. "Hold your arms like this,” she showed him. I can remember the first time Mom showed me how to hold a baby. "You must be very careful to hold their backs straight and keep their heads from wobbling.”

"Is it a boy or a girl?” David asked, as he took the baby.

"Her name’s Mary,” Mom told him. "Now be easy. . . that’s the way. If she starts crying, just rock her gently. She’s such a little life that we must be careful not to hurt her.”

Mary started to cry, but stopped as soon as the boy rocked her.

He laughed and Mom smiled. "That’s the way,” she said, "but be easy.”

Mom waited a while; then she went into the kitchen, but she kept looking back in. When she was gone, David looked at me and smiled.

I watched him to make sure he was holding her right. I didn’t smile back.

"What’s your name?” he asked.

"Paul,” I said, looking away.

"That’s a good name,” he said. "I had a brother bigger than me named Paul. He died."

"Mom had a baby that died once,” I said. "His name was Philip.

I never saw him, though. Daddy and Mommy are the only people who saw him.”

"Babies sure do have little hands, don’t they?” David said. How old is she?”

"Almost a year. When she’s a year, we’re going to have a birth­ day cake for her."

Mom cam.e into the room with three bottles. She gave the twins theirs; then she turned to David. "Can you feed her?”

"I’ll try.”

"Hold it down,” Mom said as she helped him put the bottle in­ to Mary’s mouth. "If she gets too much at once, she won’t be able to drink.”

Mary whimpered as she started to drink; then she grew quiet.

While Mom was watching us, the boy on the couch woke up.

"Who’s there?” he mumbled, sitting up on his elbows.

"Hello, Mick,” Mom said, brushing the hair back from his eyes.

"How do you feel?”

"Who are you?” Mick grabbed her roughly by the wrist.

Mom gently pulled her hand from his grip. "You may call me Mrs. Day.” "Where am I?” The boy’s eyes rushed wildly. The red in them Forty-five

stood out. "What am I doing here?” he coughed.

"You’ve been hurt,” Mother said, calmly backing away.

"She’s helping us, Mick,” the other boy tried to explain.

Mick fell back against the couch. 'You shot at me, didn’t you?” he barked. "You and your dogs. You tried to kill me. .

He cough­ ed deeply, trying to get his breath. "I’ll kill you for. . .”

Before he could finish, he began coughing again.

"Perhaps this would help.” Mother offered him the cup of tea.

"Leave me alone,” he screamed, knocking the cup from her hand and spilling tea across the linoleum floor. "I got out... an’ I ain’t goin’ back!”

The boy fell asleep again, or he was pretending, I don’t know which. Mom picked up an old yellow towel from the pile of rags and began mopping the floor. She kept watching Mick. Picking up the rag, she walked into the kitchen. As soon as she was through the door, Mick sat up. His eyes shot wildly around the room. He grabbed the gun.

"Mommy!” I screamed.

Mom came running into the room, but before she could get to him, Mick had loaded the rifle. "Stand still! ” he barked, pointing the gun toward her.

Mom froze in the doorway.

The boy looked nervously around. "You the only ones here?” he asked.

"Give me the gun, Mick!” Mom stepped toward him reaching out her hand.

"Hold still!” he shouted.

Dropping the twins onto the chair, I ran to Mom and grabbed her skirt.

"Sit down,” Mom ordered, but I wouldn’t let go.

The twins were both crying. Mom took another step toward the gun.

"I’ll shoot! I’ll shoot!” The boy’s lips were blue; his eyes dashed dumbly around like a cornered animal ready to fight back. His hands were shaking.

"He’ll shoot ya’, ma’am.” David looked scared. "Put down the gun, Mick!”

"Shut up!” Mick barked. "I ain’t going back to that hole. I'm sick of it!”

"You’re a fool, Mick! You want sent to the pen?”

"Who’s a fool?” Mick’s eyes burned with anger. "Who wanted to break out?”

"You did!”

"Only because you wanted to!”

David jerked away. "You didn’t have to.”

"No, I wanted to! I wasn’t like you, just running away so you could—” Mom took another step forward.

Mick whirled toward her. "Hold still,” he shouted. "I’ll shoot the kid!”

I ran screaming to the stairway.

David yanked the bottle from Mary and hurled it into Mick’s face.

The boy jerked back.

The gun went off.

Fourty-six

"Daddy!” I screamed, running up the stairs. "Daddy!”

A car stopped in front of the house, but I didn’t hear it.

I ran into the closet and pulled the door shut behind me, scream­ ing at the top of my lungs. I don’t know how long I was there. Some­ one came running up the stairs. The wardrobe door swung open and I pressed back against the wall. A hand reached for me.

"Leave me alone!” I screamed, kicking. "Get away!”

"Paul? Paul?” It was Dad. My whole body shook so I couldn’t stop.

Dad carried me downstairs. The boys were gone; Mom was lying on the couch. Her face was white and her eyes were closed.

I looked at her, then jerked away.

"It’s all right, Paul,” Dad was saying. "The boy didn’t hurt any­ one. He shot at the ceiling.”

The hole’s still up there. You can’t see it anymore. We’ve paper­ ed over it so many times you can hardly tell it from the rest.

Those people that came to see about buying the farm got me to thinking. I wondered where I’d seen that blond-haired boy before, such curly blond hair. Then I remembered all this. Of course, it wasn’t the same boy; perhaps it was his father. I didn’t ask him, though. Some­ times people like to forget those things.

'The boy said his name was Paul. I said, "That’s a nice name.” But I didn’t tell him that Paul was my name, too.

Surf ROGER CALDWELL

’58

Timelessncss Pounds the lonely Florida beach Stretches as far as eye can reach Drowns the empty sound of speech A solitary gull floats in on the seaborne breeze Wave after wave Heaves itself upon the sand Flings its spray against my hand Dashes to pieces on the land Shadowed clouds pile up over the horizon Eternity Rises from a mass of wave Rolls itself to green concave Crashes to a foam white grave The strip of sand narrows as the tide creeps in This endlessness Offers no possible debate Presses on me an immense weight Makes me lonely for my mate Timelessness

o

o Forty-seven

At the Reactor Pool Edge ROGER CALDWELL

â&#x20AC;&#x2122;58

The core, a pale, deep pyre, burns water ghostly blue, the naked fuel plates darkly pattern a cruciform.

Perhaps, if we could tap the skull with leaded glass, we could see the soul, deep down, burn water blue.

ROGER CALDWELL

â&#x20AC;&#x2122;58

The clarinetist, puffing small, tight cheeks, trills over lily pad tables, peepfroglike.

Burping bullfrog love, the double bass reiterates, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Come bere, female, come here.'

With feigned disdain the salamander drummer beats on toadstool tubs a calyptic rhythm.

Across the smoky pool the piano player saunters cool drops of notes like the walk of rain.

"Virgime” BLANCHE CEHRES

’60

To Regina Marie, whose young life ended in a tragic automobile accident January 18, 1962 You numbered only one among the many who occupied the rows of desks . . . just another student to whom the complexities of a foreign tongue must be made simple . . . another student toward whom the patience of my profession was not always directed . . .

Yet you remained respectful, undaunted, patient even when my patience paled, always steadfast in your struggle with the sounds that were alien to your Americanized voice . . .

Though my blinded eyes were bent upon the pitter-pattered pace of this hurrying, scurrying exile, there shone in your eyes the light of your love for God and for your fellow men, the fervor of your Faith glowing in the peaceful serenity of your youthful innocence and radiating from your sun-filled smile . . .

From your whole being burst forth the pure joy of living . . .

And now, Virginie, you are gone . . .

In the wistful stillness of a wintry evening the Angel of Death descended to free you from your house of clay, and winged you away to the eternal Reward for which you so lovingly lived your sixteen-year sojourn, to the Reward that is the Reason for our very existence . . .

And the doors of my mind and heart and soul were opened at last . . .

Because now, Virginie, your desk in my classroom is empty . . .

■0-

To A Little Girl Dreaming in Broad Daylight DALLAS TAYLOR

'61

Little girl, with your head full of Sights that only you can see, your World is dream and real, mixed painlessly.

I wish I could visit your realm of Kings and queens and all manner of Wonderful things and dwell there Peacefully . . .

But my dreams are not yours.

Although it is pleasant to escape for A while, I know that for your sake And mine I cannot long inhabit Castles of gold but must always Return to reality, hard and cold.

■<®» Fifty

■<>

Arthur NANCY STAATS

’62

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose He was sitting alone on the hard, concrete steps of the apartment building, a slight figure half obscured by black shadows. The red glow of his cigarette stub cast a faint, pink tinge upon his lowered head. His angular shoulders slumped forward and he carelessly ran a dirty hand through his coarse, dark hair. "Hi, Arthur,” I said as I approached the steps.

"Hi,” he waved and his face broke out in a grin.

"Mind if I sit for a minute?”

"No, c’mon, sit down,” he replied in a low-pitched, eager voice.

A streetlight cast its glare upon his face illuminating his child-like features. He had a sensitive, almost angelic face. Large blue eyes were set deeply under dark brows and his pale skin had the delicate tex­ ture of a young girl’s. Incongruously, his dour expressions often made him appear older and more worldly than his eighteen years. He scratched his leg on a well-worn portion of his soiled dungarees.

"How ya’ doin’?”

"Aw, O.K. I guess. You?” "All right. You workin’?”

"Naw—s’ nothin’ doin’ around here.” A frown furrowed his fore­ head and he quickly dragged on his cigarette and flipped it into a stagnant puddle on the cracked sidewalk. "Same thing all over—'No experience? Get lost, kid.’ No breaks.” Supported by skinny arms he leaned back on the steps and hissed a sigh through slightly protruding teeth, slowly shaking his head from side to side.

"Maybe you should have stayed in school or somethin.’”

"Naw, them guys—I ain’t cut out for that stuff anyway—I mean school and everything. Like Joey—he’s real smart and does good.” The pitiful sight of Joey, his thin, anaemic-looking brother, passed through my mind. He was only a few years younger than Arthur, but already the traces of childhood had disappeared from his face. Arthur’s eyes flashed with admiration and his short, bony hands wildly gestured as he spoke of him. ". . But in the army,” he sneered as he slurred over the word, "they just gotta have someone to pick on and give orders to.

And what do ya’ get after they work the tail offa ya’? Gripes!”

"What are you going to do?”

He learned forward and dug his elbows into the pale blue knees of his dungarees. "I know a couple a’ guys — they’re real good bud­ dies. We got some ideas. I gotta get some cash and get out of this place.” His deep voice urgently mounted. "Ya’ know’ there’s even rats runnin’ around that stinkin’ apartment. I seen ’em the other night!

Me and Joey,” his voice softened, "we’re gonna go somewheres when I get the money and he can go to school and everything. Hey, you know what he did the other day?” A deep laugh clucked in his throat and he threw back his dark head with great pleasure. "This guy came up to him — real tough guy, see—and calls him a dirty Wop—so he hauls off and punches him—right in the mouth. Jeez, wish I coulda seen him. Some kid, huh? Don’t let nobody get away with nothin’.

Hey, uh—.” He sat up quickly. "I gotta get goin’. I’ve gotta meet somebody. C’mon, I’ll walk you home. It’s pretty dark out.”

Fifty-one

Silently we rose from the hard steps and began walking down the dimly lit streets. All around us was the rotten odor of burned trash as the incinerators worked overtime consuming rubbish.

"Yeah, that Joey’s O.K.,” Arthur’s husky voice broke through the silence. "And when we get some dough. . . .’’

His sentence trailed off as we passed filthy apartment buildings ignoring the dirty words chalked on the walls. A sleek white Cadillac passed us, its Negro owner proudly at the wheel. Hungrily Arthur’s eyes studied the car. His jaw twitched and abruptly he stashed two clenched fists into the sagging pockets of his dungarees. We continued in silence. The screeching of an unoiled clothesline pierced the night and I looked up to see an old woman, her grey frizzed hair loosely tied with a torn scarf, tiredly pulling in her day’s wash. We stepped across a littered street and rounded the corner of my block. Quietly we paused in front of my apartment.

"Thanks for walkin’ me home.”

"Yeah, uh, that’s O.K.” He leaned an arm against the red bricks of the old building.

"Goodnight.”

"I uh—just wanted to say that someday, uh—after I get the money, of course, maybe we could, well, go out somewhere or some­ thing.”

"O.K.,” I said. "Sometime, See ya’.” I went slowly upstairs. With each creaking step up the dark stairs I thought about Arthur and his sallow-faced brother Joey. "Sure is funny how he always talks about Joey,” I mused. But—it was late. Stiffling a yawn, I entered the apart­ ment.

It wasn’t until a few days later that I heard what had happened that night. Old Mr. D’Angelo who owns the fruit store around the corner was angrily discussing the incident with a customer as he stuf­ fed oranges into a paper bag.

"At boy never wasa no good.” He scowled under bushy eyebrows and his dark eyes glared angrily.

"Who?” I ventured. " ’At skinny kid down the block. Stole a car and got shot—by a cop. Stupid kid,” he sneered. His flaccid jowls swung loosely as he ex­ citedly shock his head back and forth.

"A-Arthur?”

"Yeah, never thought a’ nobody but himseelf and gettin’ money,” he muttered. "Well, now he’sa dead. Never wasa no damn good.”

Slowly I turned and left the tiny store. The pungent odor of oranges had suddenly nirned rancid. I leaned against a lamp-post out­ side. Ugly brown chips had flaked off exposing the red undercoat.

The chatter of mothers wheeling baby carriages and boys flipping pennies against a wall echoed loudly all around. Horns blared noisily in the streets and I could hear the scrape of skates as they scratched against the rough pavement. And slowly up the littered street a solitary figure walked. He wore faded dungarees and bony shoulders angular­ ly jutted out beneath a striped jersey. I started after him.

"Hey Joey,” I called. "Joey! Wait up!”

•0Fijty-two

-®-

Knowledge MARY B. THOMAS

’28

We wait windswept beside the churning sea And wait again apulse to nature’s wild uneven beat unrhythmic in the master rhythmic plan remembering the cleanliness of fire and pain And wait until reluctantly self-taught we learn the hurt of ugliness is small but keen-edged beauty stabs us deep.

o

o

upon Looking JOHN SOLIDAY

’62

I see a student Searching late at night, Leafing through the pages of a book, Finding the words that make a thought his own.

I hear soft sobs That tell of failure.

And a voice that answers "I, too, have failed before. We all have.”

I sense two young hands Clasped in the darkness Feeling out the other’s thoughts. . . behind the words. . .

Testing for a lifetime.

Learning how to love.

I know a mind that tries to fathom reasons why A world is suffering, A friend is gone, A heart is silent. . .

Answers that never seem to come.

Then when they do — go quickly.

■yet those minds keep searching.

And always will.

I think we are all the same.

Although our skin contains a different pigment.

Or eyes peer from two different slanting slits.

And minds think of many different thoughts.

Yet, all of us are searching, finding.

Longing for love.

Learning to understand ourselves. . .

The lives around us.

The eternal forces that fill us all. . .

Searching for PEACE With our God, Within ourselves Within our world.

<>■

O-

The Execution ROGER SHIPLEY â&#x20AC;&#x2122;64

Fifty-four

The Execuition KAY BLACKLEDGE

'65

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose They were sitting in complete silence. The sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue that day. The breeze was gently rustling the leaves in the trees. Not a sound penetrated the calm of the day. It was a beauti­ ful day. It was the day of their execution.

They were Americans in a foreign land, accused of spying. They sat in hopes of their country claiming them or making some move­ ment towards assuring them of its support. But no word came.

There were three of them that day. Bill, though still only a teen­ ager, was an expectant father. With his blond crew-cut he looked like the typical American college freshman, but he was a private in the United States Army. On first impression he was taken to be an Oklahoma cow-buster because of his Western accent. He had what most people desire — a direct gaze that proved he was honest and sincere. He had matured early in life and because of this he was quiet at times.

Jim had just reached draft age and his college education had been interrupted. He was bitter: bitter because of this interference; bitter because the United States had sent no word of encouragement to them; bitter because his sweetheart had left him for another man.

Unlike Bill, Jim was a short Italian. Not having any family, Jim felt alone in the world in which he lived and decided to build his own world. Jim had grown up late and forgot that he was not the sole in­ habitant of the world. He lived only for himself.

The oldest member of the crew had three little children at home, the oldest was seven. John was the bulwark of the group; he preserved the morale, the unity, and the spiritual ideals. He was an average man with only one distinguishing feamre — his eyes. They were deep brown. Wben one looked into them he became lost in the depths of the soul itself.

That day, the three were silent. They were concentrating wholly on the coming event — their execution. It would all be over in two hours. Two hours, and these Americans who dared to voice their opin­ ions would find life ending. Is it fair to take life from someone who only thinks for himself.^ They had been working for the American Embassy in Havana for two months when the incident occurred.

They had been talking among themselves about the disgrace to human nature the Communists had brought to the world when a Cuban M.P. overheard them, reported them to the "big boss,” had them arrested for spying, and then put them into this death-house. The Communist government had decided to use them as examples to the rest of the American "democrats.” Now in two hours they would pay the high price of speaking against the Communists and their followers. *

•

•

*

"What time is it, John?” asked Bill.

'We have two hours, kid. Don’t you think that you should eat something before we go?” replied John.

Fifty-five

Im not hungry. I keep thinking about the baby. What do you think we’ll have — a boy or a girl? I think we should. . . (his voice breaks) she should call him Michael or Janet. How about that?” At that point, Bill became so engrossed in the possibilities of names for his child that he did not really expect anyone to answer him, and if they had he probably would not have heard it.

The quiet was disturbed by the stealthy footsteps of one of the Cuban guards. "Buenos dias, gringos’’ he snarled. "Deed you sleep well, heh? Hah hah!” His voice echoed throughout the little hall with sneering laughter.

Bill could take no more. "Why don’t you just leave our food and leave us alone?” screamed Bill. John immediately set him down and tried to calm his ruffled nerves.

"Now, is that any way to treat me, O free ones? Have you no sense? Los americanos tontos!’’

"If we ever get out of this thing alive. I’m going to hunt that guy up and meet him in a dark alley some night!” Bill sat down and began to think again. Every once in a while he sputtered about the injust of such lunatics (as that Communist guard) being alive. Then, once more, the room became silent. Bill began to pace the floor . . . back and forth, back and forth.

He sould contain himself no longer. "Do you think that the U. S. will send word about freeing us?”

Are you kidding? What do they care about us? They’ll just let us rot here and not do anything. No one will ever remember us. No one cares whether we live or die.” Jim was completely soured on life in general. John looked at Jim in a manner that signified the distress he was causing Bill. Jim sat down on his bed, saying not a word. Com­ plete silence reigned again. ♦

*

#

*

'What do you think, John?”

I figure that if God wants us to die then that is our destiny. But if we arent supposed to die, then we won’t. God always has His rea­ sons.”

The priest entered their barricade then and began to lead then in prayer. 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. . . .” John and Bill joined in but Jim sat mutely by. The praying lasted for about an hour. One hour to go. The time passed quickly.

The time had come. It was obvious that America had, indeed, forgotten them. The guards took each man by the arm, taking them down the hall into the little sunlit deathroom. Their heavy foot«eps echoed throughout the hall. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, Ha Icwed be Thy name. . . ’ Jim never uttered a word the whole way.

The room was barely lit but the sun streams formed a pattern of ters on the floor. Five husky Cubans made up the firing squad. They looked at the Roman-like guns with an emotion like horror heels placed firmly against the walls. Blindfolds were offered. John and Bill refused them but Jim, shamefacedly, took one. John looked at Jim and realized in that moment the pity he felt for him. Pity such as he had never felt for any living animal before.

Fifty-six

The guns were aimed. "Ready. . . aim . . . fire!” There was a round of shots and the three prisoners fell to the ground, each with the breath of life oozing out with the blood. On Jim’s face was a look of mortal terror while his companions had an enigmatic smile on their faces. *

•

«

«

The next day there came to the Cuban government a note from the American democracy. It stated: "This is to inform the three Ameri­ can prisoners that the United States of America will back their ac­ tions to the extent that, if need be, we will go to war over any mis­ treatment of them. If this is the beginning of World III, so be it.”

My Ivory Deer MARTHA DEEVER

’64

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry He stood alone on the second shelf Of the knick-knack stand—my ivory deer.

Tiny (barely a half-inch tall).

Yet mighty and strong and firm he seemed As he stood in his place and surveyed my room.

Carved by the careful, loving hands Of an old Swiss master of the trade, He was perfectly made in every line: Tiny hoofs and tapering legs.

Muscular back and stump of a tail, Straining neck and half-turned head.

Wide-eyed at all the wonders he saw; Inquisitive nose, and delicate mouth.

Large, sensitive ears; friendly he stood Poised and eager, erect and tall.

Waiting to smile if I looked his way.

I cared for my deer with loving hands.

Dusted and polished his ivory skin.

Talked to him, told him the secrets I knew.

Then one day I dropped this trusted friend And broke him—a piece of his ear was gone.

The tall proud ear, no longer held high— Now broken in two; it would never mend.

But broken also was my heart when I thought That my careless hand had cost him his pride.

No more a perfect work of art.

No longer the flawless, exquisitely carved Masterpiece standing so tall and proud.

He stands alone on the topmost shelf Of the knick-knack stand—my ivory deer.

Tiny (barely a half-inch tall), Now weak and helpless and fragile he seems .\s he stands in his place and surveys my room.

O Fifty-seven

Remnant of Yesterday BARB ACTON

'62

In the soft shadows of the twilight, the fragile rocking chair dip­ ped gently back and forth, swaying with the wind on the dilapidated, broken porch.

This worn, blue rocker had supported many in its time. Why, Grandma rocked Mother and Aunt Christine to sleep in it night aft­ er mght. In those days, the arms were not splintered; the springs had bounce in them; the seat was elegantly soft; the walnut finish sparkled hke Grandpas eyes as he tenderly watched Grandma with his daughters. Mom had four sisters and one brother.

I know that Grandma was beautiful when she was young Many times when I was a young lass, I admired the gold locket adorned with an intricate design circling her delicate neck. How I used to beg her to let me once again see her and Grandpa's wedding pic­ ture inside the locket. Grandma was only 5'1” with long, ebony hair streaming to her waist. Her complexion was fair and as unblemished as a worn cake of soap. Her rosy cheeks, tiny pug nose, deep, dark brown eyes, and two smal dimples made her face young and radiant.

In the picture. Grandpa stood proudly at her side with a glow of love dancing in his clear, b ue eyes. Grandpa towered over Grandma, for he was at least 6 2 in his stocking feet. Grandma looked beauti­ ful beside this huge, handsome, blond Swedish lad. It was Grandpa, SeTf eighteen ’ c the exciting stories Grandma used to tell ktle girls in pigtai s who climbed up in her lap. I was one of these children who listened to Grandma’s fantastic, make-believe stories.

When Uncle John went off to war. Grandma spent endless nights in her favorite spot knitting warm socks to protect his feet. When she Tn

--Th

n*"

Department, she ripped it open,

I P^iP^ttment of State regrets to inform you. .”

Grandma slowly sank into the sturdy rocker. It was as if the chair were a source of strength and comfort to her I we^/m killed, my older sister Mary and sat fn fmnr Grandpa. Many nights. Grandpa sat in frc^nt of the blazing fireplace with his graying head resting in Grandmas lap as she sat unmoving in the rocking chair Mary and I ate popcorn, while he told stories of Grandma and his youth. crochednT knht7n7^^“"'^^'*^ death. Grandma spent hours at a time

and oaSllt T wf; h Vr' ^^e rocked. Slowly and painfully I watched Grandpa s death take effect as the soarkle in

"

y:s

RtckiT^vt"

left us r

Yes, Rocking Ch^r, you have seen much. To many vou have orovTded fun and gaiety. To others, you have been a mweJ’Jf strenrth-a comforting resting place. Your life is almost over, but no SS can deny that it’s been a full and rich life R, 'kat you’re still rocking with no one to guide you It’s yU too, ?o “‘I do not want

Fifty-eight

You Know the Type KAY KOONTZ

’62

Honorable Mention, NSAL Intercollegiate Short Story Contest, I960 If there is one thing I hope I have learned in my twenty-three years on this earth, it is not to make snap judgments, especially about people. For some reason, most of the people I decide I can’t stand when I first meet them are my dearest friends after I get to know them.

Take my roommate Tamara for example. Her full name is Nancy Tamara Hall, but she feels that the name Tamara is much more suit­ ed to the "real” girl. She won’t let anyone call her Tammy, because it’s not sophisticated enough. Tamara came to New York as a sort of junior consultant for a fashion house, but her real desire was to be a Paris fashion designer and be "cosmopolitan.” She’s really loads of fun, though, in spite of her cosmopolitanism, if there is such a word.

It’s strange the way Tamara and I met. I came to the City after three years with a hometown weekly newspaper to work on the staff of one of the big dailies. I decided not to move into a luxurious apart­ ment with maids and a doorman right away, so I chose the next best thing (and the only thing I could afford) — the YWCA. I abhorred Tamara for the first two rugged months I was there. She’s the type of girl that makes a terrific first impression on men, and leaves women absolutely cold until or unless they get to know her. She has a very good figure, and she wears her long, dark hair swept into the type of hair-do that only exotic-looking women like Tamara can get away with. She swept in and out of the "Y” every day, always looking like a fashion plate, while the rest of us sort of limped into the battered old world feeling like turkeys the week before Thanksgiving. We really did admire Tamara — we just couldn’t stand her.

Then one day, Terry Martin, a reporter on the same newspaper, asked me for a date for that evening. I rushed home from work, and discovered I hadn’t a thing ready to wear (I’m the terribly unorganized type). Since Terry was picking me up at 7:00, I was ready to scream.

Instead, for once a flash of real inspiration hit me. I decided that may­ be, I could borrow an outfit from Tamara that would fit the occasion.

Before I lost my nerve, I walked as boldly as I could to Tamara’s room and knocked on the door.

She called a surprised, "Come in,” so I opened the door. I stopped just inside, forgetting to close the door or my mouth. She was sitting on the bed, crying. Imagine, Tamara Hall crying. She quickly wiped her eyes and blew her nose and asked if she could help me. Well, at this point, what my older brother calls my Mother Hen instinct took over. I hurried over to her, sat down on the bed beside her, and asked her if there was anything I could do.

"No, really, Laura, there isn’t anything wrong. I’m just tired, I guess.”

"My friends call me Cis,” I offered. "Come on, now, what s the matter?”

She smiled slightly. Tamara Hall is the only person I know who can look beautiful with a tear-streaked face.

"Just a bad day for me, that’s all, Cis. I turned in some draw­ ings to my boss, and he wasn’t at all pleased with them. Then I got a letter from Ron, telling me he couldn’t come up this week-end either.

Fifty-nine

He’s really very busy, or he’d come, I know.” This last sounded just a bit pathetic to me, as though she were trying to convince herself. She went on rather defensively, "You see, he’s a junior executive for a big motor corporation in Detroit. He’s really very busy, trying to get ahead, you know.”

"Do you have his picture?”

"Just a small one.” She showed me a piaure of a handsome, slightly arrogant-looking man of about 28.

"He’s very good looking,” I observed.

'Yes, he is. He’s sweet, though, so that makes up for it!”

I had to laugh. I think it was then I decided that maybe she wasn’t such a bad sort after all. For the first time, I looked around her room. It was meticulously neat, but at the same time comfortable and inviting. This effect isn’t easy to achieve in the YWCA, let me tell you.

By this time Tamara seemed completely over her mood, and we chatted about plans for the future, our home towns, our families. Sud­ denly I realized that it was almost 6:30, and I still hadn’t a thing to’ wear. And now I knew I couldn’t ask Tamara to lend me clothes for the evening. It just wouldn’t be right.

She must have seen me looking at my watch, because she jump­ ed up and said, "Oh, Cis, I’m sorry I’ve kept you so long. You’re not late for an appointment or anything, are you? And I never did ask why you came in the first place—although I’m so glad you did.”

"I just dropped in to talk, that’s all,” I lied, thinking that my beige jersey would just have to do. "But I really must run now. I have a date at seven with a fabulous red-head, and I certainly don’t want to be late for this!”

"Oh, how exciting! I’ve never dated a red-head, although I’ve always wanted to. Why don’t you drop in afterward — if you’d like.”

"Why, maybe I’ll just do that. If you’re still up.”

"I’m up till all hours,” she laughed.

I rushed to my room and started dressing. All the time I was thinking how hungry Tamara must have been for a nice, long talk.

New York is a lonely place when you haven’t any close friends here.

Well, I decided, if she wants one, she has one now!

I got in late that night — so late I had to sneak in — and tip­ toed up to Tamara’s room. Mood music was coming from within, so I tapped on the door and then went in. We talked until 5:30 without even noticing the time. Since we both had to be up by 7:00 the next morning, we decided to postpone the rest of our chat for the follow­ ing day.

Gradually the rest of the "gang” began to accept Tamara. I still remember how proud and happy 1 felt when Carolyn, one of my closest mends, made the comment, "You know, Tamara’s different, but I like ^r. Coming from Carolyn, that was quite a compliment.

Over the weeks that followed, Tamara and I decided that the "Y” was getting a bit small for us, and we were eager to leave it. We hunt­ ed for an apartment, and finally, in the Merry Month of May (six months after I made my debut in New York), we found one. It’s not exaaly the most luxurious three-room apartment in the world, and we haven’t gotten around to staffing it yet, but it’s home. j ® slight discussion about the way it was to be furnishe (Tamara goes in for ultra-modern and I was plugging for Early Sixty

American), but we compromised very nicely. I let her keep the wrought-iron table she couldn’t resist, and she accepted the small maple sideboard that I got for a real bargain. The rest of our apart­ ment is furnished quite sanely.

The girls at the "Y” gave us a big apartment-warming party the day we moved in. We all laughed a great deal, and cried a little bit, and promised to call every single day, and then they left. Tamara and I looked around at our new home, looked at each other, and sighed contentedly. We were finally on our own!

Terry became a frequent visitor to our small apartment. Tamara always found something to do on those evenings, like going to a movie, or the museum, or for a walk in the park. Several times I sug­ gested that she join us.

"Oh, no, lamb, I'll just go for a walk.”

"But I feel terribly guilty, Tamara. After all, this is your apart­ ment, too, you know.”

"Now, don’t you worry about me. Why, when Ron comes, we’ll be together every minute, and that will make up for everything.”

That reference to Ron worried me. His letters always sounded so sincere, but he just couldn’t seem to find the time to visit Tamara.

For a man who was almost engaged, this was rather strange behavior, it seemed to me. Then, too, the frequency of his letters was sporadic.

Sometimes there would be three a week, then none for the next two weeks. Once she waited almost five weeks without a word from him.

When he finally wrote, he said only that he had been busy.

Tamara accepted his explanation, but I couldn’t. "Men!” I explod­ ed to Terry on our lunch hour the next day. "Men!” Then I told him all about Ron and my poor, misguided roommate. I ended with, "Well, I’m going to do something about it!” I get quite carried away some­ times.

"Now, honey, calm down. After all, what can you do? Why don’t you just stay out of it, and see what happens?”

"Men!” I shot back. "Well you’re going to help me!”

"Now, honey. ...”

"Don’t you 'now honey’ me! First, think of all the good-looking, eligible men you know.”

"Now, listen, Laura (he almost always calls me Cis), just be­ cause I am practically trapped into marriage, this does not mean that I am going to help lure some other poor. . . .”

"Trapped! Well, if that’s the way you feel. . . .”

Fortunately, Terry is the sensible type, and he knows me, so he just grabbed my arm, kissed me — in front of everyone in the diner — looked me in the eye, and said, "No.” "No, what?”

"No, I am not going to make any list of eligible men!”

Following this was a slight disagreement, but we got everything ironed out all right. The first name on Terry’s list was one Bill Col­ lins.

"What’s he like?” I asked.

"Well, he’s a swell guy. Nice, easy-going. . . .”

"Terence, what’s he like? Is he good-looking, does he have charm, dance well? You know.”

"What do you want, a biography? Look, I’ll let you meet him, and you decide those things.”

Sixty-one

I met Bill that very afternoon (my Terry is a miracle worker when he has to be), and he was perfect. Tall, blond, not too goodlooking, and utterly charming. Then we told him about my room­ mate, and how we thought it would be nice for the four of us to get together some evening.

"Like tonight!” I suggested.

Bill looked the way I ve always imagined a trapped rabbit would look if he came face to face with Dan’l Boone, until I showed him Tamara s picture, and Terry assured him she really is that gorgeous.

We arranged the date for sevenish that evening.

My next job was telling Tamara. I really didn’t expect much trouble. After all, a beautiful girl like that gets lonesome, no matter what she says. Or so I thought. Tamara hit the roof.

What.^ You have a date for me? Laura, don’t you realize that I am practically engaged to be married? If you think for one moment that I am going out with another man when poor Ron is slaving away Poor Ron is probably out with a blond dish this minute, and the sooner you get your mind off him the better,” I retorted.

Laura, roommate, I am not, definitely not, going out with any other man, and I would suggest that you take back those words about a blond dish before I move out of here, bag and baggage.”

Well, if you’re going to be so ungrateful, well, after all, Nancy, I was just trying to help.”

The argument went on from there, culminating in tears on both sides. Tamara slammed out, and I was left alone to call Terry. Instead of being properly sympathetic, he hit the roof.

After I slammed the receiver, I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I calmed down quite a bit, and then tried to look at matters with a logical viewpoint.

Finally, I decided that the only thing to do was to call this Ron and ask him exactly the way he felt about Tamara. After all, I had made a decision about him even before I met him. ’That was about the worst type of snap judgment to make. Feeling perfectly justified now, I looked through Tamara’s desk until I found an old letter from Ron and looked up his street address. I didn’t even reverse the charges, I was feeling so righteous and do-good.

As I look at it now, it was probably a very scatter-brained thing to do and almost anything might have happened, but the surprising result was that everything turned out fine. Ron and I had a long, inforrnative talk, and he took a plane down to see Tamara that very week-end. He brought the ring he was saving for her birthday with him, so now they are officially engaged.

'Terry and I patched things up, and we’re going to be married u conditions. One, that from now on, I mind my own business; and two, that I stop making snap judgments.

Oh it will be such fun to be married to Terry. We’ll have our Own litde house, and we can have dinners, and maybe, just maybe, I friend Carolyn introduced to one of Terry’s friends, ick White. Of course, he’s engaged, but I don’t like his fiancee. The irst time I met her, I said to myself. She’s not right for him at all.

She s such a snob. I mean, you know the type!

Sixty-two

The Infinite Possession ROSEMARY GORMAN

’65

For every smile he’s smiled at me.

My heart has skipped a beat.

And every word he's spoken, I’ve treasured silently.

For every moment I’m in love, I love a little more.

Think then, how much I’d love.

If for eternity.

o

o

Tribute to Grandfather Dr, T, J. Sanders ALICE SANDERS REED

’26

Written on the occasion of the dedication of Sanders Hall, November 3, 1961 He had a kind and open face, A hard and bony knee.

And I who sat upon his lap Knew he was fond of me.

He was then burdened with the years That since have come to me Yet now the old man glows all gold In my young memory.

He kept his well-appointed rounds Of campus walk or street A genial word, a gracious bow To all whom he would meet.

His was a firm, unfailing faith.

An outward, ready hand; He knew and valued many friends From many varied lands.

He spent his life, in larger part.

For this school and its youth.

And taught them in his later years The search that he called Truth.

In doing this, I rather think.

He early found the strength That made his life a happy one And gave it worth and length.

Sixty-three

Failure KAV PLOWMAN

’65

Third Prize, Burkhart Poetry Contest Alone in the barren desert.

Deserted by all living things.

The sun—tortuous, infernal— Suffocated the lone cactus.

Its arms reached toward heaven, But received no reply; No cooling shower to refresh Its seared limbs.

And so it stood—alone, defiant, Finding no refuge from the torrid winds.

Sinking its roots deeper into the sand.

Proudly defying any compassion.

Then the heavens parted.

Issuing showers—soothing.

Indulgent, decaying, rotting.

Its once-proud roots sickened .... and died.

•o o-

The Rig JOHN SOLIDAY

’62

Second Prize, Quiz and Quill Poetry Below the bam, down in the field they drilled In search of oil. It was a costly chance They took to no avail. But I was young And did not understand the loss that came; So when the workers left, before the sky Had darkened into night or on weekends When no one came to work, I went to play.

To climb the pipes shaped like a rocket there.

A ladder reachrf to where the cable looped Around a pulley at the very top.

I knew that up and down were just as far.

Though down perhaps the quicker way to go.

The earth and sky became a circus tent With me the star, or so I liked to think I was. The winds were strong up there, but so Was courage strong. I never dared look down — Straight down, that is — although I loved to look Around up there. How far a boy could seel Small tents, or blankets over clotheslines in The yard, were never big enough from that Day on. I had grown up, or so I thought.

But now I have gone back to blanket tents.

They are smaller and years seem shorter too.

Someday, I hope to climb a rig again.

To feel the wind and see for miles away.

But time’s so quick without the chance; besides.

There’s far too much to do here on the ground.

Sixty-four

Turquoise ROSEMARY RICHARDSON

’61

Second Prize, Walter Lowrie Barnes Short Story Contest, 1961 "Hey, Sanduval! How come you’re all decked out in that jewelry?

Did you finally decide to sell it to me?”

I turned from looking in the store window and saw the white man, Sam Watson, coming across the street toward me. For a year now he had been trying to buy the turquoise and silver work I had made for my own. Although I was a silversmith and made beautiful things to sell, he was interested only in my own per­ sonal jewelry. He had bought a couple of pieces from me, but it was mine that he really would like to buy.

"No, again I tell you, it isn’t for sale. You whites had all my lands and sheep, but you never had this.”

"But Sanduval, you have sheep and land, what do you mean?”

“My friend, (for I felt he was), you don’t know the whole story of the Navajo people?

CYNTHIA DONNF.LL

’63

"Just what I have read in the history books and what I have learned since I came here. Why don’t you tell me? Lets go to my ^ Sam, this white man, had come to Navajoland fom years before in 1939, for a visit and to paint. He felt a love for this land and oever left. ' Here in Gallup he was near the tourist trade where he could sell his paintings of the surrounding area that he loved, so he stayed. I am no judge of art, but he captured the spirit of the land in his paintings and of the people, my people. I know these places and many of the people he painted. .

He was a white who was interested in the Navajo as a people for he was learning their history and was even fluent in the lan^age, a hard one to learn. For this reason I was able to talk to him in my tongue. I know English, but I am still unable to converse in it proficiently.

• u u-j We crossed the street to his shop and sat down in the hidecovered chairs.

"Come, sit down, Sanduval. Why in the world did you wear all your jewelry today? I don’t think I have ever seen you wear all of it before except for the big celebrations. Is there one I dont know about?” , "No celebration today. I don’t know why I wore it. Ihere was something inside of me that seemed to say 'Sanduval, put on all your jewelry today—your bracelets, your earrings, your concha belt, all of it.

So I obeyed that voice. 'This is my wealth, Sam, my true wealth. My days aren’t many. I am getting tired so I will wear it often now.

"I have seen many changes in my people. I have seen them when they were free, when they were captives of the soldiers, and when they were struggling to rebuild their homes. Now I am seeing the young go to school, even on to college, and in these years to war for the Sixty-five

United States. My people are once again taking a place in our country. It is a good thing, Sam.” Many many years ago when I was a very young boy, our people lived in this area. We were at home in these canyons. We lived on the nuts and foods to be found here and the animals too. Sometimes we raided other tribes and stole their animals. This was how we began our own herds of sheep and how we got some of our horses.

All was not pleasant though, for we, too, had raiders. Many of our young girls disappeared, later to turn up in Mexico as slaves to the white man, but for the most part our lives were happy.

Here at the foot of the monoliths, in the canyons and on the open desert we lived. This was our home. This was where our Gods lived.

As a young boy I can remember traveling down the trails, watching the wildlife in the bushes and at the water’s edge, and later hunting the deer and other game. When we had a good hunt we had feasts and songs.

You have seen the ruins on the canyon walls, almost inaccessible to the white man. This too is where many of my people lived.

All went well until the government decided that we must leave our homes and go south to Fort Sumner to live. 'The fort was far from our native lands and we did not want to go.

Kit Carson, your great hero, was in charge of rounding up all the Navajos and taking them first to Fort Defiance and then to this place.

Some of our people went willingly, but most of them went back into the canyons hoping to escape the white man and continue in their old ways hunter, for our old enemies, the pi, e uni, and other Indians were happy to have this chance for revenge.

We were not safe from any side, so we fled back into the canyons.

1 remember one incident that happened. families of Sam Yellowhorse and Jimmy Fox hid in a cave in the canyon wall. The men had warned the women and children to keep to the back of the cave, to make no noise, and to light no tires. The whites would never see them there for the cave was out o sig t un ess they knew just where to look. The men continued on down Ae canyon hoping to lure and then elude the hunters.

The women stayed in the cave for several days eating the berries II supply of meat they had there and taking water ^ j ^ small spring in the back of the cave. Meanwhile the soldiers combed the canyons looking for them. They were safe for the men were luring the soldiers away from them, or would have if it had not foolish old aunt of Yellowhorse. Seeing the unsuccessful cSrif .1, soldiers to find a single Navajo, she leaned from the "Foolish soldiers. Keep looking, sa e. ou cannot get to us. How would you get up here?” fViPTT ^ s downfall for now the soldiers knew where men wef'f ^^ey did not know the been *“PPosed they too were there for the men had been out of sight since morning.

Captain, called one of the soldiers, "we cannot possibly get them from here, but why not shoot at the roof of the cave? I know this rock well. The bullets will richochet and we are bound to get Sixty-six

most of them. It will save the trouble of trying to get those Indians out of there.”

The old woman was still heckling the soldiers when the rain of bullets began, for that is what it was. The soldier was right—the bullets bounced from the roof of the cave and before long all in the cave were dead.

Even today the tourist goes to the Canyon del Muerto and sees the bullet marks in the cave roof. The women would have been safe but for the foolishness of the old woman.

I was with the men when they learned of the death of their women. Of course they were more determined than ever not to yield to the white man.

All that winter we lived deep in the canyon, but the food was scarce and the weather was bad. Many of the weaker people, for there were fifteen of us, died. The women tried as best they could. Each day they went out hunting for roots, berries, or anything else they could possibly find to eat. Still it was not enough, and the cold was always with us.

Yellowhorse called a council of the men to determine what was to be done. It was evident that we could not continue this way.

"We must go to the white man and agree to go to the fort with him when he goes. It will not be home, but it is better than staying here and seeing the women and the old die.”

"Our plan will be this. We will leave with our families. Remem­ ber, the enemies are still hunting us. We must go to the whites unfettered, on our own.”

Yes, this is how it must be. The other Indians were receiving money for each of us they turned in, and extra money for any sheep or horses they captured. It was a sad situation for the Navajo.

Slowly our group dwindled and finally it was our—my brothers and my—turn to leave our hiding place. We left at night and made our way back to the main trails of the canyons. For several days we traveled thus, only at night, keeping in the shadow of the cliffs. But Alas! We were not careful enough, for a band of six Hopi was s(»n on our trail. We ran, hiding in the recesses of the canyon wall, behind bushes, hoping to lose them, but they were too set on their reward to let us escape.

"Run, little brother, we must lose them. If we can make the Cave of the Springs, they will never find us. Come, we must be fast.

We ran; we hid by day; and we prayed to our gods, but it was to no avail. We were hiding in a depression when they swooped down on us. We fought as best we could with our inadequate weapons, but with no success. We were captured and bound together with ropes.

That evening we had our first meal in some days aside from the handfuls of berries we had gathered as we lay in the bushes hiding.

Perhaps they were not only being paid in money by the tueii of Kit Carson, but in food too for the meal was a hot one, the first in many months.

Do you know how the Indian makes sure he will not lose his captive during the night? They bound us together by the feet and tied our hands in such a way we could not untie ourselves—and then put a blanket over us. Four men slept on each side of the blanket so we could not escape under an edge.

Sixty-seven

Brother, if we make no move to escape, our chance will come.

They will become careless. Be patient, wait.”

Each day we traveled in the hot sun closer to the camp of the white soldiers. Would our chance for escape never come? We watched and waited, but our captors were always careful in guarding us. Each night they secured our arms and legs and put us under the blanket. But finally, one night, we were not tied as securely as before—this was our chance. We worked silently at the knots until we were free.

Now, how would we get from beneath the blanket without our captors knowing? Fate, or the gods, was with us for the guard on my side had rolled off the edge of the blanket in his sleep. Maybe he was having a dream, maybe he had eaten too much, but anyway he moved. He moved far enough that we were able to slip from beneath one side and steal quietly away.

Brother, we are free. We must flee quickly. But where shall we go? To the soldiers or back to the canyons?”

It was hard to come to a decision. Why had we taken the trouble to escape from our captors if we planned to go to the whites? Was it because we didn t want the Hopi to gloat over the capture and reward of two more Navajo? We did not know, but we decided we must do as the rest of our small band and go to the soldiers’ camp.

Not only our small band, but many others of our friends were there and more besides. For days the tired and hungry Navajos poured into the fort until at last there were over 2400 as we were told later.

On March 6, 1864, we left for Fort Sumner, a long column of ragged Navajos. This was known in our history as the Long Walk, 300 miles south out of the sacred land of the Navajo. Here at Fort Sumner our dances were unable to reach the gods we had left behind.

Only the old were permitted to ride and these rode in old oxcarts while even the smallest boy walked uncomplaining the long cruel miles.

The food we had was flour and coffee beans. didn’t know these little black beans were coffee beans at the time. I can remember clearly the soldiers handing out these rations and the women cooking and cooking the beans. Even after the many hours of cooking and wiling they still were hard. We could not understand what we were to do with them.

One evening a soldier happened to see Little Crow cooking them and tasting them, trying to chew them.

Say, woman, look here.” Of course she didn’t understand his and shook her head. Finally through sign language he was able to show her how to grind the beans and to make coffee. She gave him a bright smile and showed the rest of the women what was to be done with them. At last the mystery of the little black bean was solved. ’^hat a barren place this fort was—there was little wood so we were unable to build any crude shelters. There were a few wooden ui itigs and these were reserved for the aged. The young people dug depressions in the ground for the old who were unable to move into these few huts. The men scavenged the banks of the river for miles until they were at last able to find enough wood to erect more crude buildings for shelter during the hard winter.

Most of us survived the cruel winter with little food and clothing.

Ine supply of blankets the government meant for us was held up in the east and never got to Fort Sumner. It was a time of despair for the Navajo.

Sixty-eight

The supplies were limited, but the following summer plows came to us; but we were unable to use them at that time for we didnt know how. The government didn’t have time to send interpreters to teach us how to use these tools, but we managed to plant without them. We reaped a little harvest that summer.

I will not go into the terrible years we spent there, but many of our people left the area, simply ran off. Some of them made their way back to Navajoland, but many of them were lost somewhere in the vicin­ ity of the fort. Some were captured and sold as slaves or killed by the unfriendly tribes.

Finally our people refused to plant at all. The government re­ viewed our case and, four years after we had gone to the fort, they decided we could go back to our lands. How happy we all were—to go back to our lands, back to our homes, and back to our gods.

During the first years at the fort, I had met and married a small Navajo girl named Desert Flower. She bore me a son and now was joyed at the fact he would be raised in his own land. We would soon return home.

As before, the government meant well by us, but had not planned adequately, and we were held up at Fort Wingate. Even then my people were determined to go to their homes. Again many of them slipped away. If the Indians learned nothing else during this exile, they had learned they would never again fight the white man. It was hard since their wants were great, and their supplies were scanty. But even those that stole away from the fort and were starving and struggling did not make war.

Even as they slipped away, they found their homes were now off the reservation, and so back into the canyons they went.

The government tried to help us for we were supplied with meat.

At first the Army herded us into stockades while they rationed out the food. However many Navajos found it too much trouble to report into the fort, so the soldiers resorted to colored tickets for a certain period of time. These we copied and so some got more than their allotment of food while others went hungry.

Something had to be done, so we were given small discs of metal.

I had picked up a little metal craft and was able to copy these for my people. This was the beginning of my career as a metalsmith.

The army caught on to this too and finally sent to Washington for a specially-minted disc which was impossible to copy.

We had a few seeds, but we made do with what little we had. We found a friend at Wingate, Captain Bennett, whom we called Big Belly. He was sensitive to the needs of the Navajo and distributed all the seeds he had and tried hard to find more for us. Even so, the supply was quite limited. My people were not dumb, Sam. They carefully picked up waste corn from the stables and planted them. But the grasshoppers came and the drought came. We had little food again this summer and winter. We were little better off than we had been when we lived in the south, but we were home.

At last the sheep came and each person—man, woman, and child —received two sheep. This was the beginning. Now to rebuild our homes as we moved back into our old lands.

The women tended sheep. They cut the sheep’s wool and spun it into crude blankets. At first they were not perfect, but even so the women found there was a market for them, and so a little money Sixty-nine

family. Even if there was little money, we could trade the woo or horses. This was the first of the return of wealth and a chance tor the young men to build a herd and then buy a bride.

Even though the families were starving, the women wove the ets. Experts say that they were never as beautiful as those woven e ore we left for the south, but what can one expect. We were work­ ing against starvation, working for money—money to buy horses ecau^they were a sign of wealth among the Navajo. . ^ money we received for Desert Flower’s blankets was made into jewelry and ornaments. The first and most perfect is this jewe ry you want to buy from me. Do you see why I don’t want to ^^^Pi^^^^nts hard work during a trying and sorrowful period in my 1 ^ Many memories are connected with this jewelry. tsidi, our medicine man, came to me and told me of "friends” in exico who would buy my jewelry and, so, while Desert Flower worked on bluets, I worked on ornaments and jewelry. d h these first years we were plagued with grasshoppers, roug ts, and floods—some element was always working against my people. But we survived.

TnrP elements weren’t enough to contend with, we had now the gents, many of whom were dishonest, only out to make money r t emselves. They called us "savages” and said "not fit to live with” we survived them as we survived the elements. Then the churches gari sending agents who were felt to be the "right kind” of agents, men were concerned only with gaining members for their churctes. But they were better than the first. lie U many many years the government again had to help rations, but always there was a limited supply, affai'r I gmwing to young manhood, but in such a state of Vint, poor, and always hungry; yet my people had hope, pe Aat soon they would make a way for themselves. have seen a Yebi-Chati, haven’t you, Sam.? Did you know that we held one for my son?

• 1 ''ory sick and didn’t get any better no matter what we was necessary to call in Etsidi and our friends. fJr. u j ^ people heard we were to have a healing ceremony and all ocic^ to our hogan, bringing dance teams with them.

The medkine hogan was built with the help of our friends. All hogan and there the tics ^^jjon ceremony took place. He was given emetics and catharwnrrl T-u dance teams were outside chanting the healing inm danced until they dropped and then twelve more leaped , . places. In the dances original form there were five couples, ne leader and the joker. Unless you have been in the back country, you have never seen a true Yebi-Chanti. ceremony of singing, dancing, wilcontinued while the work of the medicine man went on within the medicine hogan. nf medicine man made the sand painting on the floor w the hogan—it was done with different shades of sand and had to be ^ tea or it would have no healing powers. Then, on the ninth night, me medicine man gathered up the colors, one at a time, rubbed each into my son s body and then put the residue into little bags. Two runners took these bags and ran swiftly toward the north, always runnings Seventy

running, carrying away the evil spirits and at last the men flung each into the wind.

The evil spirits indeed went with the runners for Little Deer re­ covered. Our prayers to the gods were answered.

Next the trader came into our lives, playing an important part. He was a different breed from the agent who cheated us. This man treated us like human beings, learned our language, and even gave us little pre­ sents of candy or seeds—seeds we desperately needed. Through this breed of man we had contact with the business world of the United States.

Through him I began selling my silverwork, and others too began making jewelry, but I was still the best. The trader also liked my personal jewelry, but I would not sell it. Maybe I was selfish to keep it when we were almost starving, but it represented too much for me to part with it. The money, or credit, would have helped our family but I could never bear to sell it, or even pawn it for a short time as others did theirs.

When the wagon trains began moving through our territory we found still another outlet for our goods.

The women now were given patterns for the blankets they made, and even dyed wool. You see, if they used their own processes, it took over a year to make only two blankets and we desperately needed the money and credit.

I shouldn’t say money, for we didn’t always receive silver and gold, but credit and then bought our goods from it. We were once again gaining a place in the country, the end toward which we had been striving since we left the fort many years before. Yes, we were again slowly regaining our wealth and pride through many many years of patient suffering and struggling.

My son was growing older and older and of course was interested in marrying. Even in my lifetime the children were marrying at an older age. I was just sixteen when Desert Flower and I were married, but Little Deer was approaching his twenties when he finally chose a wife.

Changes were coming to my people other than this. They were becoming educated. The government had promised schools for us when we agreed to go to Fort Sumner and, although mission schools were set up, a great majority or almost all of my people’s children did not go to them.

Years were passing, and the plight of the Navajo was becoming less and less—much improved. We were slowly becoming a united nation once again.

You know that we have our own police force and our own government here on the reservation. I was chosen by our people to represent them when we first organized this government.

I met with the government officials of the United States and discussed with them the system of schools they planned. Many of my people were against the plan because they didn’t want to send the children away to boarding schools for nine months. They wanted to cling to the old. But slowly our government changed the oldster’s minds and the young gradually went away to school and became educated.

I carried on with my work as a silversmith and many many of the whites bought my work, but always some wanted this jewelry. I Seventy-one

had not parted with it when we needed money; I would not do so when I had money and lands.

Little Deer’s son went to school and lived there nine months during the year. His father and mother missed him, but they were too much instilled with the desire and hope that the name 'Navajo’ would be important in the history of the United States to have regrets.

John, as the whites called him, was an excellent student in school, quick to learn the English language. He did well in all his studies, and we encouraged him to continue with his education after grammar school.

It was during his son’s last year in high school that Little Bear died. John came home to his hogan to be with his mother, but we all knew he wanted to finish his term at school. It would have been a shame for him to quit this near the end so we insisted he return.

White Doe would come to live with us.

John returned to us after graduation and he too became an active, if not an elder, member in our government. We, his family, as well as his people, were proud of him.

When the war broke out, John was one of the first of the Navajos to volunteer. Many of our people did, Sam. Do you think we have finally taken our place in the history of the United States?

Yes, Sam, I would certainly say you have. It has been a long struggle, hasn’t it?”

It has. I am an old man, but I am proud to say I am a member of the Navajo people. Sam, would you read this letter that came for me today?”

Sam took the letter from my hand, looked at the return address and frowned.

Its from the War Department, Sanduval. Are you sure you want me to read it?”

Yes. Please read it to me.” I too frowned for I had a strange feeling about this letter.

He glanced over the typewritten page and looked at me once again.

"The War Department regrets to inform you, Sanduval, that John has been killed while serving his country. He acted above and beyond the call of duty to save some of his fellow soldiers. It says here that he is being awarded the silver star for his bravery.” He paused.

Then, What can I say, Sanduval? You must be very proud of your grandson although with this pride comes great sorrow.”

You are right, and instead of a grandson, I have only something more to add to my jewelry. It too will represent something of my people.”

o

Seventy-two

<>

New Year's Eve JUDITH STONE

’62

Honorable Mention, Quiz aud Quill Pnetr\ Clocks chime, Ten o’clock, Tick lock.

Children whine. ’’It's after nincl" Mother says.

“All right, Stay up late.

You may wait; Don’t pout,” Mother says.

Clocks chime.

Eleven o’clock.

Tick lock.

Music blares.

All stare At T.V. On the screen Xavier swings, Abby sings.

People twist.

“Get the gist?”

Daddy says.

Clocks chime Twelve o’clock Tick tock.

Guns roar.

To the door All run.

In the snow Lies a cat.

Think of that!

Have a drink!

Don’t think!

•Another year ....

Faltering Steps MARTHA DEEVF.R

’64

I wait — for what, I do not fuliy know.

I feel compelled to halt my frantic pace And contemplate the paths down which I go, Tlie goals toward which I have now turned my face.

1 wait — bewildered by tbe many cries Of voices luring me toward realms unknown; Uncertain of what goals in life to prize.

What gains that I should strive to make my own.

I wait — or do I really run and hide, .\fraid of challenges each day will bring?

Not strong enough to take things in my stride, .And never the joys in life remembering?

1 must not sit and wait — the world goes by.

O keep me ever striving, till I die.

o

o

Seventy-three

Thoughts at Day’s End LAUREL CARMAN

'64

The setting sun sinks to its western hearth; Its shining rays soon vanish out of sight, And evening rests upon the tranquil earth As weary day gives way to anxious night.

The worker homeward turns his weary team Whose muscles help to turn the stubborn loam.

All day he holds and guides the heavy beam Till twilight brings him thoughts of rest and home.

Sad thoughts of hours of hot and endless toil Are lost as plowman hears the evening bell.

He sees through nature beauty in the soil, An evidential sign that all is well.

Black and White HERB WOOD

'63

Shadows; shadows; great, growing, gray.

On the waiting, writliing, world, weigh.

Coming conflict caused by man’s delay.

How far will we go . . .

Dark masses seething, seeking, strive, 'Gainst the white, daring, doing, drive, 'Til equality, their goal, they do arrive.

How far will we go . . .

Woolworth’s, Congo, Tallahassee, Little Rock, Black and white their forces lock.

Wliere will it end . . .

o-

Suicide JO ANN HOFFMAN

’62

Have you ever stopped to think how many types of kinds of Cokes there are beside the kind that comes in a bottle? Well, I ima­ gine that there are far more than you realize. To my knowledge, there are two main types. The most popular is the botded Coke; the other is rhe fountain variety, also a favorite. These are the main species. The sub-species are more munerous however. They are: lemon, chocolate, cherry, strawberry, butterscotch, root beer, vanilla, and plain, along with the complex New Yorker and the Suicide.

At this point, I was utterly amazed. How could anyone think up so many types of Cokes, let alone drink some of them? Can you imagine drinking a butterscotch Coke? It really sounds horrid and painfully upsetting. Most Cokes, when plain, are slightly sweet, but with something as sweet as butterscotch added — well, I don’t think it would be very beneficial ro someone counting calories, as many of us are. I suppose that some people rather enjoy butterscotch in their Cokes, or else it wouldn’t remain on the menu at many of the drug­ stores, but I don’t particularly care for that much sugar at one sit­ ting.

I could well understand the terminology involved in such cases as the chocolate Coke or the lemon Coke, but the New Yorker and the Suicide were new terms for me. I was always under the impression that a suicide involved someone trying to dispense all of the troubles of the world by taking his own life and that a New Yorker was a weekly magazine I enjoyed, but evidently I had been misled. Used in this manner, these terms were completely foreign, and I was quite curious.

Much to my amazement, I soon learned that a New Yorker is a Coke with a little chocolate in it, a little cherry, strawberry, lemon, vanilla, and if you have room left in the glass, a little Coke to give it that special something. You must realize, however, that these flavors can only be added to the fountain type Coke and not to the bottled Coke, for the bottled Coke contains entirely too much carbonation.

A Suicide, on the other hand, is almost as disastrous as the title implies. This particular type of Coke is much like the other complex species except that it contains no cholocate. Perhaps the lack of chocolate adds the touch of sophistication that is needed to warrant the title.

But one sounds as deadly as the other. I have been told that children of school age, especially those in junior high, are quite fond of these.

I do not know any particular reason they would prefer the complex species over the simpler ones, but perhaps it tends to stimulate the imagination to a higher degree — to the point of having nightmares, no doubt. Or perhaps it is fashionable to have ulcers at an earlier age now—and I know of no better way of contracting one.

Evenmally, enough of these concoctions would lead to much gas­ tric distress, if consumed to any degree over a period of years. But most normal children are infamous for their ability to devour almost anything and yet suffer only minor stomach upsets from time to time.

Perhaps this is one of the reasons children are often referred to as "kids”.

Up to this point, I thought that I had received an adequate eduSeventy-five

cation, but I was now aware of the fact that I didn’t know as much as I thought I did, especially in the field of beverages. I really had no idea that such things existed. There really is some truth to the saying that you learn something new everyday. Well, don’t you?

Too Busy MICHAEL DUDLEY

'64

God is hugel does He like ants?

Why do men die?

Is God busy?

Flowers fade, homes break, sons despise . . . . living, dying, cryingtoo busy.

Races hate.

God is brown. . . .but Too busy.

Tell me.

Does He care?

Carry Me High SARAH ROSE SKAATES

’56

Carry me high to the resting place.

Strong young men with backs of brawn; Carry me under the drooping leaves Of willow trees in dew-wet dawn.

Carry me high in the searing sun.

Shuffle the dust that's scorched and brown; Carry me high in the noonday light, ril wear its gold as my final gown.

The sun must set on the resting place.

■Strong young men bend knee and thigh To touch the grass and roughened earth .Vnd sinking, stifle my one last cry.

Carry me high!

<>■ Seventy-six

Independence Day, 1961 ELIZABETH ANN VVERTH

’62

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose "You will have the morning free,” announced the camp youth leader. "After lunch, Karl, your bus driver, will meet you out in front of the camp to take you the short distance to see the East-West Ger­ man border.”

These words were met with an excited and interested hum of voices from the group of American college students seated around the huge table in the camp social hall. Here was a chance for us to see something which had been making newspaper headlines for months, ever since the refugees had started coming across the border in droves.

One short hour ago I had crawled out of my bed in the cool gray dawn and contemplated the day that lay ahead. It was the Fourth of July__our Independence Day. What kind of day would it be, in this Evangelical United Brethren Church camp in the Harz Mountains of Germany? My roommate, Bev, had already given her opinion on the subject while we were getting dressed. Her words came back to me now: "I just don’t see how anything very patriotic could happen way off up here in the mountains of a foreign country on a miserable day like this,” she had said.

I had agreed with her. After all, we were spending this holiday in a country where the Fourth of July is just another day. My wander­ ing mind was quickly brought back to the present, as I realized that the youth leader was still speaking to us about the day’s schedule: "—back in time for supper, after which you have been asked to present a program to the members of our small congregation. They are looking forward to it, as I hope you are. Are there any questions?”

There were no questions. Everyone’s mind was preoccupied with the anticipation of seeing the iron curtain, today’s vivid symbol of bondage.

Immediately after lunch, we boarded the bus, loaded down with cameras and umbrellas. The eight miles over bumpy, mountainous roads seemed terribly long, but finally Lothar, one of our German guides, announced over the microphone that we had arrived at the border. We looked. There was nothing there but barbed wire fence and a plowed strip of ground beyond. This was the iron curtain. This was the thin line between freedom and suffering.

Lothar pointed out the Soviet watchtowers on the horizon among the trees; in each one was stationed one, or maybe two Soviet guards, their binoculars focused on the border, watching, always watching.

Lothar also explained to us that the plowed strip of ground was used to detect the footprints of the refugees, so that the Russians could determine in what places most of them were getting across the bord­ er. At the time we were there, the number of refugees coming across had reached its peak—eight thousand each day.

There were signs all along the border on the East German side, put there as propaganda against the free world. One sign was a quota­ tion from Thomas Mann: "Being against communism is the greatest mistake of the twentieth century.” Another, aimed at West Germany’s Seventy-seven

Chancellor Adenauer, pictured Adenauer sitting astride a bomb, and these words were printed underneath the pictures: "He who climbs high, falls deep.” Only one sign did we see on the the West German side. It read: Here is Germany, still divided—but across there (the border ) is also Germany.” This sign was repeated often along the way, as an incentive for the West Germans never to give up hope and to remember that Germany, though divided in reality, is still united in spirit. As we stood looking at the border and these signs, the already overcast day grew darker, and the rain began to fall harder—an appro­ priate accompaniment for what we were seeing.

We stopped at another point along the border and, with Lothar interpreting, talked to a West German guard. He looked very forbid­ ding in his heavy green cape-coat, his mud-stained black boots, and holding the chain that kept his huge German shepherd dog in tow.

He was, however, very friendly to us, and seemed glad to have some­ one to talk to. He told us that sometimes the East German guards would step through a break in the fence and talk to him, or he would do likewise, in order to pass the time. To me, this statement sym­ bolizes the childishness of the whole situation—here is a country split down the middle by a government that keeps trying to convince it­ self and the rest of the world that the people want to be divided.

Solemnly, we climbed back into the bus, and headed back to the camp. Such a contrast there was to the laughing, talking group of smdents who had, only two hours before, begun the trip. Now there was only grim silence as Lothar picked up the microphone and began tell­ ing us what it was like to live so near the tensions and terrors of com­ munism. He had just returned to his home in Germany after studying a year in the United States, and he had developed some opinions concerning the way we Americans consider the threat of communism.

"I got the general impression that you Americans are taking this too lightly, ’ he said. "You say that it can’t happen to you, but I think you should always keep in your mind that it can happen to you. If you don’t realize this, I think you will be sorry someday.”

The remainder of the trip was spent in pondering these words of a person who knew exactly what he was talking about. Such a grave truth about our country can only be realized in a situation like this.

After supper our group planned the church program. We de­ cided to center it around our Independence Day, so that we might possibly transmit our inspired feelings with regard to our homeland to these German people, in relation to their tortured homeland.

At seven o’clock everyone was seated in the church social hall "l^ere were, in addition to the members of our group, some twentyfive German people from the small mountain village. None of them could speak English^ so Lothar was once again prepared to serve as interpreter.

Sharon Lang, a history and government major in college, explain­ ed the system of government in the United States. Following her, the entire American group sang "America the Beautiful,” "God Bless ^erica,” and "The Star-Spangled Banner.” I can truthfully say that, in spite of our untrained voices, our national anthem never sounded so wonderful to me as it did that night. After we had finished, one of the German people asked Lothar why our faces were radiant, our eyes shining as we sang the last song; they had not known that it was Seventy-eight

our national anthem, but they had realized that this song had a spe­ cial meaning for us.

Our next speaker defined and outlined the type of religious ob­ servances we have in the United States, and the many different de­ nominations found here. Following this, one of the girls who studied music sang "I Walked Today Where Jesus Walked.” When she had finished, there were tears in the eyes of most of us in the room, even of those who couldn’t understand what she was saying.

There followed a question and answer period, during which a little old German woman in the front row urged us to remember Ber­ lin in our prayers. The program ended on this note, this feeling of oneness with these German people.

The people said a friendly good-bye to us at nine o’clock in the evening. Back in the United States, it was four o’clock in the after­ noon. In Ohio, it was three o’clock in the afternoon. All of us thought about our families—swimming, picnicking, and generally enjoying this summer holiday. Then we thought about the day we had just spent—we wouldn’t have traded this day for anything. On this day we had come as close to communism as we ever cared to come; on this day we had begun to have some small inkling of just how very lucky we really are to live in a democracy.

A few days later, I received a letter from one of my college friends. Coincidentally, she wrote: "Just how does one spend the Fourth of July in Germany?” This was the same question I had ask­ ed myself. In my next letter to her I told her just how one does "spend the Fourth of July in Germany.”

On Christmas Eve BARB BUSHONG

'62

The fragrant odor of pine Oozes into the warm kitchen, Absorbing the scent Of newly-baked ginger cookies.

Laughing, chattering children Scurrying to and fro Share precious secrets Under sprigs of mistletoe.

The whir of the sewing machine Permeates the tense air.

Spasmodically interrupted By crinklings of fresh wrapping paper.

While padded old St. Nick — For the early morning spree — Hides gaily decorated gifts Beneath the waiting tree.

<► Seiienty-nine

A Sense of Value CYNTHIA DONNELL â&#x20AC;&#x2122;63

A Sense of Value BARBARA ACTON

’62

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose Honorable Mention, NSAL Intercollegiate Short Story Contest, 1962 "Yes, I’ve known Larry Carter all his life—that’s been over eigh­ teen years now,” throbs in my ears. Yes, Reverend Johnson does know me - why, he baptized me.

The electrifying voice of my lawyer takes command as he ques­ tions Reverend Johnson gently, "What kind of a boy is Larry?”

Without hesitation comes the reply, "Larry is, first of all, an extremely religious boy.”

I certainly am religious, aren’t I? "Larry has very high moral standards . . . doesn’t drink . . . comes from a good family ... a good worker . . . He sticks up for what he believes.”

Minutes pass. My neighbor, Mr. Barton, age forty, takes the wit­ ness stand. He’s been a good friend of mine for ten years now. Gee, today, he looks about sixty — I never noticed his hair was that gray before.

Completely at ease, he speaks, "Larry has dated my daughter, Ann, for two years. They’ve been engaged since Christmas. When she s with Larry, I know she’s in good hands. I’ve looked forward to his becoming my son-in-law because I feel he’s really an outstanding lad.”

My, but I’m an outstanding lad. Why, look at all my attributes. Lm a liar; I can’t accept responsibility; I’m a coward; let’s face it, Im yellow clear through. Aren’t those the necessary qualifications of an outstanding lad — a good Christian — an example for others to follow.

I shudder when I think of my towheaded, freckled-face kid brorher, Johnny, who idolizes me. Johnny looks up to me as though I were a dashing, gallant knight in shining armor.

An hour passes as witness after witness vouch for my good char­ acter. 'Their comments are flattering but I seldom listen.

The booming, determined voice of the prosecutor brings my at­ tention back to the courtroom. On the witness stand sits a fragile lady about seventy years old. Sitting erectly in her seat, her silver hair and sweet, wrinkly, old face reminds me of Grandma Carter. Her oldfashioned, outdated apparel is quite striking. Her green silk dress hangs down to her ankles. "The high, white collar and long, fitting sleeves trimmed in white lace are extremely conservative. She can’t be serious wearing that hat, can she? Black felt is bad enough, but those two mon­ strous, artificial, gaudy, yellow sunflowers protruding from the center are just ridiculous. Somehow, rhough, it fits this strangely attired, old ^ The probing prosecutor asks, "Where were you at 8:47 the night of May 13th?”

Her reply makes me listen: "I was walking down Fifth Street about a quarter of nine . . .”

Yes, how well I remember May 13th!

'The evening is warm, lovely, and enchanting with the scent of lilacs filling the night. The full moon illuminates the entire sky. I’m in a happy, carefree mood, for I’m with my girl, Annie — the prettiest girl in town.

Cool, in her pink cotton dress, she looks almost angelic with her Eighty-one

ebony hair curling softly down her back. Her bright, blue eyes laugh when she laughs. Her creamy complexion glows in the moonlight. I al­ ways tease her about her pug nose and deep dimples. In return, she teases me about that aggravating cowlick I can’t seem to control.

As we re strolling up the walk, she breaks the magic of the even­ ing saying, Larry, I think it would be best if we don’t get married this September.”

Numbed, I just stare at her.

Suddenly, her words tumble out, "I’m sorry. Dear, but it wouldn’t be fair to you or to me. Your parents want you to go to college and I do too. But what’s even more important is that you want to go.

Financially, you can’t swing college and a family at the same time.” ’^his topic at some length and gaining no ground, 1 heatedly retort, Dont you trust me? Don’t you have enough faith in me to think that I can support us? It will work out if you’ll only give us a chance.”

Finally, she quietly but firmly replies, "Oh, Larry, grow up!

Look at life realistically. You’re too steamed up to even talk sensibly.

I thi^ It would be better if you come back after you’ve cooled down.”

With these words, she abruptly sweeps past me into the house.

Haughtily jumping into my ’47 Ford, I drive off in a fit of rage.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a smaU boy in blue jeans and red plaid shirt stands in my path. Blood rushes to my head and my heart pounds like a bongo drum as I try to swerve — but it’s too late!

The dull thud of the boy’s delicate body against the heavy car sick­ ens me. Immediately I scramble out of the car and race to the boy. He IS lying in a heap beside the sidewalk. Hovering over him, I detea no visible breathing.

My God, I’ve killed him! Fear swells up and racks my body.

Panicking, I dash back to the automobile, slam the door behind me, and drive away - away - away from a little boy I’ve killed, away from any courage I’ve ever had, and away from all self-respect.

Pdling into my driveway, my hands are still trembling. The next five minutes seem like five hours as I struggle to compose myself. As I get out of the car, I notice that the garage door is open. Ouickly I close It. r XL / Good. Mom and Dad are in the living room reading.

"Good night. Mom - Dad.” "Yes, I had a nice time. I’m awfuUy tired; I think I’ll go to bed. oee you in the morning.”

T^ank goodness, that’s over. Weakly climbing up the stairs, my eyes glance down to my watch. It’s one minute to nine — almost time for the news. Switching on the radio, I sink into the nearest chair and wait. Finally the news commentator blares forth. On and on he drones At last, in a professional voice, he reports, "Just a few minutes ruthlessly struck down by a hit-skip driver on Fifth StreecHe is in a deep coma and is listed in critical condition at Saint Elizabeths Hospital.’

Thank God, he’s alive! No thanks to me. Hit-skip driver—that’s me-^ne of the lowest creatures existing. Retlization of the terrible act I ve committed sweeps over me. Now what do I do? There’s only one thing I can do. I’m scared to death but I have to do it—wonder what Mom and Dad will say?

The jury is leaving the courtroom for the decision. Mom and Dad Eighty-two

sure look tired and nervous. They’ve been terrific these past few wee s.

It all seems like a nightmare—the accident—the confession—facing the boy’s parents—the publicity—the trial—all one dynamic nightmare.

Annie and her parents have smck right beside me. After all the agony, embarrassment, tears, and anxiety I’ve put them all through they still have faith in me. I don’t deserve it. , , jIn a few minutes, the verdict of the court will be back. The verdict is obvious—I know what I have to face. Funny, but that’s not important anymore. A brave, little boy confined to a wheel chair, perhaps for life—he’s important!

750 Steuibea Street MERCEDES BLUM

’63

The apartment house I live in holds four small families. The un­ inviting, drab, gray building is over one hundred years old and was formerly a hotel-bar combination. On the night of June 17, 1956, aft event took place that none of us will forget.

Crash! Boom! Hiss! Crack! The noise and impact of a wooden structure breaking apart threw me out of bed. As I lay there thinking that I was dreaming, I heard my mother and father running to the kitchen. I jumped up from the floor, put on my housecoat and shoes and hurried to the kitchen. I heard my father say drawsily, "My God, what in the world happened?”

My mother said, "It sounded like a bolt of lightning struck the Downstairs in the front apartment, aged and Mrs. Edward Smith were asking each other the same questions. Mrs. Smith said to her husband, "What’s happened, deary?” . , , , . ,r The veins protruded from Mr. Smith’s head as he picked himself up from the bedroom floor; he too had been knocked from his bed.

He hurriedly slipped into his shirt and trousers. Even at the age of eighty, Edward Smith is still a spry man; his wife on the other hand is quite helpless and senile. . i r • u Mrs. Smith smiles, showing the one, rotting tooth left in her mouth. She is paralyzed on her left side from a stroke that she suffered about five years ago. Mr. Smith helps her lift her bulky frame from the bed. "Just get your clothes on, Mary, and we can go see what hap^ In the lower rear apartment, I heard the voice of Minnie Wymmerskirt booming, "Kate! Kate! wake up, wake up, the house is fallMinnie is the neighborhood gossip and troublemaker, she is a buxom woman, about seventy years old, with yellowish-white hair down to her feet. She went to the door and hollered. Rusty! Oh, Rus­ ty! There you are you naughty dog. Are you all right? She picked up the young mongrel, cuddled him and waddled out the door followed by her sister, Kate.

Kate said "It sounded like a tree fell over.”

At the same time, in the upstairs, rear apartment, baby Gwen could be heard screaming at the top of her lungs. Evidently, neither the noise nor the baby’s cries could awake her seventeen-year-old par­ ents, Eighty-three

I looked out the window and saw the front street filled with alt-awake neighbors. I could hear a police siren growing nearer and nearer to us. My parents and I ran downstairs and around the house to hmith s apartment. To our surprise we found that the front porch ot the apartment house had been completely torn away from the automobile lay upside down on our front lawn.

What happened, Ed?” my father asked.

Mr. Smith said, Apparently, this car was parked at the top of treet the brakes let go, and the car came speeding, unconrolled down the hill. Instead of making the curve, the car ran over the lawn and crashed headlong into our front porch. Damn good thing no cars were coming up the hill; would have been a hell of an acThe crowd stood around until the squad car arrived. When I final­ ly got back into the house, it was four o’clock in the morning. Wearily, I threw off my housecoat, kicked off my shoes and got into bed.

As I lay there I cou d hear the cries of Gwen, but as I closed my eyes 1 though. Sorry baby, I have got to get some sleep. I have to go to work in two hours. ® <> o The Darkness Within BARBARA ACTON

’62

Hello there. My name is Constance — what is yours? Won’t you play house with me? house^°'^ ^ No, living in this sixteen room house doesn’t bother me, but I’ll tell you what does scareme. I’m scared to death of the dark, aren’t you? ’ • u ^ because when I was little, I used to sleep with a bright light on beside my bed. Everything seemed so safe and secure then. But when I was bad. Mommy and Daddy took my light away. I imagined all sorts of awful things lying there in the dark. I always ended up crying myself to sleep.

During the day when I was bad. Daddy would put me in the hall closet and lock the door. I was always sure someone — someone .^as in the closet with me. I even dream­ ed of her haunting face — night after night I saw her. In my dreams she )ust stood there with her squinty eyes and wrinkly face and laugh­ ed louder and louder and louder until I screamed and woke myself up.

I m also afraid of the dark because, you see, when I went to play with my girl friend, Susie — she lives in the big farmhouse three houses down the road from me — anyway, I always had to walk home by myself in the dark. Night after night, I passed that weird cemetery to get home. It’s funny how at night, the trees cast odd shadows on the empty road.

One night I was gaily walking along by the graveyard when I heard heavy footsteps behind me. I walked faster and faster — they seemed to come closer and closer! Panic-stricken, I finally ran as fast as I could — the footsteps ran too. Someone was after me! Whoever it was was only a few steps behind me when I came to our gravel driveway outside here by the flower garden. I screamed as loud as I could. In seconds Mom and Dad were holding me tight in their arms. When we turned around, no one was there! They said it was Eighty-four

all in my head — that I imagined it. But I know there was someone behind me — someone was there! I would recognize those footsteps if I ever heard them again. You believe me, don’t you?

Yes, I’m here at home all by myself now. Mom and Dad went to the grocery store — they won’t be back for another hour.

Last week I was naughty. You see, I ran out in the busy street.

Suddenly I saw that big, red car in front of me. "When I woke up, someone had taken the light away. It’s not like being in the dark closet although I still see that terrible witch face. It must be a new kind of punishment. Mom called it blindness — I can hardly wait until they give me my light back.

Gee I’m glad you came to talk to me. Won’t you come into the living room?

Wait! Those footsteps — they’re the same ones. Don’t come any closer — stay away from me — stay away. . .!

■o

o-

Procrustes and the Parrot JUDY LYNN SOLMES

’65

Third Prize, Kathleen White Dimke Essay Contest In Greek mythology there is a story of a bandit named Procrustes who fitted each of his victims to an iron bed. If they were too short, he stretched them on a rack; and, if they were too long, he amputated their legs at the right point. He insisted, you see, that no one could be any taller nor any shorter than he. Procrustes, in a sense, was an early proponent of standardization.

He would be amazed to find in us, centuries later, a similar uni­ formity. Just as Procrustes insisted on conformity to his particular height, so modern society has insisted on conformity to a particular level, the average. Perhaps you have noticed in your life, the read­ iness with which we accept the common and the ordinary, and the scepticism with which we regard the different and the superior. The individualist we often ridicule; but the parrot we applaud.

Take Johnny as an example. Young Johnny showed signs of great musical talent, but his parents would not let him play the piano as much as he liked. They wanted him to be a "normal” boy. Today Johnny works in a factory. He earns a normal wage; he lives a nor­ mal life. But the music he might have produced has been lost. It could have been lost no more completely had his hands been cut off.

Is Johnny simply one unique example? Or are the factors that mold­ ed him into an anonymous normality at play in other lives? Could we, in our rush to conform to the average lose the one great talent dis­ tinguishing each of us from the other?

Let’s consider these facts.

Today, many kindergarten hobby horses have been placed out of bounds, now that school consultants have determined that they do not develop the "group spirit.” Today’s teacher, according to David Riseman of the University of Chicago, often stresses the necessity of "adjustment to the group,” never questioning whether adjustment to a particular group is of any value. No wonder so many of our sixyear-olds already have a phrase, "He thinks he’s big,” to indicate their intense dislike of anyone unusual.

Eighty-five

In many parts of our nation, educators have concentrated so hea­ vily on providing equal opportunity for all students that they have sometimes Mglected to provide special opportunity for the exception­ al student. Exarn papers are often graded on the normal level of ac­ complishment. And even the words with which the average student IS not familiar are sometimes edited out of the books he is given to read. In Memphis and in Philadelphia citizens went so far — as to term special classes for exceptional students "undemocratic.”

This discouraging of superiority becomes a part of the adoles­ cents attitude as well. An above-average student, then, is a "square,” an eghead, a 'curvepusher.”

Dangerous as this philosophy may sound, another aspect of it IS ^ more serious. For modern society not only pressures children to become a part of the crowd, but encourages adjustment in adults Advertisers pressure us to buy "the cigarette most people smoke”; or, t e most popular car in its field.” They realize the tremendous attraction we find in any item other people like, and, therefore, base much ot their propaganda on our desire to have what others have, to do what others do. ^r exaltation of the average is also evident in modern politics. Political office seekers, all too often, have only to boast that they are simple ordinary men”; and we accept them. They have conyince us that they are average. In Group Thinking and Conference Leadersh^, William E. Utterback puts it this way: "We are also susceptible to suggestion from persons like ourselves if they succeed in catc ing our attention. The ability to wear red suspenders, chew tobacco, and talk in a folksy drawl seems a slight qualification for public office but apparently it impresses many voters. On a some­ what higher level most of us are favorably impressed by a public lead­ er who looks and acts like one of ourselves. 'Good old George,’ we feel, can hardly be mistaken. This may be call the 'just folks’ falacy. It IS as though, in an age crying for exceptional leaders, we have made the prime requisite for leadership the lack of ability to lead.

Finally even the field of morals is infected with a pathetic re­ liance on group standards, evidenced in the phrase "Why not? Every­ body does It!” The textbook entitled Psychology and Ufe defines mor­ ality in widely accepted terms. "Moral actions,” it states, "are those society approves. "Thus, the morality of an action is not to be deter­ mined by an individuals basic beliefs, but by how many people are doing It. ^ Unfortunately for us, all of these incidents are true. They exist m our lives as well as in the lives of others. They typify the American demand for normality and social acceptance. They typify our glorifi­ cation of the Common Man to the extent that he can be none other than common.

What has this training done to us? To the Common Man it has given little chance to be superior. To the superior man it has left little choice other than to become common. We have forgotten that prog­ ress is impossible in a static, completely adjusted society. It has al­ ways been the work of the dissatisfied, the result of an infinite mass Eighty-six

of conflicting minds and conflicting interests. Today s atmosphere, if carried into future years, may take away from us even our desire to disagree, to think independently, to formulate new ideas.

Am I perhaps ascribing more to the problem than really exists?

Granted, we offer scholarships to exceptional students; we run con­ tests; we engage in competitive sports. Indeed, we, as citizens of world society, living in a highly competitive nation, have much of the needed machinery with which to encourage excellence. But the fact that we still sometimes ridicule intellectual superiority and often attach a social stigma to high accomplishments, the fact that we think it healthier for a child to be average, these facts more than counter­ balance our present attempts.

Our solution, then, must deal primarily with an inner attitude on our part. For this is obviously not a problem that can be solved by the passing of a law or the action of a single organization. This is a problem deep within the emotions and the ambitions of many people. If the source of tht problem is deep within man, its solution, too must lie within him.

First, it must be our firm conviction that man’s real value lies within himself. That, in the words of St. Paul, "It is indeed a very small matter to be judged by you or by man’s tribunal.” We must see the error in believing that what the average fellow does is what is "normal,” and, therefore, what we should do. We must realize that we have been wrong in supposing that man has no higher purpose in life than to get along with his fellows. And this privilege of private thinking and personal evaluation we must extend to others as readily as we claim it fot ourselves.

Next, the attitudes of many of our educators must be re-aligned.

Where possible, teachers should strive to give greater individual instruaion to their pupils, stimulating in each the desire to work to his full capacity. As Agnes E. Myer states in Form and Focus: "Of course we must help the weak, but we must put more of our endeavor into helping the strong if our nation is ever going to develop its fullest human, civic, and ethico-political capacities. Our liberty must be the means of creating and promoting the superior individual.” For once children begin to feel that they can get ahead in the public schools as fast as their abilities expand, it should also be possible to inspire them all with a renewed love of hard work. The idea of "adjustment to the group” must be altered. A child should be advised that when a conflict occurs between his rational beliefs and the opinions of oth­ ers, he should try to see both sides of the question, but he must never blindly change his beliefs for the mere sake of social amiability.

Finally, we must apply these beliefs and attitudes to our own lives, by dressing, speaking, voting and thinking as we like, watching that in every aspect of life, unimportant though it may seem, the de­ cisions we make are really our own.

I do not ask for a nation of non-conformists. I realize that in a complex society men must learn to live with each other; and for that reason, adjustment in many things is essential. But I do plead for a nation of thinkers, men who realize their own abilities and strive to fulfill them, men who make their own decisions and think their own thoughts.

But our actions will be fruitless unless we learn again to excel, to praise superiority, difference, even hobby horses, as the true proEighty-seven

namre, '®> dividuality. That rh bonds of law, his is a tradition of in­ most ill-adjusted trf of mankind have often been the all opposition an " ^bo would call Galileo, bravely facing laughS^scorn K that Lincoln, woSd say that rh contemporaries, was a "normal” person? Who ofto” » h “r 7’ ”, peisonalic? The gtemese themselves in ntdp ^ivme, lies in the fact that they did not change ter these men hav'^ but, with a God-given instinct to mashis world cannot d *” n • Thus, man must conclude that He where manVan^cT^ gamed our objective if we someday reach the stage his to heaven and to ms neighbor neighbor, that he, under God, is his own true master. o An Indictment of the German People First Prize, Kathleen White Dimke Essay Contest evenN^afa^^^^ William L Shirer has reported and smdied German after wLt ^ correspondent. From 1934, one year linked Sat German Chancellor, until 1941, when the TRS entered the war, Shirer lived and worked in Berlin as thirS^riencf''^^"'' best-seller, Berlin Diary, arose from Itchei^’^ Third Reich, was pub­ lished in the fall of I960. Immediately it became a best-seller, later fircT k!, National Book Award for non-fiction, and became the tirst book with a purchase price over ten dollars to sell one million copies.

In the foreword to this book Shirer explainsin personal experience would not have led me to attempt to wiite this book had there not occurred at the end o£ World war 11 an event unique in history. This was the capture o£ most o£ the con£idenital archives o£ the German government and all US branches mcluding those o£ the Foreign 0££ice, the Army and Navy, the National Socialist Party and Heinrich Himmler’s secret police .... [this] has been enriched by the testimony o£ all the surviving leaders, military and civilian, . . . With such incompar­ able sources as soon available and with the memory o£ li£e in Nazi Germany and o£ the appearance and behavior and nature of the men who ruled it, Adolf Hitler above all, still fresh in my mind and bones, I decided, at any rate, to make an attempt to set down the history of the rise and fall of the Third Reich.

It took Shirer five and one half years to analyze the data and write this book. (The Nazi documents captured by the U.S., alone, weighed 485 tons.) The result of all this research, as one might expect’ is staggering: 1143 pages plus notes. Two aspects of this book make it exceptional in its field of historical writing and also highly read­ able. The first is the exact documentation of all sources. Shirer ex­ plains, ... in this book I have tried to be severely objective, letting the facts speak for themselves and noting the sources for each. No in­ cidents, scenes or quotations stem from the imagination; all are based on documents, the testimony of eyewitnesses or my own personal ob­ servation.”

Eighty-eight

The second is the personal observations and recolleaions of Shirer himself as he watched the events unfold. One of the most mov­ ing scenes of the book is that in which Shirer describes how, after the fall of France in 1940, he stood in the forest of Compiegne and watched the expression on Hitler’s face become contemptuous as he read the following inscription which appeared on a granite slab: "HERE ON THE ELEVENTH OF NOVEMBER 1918 SUCCUMB­ ED THE CRIMINAL PRIDE OF THE GERMAN EMPIRE — VANQUISHED BY THE FREE PEOPLES WHICH IT TRIED TO ENSLAVE” Since the book is a history of Nazi Germany, it also becomes, as it must, a biography of the founder of Nazi Germany: Adolf Hitler.

He soon emerges as "... a person of undoubted, if evil, genius.”

Shirer traces the rise of the son of an obscure Austrian customs of­ ficial to the position of absolute dictator of the most powerful na­ tion in Europe, and the subsequent downfall and death of him and his nation. The basic make-up of Hitler’s character: uncanny political shrewdness, combined with unbelievable madness, ignorance, and ruthlessness, serve to make the story of his life both compelling and inconceivable to the reader.

But this book abounds with inconceivable facts: Hitler’s rise from obscurity to the Chancellorship, the blindness and fanaticism with which the vast majority of Germans followed their Fuehrer, the incredible policy of appeasement formulated and followed by the allies, the extreme gullibility of so many men in high positions of all coun­ tries concerned, and the inhuman treatment which the conquered European people suffered at the hands of the Nazis. The further the reader proceeds in this book, the more one sobering thought looms uppermost in mind: that this incredible story, seemingly out of the dark ages, took place only seventeen years ago.

In a review for the New York Herald Tribune, Gordon A. Craig aptly comments that this book restores ". . . the perspective of a gen­ eration which, in its present world dangers, has forgotten how de­ sperate our situation seemed when Hitler’s monstrous tyranny was at the height of its power.”

Shirer divides the history of Nazi Germany into six parts. The first part deals with Hitler’s early life and the formation of his ideas and philosophy. In this section Shirer also shows how, because of their past history, the German people were especially susceptible to Hitler and his ideas. This section ends with the abortive Beer Hall Putsch of 1924, after which it appeared that National Socialism and Hitler were both dead politically.

The second part is a tribute to Hitler’s political genius and luck, and the gullibility of the German people. It shows how Hitler man­ aged to increase his party’s fortunes steadily until eventually, on that fateful day in 1933, President Hindenburg proclaimed Hitler as Chan­ cellor. This part ends with a particularly enlightening chapter that describes how, outwardly at least, the German people hardly minded seeing their personal liberties abolished.

The third part is the longest and most significant historically be­ cause it shows how from 1934 to 1939 Hitler achieved his blcx^less conquests, one by one, until finally even Neville Chamberlain saw that he had been duped. The fourth part deals with the early German Eighty-nine

victories, the allies darkest hour, and finally the turning point at StalThe fifth part begins with a chapter that every reader will vividy remember. It describes the Nazi treatment of the conquered peop es. the concentration camps, the "scientific experiments” performed on human guinea pigs, the "final solution” of the Jewish problem, and the massacres of whole towns and villages. In this chapter Shirer includes some correspondence between the commandant of Ausch­ witz and various German manufacturers of heating equipment who are submitting bids for a crematoria order. After reading these letters, in which each manufacturer matter-of-factly extols the virtues of his estimation of the German people dropped ^ section ends with the attempted assassination of Hitler m 1944.

The final part deals with the last days of Hitler and his Third Reich. As 7ime magazine comments: ’’Not its least compelling aspect ** grisly and familiar ending seems to follow with simple in­ evitability from everything that has gone before.”

I was unable to find one professional review of this book that was completely unfavorable to it. The majority of reviewers had noth­ ing but praise for the book, but a few felt that Mr. Shirer could have c anged some of his emphasis. Gordon A. Craig, in the previously mentioned New York Herald Tribune review criticized Mr. Shirer for devoting too many pages to the years of 1938-1939, and not enough to the years 1933-1938. R.H.S. Crossman, in the English New Statescriticized Mr. Shirer for his ". . . almost exclusive reliance on documentation . . . Indeed, his sub-title should have been The History of Nazi Germany through German Eyes’.” I fail to see the basis for Mr. Crossman s criticism, because, as Mr. Shirer points out, in a totalitarian government such as Hitler’s, the only people who are aware of the true governmental policies and objectives are the high ranking bureaucrats. The secret archives prove that as early as 1937 Hitler had decided to go to war in order to achieve his goals, and this was a full two years before anyone in any country other than Germany, became aware of Hitler’s true objectives.

Trevor-Roper, in a review for The New York Times, writes. This is a splendid work of scholarship, objective in method, sound in judgement, inescapable in its conclusions.” J. F. Golay, in The New Republic, summed up the book with these words: ". . . as a political and military history of the Nazi regime and Hitler’s war, Shirer s achievement is a formidable one. . . His management of the massive material and a complex narrative is masterly. His judgement of when to anticipate the order of events in developing a theme and when to revert to strict chronology is unerring.”

Every reviewer commented on the fact that Shirer’s own per­ sonal experiences and the eyewitness recollections of other observers enriched the book tremendously. As Naomi Bliven writes in The New Yorker, . . . sun shines, fog obscures, diplomats smile, crowds mill, famous voices speak, anonymous bodies fall. And that after all, is how history feels when it is happening.”

In a review for The Nation, Geoffrey Barraclough mentions a problem that bothered every other reviewer including myself. Mr. Barraclough writes, "The real problem of the Third Reich is not Hit­ ler and his henchmen, ... it is the Germans who willed Hitler, acNinely

claimed Hitler, abased themselves before Hitler, sold their souls to Hitler, ...”

Why did the German people follow Hitler so blindly and eager­ ly? In order ro answer this question. Mr. Shirer cites the past undemo­ cratic institutions of German history, the humiliation of the Treaty of Versailles, some basic tenets of German society, the great depres­ sion and consequent unrest of the 1930’s, and the political genius of Hitler himself. . . .„ j-rr- , This partially answers the question, but it is still dilticult to un­ derstand why the Germans who opposed Hitler, did nothing to stop him until it was too late; why, in 1945 when the allies were just miles from Berlin, the Germans fanatically held out to the last ditch.

These are questions that are hard for a non-German to compre­ hend because the answer to them lies in the German people them­ selves, who as Goethe said, are ". . . so estimable in the individual and so wretched in the generality.” For this reason I believe thar Ter­ rence Prittie explains the real value of this book as he writes in The Atlantic Monthly, . . if anyone ought to read The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, it is the Germans themselves.” <s>-

o

The Girl in the Library RONALD COLLINS

’64

The girl in the library with red hair and a blue suit hardly no­ ticed the boy staring at her. He wore khaki pants and a red and grey shirt. His clothes went well with his blond hair and covered his tall, strong frame nicely.

He wrote occasionally, but usually he chewed on the end of his pen and stared at the redhead with the blue ribbon in her hair. He saw her bright red lips, her black pointed shoes, and the white ex­ posed skin of her neck and leg. He tried to guess what shade of lip­ stick she had on her lips. Strawberry?

She had a book opened on the table in front of her, but now she was cleaning her nails and with a small file. He could see how long and white her fingers were. She didn’t paint her nails. Because the boy didn’t like red finger-nails, he thanked God she did not.

She finished her manicure and looked up, saw him, and quick­ ly looked out the window.

He began to write again, just as she began to turn the pages of her biology book. His pen moved over the white paper; her finger moved across the lines of printed words.

A group of noisy sorority girls entered the library and he saw her look up. Their eyes met. Both lowered them immediately. He pretended to write and she to read. The girls sat at a table between the boy and the redhead and kept a steady stream of conversation going.

Soon the redhead got up and walked to the main desk. He fol­ lowed every graceful step with his eyes. He saw her lean over the desk and speak softly with the librarian. Then she walked back to her chair. Soon after this, the librarian went to the table where the sor­ ority girls were. She said something to them and they were suddenly quiet.

The girl was out of sight and so the boy turned to his work.

Once he went to look up a word in the big dictionary in the middle of the reading room and he could see her again. He leafed through Ninety-one

the diaionary, not really seeing in what part he stopped. He scanned own a few words, realized he was looking in the wrong section, and finally, located his word. He read the definition once. Then he tea It again. The third time he concentrated on the words and, at last, understood what he had read.

He saw the girl put a finger to her chin. How he envied the fin­ ger! . 1 ®^tl pic ed up her books and walked ta e, grabbed up his books, and drinking fountain in the hall.

He hesitated. Oh, well,” he

put on an orange-brown coat. She toward the exit. He rushed to his followed her. She stopped at the told himself quietly, "the journey

should^ Hi, Lynda.” he said cheerfully.

Oh hi, Jim.” she returned, surprised.

Have you studied for that history test yet.?” he asked.

No, I haven’t.”

Both walked down the hall together, laughing and talking.

Understanding PRISCILLA SECRIST

’64

Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose The little boy sat quietly on the living room floor beside the dark green armchair. He wasn t usually so quiet, but now he didn’t want to attract anyone s attention. He wore no shoes, and he didn’t want to wrar any. He made his tan socks wrinkle as he wiggled his toes in­ side his socks. His feet felt comfortable. There were no hard brown leather shoes to cover them and make sore places on his ankles.

Any one of the four adults who were also in the living room could have made Timmy Joe wear his shoes. For instance, Timmy’s favorite grandfather sat on the dark green armchair. He could have told Tims mother that Tim didn’t have any shoes on. But Tim’s favorite grandfather wasn’t paying attention to the little boy. Instead, the old man was talking about the weather, about fishing, about fun­ eral costs, and about life insurance.

Tim s Grandpa Mitford was listening to Tim’s favorite grandpa.

Grandpa Mitford sat in the Boston rocker that Tim liked to sit in.

Old Mitford didn’t like to rock in the rocker at all. Instead, he sat on the edge of the little maple seat and let his face get red as he dis­ agreed with everything that Tim’s favorite grandpa had to say. Grand­ pa Mitford was too busy disagreeing to notice Timmy Joe didn’t have shoes on.

Tims mother was also in the living room. She could have noticed Tim’s stocking feet, but she was too busy telling Grandma Mitford how much she liked the suit that the old grandmother wore. Tim didn t like the suit. After all. Grandma Mitford was too fat to look nice in anything and now while she was sitting on the black Samsonite folding chair, she looked even fatter. Her hair didn’t make her suit Ninety-two

look pretty either. Grandma Mitford had dyed the fuzzy stuff again so that the lovely silver color was gone.

Timmy could have told his mother that he didn’t like the suit, but then everyone would look at him; someone would notice that Tim Joe didn’t have his new shoes on. And someone would make him wear them. Therefore, Timmy didn’t say anything about his grandmother. He didn’t want anyone to notice him, and no one did.

Tim’s favorite grandpa was still talking. "That right, Harry?” he "Darn right!” Grandpa Mitford continued. "The old man died just a year or so ago and left the kid a fortune. Ida knew him. She had the boy in school.” Mitford then turned to his wife. "Ida, didn’t you have the McMillian kid in school?”

The feminine chunk in the red suit was thus pulled into her hus­ band’s conversation. "Why, yes, Harry, I had him in class when he was about Anne’s age. Regular brat. Nobody could do a thing with him. Now, it’s kids like that that’re wasting America’s educational dollar. Don’t you think, Alice?”

Tim’s Grandma Mitford continued. "Didn’t take advantage of anything, that boy didn’t. Just like so many others. And now him being a teacher in Waterston! Can you imagine?”

Tim’s mother said that she didn’t know.

Tim’s mother wasn’t sure if she could imagine or not. "Well, Ida, a man can change a lot after he gets out of high school and goes to college,” Tim’s mother suggested.

"Yes, but Alice, you don’t know the kind of trash that man is teaching! And Anne having him for a teacher! Can you imagine?”

Grandma Mitford was disturbed. "He always was a regular brat, and he’s got no business teaching. No business at all! Those funny ideas of his!”

Timmy Joe didn’t understand all this. He didn’t really care. He wanted to play. He was tired of sitting. But he didn’t want to wear his shoes.

The four adults were talking about schools now. They talked about the new consolidation. They talked about Bill McMillian as a new teacher in Waterston. They talked about how he never went to church.

They talked about how the school board should have been more care­ ful about who they hired. 'They talked about how Bill might even be a communist for all anybody knew. Tim’s mother and his favorite grandfather said that they weren’t sure about any of this. But the Mitfords said that they did know for sure. Grandma Mitford said that the way they were teaching in colleges now was all wrong. She said that too many people were getting degrees. Too many people were be­ ing allowed to teach. She said that somebody like Bill McMillian didn’t have any business teaching children like Anne. Tim’s mother said that she thought that Bill might settle down in a couple of years.

She said that people who have just graduated from college often have funny ideas. Grandma Mitford said that Bill McMillian always did have funny ideas.

Then Grandpa Mitford started talking about Russian education.

He talked about how communist ideas came into the United States.

He talked about how Russia was going to conquer the United States.

Tim’s favorite grandpa said that he didn’t think the Russians could destroy America. He said that he thought Americans had too much Ninety-three

V? Russians have American soil. He said that he had a lot in faith in Kennedy. aged a Im she thoigh Mr. Jackie was nr^rr Caroline Kenn A When r

Mitford said that Kennedy certainly had Tini's mother said how pretty

1.

Grandma Mitford didn’t think that Mrs. Mitford did say however, that

^

^

one lookerl ar^^ Mitford mentioned Caroline Kennedy, everythe dark green chd^^ Mirfnnl°J'^h^Caroline.^ Huh, Timmy?” Grandpa dJl °f "^«ney, too You know that, Timmy? Mitford laughed. Timmy Joe didn’t understand.

Tim> young to be thinkin’ about things like that. Huh, answered forTfm. “ grandpa ^ ^ough hand messing his fine blond ^hen rhis favorite grandpa.

"Whv th Mitford looked at the little boy’s stocking feet.

Why that boy doesnt have any shoes on, Alice!” she exclaimed. havp an,,’ fh^'’V^ "Tim’s mother replied. "He doesn’t lih ( ^1,' except a pair of new brown leather ones. I don’t ankle?’ make red marks on his hair T'l'm

o

o

Millisecond ROGER CALDWELL

’58

In a millisecond of time a fireball expands a mile, a city heats to vapor, and a man is killed three times.

In a millisecond of time the nerve ends twitch to char, the cell threads break, and the eyes melt in deathhead sockets.

In a millisecond of time the dulled, slow heart is stopped and only the mind can see, only the mind can weep.

O

Ninety-four

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Ninety-five

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Table of Contents Bpide the Darkened Door, David K. Sturges ............................

Ihe Search Party, Ethel Steinmetz ................................................

Spring Song, Janet Eacey .................................... ...................... ^ ‘world — tiny whirling entity”, Carol Alban ’.!!..!!............

Mountains, Judy Lynn Solmes ........................................... .

Iwo Children, Dallas Taylor...........................................

An Afternoon on a Mountain, Janet Lacey..................................

Comfort Me with Apples. Judy Lynn Solmes..............................

L^st Time, Jo Ann Hoffman.................. ................................

A Crystalline Creation, Christina Hoffman ................

A New Year, Jean Mattox ........................... ............................. i...

Sand Castle, Judy Lynn Solmes.............................................

Ode to Escalloped Potatoes, Judith Stone ......... .*...........!!!!!

The I lay s the Thing, Ethel Steinmetz...........................................

A uraduate of the Old School, Janet Lacey ................

Project Mercury, Carl V. Vorpe ................ ...................... ...............

On Candy Canes, Jo Ann Hoffman .... ..

Sisyphus, Janet Lacey ...................................... ’..................

One October Day, Martha Deever !..!!***.’!!.*.......................

Rabboni, Judith Stone...........................................

Lighted in Darkness, Sylvia Vance......................... .*.*.*.*****.*,'.'

Spirit, Arti Trumblee ........................... ............... ................. !!*.!.!, Ceramic Charm, Jean Mattox .................. !!!!!!!!!!....................

Sincerity, Carol Shook .........................................!!!!!!!.'!!!!!!!

The Last Feather of an Indian Summer,* Sandro !

I May Not Sleep, Sarah Rose Skaates.........

Perhaps They Are, Lewis F. Shaffer..................................

Screen-door Summers, John Naftzger................

At the Edge of the World, Rebekah Allen .,..*.*!!!!!!!!!!!

The Gift, Ruth Hunt Gefvert .............................................................

Willow’s Song, Rosemary Gorman ..................................................

1 he Double Image, Robert Werner ......................... ..

The Dumb One, Jo Ann Hoffman.................................................. ..

Low Blow, Jean Unger Chase.............................................................

Dissertation on Peanut Butter, Janet Lacey Eniptiness, Kathy Kanto ....................................................

Till the Long Trick’s Over, David K. Sturges............!!.*!!!

The Wasp’s Oversight, Loyde Hartley ...........................................

On Bomb Shelters, Loyde Hartley .................................................. ..

Triolets: Ah! Leisure, Jean Mattox ................................................

Shadow, Martha Deever.........................................................................

Job-College, Sondra Spangler .............................................................

May Snow, Judith Stone .................................................................

The Boy With the Curly Blond Hair, John Soliday................

Surf, Roger Caldzvcll ’58 ......................................................................

At the Reactor Pool Edge, Roger Caldwell..................................

Jazz Pond, Roger Caldwell ..................................................................

“Virginie”, Blanche Gehres..................................................................

To a Little Girl Dreaming in Broad Daylight, Dallas Taylor Arthur, Nancy Staats .............................................................................

Knowledge, Mary D. Thomas.............................................................

Upon Looking. John Soliday ................................................................ '^he Execution, Kay Blachlcdge .........................................................

My Ivory Deer, Martha Deever.........................................................

Remnant of Yesterday, Barbara Acton...........................................

You Know the Type, K.ay Koontz....................................................

The Infinite Possession. Rosemary Gorman..................................

Goodby Fly, John Soliday ....................................................................

Failure, Kay Plowman ...........................................................................

The Rig, John Soliday.............................................................................

Turquoise, Rosemary Richardson ........... ...........................................

New Year’s Eve, Judith Stone ...........................................................

Faltering Steps, Martha Deever.........................................................

Thoughts at Day’s End, Laurel Garman.......................................

Black and White, Herb Wood ........... ............................................... .

Suicide, Jo Ann Hoffman ....................................................................

Too Busy, Michael Dudley ........... .........................................................

Carry Me High, Sarah Rose Skaates................................................ .

Independence Day, Elizabeth Ann Werth......................................

On Christmas Eve, Barb Bushong.................................................... .

A Sense of Value, Barbara Acton .................................................... .

750 Stcul)an Street, Mercedes Blum ................................................

Darkness Within, Barbara Acton .......................................................

Procrustes and The Parrot, Judy Lynn Solmes.........................

An Indictment of the German People, F. Spencer Ott............

The Girl in the Library, Ronald Collins .......................................

Understanding, Priscilla Secrist ...........................................................

Millisecond, Roger Caldwell.................................................................. .

Ninetysix

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