The Messenger, Vol. 41, No. 4

WESTHAMPTONCOLLEGE DIRECTORY STUDENT GOVERNMENT.

'15 ... ........ .......... ..... . . . . ...... . . . President '15 .... ..... ... .. ... ...... ........ .. . . House President CONSTANCE M. GAY, '15 .. ............... .... .. . . . , ... . ... Vice-President FLORENCE ·BosToN, '17 ........................... . . . . ... ... ... Secretary MARGARET JAMES, '16 .. .... . . .... ... . .. . . ...... ... . . : ........

Treasurer

CELESTE LouisE

ANDERSON,

A. REAMS,

ATHLETIC ASSOCIATION. '16 ..... . . .................. . ........

SARA THOMAS, '15 ........................................

RUTH ELLIOTT, '17 ...........................................

SALLY WILLS HOLLAND, '16 ....................................

KATHLEEN

BLAND,

FANNY CRENSHAW ...•.....

: .................

....

. .....

. .. . . . . President Vice-President .S ecretary Treasurer . Athletic Director

CHI EPSILON LITERARY SOCIETY. '16 ................................... . President MARY C. SHINE, '15 ................ ' .... , .................

Vice•President MARGARET _K. MoNTEIRO, '15 ............... . .. .. ........ . .... .Secretary FI,ORENCE E . SMITH, '17 . . . ..... .......... . .... .... ..... . ...... Treasurer HELEN A. M0NSELL, '16 .......... .... . ........... . .... .. .. .. .. ... . . Critic

SALLY WILLS HOLLAND,

A. RuTH HELEN

Y. W. C. A. '17 .......... . ........ .. .......

MoNSELL, '16 ..................................

BosToN, '17 ............................

HARRIS, A.

FLORENCE

.. ......

EMILY

GARDNER •••.•.•.........•••.••...••.••••...•••.......

1 · GLADYS H. HOLLEMAN, '17. : •• .. •••• ·.•.•

••• ..•...

..

.... . . President Vice-President .Second Vice-President . Secretary . •••. . .• • • • Treasurer

THE MESSENGER (Westhampton Department).

'15 . . .. .. .. ........ . ..... . ....... .. ...... .... . Editor MARY DELIA SMITH, '15 . . . ... ... .. ..... . .... .. .... : .. . Business Manager MAY L. KELLER .. . ..... . ..... .. ....•. : .. .' ........• ... • . Advisory Editor

ETHEL

L. SMITHER,

LOUISE F. REAMS, '15 .......

SARA THOMAS, '15 ..... ....

THE SPIDER, .... . . . ......... . .. . .. .. ... . .Editor-in-Chief ... . .... .... . ... .. .. .. . .. .. . Business Manager

CONTENTS. SONNET. . . . . ......

ZAZELLE (Continued

. .. . ...........

. .. . ... ... . . Clyde C. Webster, '14.

191

Story-Part

I.) ... ... . .. .. ... . .. . .. . ... R. A . S.

192

THE RnoDEs ScHOLARSHIPs-SuccEss

OR FAILURE?---:

Prof. J.M.

CASTLES IN SPAIN (Personal Essay) .....

THE LAW (Short Story) .. ........

SONNET-To

MAURY ..........

. W . Burleigh Clarke, '18.

207 208

. .. . .. . . . .. . S. J. Rowland, '14 .

218

... . Margaret K. Mont eiro, '15.

219

. ... ... ... . Milo Hawks, '16 .

221

.. . R. A. S.

226

. ..... . .. .. .....

......

. .. . ....

APPLES-HISTORICALLY AND OTHERWISE (Essay) . ....

THE CREATOR (Poem) .............

202

. . . . . Florence Boston, '17.

To A FIGURE Ov.,ERA DooR (Poem) . . . . ......

LITTLE LASS (Short Story) . ... . ............

BALLADE OF SAINTS AND A SAINT ......

D. Olmsted.

. .. . I.

R . C., '18. 227

. .. . ... . ... . . . . .. . . J. W. G., '17.

231

. . . . . Emaya Les Bow, '15.

233

EDITORIALS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

238

. . . F'. C. Ellett, '15.

243

... ... . . . . . .. .. . G. Tyler Terrell, '16 .

245

TnE MISSING LINK (Short Story) .. .. . . . ....

ALUMNI NOTES .. .. ........

: . ... . .. . . . .. . . . . ....

EXCHANGES. . .. .. . . . .. . .. . ....

WESTHAMPTONDEPARTMENT.... , . , ... . .....

. . . ... .. .. , . .. . . .. . ...

248

VoL. XLI.

FEBRUARY, 1915.

No.4

SONNET. Clyde C. Webster, '14.

Oft have I wandered, when the day was o'er, And gloom pervaded my too-earthly life, To some beloved cathedral, where mad strife Ne'er entered, and have heard, through half-closed door, The stately organ's deep, melodious roar.

I stopped; my thoughts, just now with passion rife, Were strangely soothed; my mind, as by a knife, Was freed from binding thongs which seemed, the more I fought, to draw me down. I entered in, And saw, amid the deep-descending gloom, A grey-haired master bending o'er the keys; With far-off look, he wrought strange melodiesEnough to free a heart from deadly sin, Fit to redeem a soul from lasting doom.

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ZAZELLE. (PAGES

FROM THE CONFESSIONS

OF A CAD.)

R. A. S .

PART

D

I.

MUST begin by confessing that I did not duly appreciate the advantages of a college education, and that I had indulged too freely in the dissipations of college life.

For a long time my father bore with me as only a father can, and honored my checks most dutifully, till he became suddenly and unaccountably restive, and proceeded to bombard me with uncivil warnings that improvement in my conduct was expected ; or that my famous milch cow would go hopelessly dry.

I simply laughed at my parent's exquisite humor, and plunged deeper than ever into every form of extravagance and excess.

One morning I awoke in my rather decent apartment in St. Charles avenue, to find that the post-man had brought me what I hoped was a bonanza, in the shape of a business-like looking espistle from home, or, rather, from the office where my father manufactured my funds. I held the envelope up to the light; no check was silhouetted, but rather there appeared an ominous vacancy, which, with the keenest misgivings, I proceeded to delve. I feverishly tore open the cover, and drew forth the tiniest strip of the cheapest scrap paper, but on it were type-written these pregnant words: "ToM,-Despite all my warnings you have taken no heed, Your reports continue rotten (sic). You can now shift for yourself, as you may not expect a red cent from me until you have demonstrated that you are worth at least two bits a day. Bailing shrimps out of Lake Pontchartrain may prove profitable and healthful as well."

I read this over three times, from beginning to end, without being able to decipher any meaning other than my first glance had disclosed. As its purport flashed on me, my amazement

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passed to indignation, and from indignation to a settled fever, inconsistent with the shrewdest diplomacy . I had always suspected a grain of vulgarity in my sire, whose grandmother is said ¡ to have manufactured pralines and gumbo to support a family of twd ve, but all the noble Creole ancestors I had inherited on the distaff side revolted within me at the thought of my fishing for shrimps. I finally became cool and calm, fully convinced that all his ire was a mere flash in the pan. I accordingly sent him a carefully-phrased letter that reeked of sackcloth and ashes, and was rich in those promises that, like pie-crusts, are made to be speedily broken. A week passed. No reply. Creditors offensive. Another letter, almost wheedling. Yet another week. No reply, and creditors vituperative, and my ears assailed with rumors of sheriffs and other merciless expedients . An emissary dispatched to my father, as I had no mother to do my pleading; but the report was definite and convincing. I had nothing to hope, and was assured that the door would be closed in my nose (as the French say), should I attempt a personal interview, until I had made the two bits a day for a reasonable period.

(Apropos, the term two bits is anything but low bred in New Orleans, and quite above many a Creole capacity.)

I seemed to face the inevitable, but I was still fairly convinced that my treasurer, by divine right, would never permit the son of my mother to descend to any occupation unworthy of the line of Bienville. I determined to watch and wait, but, as watchful waiting is sometimes costly, I determined to sell my furniture, my pictures, my bric-a-brac, my rare pipes, my imcomparable pug, my jewel-mounted pistols, which were as good as brand new; my card table, with its wonderful hollow leg, receptive of decanters, .and, after paying my landlady, who must be made, to some degree, privy to my intentions, elude my other creditors by dropping below Canal street-that is, out of the fashionable world, and even out of the student world. Of course I should have to cover myself with night as with a garment, and eschew the day as I would the tongue of a railing woman. In retirement, th~n, and in meditation, for which I had hitherto had little time, I should await my father's return to sanity and remittances. True, there was an obstacle-I was in love, or,

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rather, I was going through the stages-candy, flowers, opera, suppers, sonnets, billets-doux, compliments-which are the outward and visible signs or symptoms of the divine passion, or that pleasing distemper that goes for it, at the volcanic age of twenty or thereabouts. But this sort of love, without tribute money, is unthinkable. With the thinning of my purse, my love abated, for the time being, to burst forth once more when I could conduct it in the royal fashion it deserved. Moselle-I think that was her name, or, perhaps, after the lapse of years, I am wandering off jnto geography-was informed, on my last sheet of crested paper, that I was suddenly called out of town on pressing business, without even the time to see my most cherished friends, but would be back anon (I'm quite sure anon was the colorless expression I used). Then I sealed, kissed, mailed the note, and dismissed Moselle to a back apartment of my memory.

With one trunk only, I departed by night, and circuitously, to my new home that I had chosen on Bourbon street (never street was so mis-named-Robespierre street, or Rue de la Guillotine, would have suited it better), in a weather-beaten old lodginghouse, kept by an aged and bearded Creole woman, and frequented by musicians of the Grand Opera, and by those who dapce and prance to their discords. The house was clean and physically decent within, and the boarding-house odors were reduced to a minimum. To my amazement, I was to pay only twenty-five dollars a month for tout compris, with the exception of laundry and towels, and could study all the human nature I wanted, to boot. My first few days and nights in these novel surroundings I shall pass over in silence; the process of re-adjustment was painful, but finally complete. I made friends of the lodgers, ate my meals with what relish I could, read novels all day, and ventured out little except by night, and was amazingly happy.

Now, among my fellow boarders was a Monsieur Ronsard, who played the 'cello at the French Opera. A simple, quiet soul he was, with sallow, withered skin, and features that added to the gaiety of nations, though his age might not have been greater than thirty or thirty-five at the most. He wore his hair long, down on his shoulders, and a heavy, black string that at-

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tacbed his eye-glasses heightened the whimsicality of his outlook.

His meagre salary necessitated the use of garments far beyond their allotted span, but his lustrous coat was innocent of spots, and his boots were always carefully polished and his hair greased with pomade. For the questionable jests of most of his fellow lodgers he had no taste, and seemed to be wrapped up in music, which was his soul, and in an attachment which I was not long in discovering. Ronsard was in, up to the ears.

Now, for all my faults, I was not such a bad fellow that I failed to feel a sort of intere st, and almost tenderness, for the poor beggar, and I was consumed by a desire to turn him inside out, so to speak, and to discover whether this sub-stratum of society experiences the same emotions and desires as those of a finer clay. Besides, I was interested in the theory and practice of love, as a victim to the tender passion myself. Very persistently, then, I set about gaining his confidence, and it was not long before he was pouring out his inmost soul with a childish naivete.

"Zazelle," it developed, was the incomparable being, and her father, who was invested with reflected glory, kept a kind of "Old Curiosity Shop," and was commonly known in the quarter as Pere Ferrier. Instantly there arose in my mind the door of an ancient shop, and a vision of a fresh, youthful, wistful face peering through the dingy panes into the unknown outer world.

I recalled that I had gazed, without interest and without curiosity, with a colorless stare.

"Why do they call her 'Zazelle' ? " I asked.

"Oh, dat ees for 'Mademoiselle.' Dey all call her dat, for she ees so like a ladee-a fine ladee, zee?"

"A good girl, eh?" I continued, with a grain of cynicism in my tone.

"Oh, certainlee; she ees parfaite. She make no seen a'tall.

W'at seen could she make all day in de store? I love her veree, veree much."

He sighed most comically, but I restrained a smile and persisted .

"You love her, and it's a cinch (I was slangy then) she loves you. How could she help it? So why don't you go ahead and get spliced, eh, Ronsard?"

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"Alas! Monsieur, I cannot marry on twenty-five dollar'; it ees so leetle, so leetle, and den you can't tell w'at might 'ap-pen.

But eef she would only sing in de chorus at de Opera, we could piece de two ends togedder, and she has such a beau-ti-ful voice, so exquise." He lifted his eyes in rapture.

"So she refuses to marry you rather than make a little sacrifice like that," I said, with mock seriousness.

"Ya-as, I thing sometime she do not re11llylove me, mais no; she ees a good girl, and make no seen."

"Look here, old fellow, I'm a pretty good persuader for my years and figure. Suppose you introduce me to Mlle. Zazelle, and let me see what I can do for you."

He chuckled at the combination I had used, and then accepted my offer, with gratitude in his innocent heart, eagerly insisting that I should make a start that evening, as there was "Relache" at the Opera, and he was accordingly free.

After supper the lover came down-stairs, spotless, but still thread-bare. The only apparent change in his dress was a fresh collar, very much frazzled, and a dazzling rainbow tie, clearly reserved for occasions of state. I approved of myself highly for wishing to give him a new suit, but, with my own doubtful prospects, I contented myself with the thought that charity is in the intention, after all. After glancing at himself in the clouded mirror of the herding-room-I can't call it the drawing-roomhe locked his arm in mine, and we started out on our adventure.

In the street a misty rain forced us to snug close under the balconies, but, as we had only a square or two to cover, we reached our goal in presentable shape. On passing the shop window I halted to take a glimpse at its marvelous contents-masks, gowns of bizarre cut, false beards and mustachios, stuffed birds, antique clocks, with brass claw feet, and a hundred miscellania besidesa true museum of oddities. Now, befor~ Ronsard could reach his anxious hand to turn the knob of the door, I plucked him by the sleeve, to ask him a question.

"Does Mr. Ferrier find much sale for these freaks?"

"Freaks? Oh, Monsieur, dose ees rarities, so choice and recherc.he. W'en you speak wid 'eem you mus' not talk dat way.

You mus' treat dem as you would his family-his Zazelle" (Ron-

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sard sighed deeply). "You zee, Monsieur, he make some money at Mardi Gras time, but so little much at odder time. It ees part his fault, to 'eem. He love his things so much; he has dem since so long, he cannot bear to separate himself from dem. Old. people like old things, you know, but wid de young it ees deefferent.."

I was a moment in catching the pith of his last remark-he himself seemed so stone old to a stripling of twenty.

"Your dowry-your dot-won't be any too much," I ventured.

"W'at is eet de dot makes to me," he was quick to retort, "eef I get Zazelle. Eef she would oniy seeng in de chorus, I would be de happiest man in Louisiane." He sighed again, as he turned the knob, and we entered into the dimness and du~t. At first my eye could see no human form; and the masks and grotesques about me filled me with a feeling of awe. But presently there came from the depths of the shop a thin voice, which my slender knowledge of French interpreted as an invitation, so we proceeded in the direction whence it came. Two figures were sitting beside a tiny stove.

"I can have de happiness," Ronsard began, in near-English, "to present you to my good friend, M. Rogers, who I take de libertee to bring wid me dis evenin'. He speak American French, so we should speak in English, yes."

The father rose painfully, and stretched out his withered hand, which I took mechanically, for I was busily scrutinizing the beloved of M. Ronsard. Dropping the aged fingers with more haste than courtesy, I followed up Ronsard's second introduction by pressing a softer hand, as I told the owner how much, how very much, I had heard of her from the lips of my dear friend Ronsard. She blushed, stammered a few words, and cast her eyes down, whereupon I took the license of staring more boldly.

Rather pretty young squab, I thought to myself. Decidedly Creole, with large, lustrous black eyes, full of wonder and yearning; a nose rather too large for a Bienville, yet decent, and not the least saucy; that complexion, transparently olive, almost mulatto, that bewilders the Northerner, and arouses unjust suspicions; a forehead well shaped for a doll, and giving promise of brain cells beneath more suited for loving than learning-a type that men

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find bewitching, and many women call insipid. Her dress was red, which makes me shiver when I see it on a lady, but seems to sit well enough on a daughter of the people. A ribbon of the same shade was twined through her luxuriant hair. After I had embarrassed her enough to bring out the fullness of her modest beauty, I turned my attention to the father once more. A wizened, unhealthy-looking chap, with scant hair on his temporals, "blossomin' fer de tomb," as the darkies say, but on either side of his imperial Roman nose two little pig eyes still shot out sparks of life. A skull cap replaced the absent hair on his ancient skull, and a soiled dressing gown, that had once been blue, swallowed up his spare person in its voluminous folds. At the invitation of the animated mummy we had seated ourselves on decrepit arm-chairs, covered with faded and torn tapestry-relics of some decayed Creole mansion.

"You have lots of queer old things here, Monsieur," I began, by way of breaking the ice. "There must be strange tales attached to each of them."

"Yes, Monsieur; they all 'ave a heestory. I love dem all. I adore dem. The American veesitor at Mardi Gras want to buy de theengs I love best, an', alas! I must sell some to buy to leeve wid; but I would like to keep all of dem-all of dem."

He launched on a rambling account of some his choicest of treasures-boot-jacks that belonged to Spanish grandees, shoe buckles of French adventurers, and even gowns et al. of great ladies, made up his objets de luxe that he would not have sold for a fortune. As the old man rejoiced to run his course, my eyes were on Zazelle, beside whom Ronsard had drawn his seat, tasting a profound, though silent, felicity. As Pere Ferrier finally halted to catch his scanty breath, I boldly directed a question to the daughter.

"M. Ronsard tells me you have a marvelous voice. Won't you sing a little for us, Mademoiselle?"

She raised her eyes timidly, and stammered.

"All my flatterers ees not dead, I see. I seeng only a leetle.

I seeng at de Ca-the-dral sometime-dat ees all."

"Good girl! And you always go to mass and confession?"

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"Yes, but I do not like de sermon, so I always go to low mass; 'tis so ennuyant, w'at you call dat?"

"What sins have you to confess?" I laughed.

"Seens-oh, I make many seens, I think. Once I write my seens on a piece of paper, like dat, . an' read dem to de priest-de deaf priest dat I go to; but he say dat was too long, an' w'at I 'ad was not seen nohow, but I couldn't remember notin' else, no!"

I laughed again, and persisted that she should sing, while Ronsard clapped his hands, and called for the French version of a then popular song-a version that he himself had composed.

She giggled, blushed, protested, was urged a little more, and ended by complying. The song was a queer parody, entitled "Les Yeux Goo-goo," of which I could catch a line or two here and there-" Juste parce qu'elle a fait ces yeux goo-goo"-but the singer's tones and expression even aroused the ancient mummy to a chuckle, while Ronsard and I were immoderate in our merriment and applause. Despite all the sins of technique, at the end of the song I joined in urging her to repeat just once, just once.

But, as if she had committed a sin that weighed on her conscience, she was obdurate, till the tempters had to give up at last. Ronsard heaved a deep sigh, and I knew he was thinking of the Opera, and how easily they could be made happy.

When we took our leave it was 11 o'clock by one of the ancient clocks, and 10:30 by another, and I am not sure it was not midnight by the tall, claw-footed grandfather in the corner.

But the time had passed pleasantly enough, and the experience was certainly novel. All the way home my .companion poured out his soul about Zazelle, as I applied the balm of sympathy as well as I could. Later, in the chillness of my room, I couldn't help comparing this naive love-making with the complicated maneuvers of a man of the world-not to the advantage of the latter. But love unreturned is a very stale article indeed, and I had convinced myself that in this case the affection was all on one side. At any rate, I determined to cultivate the girl's acquaintance, and find out for myself, and the very next day I determined to begin.

As my time was all leisure still, though a different sort of

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leisure to that of former days, I sauntered down the street after breakfast, and stopped in front of Pere Ferrier's shop. Raising my eyes, I was amazed to catch those of Zazelle peering through the glass door, and instantly I could see that the olive of her skin had taken on a reddish tinge. I was not unwelcome, at least, and, indeed, she did not run away as I pushed open the door and entered.

"I was passing, and I thought I would drop in and price a mask for Mardi Gras," I explained.

"Mon pere ees not at 'ome, but I will be much content to show you," she replied.

"Another time will do as well; Mardi Gras is some time off yet. Would you mind my talking to you a little while?"

"Oh, no, no-not by no means. I would be charmee. I am so nearly expire in de shop all day. I get so solitaire, yes."

"But Ronsard comes to see you often, doesn't he?"

She looked vexed.

"Yes, he come so ver' much, you know; he make me ennuyee, w'at you call dat?"

"But you like him a lot, don't you?"

"Mon pere, he tell me I do, an' dat I ought to marry wid M. Ronsard, an' I don't say no, but I don't say' yes.' " "Ronsard would make you a very good husband, Mlle.

Za-" "It ees so funny like dat to hear you call me Mlle. Zazelle," "You can call me Zazelle. All de world call interrupted. she Zazelle." me "Well, all right, Zazelle; you think Ronsard's a good man," I persisted.

"Ye-el', he make not many seens, je pense, mais certainlee; he ees so bete, so stupeede. And den he want me to seeng in de epouvantable chorus, so to get money to marry wid. He thing I 'ave a great success, but I 'ave fea;r of de op-er-a; yes, de men, dey stare at you so 'ard, so 'ard."

"That's right, Zazelle; I think he ought to be afraid for you to go on the stage."

"Oh, he say I ees so very good I could make no seens, not like odder women."

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"He may be right, Zazelle, but I shouldn't like to see you on the stage. Anyhow, you'll let me come again, and I'll try to persuade you to like Ronsard. Will you?"

"Oh, yes, yes, you must come. I admire to see you, and it make me so much pleasure to hear you speak English; but we won't talk of M. Ronsard, he ees so stupeede. Mais, man Dieu, you won't tell 'im w'at I say, no?"

I assured her I would not, and then we chatted on, you may be sure, until I deemed it wise to go home. When I saw Ronsard at dinner, and told him how loudly I had sung his praises, his face lighted up with ecstacy; for the thought that I might be a Lothario never once entered his mind. Living, as he did, in the midst of a moral cess-pool, he had nevertheless preserved the full measure of innocence and naive trustfulness of a child.

(To be continued.)

~~~

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THE RHODES SCHOLARSHIP-SUCCESS OR FAILURE? Prof. J. M. D. Olmsted.

[i

EN years ago last fall a great experiment was begun.

Forty young men, each from a different State in the Union, entered an ancient English University on scholarships founded by a man whose thoughts were so large th at they included world empires. It was an experiment, the outcom e of which no one could foretell. Would the new element simply be absorbed, assimilated? Or would it modify Oxford, and make any appreciable changes in its medireval ways?

Ten years is hardly long enough to fully judge the results of an experiment of so gigantic an intent. Indications, however, are valuable, and, so far, reports are favorable as to the effects, both on the Americans and on Oxford itself. The official magazine of the Alumni Association of American Rhodes Scholars, The Am erican Oxonian, has an article in the April (1914) issue, writt en by Sidney Ball, Fellow and Senior Tutor of St. John's College, Oxford. This article on Oxford's opinion of Rhodes scholars is so interesting to friends of Rhodes' scheme that quotations will not be amiss.

"It is not possible to pass more than a provisional and tentative judgment on the success of a scheme which is still in its infancy , and has not yet passed through all the trials and ailments of infancy. Yet every year * * * makes it more and more certain that the scheme is having the effect on Rhodes scholars and on Oxford (it would not be too much to say, on the world) that the founder desired." The author claims that the Rhod es scholars have not been absorbed, nor yet have they failed to become an integral part of the great University. They have been acted upon, and they also re-act. He commends th eir zeal for work, and their steadying influence, chiefly because they ar e older than the ordinary Freshmen. They have a valuable influence on the side of temperance and economy. They show concentration and definiteness of purpose. They seem to place

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the proper emphasis on the place of athletics in their University life, and "since they put as much method and energy into their athletics as into their work," they have been more than Urdinarily successful. The author seems to be struck with the seriousmindedness qf the American Rhodes scholar. As to their ranking in scholastic honors, "the record is much what one would have expected, and would probably not be far short of the results obtained by the holders of open (competitive) scholarships" among the English students. He speaks tactfully of criticisms . which might be made on our American colleges and universities, as judged by these products they turn out. He thinks that Americans "come provided with schemes of work which are far too ambitious, and too much laid out with a view to extensive rather than intensive cultivation." "They are at first unwilling to take advice as to their course of study."

This criticism is just, in my opinion. During our four years at college here we take a nibble at every subject in the curriculum, from math. to sociology, and biology to political science. And, when some one asks us about, say, a fact in history, we scratch our heads, and exclaim, "Why! I ought to know that! I passed history last year." That is what we are forever doing-passing courses, mostly out of our minds. The English system is truly "intensive."

One studies one subject only for two. or more years, and then, in five to six days, he tells the examiners all he knows about that subject.

We think an undergraduate should be engaged in more scattered, and, usually, smattered studies. Perhaps the ideal lies in the happy medium between the two systems.

But the Oxford system, even if not ideal, seems to accomplish its purposes.

The three main aims of Cecil Rhodes in founding the scholarships were "the consolidation of the British Empire, the unification of the Anglo-Saxon races, and the peace and good-will of the world." Mr. Ball pays this tribute to the Rhodes scholars: "I may truly say that the faith I have in the aims of the founder is more and more confirmed by the faith I have in his scholars."

Such, then, is Oxford's opinion of the Rhodes scholars.

Now, what is their opinion of Oxford? I have never yet talked with a Rhodes scholar who was not enthusiastic over the scheme.

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I, for one, count the memory of those experiences my dearest possession. The very buildings, old and crumbling, hold a very large place in my affections. The intercourse with other peoples brings toleration. There are ways of doing things other than Richmond's ways, and we are just as funny to foreigners as they to us. We are too often like the American lady in France, who watched the stolid peasants clumping along in their wooden sabots, and exclaimed, "Oh, I wonder if they realize they are foreigners."

The opportunity for travel has always been a winning card for Americans. We are a curious people, and are always much interested in our neighbor's affairs. But, in the case of Rhodes scholars, the opportunity for continentar travel has been overemphasized. "See England first, and learn the English," should be their motto. This would more nearly carry out the idea of the founder, and is, in fact, being done by the more recent scholars.

But, aside from these obvious benefits, which are not peculiar to Rhodes scholars, what has been ¡ gained from Oxford as a university that has made it worth while?

An article in the January (1914) American Oxonian, by W. D. Wallis (Maryland and Wadham), answers this question.

"To me nothing seems to have been so much worth while as the inculcation of the critical, think-for-yourself attitude. In every possible way it was invited." * * * "And yet, how many of our teachers are mere waiters at the intellectual boardinghouse table, rather than instructors in the intellectual exercise which gives both command and development."

After all, the highest accomplishment of an education is the power to think. The doubt in the mind of Mr. Wallis as to whether American teachers really accomplish this, is shared by a few of the teachers themselves. We are too prone to stand before our classes and throw predigested mental food to our pupils, hoping that enough facts will stick by them until exams. are over. Such is impossible in the English system. I have heard more than one Rhodes scholar who, although he held a B. A. from an American college before going to Oxford, claim that it was at Oxford that he first learned the secret of actually making his mind work for him. I know it was so in my case.

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Oxford has, therefore, left its impress on the Rhodes scholars in stimulating desirable mental habits which might never have been acquired otherwise. It is true that there has been a give , and a take, but, as we look back, it seems to us to be mostly take.

To quote from Mr. Ball again: "Oxford has won the Rhodes scholars to it, and the Rhodes scholars have won Oxford to them."

And herein lieth the marvel. No Rhodes scholar has ever been more than an average man. Our college stars have never tried for the scholarships. Each year there come up three or four men only, in each State, to try the examinations. Is any one of these three or four the most popular man in his college, or the one to whom the college would proudly point as its particular type of student? Or is he that exceptional combination of genius, an athlete and a scholar together? No, these men rarely try the Rhodes examinations. American colleges have a great responsibility in sending men to England to stand up against the products of the English public schools. These men will slowly, but surely, have their effect on Oxford, and, in turn, bring back a leaven to our own country. Don't we want to send over the best men we can, the best products of our American system? And what choice can a State committee have if there is but one candidate in the whole State, and, as often happens, that one a left-over from a previous selection? I think this is a view-point entirely overlooked. The usual argument is, "Just see what you are going to get," seldom "What are yqu going to give?"

Far be it from me to cast the slightest reflection on past Rhodes scholars, for I am "one of which." But I do think that the indications of the success of Cecil Rhodes' scheme might have been more pronounced had there been wider choice among candidates.

Returned Rhodes scholars have been asked why this condition exists, and, with one voice, they have replied, "I gnorance." No one knows what the Rhodes scholarships are, how • to get one, how much they are worth, how many there are, etc., etc. We should have a publicity campaign. Perhaps it might "pay to advertise." At any rate, on October 5th-6th, 1915, will be held, in each State in the United States, examinations, the passing of which qualifies one for an appointment to a scholarship .

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It is the hope of the writer of this article that at least a dozen Richmond College men will present themselves at thi~ examination, and pass, of course. Then, from Virginia, at least, there can be no complaint of lack of choice. Get busy, and take a chance on this big opportunity. If you don't get it, you will help in forcing the best man to go. What we need is a team of scrubs with some Richmond College foot-ball spirit, to make the Rhodes scholarships "get across."

RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER.

TO A FIGURE OVER A DOOR. W. Burleigh Clarke, '18.

Upward heaves his iron thighs And strains his heart'Tis but a silent, suff'ring child of FancyDisreputable Dame! ¡ But what's a name?

For writhing human passions agonize His face, and spell no lies.

Wer't not enough the silent stranger dies?

A child of Fancy, whose bronze image wrought, Lives yet in clearer lines than ever Fancy caught.

Breathes strong the soulSad soul-of this metallic mock.

Eludes the quiv'ring tendrils of our thought, As Fancy ever will, not as she ought.

And shrieks amain In tense obscurity.

Fast there above the lintel of the door Hard plys his trade, A man conceived of man-yet nameless; At random born of some mad artist's brain; And reeks of wretchedness.

Nor hope, ambition, guerdon gained he knows, There o'er the door; But, breathing soft, "Eternity," plies on, Fast there forevermore.

207

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LITTLE LASS. Florence Boston, '17.

(I

HE cloying odor of the locust bloom filled the air. The two men unconsciously took in great whiffs of its sweetness with each breath, as they lay drowsing by a fire, from which there rose a lustrous column of stars that seemed to mingle with the paler stars above. Aroused by the flaring flame, a thrush in a near-by tree uttered a sleepy " tw-eet, tw-eet, tw-ee," and then relapsed into the many-voiced silence of the forest.

"Why in the devil don't you talk, boy? I'm blessed if I can sit here havin' my memory tortured by that confounded locust smell an' the chirp of that little rascal perched in yonder tree."

The utterer of this gentle ejaculation was a long-limbed, redhaired man, who, in temperament, seemed to be no exception to the established traditions of the red-haired class.

His companion, little more than a boy, straightened up.

In their two years of close intimacy he had never heard Gerry Burke speak in that tone, or with such feeling. Indeed, he had often laughed at the big fellow's almost childish delight over the birds and other small folk of the forest. The other members of ¡ the surveying corps had turned in for the night, but these two still kept watch; and the "boy," as Gerry called him, replenished the fire with some pine knots, which blazed up, and cast grotesque shadows over the two khaki-clad figures.

"I tell you, boy, maybe I was a leetle too strong, but the ' tw-eet ' of that little brown thrush was just like putting your forefinger on a festered place, an', not satisfied with that, scratching it a little. The little lass used to have that as her whistle."

His blue-black eyes softened, and there was an uncontrolable twitch around his mouth. He paused. The boy leaned back on his elbow-waiting. ¡ A soft breeze stole from the sleeping valley, bringing with it a more pungent whiff of the deadly sweet locust blooins. Somewhere above them the plaintive " who-o-o "

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of an owl broke the stillness of the night, and, ricocheting on the distant mountain side that skirted the valley, came back with soft and languid reverberations.

"It will be five years ago to-night that I told the little lass good-bye-for only a year, as I then thought. We were surveying Rainbow . Ridge for the Government, over in the southwestern part of the State. The mountaineers called it Hunchback, on account of its round outline against the sky; but, when we first saw it, with its masses of bright pink rhododendron, the softer pink of the laurel, an' the sprinklin' of white bloomin' locust trees, all minglin' with the green of the leaves, it made what I'd call a fairly good rainbow-so Rainbow we decided it should be.

"You know those mountaineers down there are a curious set of folks. Shy? Why, one of these little grey squirrels aroun' here seem real brazen-faced by comparison. But, finally, after we had been aroun' about a week, an' didn't seem to have any great curiosity about their <loin's, or a desire to hunt for moonshine stills up the creeks, they'd drop in of an evenin', an' sit aroun' our fire an' listen. We needed an extra man on the corps, to help cut away some of the underbrush, which was pretty thick aroun' there, so we took Dan'el on account of his six foot of muscle; but there was somethin' about his fa.ce I didn't exactly like. When I first saw him the thought shot through my mind that he'd be treacherous. Then I laughed at myself. To keep Uncle •Sam from gettin' good money's worth from a man just because he seemed to have a yellow streak in him didn't seem quite sensible.

"Not long after he had been put on, one of the mountaineers · asked us ' to come to a honey-tree smokin' that afternoon. The men jumped at the idea, as breakin' the dull run of our life,.besides promisin' a little sweet'nin' for our corn-bread at supper.

I guess most of the folks on our side· of the ridge were there, even a few of the women, who are seldom seen at such frolics. There was one girl there, about finishin' up her 'teens, I should reckon.

She didn't have that tired-to-death, hopeless expression like the others, but reminded a body of a spot of sunshine on the water, givin' a hint of treasures at the bottom of the sunshiny place."

The boy shook his head and smiled.

"But that's the truth, boy. Probably it was the light in

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the depths of her dark-brown eyes, or the way the sun shone on her hair, bringin' out the chestnut color a trifle stronger, or maybe the warmth of her brown neck, which caused the stray locks to knot up into little curls as she leaned over to tie up her coarse shoe; maybe it was one, or all, of these things that drew me to her, but I believe it was, most of all, just the sunshine she seemed to move in.

"Well, as I was lookin' at her, and thinkin', up saunters Dan'el, an' offers to get her some honey, if she'd choose any! A look he gave her rather nettled me, so, thinks I to myself, ' I'll just get her some first.'

"The fellows had been smokin' the bees out, an' they were droppin' aroun' like bloated flies off the backs of cattle on a hot August day-you've seen them like that, boy? So I takes my axe, an', bein' new at the business, gave a mighty whack at that hollow locust tree, where I thought the honey was. Well, sir, it seemed as if them bees had just got nourishment like the cattleflies, for no sooner had I stuck in my axe than the whole swarm seemed to make for me. I lit out, but they lit on first, and got a free ride at about eighty miles per hour down grade, for instinct told me to go downward an' maybe I'd strike some water, which I did, just in time to save the tender ears of the on-lookers from a first-rate lesson in modern cussin'.''

He chuckled.

"Yes, they were tender ears, especially that --Dan'el's.

"The others followed at a safe distance, but that little browneyed lassie just stepped right up an' said, 'Wait thar a bit, an' I'll git ye a tobaccy poultiss'; an' off she shoots through the trees, almost before I knew she was there.

"I sat bathing my poor face, which the Lord didn't bless with much beauty anyway, an', on account of them pesky bees, you couldn't have told where my hair stopped. Pretty soon the little lass came back, an' tied me up good fashion. Well, we conversed a bit, or, rather, I did, she sayin' 'Yes, suh,' an' 'No, suh,' an' it seemed like wild horses couldn't have dragged out anything else.

"I was remarkin' it was a nice day, though warm in spots, referrin' to my face, when up steps Dan'el, with a pail flowing with milk and honey, like that old hymn-only minus the milk.

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" 'Julie,' says he, with the accent on the Ju, 'here's some honey, an' I'll tote it home if you 'low to go 'long 'bout now.'

"Julie thanked him, an' got up sort er slow, I flattered myself, an' followed-he a-stridin' on ahead like the lord o' creation. I wondered if they were 'keepin' comp'ny,' an' then-I thought no more about it, my vacant thoughts bein' pretty busy with them pesky little stings resemblin' hell-fire. Honest, I believe if one bee stung me, there was a good hundred. But, anyhow, I guess my system was run down, for the next mornin' I couldn't leave my bunk, an' for two or three days I had to lay off. As I began to feel more like Gerry Burke, I lounged aroun' an' took some investments of our side of the ridge. Our camp was a couple of hundred yards from the summit of Rainbow. A little to our left was a steep precipice, with a sheer drop of about three hundred yards.

"As I was meanderin' aroun' I went to the edge an' looked over. Right at the base of that cliff snuggled a little cabin, with the blue smoke a-curlin' out of the chimney. At one side was a miniatur' .plot of a garden, an' a woman was hoein' the blades of corn, while every now an' then another woman would come to the door an' say somethin' to her. As I looked, the woman that was hoein' straightened up, an' shook her shoulders, kinder tired l_ike. She wasn't tall-where had I seen that brown head before, thinks I to myself. Ungrateful cuss! Why, she's the one that made the poultice. An' I took another look, an', sure enough, it was the very same 'Little Lass,' as I had called her to myself.

"There I was, sittin' aroun', an' she havin' to shake her shoulders from very tiredness . I looked about to see if there was any way to get down that sudden descent without slidin', as my breeches were already worn in spots. By goin' aroun', I made my way to the little cabin; but my interest not bein' in the cabin, I walks aroun' to the back, an' there she was, with the hot sun broilin' on her back, an' that same little curl on her brown neck.

She hadn't seen me, so I tipped up easy-like, and put my hand on the hoe. " 'There, Miss Julie,' says I-for I hadn't called her 'Little Lass' then-' go rest a bit, an' I'll finish up this little job.'

"She straightened up with a startled look, an' then seein'

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the bandages, topped by red hair, she gave a tired sigh, an' slipped into the cabin.

"Well, from that moment we started bein' pals, though our conversation was gen'rally sorter one-sided. 'Till one day a strange thing happened.

"Little Lass always went to the spring about sun-down every day, an' I made it a coincidence to like that partic'lar spring water, an' go there for a drink myself, feelin' sure it would help my constitution. Well, this partic'lar evenin' I thought I'd try a surprise on Little Lass, an' also give her a lift with her pails . ." So I stepped behin' some bushes, an' let her pass by; an' then, when she was dippin' her bucket into the spring, I crept up, easy-like, behin' her, and there was my face alongside of hers in the water, an' my eyes were lookin' into hers, an'-an' she smiled-an', boy, it was such a trustful smile." · He paused. Again that uncontrollable twitching around his lips.

"But the bucket had to come out of the spring, an', as I raised the bucket, an' my eyes at the same time, there was the face of Dan'el, peerin' out at us from over the bushes. As soon as his eyes met mine his face disappeared, an' there was only a slight rustle in the bushes. The look on that face stunned me for a moment. It was black with passion. I looked at Little Lass.

She had seen it too, an' was tremblin' like one of her own laurels in a storm. I went over to the bushes, but no one was there; only the print of a big, square heel in the soft loam made me know I hadn't been dreamin'-an', then, she had seen it, too.

"After that there was a sort of understandin' between me an' the little lass, though I never talked love stuff to her.

"I had a few books, an' often, when we'd come in from work, I'd go down at night to the little cabin, an' give her a few lessons in A, B, C's, an' such. Boy, I tell you, she was bright! Could catch on in little or no time. .She an' her mother, you know, lived there alone, worked their own patch •'of groun', kept their corn for bread an' sold their tobacco, except just enough for the old woman's pipe.

"Not long after that the men complained of Dan'el .'s ugly temper, an' · threw out a few hints that there was a still, whose

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output helped along a disposition none of the best to start with; so I kept a pretty close eye on him.

"One mornin' he was cuttin' brush, an' didn't seem to be thinkin', or lookin' where he was cuttin'. I saw trouble ¡ was brewin', an' I told him, kind of sharp, to watch where he put that axe. He was only waitin' for a word. With a 'Dam yo' cussed face, I'll not be a-forgittin' this,' he strode off down the mountain. I was thankful he went off that easy, an' let him go on, almost prayin' he'd never cross my path again.

"Lit.tie Lass an' I had watched some of the little birds together; it was matin' season, an' she 'specially liked to give a call to the thrush . Often we would whistle one right up to us, an' then Little Lass, from pure joy, would bubble over, an' away would fly the bird. So I got so I would whistle as I went down to the cabin of an evenin', an' often I heard an answer, first on one side an' then on the other, an', finally, I found it was Little Lass teasin' me. An' when I'd catch up with her, how she'd laugh out-not in loud tones, but just in a sort of a-er-ripple!

"Next to the thrush, she loved the locust tree. I couldn't understan' this, an' I would ask an' ask her why she did, because I had always thought it too sweet. But I never could get her to tell me, until one day, comin' from the spring, we passed by a locust tree, an' she drew in great whiffs of the blossoms, then beginnin' to wilt, but all the sweeter for that, so I says, 'Little Lass, please tell me why you like the locust sb much?'

"She stopped a minute-an' it seemed to me the prettiest color in all the world came over her face, as she said, 'Mr. Gerry, I always liked that tree somehow, an' then you know the bees like it, an' maybe sometimes, you know, there's honey in its trunkan' yo' uns likes honey-an yo' uns had come to a locust tree to get some the first time I ever-' an' then she ran home, an' that was the last I could see of Little Lass that night.

"I can't explain it, boy, but that little girl just had a way of windin' herself up in your heart-strings. All the pretty things I'd find I'd catch myself takin' to her, just to see the sunshine in her eyes.

"Well, that was a sort of Eden for a while. All too soon we finished our job on Rainbow, an' it was move or get moved off

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by Uncle Sam. So one night I goes down to the little cabin for the last time. An' I calls Little Lass to come out. She seemed to know somethin' was up, for her mouth drooped a little, but otherwise she was my same Little Lass. "'Little Lass,' says I, 'I've got to go away-back down into the valleys I've told you about, where there are so many people, an' so many things. I'd like to take you with me, Little Lass,' says I. "An', boy, what do you think that girl answered? Though she was little, she stood up so straight it 'most scared me. " 'Mr. Gerry,' (I never could get her to call me anything else,) 'Mr. Gerry, what would you do with me over yonder in the Big Valley,' (that's what she called the world beyon' the mountains) 'with all them folks that knows so much?'

"That sorter stung me, but I let loose with somethin' 'bout I couldn't get along without her, an' my hand went out an' foun' hers in the darkness, an', boy, it was such a cold little hand. But, as I held it, it warmed up, and clung to mine. But the little lass broke down an' sobbed, 'Oh, I do want to go wit ye; I do!

I do!'

"I just did what any other man would have done under the circumstances, an' kissed her tears away. But she held firm, an' budge her one single inch I couldn't.

"Then she says, 'Mr. Gerry,' (but, feelin' a squeeze of her hand, she said, 'Gerry,' an', though it was dark, I know she blushed), 'Gerry, leave me yo' books, an' I'll loirn mysel' to .talk like the folks in the Big Valley, an' maybe-maybe next spring'she stopped sudden.

"I was awful cut up about it, but, seein' she was bent an' determined, I finally gave in, an' told her I'd send her all the books she could possibly use. The railroad was thirty miles, but she said she'd get them somehow. Then she asked me one more question, an' I'll never forget it. " 'When air ye comin' back fer me, Gerry?'

"There was something in the tone of it I didn't understan'.

I know now it was fear-fear of the unknown-the untried future-fear of the big world over yonder in the Big Valley.

"I just took that little mite of humanity in my arms, my little

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bit . o' heaven, an' swore, by all the holy angels, I'd never leave her.

"But it was to be. She made me promise not to come back for hei: until the little brown thru sh was singin' an' the locust were in bloom. An' as I left her in the starlight she railed out, 'Mr. Gerry, l'll loirn mysel' to talk like yo ' uns in the Big Valley by the next time ye¡ comes through th' woods.'

"Then she whistled 'tw-eet, tw-eet, tw-' but the last must have gotten lost in those red lips which wouldn't pucker rightfor it never came.

"So, boy, I left Little Lass with a smile on her face, a sob in her throat, an' a gone feelin' in my heart."

He chunked again the dying fire, but the sparks rose only dispiritedly, and the boy didn't attempt to build it up.

"I sent her a stack of books, an' in September I got a note, written with words stragglin' across the page. I remember every word, an' how it looked: " 'Dear Gerry,-l'm down her on Rainbow. I found the books at the station. Thank you. I'll study them hard all the winter. The brown thrush don't sing no more. Jul ee.'

"I wrote to her often, but my lett ers came back to me. No one ever tried to get over to Rainbow Ridge in the winter.

"So, late in May, I started out with my heart 'most a-poppin', to bring Little Lass to the Big Valley. It was a two-day s' trip on the train, an' then a good day on horse-back, to get to Rainbow Ridge.

"Just before sunset I got to the foot of it, an' started to climb. There it was- Rainbow Ridge, in all its God-given glory of laurel and locust blossoms. A sudden warm feeling rose in my heart as a brown thrush flew right up the trail, an' sang out 'tw- eet, tw-eet, tw-ee.' I shouted to it, an' whipped up my poor, jad ed old nag.

"Sure it was the Little Lasr, I was goin' for. I whistled, an' my lips would only form for that 'tw-eet, tw-ee, tw-ee.' I was a fool, but I was a happy fool.

"It was growin' dark as I turned the bend, an' th ere was the little cabin an' the blue smoke twistin' up again st the pines, just as I'd seen it that first day over the cliff. I gave the little

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lass's whistle . Only an echo came back. 'Oh, I guess she's out somewhere,' says I to myself, careless like, but anything but careless at heart. I went on to the clearin'. " 'Little Lass,' I cried out, an' a faint echo from way across the valley came back, 'Little Lass.'

"I was off my horse, an' in the .cabin in less time than it takes to tell it.

"Huddled in a corner was her mother, mutterin' to herself.

I walked up an' asked if she knew me. She looked a long time, an' then a tremblin' seized her, till she could hardly speak. "'It's 1\1:r.Gerry,' she says. " 'Yes, an' where's my Little Lass?' "'Who?' , "'Little Lass,' says I sharp, for I was tired of this somethin' ¡ that clutched at my heart. "'Oh,' she muttered, 'Julee? She's over yonder.'

She pointed through the door to a tree. The old woman's gone daffy, I thought to myself, for there was no livin' soul by the tree. " 'I been a-waitin' to ¡tell'ee. She went arter the books ye promised. Dan'el met her comin' back. Arter that she weren't like the same girl no mo'. Go out there; you'll find her,' she says.

"What was she talking abo.ut? I rushed from the house to the tree. It was a locust, and as the odor came to me it seemed to chill and freeze the blood in my veins. It was almost dark. I stumbled over somethin'. I stopped, an' looked down. At my feet was a moun', not very long, and freshly made. By its side was another, very, very small. It was also freshly made.

"I shouted, and called Little Lass, an' the echoes came back from across the valley, mockin' me. The mountains aroun' smiled at me--the puny mortal who dared disturb the unbroken silence of the ages. The stars came out an' twinkled, cold and so far away. Boy, the very God above was slippin'-slippin' away from me, an' I stood there powerless, with Little Lass an' her baby at my feet. God forgive me! But I went through hell that night.

11 I heard shaky steps behind me, an', turnin', saw her mother.

11 'Mr. Gerry,' she says, 'her las' words was to tell you she

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loirned herself to talk like the folks in the Big Valley. · An' she said, ''Tell Gerry the books were so heavy I rested a little, an' went to sleep on the road. He foun' me." Them's her words.' " 'The little un died three days arter her.' "

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The fire was out. The boy could see only the dark mass · from which the voice had come. A Roh wrung from the heart of a strong man broke the many-voiced silence of the night; then all was still. ·

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COLLEGE MESSENGER.

BALLADE OF SAINTS AND A SAINT. (With the usual apologies to MM. Villon and Rossetti.)

S. J. Rowland, '14.

Where are the saints of long ago, Whom their compeers thought holy men, Who ne'er would look at maids-oh, no!

Or, if looked once, would ne'er again?

Where Simeon Stylites, four times ten Years on his pillar spent to praise Jesu, who lived in midst of men?

Where are the saints of ancient days?

Where now Benedict? Do we know What Francis did, or Cyprien?

See Lawrence with his gridiron go Down Time's long pathway with Etienne, And fade quite out of mortal ken.

Saint Virgil, too, who wore the bays Of poesy, and Yves, and Lucien, Where are the saints of ancient days?

Where now the power that moved men so When Bernard preached crusades again, And sent all France with lance and bow Vainly to .fight the Saracen?

What hunter calls on Hubert, when Does one invoke Saints Claude or Blaise?

Who now calls Anne or Magdalen?

Where are the saints of ancient days?

1

L ENVOI.

Prince, in the hearts of living men, Few saints find place in these late days.

But till Love dies-aye, even then, St. Valentine will hold his place.

RICHMOND

COLLEGE MESSENGER.

219 I

CASTLES IN SPAIN. Margaret K. Monteiro, '15.

II

ASTLES in Spain-of what does that phrase make you think? The picture it brings up to my eyes is that of a high promontory, crowned with a castle, whose . towers and minarets are surrounded by rolling sunset clouds. Beyond it is the ocean. And what thoughts does it bring to your mind? Visions of the things you long to do, and have, and be? I have often thought the name a very fitting one for dream ideas. Spain is the country of young romance. It stands at the entrance of the Mediterranean, which introduces you to the Old World, with all its glories and treasures of past civilization. It is also washed by the mighty ocean, from whose coasts many a dreamer has looked out across the sea, and fancied the islands of bliss in the west, just beyond the sunset line. It is fitting for us, the dwellers on a realized dream island, to turn backwards to the little country, the mother of those dreams, and build our castles there.

Whatever these ideals or dreams, castles are good names for them. Bit by bit they are reared in our fancy, from the humble foundations to the towers, where a magnificent and broadening view awaits us. Our love for towers grew with us from the fairy story days, when we listened patiently about a hut iri the Black Forest, but cared much more for the lady in the tower. Time has veiled the grim realities of the tower days, and has left us a soft. ened romantic picture of the castles in Spain.

Everybody builds these castles. They are as inevitable as your preferences. Lots of them are built out of the left-overs of disappointments. Some of them are glorified recollections. No castle but your own would make you happy.

There are two kinds of castles-the kind you can talk about and the kind you can't. You come nearer realizing the kind you talk about. Indeed, the best way of realizing this kind is to talk about them as a certainty. Can you remember when you first thought of coming to college, or of doing so many other big things?

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The first time you definitely announced to yourself that you were going to do it the foundation of that castle was started. .People begin to realize their dreams when they begin to want to realize them, for, after all, it is the wanting things badly enough, plus a good deal of hard work, which brings them about.

There is something fascinating about the work of building.

We began with sand castles, and perhaps they are the most tangible ones we will ever have. It is interesting to notice how people's dreams change as they grow older. Some one said, "Tell me what you like, and I will tell you how old you are." .

Can't you trace how you have grown since the first dreams flitted through your head? Santa Claus could almost satisfy your dreams then. Just think what it would take to satisfy them now.

Herc at college you meet lots of dream ideas. It is the most idealistic time of life. It is a high place, from whence we can see what has been done, and . what remains for us to do, and castles for the future grow very fast and tall. Even the quiet folks have castles, very different from the ones they would seem to want, and most different from the ones they will ever get. Into these castles they build the pent-up feelings which they are too timid to express.

Their castles are often the kind which can't be talked aboutthe truly wonderful castles, which are more your own than anything you will ever have. They are beautiful, delicate dream things, which will not bear telling. If you touch them they vanish; but love them, and believe in them, and they will grow.

If castles which you can never realize seem very impractical and unreal, and their tendency to tumble so discouraging, please remember very little has been realized which was not first dreamed of. If we can't realize the whole, we can a part, and there is always plenty more of material to rebuild with. Above all things, these castles are such a comfort. Keep on dreaming them. Perhaps you will never live in that white cottage, covered with pink roses, with that particular person you dream about now. More than likely you would not want either if you had them. It is probable that you have ordinary talent, instead of the genius you think you have, but what you do accomplish will be largely through your castle building; and surely, some time, we will find those castles, and 1 somewhere, we will live in them.

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THE LAW. Milo Hawks, '16.

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RIGINALLY it had been a little Belgian tavern, but, with Dr. Nayes' need for an officers' hospital in that shelled section of the besieged city, it had been wonderfully metamorphosed. There where the bar used to be were now shelves of medicine, bandages, and all the accoutrements of surgery. The bar-maid had given way to the whiteclad, soft-stepping heroine, with a red cross on her arm. Where stood the drinking tables were now drawn up low iron cots, in regular rows, and the Rip Van Winkles had waived their rights to a groaning, dying assemblage of King Albert's best warriors.

The ceilings, which once vibrated with the carousal song, now, beriddled with bullet-holes, shook with the crash of the forty-two centimeter guns.

On the day when these incidents occurred the Kaiser's bull-dogs were clinching down on the throat of the city. The hospital was almost as dangerous as the outer forts. A number of recuperating officers had been wounded again and a few killed outright by the flying f'plinters. It was not infrequently that there came a deafening crash, the sound of shattering windowpanes, whizzing grape-shot, and a louder cry from a cot. One nurse was soberly bandaging a soldier's arm, her own left arm in a sling. But that was war. Until actual pain came, no one realized the situation. With bullets whizzing by, men crying, shouting, and singing, by turns, the Red Cross volunteers had been worked up to a calm, cool, excitement, if you please, never anticipating injury to themselves.

In the far corner of the now ram-shackle inn, a trim, alerteyed nurse was assisting the famous Nayes, who was skilfully probing for a bullet in a captain's breast.

"Don't think he'll live," he was muttering, "but can't tellworth a try, always worth a try." He worked swiftly; so did she. No instrument was ever out of place; every wish of his was anticipated. "The first law, my dear-ah, here it is." He

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flipped the piece of lead into the receptacle. "The first law is save them, if possible. The second, make them comfortableease them, cheer them, 'till they are gone."

He sewed up the gash hurriedly, slapped on some bandages, and rose.

"Stay here a minute, and make him as easy as you can. If he dies, come to me immediately. You're the best here. Don't think he'll live-but make him comfortable. The second law, always." He was gone.

Coming down the street, as fast as two skinny horses could pull it, was a Red Cross ambulance. The driver was laying whip and yelling Belgian oaths with every lick. He pulled up with a jerk before the old tavern, two field surgeons leaped out, and, by a quick pull, drew forth a blood-spattered litter. On tl;ie litter a man was to ssing feverishly. His uniform of grey, with a red stripe about his breast, pronounced him other than a Belgian.

The surgeons half ran toward the door, the litter between them.

And a fine red line in the dust told their path. They rushed through the open door, and beckoned to Nayes. He came running down the aisle between the cots. A note was thrust into his hand. He read: "N ayes,-Save this man, if possible. Bravest soldier I've ever seen. An American free-lance, captaining a company of American dare -devils. Blinded by a saber stroke, he did not halt, but, singing a strain of 'Dixie,' plunged blindly into a score of German swords. By all means save him. George Whiterson is his name. ''KAMERER.'' (Signed) The old doctor folded the note.

"All right . Here on this cot-good.

How's the battle?"

"No hope," dismally, from the field doctor.

"Who knows? Not over yet. May repel them."

The doctors shook their heads, ran out to the waiting wagon, climbed in,¡ and a wild race back to the firing line began. Nayes kneH down by the American. He opened his jacket, tore away the blood-soaked shirts, and began to wash the wounds. As he worked he frowned.

"Kamerer is crazy. No hope for this man. Ten mortal

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223 I

wounds. Kamerer is crazy. Big veins cut, one lung split-oh, no chance. Bleed to death in thirty minutes."

As Nayes busied himself with disinfectants, needles, and cat-gut, Whiterson was twitching in delirium.

"Helen- I'm sorry, sorry," he was moaning; "sorry, Helen."

Nayes drew a hypodermic needle from a small case, and plunged it into Whiterson's arm. He then washed the blinded eyes, and bandaged them carefully. Whiterson quieted and spoke, "What's happenin'?"

"You're all right. Be still, and rest easy. Bad wounds and exertion means more blood loss."

"Hospital? " "Um-m."

A short silence. Then, "What chance, Doc?" "Can't tell yet."

"Don't give me any hot air, Doc-am I a goner? Come out with it. I'm not a baby."

"You'll last probably half an hour-maybe more."

"Half an hour-God!" Another short silence. "Pretty short time, Doc." "How's the pain?"

"Don't hurt here," pointing to his side, "but my eyes hurt like ---.

That Dutchman made a bone of it. Messed me all up. Fraser got him-he told me."

Nayes again collected his instruments.

"Good fight?"

"Great."

"Wait here. I'll send you a nurse. Don't toss; you can't afford it."

"All right, Doc; much obliged."

Half way down the aisle Nayes met the little nurse.

"Did he die?" he questioned.

"Yes," she said softly.

"Couldn't be helped. Did our best. Die easy?" " Yes " again.

"Good. You're all right. Here." He handed her the General's note. "The last cot on the right. Gamest I've ever seen, but no hope. Be gone in half an hour. Go to him, and don't forget the second law-make him comfortable."

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She hurried down between the cots. There was a lull in the bombardment, and she heard a voice somewhere.

"Helen, if I could only explain. I hate to die like this, and you not knowing. I wonder-" A cannon boomed somewhere, and the rest of the sentence was unheard.

The nurse was standing, listening,-and looking for the speaker.

Suddenly she remembered the note in her hand. As she walked toward Whiterson's cot she read. The note finished, she halted, and looked down. Whiterson was wringing his hands.

"If I could only explain, Helen-you'd forgive me, I know.

And I could die easier. I-" With a low cry the little Red Cross lady fell across his breast, her arms drawing up his bandaged head 'till their lips met.

"George," she was crying. "George."

He frowned with surprise and doubt.

"Helen? No. It-it-can't be. It's not possible."

He felt her hair, her face-placed his hand palm upward on her brow, and held it there a moment.

"Yes-yes-I-I believe it is." He drew her down close to him. Her immaculate waist was reddening with blood, but she did not care.

"Thank God!" he murmured. "I didn't know such things ever happened except in stories. You're a nurse?"

"Yes-since the war. began."

"Thank God! " He half grinned. "Kaiser-out theremuch obliged."

She drew herself up, and sat on the edge of the cot, stroking his hair. He reached out over the cot and found her other hand.

Soberly he dre-wit to his lips and kissed it-as a sacred something.

"Helen, I've got about fifteen minutes left, according to the Doc, and I want to talk seriously."

His voice was weak; his words slow in coming.

"Don't trouble, dear," she whispered . "The past is forgotten. If you have done wrong, I forgive you, dear. If you have not, it's all right anyhow. Let us not talk of sad mistakes."

She bent over and kissed his lips. "Let's be happy in that I've found you."

"You believe-in-me-then?"

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225

"Yes, dear."

"You believe I did not do that great wrong? I didn'thonest, dear. I can explain-" "No. No. Why? I believe you-everything."

"And the little wrongs-the frequent unkind words-you forgive me?"

"My dear, I forgive you everything, and love you as I did five years ago."

"It's only been -two."

"But it seems like five to me."

He smiled happily, and feebly pressed her hand.

"I feel queer. Guess my time has come. But I don't care. This is worth death. You forgive me-and I can die easy. Some day-yet-who knows?" ""\Vho knows?" she whispered.

"You'll hold my hand-until-I'm gone? Like this?"

"Yes." Her eyes were full of tears.

"It-cheers me-somehow.

I-good-night, dear.

Ilove-" Outside pandemonium began. Up the street came running German soldiers, victoriously singing "Die Wacht am Rhein."

The noise of musketry and machine guns added to the clatter.

Outside was war-grim, horrible, and dark. But inside, on the last cot on the right was peace and sunshine-the peace of a soul at rest, and the sunshine of a happy smile.

Tenderly the little nurse folded his arms, and threw over him a tattered Belgian flag. Feeling a light touch on her shoulder, she turned. The old Doctor, ordinarily stern and cold, was wiping his eyes.

"Saw it all," he was saying. "Awfully sorry, my dear.

But we have to expect such things. It's the luck of the road."

She smiled at him.

"You are mistaken about it, Doctor. I was obeying the second law-making him comfortable. He wanted forgivenessto die happy. I gave it : I've never seen him before in my life."

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SONNET-TO MAURY. R. A. S. How vain the vaunt of bards who seek the skies, In search of fairer realms; or his whose hand Is laid in triumph on a virgin land!

Far nobler meed is his, so great and wise, Who, on the darkling deep cast searching eyes, And smote its might as by a magic wand; Whose ear was tuned, 0 Sea, to all thy sighs, Thy changeful moods, and to thy haunting cries; Who read the lore upon thy golden strand, Outspread like runes of God's eternal chart, To mark the wondrous pulses of thy heartTo show when man may press thy breast secure, And when thou wilt no wanton touch endure, And, shuddering, he must contemplate thy wrath apart.

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227

APPLES-HISTORICALLY AND OTHERWISE. I. R. C., , '18.

m

ITE into an Albemarle pippin, or a crimson winesap, and you set your respective molars into a fruit which comes mellowed to humankind by centuries of association, and sweetened by a thousand memories of the long ago. The apple, in Rooth, is the patriarch of eatables, and the aristocrat of all aristocrats in the matter of genealogy. Who knows but what our "family tree" idea may not have had its root in the ancestral apple tree?

What an important part this fruit has played in the history of the human race! Mother Eve, allured by the savory odor and ruddy and gold colors of the fair fruit of Eden, and beguiled by the wily serpent to eat thereof, that it might render her the equal, perhaps the superior, of Adam in wisdom, has left to her fair daughter a heritage which has grown with the centuries.

History but repeats itself in the feminist movement of the present age. Witness the suffrage agitation, which to-day is making the world sit up and take notice, and the pursuit of womankind after higher education with the same avidity that characterized our Mother Eve. Strange as it may seem, too, the first domestic quarrel arose neither over a dispute as to who should walk the baby in the darksome niglit, or who should light the hearth-stone on a cold winter's morn. Scarcely had our first parents satiated themselves with the toothsome edible before crimination and incrimination followed each other fast and furious. Those of the masculine persuasion still derive some consolation from the fact that a woman "bit" first. Milton makes Eve, with the ease of her sex, shift the blame upon Adam's shoulders: "Being as I am, why didst thou not, the head, Command me absolutely not to go, Going into such danger, as thou saidst?

Too facile, then, thou didst not much gainsay; Nay, didst permit, approve, and fair dismiss.

228

RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER. Hadst thou been firm and fixed in thy dissent, Neither had I trangressed, nor thou with me."

To which Adam could only weakly reply: "Thus it shall befall Him who, to worth in woman over-trusting, Lets her will rule; restraint she will not brook, And , left to herself, if evil thence ensue, She first his weak indulgence will accuse.

Thus they in mutual accusation spent The fruitless hours, but neither self-condemning, And of their vain contest appeared no end."

Moral: Ye who wear the conjugal yoke, be not over indulgent, but rule firmly, if you would escape Father Adam's fate.

The apple appears frequently in the fantastic tales of mythology. The classical myth of the "apple of discord" may even find a parallelism in the Biblical story of the "forbidden fruit."

The legend has it that, at the marriage of Thetis and Peleus, Discord threw on the ground a golden apple "for the most beautiful." Now Juno, Minerva, and Venus, living in the twilight period of the world's history, were not a whit unlike the fair goddesses of the twentieth century, where a beauty contest was concerned, and each thought she had the strongest claims to the distinction. Paris, who was chosen judge, in a rash moment, awarded the prize to Venus. His decision won him the undying hatred of Juno and Minerva, both of whom afterwards aided in the destruction of Troy. Thus, indirectly at least, an apple caused the .ÂŁneid to be written. Had there been no "apple of discord" Troy might yet be standing; Virgil would not have written one of the world's masterpieces; and gallons and gallons of midnight oil would have been unsold, and oceans and oceans of tears would not have been shed by the unhappy aspirers after classical lore.

The apple has ever been a useful medium in the art of lovemaking. In the Golden Age men did not, as now, storm the hearts or" their lady loves with huge beribboned boxes of Huyler's chocolates, but tempted them with offerings from crimson and saffron orchards. Atalanta, the Grecian maiden, could not resist

RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER.

.229

the apple's alluring glow. Hippomenes, racing with the girl to win her as a prize, let three golden pippins drop from his hand.

Atalanta's womanly curiosity overcame her, and she stooped and picked the shining fruit from the grass. By this subterfuge Hippomenes won the race and also the beautiful Atalanta.

Coming down to later times, the apple again figures historically in the story of William Tell, a Swiss patriot, who refused to bow to the cap of the tyrant Gessler. Offended by Tell's insubordination, Gessler forced Tell's son to stand with an apple upon his head. Tell was ordered to shoot the fruit off with his cross-bow.

Did you ever stop to consider that it was a matter of a cleft apple that stood between the youngster's life and his death? No doubt, in his subsequent life, he could not look upon a whole apple without feeling somewhat the sensations of a decapitated man.

The progress of science has also been advanced by the apple.

One day, lost in meditation, Sir Isaac Newton was sitting beneath an apple tree. Suddenly, from above, he received a thump on his mathematical cranium, and a big-it may have been bruised by the impact-apple rolled at his feet. Putting his hand to his head, Newton felt a scientific bump rapidly swelling. Result: The discovery of the law of gravitation, which man has steadily been trying to disprove, often to his own discomfiture. For the verification of this fact one has but to observe the uncertain locomotion of the man who has imbibed a little too freely of apple brandy.

To come even nearer home, the fruit has not been backwards in particirating in Virginia history. Conneqted with the Civil War is a somewhat pretty, but totally mythical, story involving an apple tree. General Lee, after four years of cruel war, was at last forced to come to terms with General Grant at Appomattox Courthouse. The noble Confederate chieftain conducted all negotiations for peace indoors, but tradition has it that the actual surrender took place under a magnificent apple tree standing near by. Although this story has since been denied and disproved, we would fain accept it as true, as we would other time-honored traditions that have suffered by the tongue and pen of the iconoclast.

At present, however, the apple is neither a myth nor a fable.

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It is one of the finest crops in the Old Dominion, and yields millions of dollars annually. Indeed, bushels and bushel,s of Virginia pippins are consumed at the breakfasts of Europe's crowned heads every morning. It has been well said that the apple is the "agricultural poem" of this grand old State.

RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER.

THE CREA TOR. J. W. G., '17.

When nature's dawn, and life's first glow Springs into flower, from roots below; When the blue-bird, poised on easy wing, Pipes his' glad note, 'tis spring, 'tis spring; I wander in God's fairy-lands, To behold the glory of His hands.

There, in whose quiet solitude, The voice of strife does not intrude, But only peace and calm content, Reigned o'er by azure firmament; And, as I muse, with love and fear, I feel His gracious presence near.

I hear Him in the whispering breeze, That through tall pine-tops softly grieves; He's there in earth's most humble flower, That seeks repose beneath its bower; And over every peak and hill -His infinite power reigneth still.

The coursing brook, it hears His voice, And does His will, and not its choice; In every note in song of bird The great Creator's voice is heard; He speaks through all creation wide, Through earth, through sky, and ocean's tide.

The winds are bound, the seas grow calm, He rules the lightning in the storm, And mountains, in whose heaving breasts Eternal fires never rest,

231

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RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER. But rage and seethe until they rise To pierce the everlasting skies.

So come and sit and sing with me, And fill thy heart with ecstasy, To praise the Prince of heaven and earth, Who gave to all creation birth; And wing thy preans far and high, That winds might laud them to the sky.

RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER.

233

THE MISSING LINK. Emaya Les Bow, '15.

(I

HE midnight crew of the A Club lounged in scattered groups, amid tobacco smoke, buzzing conversations, and brilliant light; the individuals were reclining behind rattling newspapers, or "swapping yarns" as they mumbled their cigars. A circle of five or six heard the conclusion of a narrative, with the accustomed exclamations and remarks.

"Since you have begun personal experiences," volunteered one of the company, possessing an ensemble of facial expressions which seemed perfect for telling tales, "I will tell you of a simple circumstance in my meager adventures, which completely mystified me for quite a while, and which, in fact, has just been cleared up to-night.

"You know I live in the twelfth floor apartment of the "DuLane," on Forty-Second street. Well, about two months ago, eight weeks to-night, I was putting on my coat to go to the opera, when the bell rang, and a messenger boy gave me a small, rather heavy box. He just handed it in, without a word of explanation. I called after him, to be sure there was no mistake, but he answered that my apartment was the right place. I began to fear anarchists immediately, on account of my connection with the courts as prosecuting attorney. The idea worried me so much that it was fully twenty minutes before I opened the cover. To my surprise, it contained an antique, heavy silver champagne cup, with the thin stem and broad, shallow bowl. It was very beautiful and costly. I admired it extravagantly, and arrived late at the opera. In a delicate way I thanked, with hints, a number of my most intimate friends for the gift, from none of whom, however, I received any information or acknowledgment of connection with the matter. It passed from my mind in the pressure of work, till a week later, when, at the same time, the same messenger boy left a similar package at my door, which. proved to be another cup. You can

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RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER.

imagine my surprise at the second arrival. I took some time from my duties the next day, racking my brain for some one to accuse of this repeated gift. The same night of the following week I remained in my apartment, wondering whether the boy would present himself again. I thought perhaps the friend who was enjoying the little drama would make my collection a trio of silver champagne cups.

"At precisely the same hour the bell rang for the third delivery , and the number of silver pieces on my cellarette numbered three. I forgot to mention that each cup was marked most singularly-a thin crescent inverted, over what appeared to be the representation of a cuff-button. Strange, wasn't it?

It became almost impossible for me to accomplish any work.

The juries were composed of silver champagne cups, while one grand cuff-link presided over every court I was present in. I lost two cases, through lack of concentration, during the next week. I felt determined to discover the source of the mysterious gifts, and resolved to follow the boy if he came again.

"Promptly on the minute, the messenger presented himself at my door with the fourth bundle. I followed him when he left, till he calmly took his seat in the do"\'\-'Il-towntelegraph office to wait his turn for a message. That was fruitless, so I returned home to examine cup No. 4. It was an exact companion to the other three, with the exception of a short note in French, lying inside, which, translated into slang, ran, 'You are some prosecuting attorney.' The epigram galled me. I resolved to let the matter drop, which I did for just ten minutes. The mystery of the thing got on my nerves until it became an obsession.

I actually went to the extreme that night of looking over old correspondence. I scrutinized specimens of so many friends under a pocket glass, carefully comparing the twists of S's, the twirls in K's, and the crooks in M's, that the whole affair became sickening. The only handwriting I found, among an enormous batch of letters, which in any way resembled the penmanship of the note, was that of an uncle wit.h whom I used to travel, and who went to Australia ten or fifteen years ago. He was believed to have died there; no one had heard of him for nearly that long. I was no nearer than before to the donor of my champagne cups.

RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER.

235

The fellows began to remark on how worried I looked and how thin I was getting. I asked myself a thousand times a day who could be making such a fool of himself and of me with these silver champagne cups. I could see nothing but those four shining things, no matter where I looked. The trolleys in the ¡street, the meanest criminals before the bar, the pretty dancers at the theatres, where I sought recreation, all gradually merged into heavy silver champagne cups. It was torturing.

"The following week the collection became a quintet in the same queer manner. I resolved to watch for the messenger's arrival in the sixth episode. The week dragged. I was impatient with my stupidity for not having thought before of this plan for detection of the mystery, and then impatient with time for delaying the test.

"On the sixth night I waited just outside the main .entrance.

The boy entered empty-handed a few minutes early, and went into the elevator. I followed in the next car. He had not been to my room when I arrived there, but I was still a moment or two Precisely on the dot, No. 6 ahead of the regular time. was presented. I was frantic. It contained a note also, in French, which read, 'My! but you're a keen observer.' I blew off and ranted for an hour or more against the fool who was wasting his time and mine. So I was a keen observer, was i? I could distinctly observe six solid silver champagne cups, with their strange devices, on my cellarette. I spent another night comparing handwritings, and again got no nearer than a slight similarity to that of my old dead uncle in Australia, which vexed me more than ever. I fretted through another week. It was like well -- ¡ - in a house where your mother-in-law living in --is your housekeeper.

"The next week I waited on the stairway and saw my messenger boy pass in the car going up. He got off about the seventh or eighth floor, but before I could get there to catch him he had gone on up to my level, and I took champagne cup No. 7 from his hands, at the door of my apartment. It was getting monotonous. The strain was intolerable. The note this time greeted me with 'Bonjour, Monsieur Dupin.' I understood the reference. Whoever my friend was, he knew my fondness

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for Poe. The taunt at my detective abilities nettled me more. I was on the verge of scattering my seven branched cup on the surging humanity in the street below. I resolved I would follow that boy next week from the ground floor in the same car. I spent another night closely examining the ink markings of the notes and my preserved correspondence of the last twenty years.

Again I came ;no nearer than my deceased uncle, and I all but cursed him in his grave. The week following was a terrible one.

I began to fear the eighth cup would not appear. I had become a miser of champagne cups, it would seem, from the way I handled them.

"To-night was the eighth act, and the climax. Fifteen minutes before the usual hour found me in the lobby, near the elevator entrance. I hid myself in the shadow of a palm, and soon my messenger came, again with empty hands. He and I both entered the car going up. I don't think he saw me then.

At the ninth floor he signaled the elevator boy to stop, and we both alighted. He hesitated, then knocked on the first door to the right. A bushy-whiskered man opened the door, and immediately disappeared when he caught sight of me. I thought I sensed something familiar in the cut of the nose and the form of the forehead. Our messenger did not appear for some while.

Presently he came out with the package, went straight to the elevator, rang the' up' bell, and waited, without noticing me. We both got out at the twelfth floor, where he seemed, all of a sudden, to become aware of my presence, gave me the package, and turned to go. When he moved away I observed, for the first time, that he was not in his uniform, as he had been on going into the ninth floor apartment, and also a familiar smile lurking on his young face. I listened to the car descend. It clicked to a stop, and delivered itself of him, the only passenger, at the ninth floor, by the dial over the cage. After that it went on down to the street level without a stop. I was more mystified .than ever. I was dumbfounded. I could not make heads nor tails of the affair, for I knew not a person in the whole building. . I opened the boxthe eighth champagne cup was not there. The box held only tissue paper. I threw the pieces disappointedly in a corner, and heard a distinct clink as of bounding metal on the floor. A good

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237

bit of searching brought to light a cuff-link. Memory flashedI ran into my bed-room, opened an old chest, and there lay its mate.

"Trusty recollection ferried me over the flood of years. I was in a Paris cafe, with a friend, talking to a beautiful Parisian girl, the daughter of the proprietor. The girl asked for a parting gift, as we were leaving on the next morning-I for home, and my friend for anywhere. With the impetuosity of youth I tore out one cuff-link, and gave it into her hands, with a kiss. The kiss inflamed a would-be lover lounging in the rear of the cafe.

The girl clutched the token, and placed it in her bosom. We parted, and the drunken lover followed. In the shadow of a tree on the boulevard he passed me and my companion. I felt a tingling sensation about my throat. I reeled, and threatened to fall. My companion took me to our hotel, where we found a sharp razor cut, like a thin crescent inverted, on my breast.

We bound it up. W e- -oh !- I realized the significance of it all. The mystery no longer mystified. The companion was my uncle. I rushed down the stairway to the ninth floor, and knocked on the first door to the right. A maid ushered me in. I asked for ¡ Monsieur Loriet. 'No one by that name lives here,' she said. I insisted; sent my card to the occupant of the apartment, and the bushy-whiskered. face of Uncle Charles Loriet appeared.

"So my eccentric Uncle Charles had gone back to Paris when he left me, had married my cuff-button, had taken her to Australia with him, and the boy with the hauntingly familiar smile was their son. The champagne cups, with the inverted crescent and the link cut on them, belonged to the girl-they have been handed down in her family for years; she is one of the ancient Valoisieux, whose arms are the crescent and the link. A strange bit of coincidence, eh? No sleep for me to-night ."

THE MESSENGER. Entered at the Post-Office at Richmond, Va., as aecond-claaa matter.

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McDANIEL,

'15 ... ... . . . .... ........ ... .... . .. .. ... . Business Manager Mu Sigma Rho. '16 . .....

. .......... .. ... .. .Assistant Business Manager Philologian.

EDITORIALS. Now that work has begun on the 1915 issue of "The Spider," TuE MESSENGERwishes to urge every student in College to co-operate with the Senior Class to make THE "SPIDER." this th e best issue that has ever been published. The publication is controlled by ' he Senior Class, but its success is dependent upon the entire r tudent body. Every phase of student activity should be repre-

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sented, which means that the members of the various organizations should co-operate in furnishing material.

The well-chosen offieers of the publication, who have entered upon their duties with zeal and earnestness, have tried to make it plain to every ll}an in College as to what part he is expected to take in the plans which they have mapped out. If you have not found out your work, see one of the staff immediately. There is some ta sk which you are expected to perform, and, if you fail, The Spider will suffer accordingly. Find out what you can do to aid in the work, then get off your coat, settle down to work, and do it.

It was anticipated that new traditions would be established when the College entered its new home at Westhampton, and we are glad to say that such traditions are springing VESPER up. Due to the far-sighted wisdom of the PresiSERVICES. dent and Trustees, we have buildings which must be taken into account when the architectural history of America is written, both on account of their intrinsic beauty, and also on account of their harmonious ensemble with the setting which nature has provided. We cannot enjoy this artistic environment without our life in some measure partaking of the spirit which it breathes, and which was given to the Gothic style by those devoted builders of the Middle Ages, whose arches I pointed men toward heaven, where reigns the Eternal. Richmond College is only appreciably bigger than it was last year, but it is far larger. In a more artistic environment, it is inevitable that we should take a' larger view of things; hence it is, perhaps, to be expected that we should pay more attention to the musical and literary side of College life. At . any rate, it is well that, among the activities which have developed this year, are The Collegian and the chorus choir. The vesper services, made possible by the chorus choir, are here, and here to stay. They ¡ will contribute greatly toward that which Matthew Arnold so aptly termed "culture and light." The committee which has these services in charge has secured the very best musical talent in this vicinity' to assist. The most noted speakers lin the Commonwealth, even including the Governor of the State, have

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consented to make short addresses. Under the able leadership of Mr. Ernest H. Cosby, teacher of piano at Westhampton College, the chorus choir should be of great value, not only in the vesper services, but in all College singing, and particularly , at Commencement. Surely the ¡ instruction in phrasing, expression, sight reading, and in musical feeling will be of the greatest value to those who participate. .

The committee does not care for congratulations upon what has already been accomplished, but it does want, and it needs, our active support. Let us take pride in this new enterprise, and show this feeling by inviting our friends who are visiting us on Sunday afternoons to attend the services: Let us add to the religious and artistic effect by being there on time. At a sister institution a recent vesper service was attended by four thousand people, and there were over three hundred in the chorus choir.

What others can do, in a city smaller than Richmond, we can do.

In growing into a larger life we are apt not to have our ideas large enough. Let us not be held back by the past, but "Forward be our watchword."

With the removal of our College to Westhampton, many changes have been brought about in all phases of its work. In ¡ the academic department old courses A PRESCRIBED of study have been expanded, new FRESHMANCouRSE. ones have been added, and the Faculty necessarily enlarged.

Instruction is now given in a wider range of studies than before, thus opening up new fields of knowledge to the student. At the same time, the entrance requirements have been raised to the fourteen Carnegie unit basis adopted by all standard colleges, a change which naturally tends to insure a better prepared class of students. It is evident to every one that the College has benefited by the change, and it is just as evident that the Faculty do not intend to rest on what they- have done, but propose to make further improvements, , for w,hich there is great need. While we are pleased with the changes wh~ch have been made already, we believe that there are certain others which the Faculty should consider without delay. It is our purpose to set forth, in a series of editorials, some

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changes in our curriculum which we ¡ believe would prove beneficial.

In the ' first place, we suggest that the work of first-year students should not be optional, as at present, but should be prescribed. Under the present system a Freshman is allowedexcept for the restriction that he shall take certain courses in English, Latin, and mathematics, and have the required number ' of points from certain _groups--to select for himself the courses of study which he wishes to pursue. Moreover, the student is permitted to decide, in many cases, when he shall ta:ke these courses. The majority prefer to get them off the first year; but it frequently occurs that a student, who has a particular dread or dislike for a certain study-for instance, mathematics, which seems, for some reason or other, to be the proverbial fly in the ointment-puts off this required class until his last year in college. There are good reasons why this should not be allowed.

It may happen that the student will "flunk" in this class, and, having no chance to make up the work, will not get _his degree.

An equally strong objection is that the student might possibly develop a taste for this very subject, in which case it will be impossible for him to pursue it further. Or, if he bas a liking for some other study, on which he wishes to concentrate during the last year of his course, the student must withcfrl:l,wpart of his attention from this chosen field, because he has to "make" a distasteful class, which he should have completed earlier in his course.

Moreover, there is another reason why Freshman work should be prescribed. A student when he enters college has very little knowledge of what college study really is. His whole conception is based on preparatory school experience, and he is soon disillusioned, often to his great sorrow. The history and English which he found so easy at high school are no longer mere mat.ters of reading ¡ a few pages of the text-book. Where he formerly read three or four literary -books in a year, he is now called on to read dozens.

Is it any wonder, then, that a student often becomes discouraged when he has unwittingly taken too heavy a course? Such cases are not rare. A year or two ago a student, who intended ultimately to study law, chose to take, during his first year in the '

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academic .school, English, political science, and two history courses. â&#x20AC;˘ He judged college work by his preparatory school experience; the result was, he was completely swamped with essays and parallel reading before he knew it. Consequently he became discouraged, and was ready to quit. It is to prevent such tragedies as this-for it is a tragedy when ~ student is so over-worked that he becomes discouraged-that our curriculum needs to have the Freshman's work prescribed. We believe that in this way Freshmen wilf be prevented from falling into difficulties about which they know nothing. We do not intend to suggest a first year cdurse; it is with the end, rather than the means, that we are concerned. We strongly urge, however, that the Faculty consider the matter seriously, for we believe that it will be a means of strengthening our College curriculum.

In the next issue of THE MESSENGER we¡hope to express some further views on how to better the College curriculum.

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ALUMNI NOTES. F. C. Ellett, '15¡.

Rev. L. L. Gwaltney, B. A., '04, has become one of the editors of the Alabama. Baptist.

Rev. John W. Morgan, B. A., '99, is University Pastor for the Baptists at the University of Wisconsin.

Rev. E. B. Hatcher, D. D., M. A., '86, is spending the winter in Richmond, preparing a biography of his father, the late Dr. William E. Hatcher.

Mr. Evan R. Chesterman, LL. B., '96, secretary of the State Board of Education, hai recently published a valuable pamphlet on educational , conditions in Virginia. ¡ The Y. M. C. A. recently enjoyed an interesting lecture delivered by an alumnus of the College, Dr. B. D. Gwinn, a retired minister of Atlanta, Ga. His subject was "A Definition of Bigotry."

Rev. W. Russell Owen, B. A., '00, has entered upon a new field, the Greene-Avenue Baptist Church, of New York City.

He has already made many warm friends there, and all indications are to the effect that his work will be very successful.

We notice in the Carson City News that Judge Benjamin Coleman, LL. B., '92, has been elected to the Supreme Court of the State of Nevada. To quote from the News:" Justice Coleman steps to the .highest court of the State fresh from laurels won on the district bench, and is in fine fettle to take up his iabors."

Newspapers everywhere are commenting on the wonderful development of the New York Times, which has come to be regarded as on_eof the leading journals of the world. Its circulation is said to exceed the combined circulation of its five closest competitors in New York City. It is a matter 9f pride to Richmond College alumni that one of the editors who has helped to bring about this success is Charles M. Graves, B. A., '96.

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Among the speakers on the programme of the Southern Baptist Education Association, in session tliis month at Nashville, are noted the names of the following college presidents, all graduates of Richmond College: President F. W. Boatwright, President J. M. Burnett, of Carson-Newman College; President Claybrook Cottingham, of Louisiana College; President H. G. Noffsinger, of Virginia Intermont College.

Hill Montague, LL. B., '94, president of the Richmond Chapter of Richmond ,College Alumni, is arranging for the annual dinner of the chapter, to te held this year on Washington's birthday.

There are nearly two , hundred degree men 'of Richmond College living in Richmond, and most of them are members of the local chapter. It may also be mentioned that Mr. Montague is a member of the Finance Committee of the present Legislature, in charge of the revision of the tax laws of the State, and is taking an active part in the work of the special session.

Notice of the death of Dr. P. B. Reynolds, for some time President bf the University of West Virginia, appeared in the January issue of THE MESSENGER. Dr. Reynolds is well remembered by the older alumni of Richmond College as a notable example of what grit and perseverance will accomplish. It is said that he had passed his majority with very ~light opportunities for education, but, being determined to secure a college training at any cost, he put his worldly possessions in a bundle, shouldered them, and walked from Patrick county to Richmond, in order to enter Richmond College. He attained eminence in his profession, and lived a life of honor and usefulness.

CHANGE G. T. Terrell, '16.

"The Madonna" is a sweet little poem. . It is good in composition and rhythm. It is very appropriate for the December issue of a magazine.

"Christmas Morn on 'Bethlehem Hill" does not The William and Mary contain the first requirement of a Literary Magazine. short story. The only . good thing about ' it is that it is short. It has no unity, no continuity, no coherence-it is simply a conglomeration of words, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. The Exchange Editor of THE MESSENGERis surprised that the Editorial Board of the William and Mary Literary Magazine allowed such a production to appear in: its monthly. "The Shrine of Love" is an unusual little poem in its beauty. It adds greatly to the literary value of the magazine. "A Vision" is good; it is good in thought and description.

"The Rose of Circe's Garden" has such a rhythmical meter that it is a pleasure to read it. The thought is also good. It is an exceedingly good college poem. "The Circle in the S!tnd" is a poor short stQry. It lacks . unity and int erest, and ha s a very weak ending. "A Rosary of Days" is inspiring and idealistic .

"Pope and Bryant as Translators of Homer" is a good essay. It is a true ,literary production. We should have more productions like this in our college magazines. "No Room in the Inn" is an enjoyable little poem. , We admire it, especially because of the last sfanza, which expresses the wish of the civilized world. "A Rosary of Romance" and "A Unique Priority" are both very interesting and well-written literary productions . We are looking, ¡ with interest, to the second installment of "A Rosary of Romance." _"Blue" is a sweet little poem. We wish to compliment the Phoonix and Philomathean Societies on their poets. The

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poems in their magazine compare very favorably ,with any other magazine on our exchange table. The essays are also good, but the apparent lack of short-story writers is deplorable.

The Furman Echo is one of our very best exchanges. It has four short stories, which are very interesting, and well written.

They contain those requirements necessary ¡ The for a good short story. It has one essay, Furman Echo. which deals :with question of interest to the American people, and is of deep importance.

It is well written and is a good literary production. The six. poems in The Furman Echo are interesting and well written.

They deserve special comment because of their composition and rhythm. We wish to , congratulate the Adelphian and Philosophian Societies of Furman on their magazine for December. , They have splendid material, and it is arranged in an interesting way, which adds much to the magazine.

a

Every college student has experienced the message that the "Christmas Poem" brings. It is a poem that college boys delight to read. It paints a real picture in ' The rhythmical tones, and is a good and appropriate Georgetonian. poem for the December issue of a magazine. / "On Earth, Peace" is a unique Christmas -Story. The .:thought is deep, pure, and idealistic. It brings vividly before our minds the great blessings, as well as the great lessons,' that the Saviour came to teach to mankind. We are thoroughly interested in "The Kentuckian," and are eagerly awaiting the next issue of The Georgetonian, so that we may continue this delightful story. "The Christmas Gift to Christ" is well written. The description is very picturesque and real.

We find in The Georgetonian that all of the contributions, except "The Kentuckian," which is a continued story, are concerning Christmas. This is a very unique plan, and especially appropriate, and we congratulate the editors on the success of their scheme.

The Exchange Editor is glad to welcome to our exchange

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table the following magazines: The University of North Carolina Magazine, The Record, The Davidson College Magazine, The M essenger (from Louisiana College), The Blue and Bufl', The X-Ray, The University of Virginia Magazine, The Car.son-Newman Collegian, The Ouachita Ripples, The Randolph-Macon Monthly, The Georgetown College Journal, The Review and Expositor, The Isaqueena, The Chronicle, The Roanoke Collegian, The Missile, The Danville Leader, The Yale Literary Magazine, and The Nassau Literary Magazine.

WESTHAMPTON DEPARTMENT ETHELL. SMITHER , '15 .. .............. . . . .......... .. ..... . ..... .Editor MARYD . SMITH,' 15 . ... .. . . .. . . . .... . . . .. . . . .... . ... . . BU8iness Manager DEAN MAYL. KELLER............... . ... . .... . .. . .... . . Advisory Editor ASSOCIATE EDITORS : JESSIE M . Woon, '12 ... .. . . ... . ... . ......

HELENA. MoNSELL,'16 ... .. .. .. . .. .......

. .......... ... .....

. . . .. . ... . Alumnae . ........ . . Exchanges

EDITORIALS. Now that the fall term is a thing of the past, and we feel that the winter term is safely launched, we naturally turn our minds to The Spider, the annual published THE "SPIDER." by the Senior Class of Richmond and Westhampton Colleges. As editor of one of the College publications , we wish to make an appeal to each student of Westhampton College in behalf of this other public~tion. We feel that there are two ways in which every student may help The Spider.

The first way is by giving loyal support to it, even when it means the sacrifice of some pleasure. To be specific, when the time comes for the photographs, and for the group pictures to be made, although it may conflict with some plan, try always to be ready to do your share. An annual is, in a large measure, a picture-b9ok , and unique and attractive pictures often spell success for it. Every one who stays away from a club or class picture t akes just that much interest from the picture, and just that much more of their personality from this monument of the year's work. ¡ Still another way in which each student may aid The Spider is by subscribing to it. Every subscription means just that much more _money to help make The Sp ider a success. By subscribing to The Spider we mean not only buying a copy, but also a hearty support of ¡ whatever organizations may be proposed to give local color to the book ., So we make this personal appeal on behalf of The Spider. Freshmen, Sophomores, Juniors, Seniors, let us unite to make the 1915 Spider the best that has ever been published.

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ALUMNAE DEPARTMENT. Jessie M. Wood. '12.

Decemper 29th, in spite of the icy weather it offered, saw the regular Christmas meeting of the Alumnro Association gathered ' I in the Richmond College Library. The most important matter brought up for consideration was the Scholarship Fund.

Celeste Anderson, President of Self-Government, and Mary Shine, Senior Class President, met with us as representatives of our Westhampton sisters, and of the class so soon to come into our midst. ¡ "How to Complete the Fund" was spiritedly discussed. It is now .about $750.00, and all agreed that the fund must be raised by June. Each alumnro will receive a letter from a member of her class, requesting a contribution of three dollars toward this deficit. This will close the fund, which should have been completed in 1913. For the sake of the Association, let each of us make the small sacrifice required, and help the class of 1915, some of ~horn have worked so faithfully and well toward this end, to have the honor of announcing the completion of this fund.

[We take great pleasure in publishing the following article by one of our alumnre, who is a teacher in the department of history at the John l\1arshall High School, Richmond, Va.i AIMS

IN TEACHING

HISTORY.

Sadie Engleberg, '12.

When I was asked, for the edification of those teachers who are yet to be, to write something of my work in teaching history, I was puzzled to know just what I could give you of interest, and yet of some little vafoe. But, in rapidly reviewing what I had done, I- thought of an incident . that sustained me in the first years of my work-those hard years, in which I was adjusting tl).e ideal to the practical. ¡

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f l

It happened whe~ Mr. Fox, then Superintendent of the City Schools, informed me that I w~ to teach history in the High School. I told him that, after two ,Years of hard work under Dr. Mitchell, J had just arrived at the point of finding out how little I really knew; that the subject was too vast for an inexperienced teacher. Then, with his quiet, quizzical smile, Mr. Fox gave me the aim for all my future wbrk: "Just teach those children what Dr. Mitchell taught you, the lesson of the little known and the vast unknown, and let them get any facts they want by themselves." ¡ So I have tried to pass on to my pupils that which-is found in no text-book, but comes from the inspiring contact with a great man, great alike in intellect and spirit. The facts of history are but clues in the great mysteries of the universe; they are valuable only ¡ as they show the wonderful Providence that guides the destines of nations, the miracle of their evolutions, the depth of human wdeavor, and the glory of ideals honestlr labored for. If you can awaken the wonder_of the child's mind, the sympathy of his soul for a past that is not dead, you will accomplish more than if you heaped the erudition of countless ages on his defensele~s head. "

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EXCHANGES. Helen A '. Monsell, '16.

In The Vassar Miscellany for December "Suttee," a short story, and "Chanson," a poem, deserve in rank what thef have in position-namely, first place. "SutThe tee" is the story of a girl whose ideals Vassar Miscellany. and natural impulses are repressed by the injudicious affection of ¡a selfish and rather ¡unbalanced mother . . Surely the theme is one op.ly too common among us, and herein lies the author's success. An every-day theme is so carefully and skilfully developed that a genuine short story, a thing not found often in college magazines, is the result. We wish to offer our congratulations to its author . . "Chanson" is the cry of one who has laid bare her inner self to her friends, and gained misunderstanding, masked under feigned interest. The author seems to have caught the inner soul of music in this poem. "At Ephrata" is an essay of the type that we would like to see more common in the college publications of to-day. Of the other short stories, all were representative.

However, we feel that "Wonderland" is more of a sketch than a story, and that "Ginny-" is not a true Southerner. That is, she is not a Southei;ner of the same class as her city relatives, who seem decidedly above what we would call "poor white."

Ginny tends too much to this latter class. "The Rube" is a very clever story for one who, necessarily, must ,have very little knowledge of the subject. Its denouement is not well concealed until the climactic point, but, otherwise, it is an unusually good story.

"The Man From Lone Rock" is an appealing story, with an unexpected end. We feel that we cannot leaye The Vassar Miscellany without SJ.;l,ying a word about its wonderful Alumnre Department. Decidedly, it is the best of its kind we have had the pleasure of reading. The articles by alunmre are both interesting and inspiring. We see before us one of the reasons why Vassar's daughters remain so loyal. The arrangement of the Alumna: Bulletin is a very practical one. Taken all in all, The Vassar

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Miscellany for December is a magazine of which its editors may well be proud. ¡ The Lesbian Herald for October was the first number issued entirely under the managepient of the students, and, as such, deserves special attention.

For a first The attempt, we should say it is very good.

Lesbian Herald.

There are several faults, however, worth mentioning, before we speak of its good I points. In the first place, it is too monotonous. The fact that there has evidently been a .course in Lamb's essays recently is scarcely an apology for foup essays, written in Lamb's style, three of them beginning, "Reader, hast thou ever?" or "Reader, hast thou not?" Each of these essays is good, but it would have been so much better if they had been used sparingly, one in each issue, say. Then they might have lasted four months, instead of being all consumed at one time. The second fault of the magazine can be easily remedied. The contents are not well arranged; the literary matter is scattered before and after, and between the departments. If the material were just separated, and the headings made more distinct, the magazine would be much more readable. Finally, there is the usual lack of stories and verse; one each is not enough for a well-balanced magazine. Now, let's turn to the good points. First and foremost, the magazine is one that will interest the student body. This ¡is carried almost, but not quite, to a fault. Essays, editorials, news notes, jokes, all have a special college interest. There is a sensJ;Jof humor, too, which pervades almost every page-a delicate, if somewhat ironic humor, seldom seen to such an extent in a college magazine. There is an earnestness, also, which speaks well for the new management. On the whole, we think the editors may well be pleased with their first number of The Lesbian Herald.

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