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Vol. 10 



NOVEMBER, 1940 



No. 1 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

AFTERNOON OF A BUM I 

Calvin Wolf 

INCIDENT 3 

Hector Manjarrez 

PARACHUTE FEVER 4 

Ruth E. Dann 

HAIRCUT S 

Shirley Shapiro 

OLD O. B. SMITH 7 

Vincent West 

SO-LONG ROOMMATE 9 

Frederick Jauch 

THE MAJOR 10 

Charles Waterman 

THOSE AMERICANS 12 

Milton Hoefle 

PRESSURE PLUS IS 

Harold Grant 

CYCLONE AROUND ME 18 

William Randolph 

THE QUACK NOVEL 19 

Lois Mell 

RACIAL INEQUALITY IN HAWAII 20 

Jane Powell Wyatt 

HOBBIES 21 

R. Keith Hudson 

NUTTY LINDY 22 

Milton Bremer 

CONFORMERS AND NON-CONFORMERS ... 23 
F. C. Gehant 

AMERICA VERSUS SWEDEN 25 

Everett L. Haag 

THE INTERPRETATION OF THE NEGRO IN 

MODERN NEGRO POETRY 28 

Bessie King 

RHET AS WRIT 32 

(Material written in Rhetoric I and II) if 

PUBLISHED BY UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS. URBANA 




Th 



^HE Green Caldron is published four times a year 
by the Rhetoric Staff at the University of IlHnois. 
Material is chosen from themes and examinations 
written by freshmen in the University. Permission to 
publish is obtained for all full themes, including those 
published anonymously. Parts of themes, however, 
are published at the discretion of the committee in 
charge. 

The committee in charge of this issue of The Green 
Caldron includes Mr. Lester Dolk, Mr. Charles 
Shattuck, Mr. Walter Johnson, Mr. Stephen 
FoGLE, Mr. Robert Geist, and Mr. Charles W. 
Roberts, Chairman. 

The Green Caldron is for sale at the Illini Union 
Bookstore, 715 South Wright Street, Champaign, 
Illinois. 



THE GREEN CALDRON 

copyright 1940 
BY THE university OF ILLINOIS 

All rights reserved 
No part of this periodical may be repro- 
duced in any form without permission in 
writing from the publisher. 



Afternoon of a Bum 



Calvin Wolf 
Rhetoric II, Theme 1, 1939-1940 



At Twelve Noon 



AT TWELVE noon, after Big Turk 
had turned over the sheets on every 
cot and swept the dirt into the corners, 
he slowly walked over to Old McGuire 
and poked him in the back with the end 
of the broom. 

McGuire broke off convulsively in the 
middle of a snore and, mumbling pro- 
testingly, rolled over onto his stomach. 
After a moment he began to snore again. 

Big Turk raised the broom-handle and 
brought it down with a stiff whack on 
McGuire's rump. 

McGuire bolted up perpendicular to 
the cot, "Hey! Whadda hell! Whadda 
hell! Whaaa . . . . " 

"Whadd'ya tink dis is, y'old bum .... 
a health resort? 

McGuire slowly swung his legs over 
the edge of the bed and sat there, lazily 
scratching his calves and blinking his 
bloodshot eyes. "Have you no respect 
for age, young man? Can't you let a 
tired old wanderer have a little sleep?" 

"Ah, get d'hell outta here, you ole 
stinker. I gotta clean up. You got yer 
dime's worth." With that bit of repartee, 
Big Turk slowly walked away. 

At Twelve-forty p.m. 

Old McGuire stumbled down the dark, 
narrow, rickety stairs of Big Turk's 
flop-house and stepped out into the glar- 
ing midday sunshine that flooded South 
State Street. 

He began to fumble in his pants' pock- 
ets and finally his hand came up with two 
pennies and a nickel. He looked specu- 
latively at the three coins and then put 



them back into his pocket. He turned 
and read the posters in the window of 
Harry's Lunchroom: "Coffee, three 
cents. Rolls, one cent. All Sandwiches, 
five cents. Pie, five cents. Complete 
Plate Lunch, sixteen cents. Soup, three 
cents. Stew, five cents. Special Today — 
Chop Suey, nine cents." 

McGuire turned and started to walk 
toward downtown. When he reached 
Thompson's Restaurant, he stopped near 
the door and stood there for a moment, 
waiting. In a few minutes a well-dressed 
middle-aged business man walked out of 
the restaurant, smoking a freshly lit cig- 
arette. Before walking into the office- 
building next door, he sucked deeply on 
the cigarette and then flicked it to the 
curb. McGuire immediately retrieved 
it, clamped it between his lips, and, 
drawing deeply on it, walked up Har- 
rison Street toward the Salvation Army 
Mission House. 

The sign in the Mission-House window 
said, "Come in and refresh your soul 
with Jesus — Free Soup Today." Mc- 
Guire walked in. 

A fat, greasy-looking man was stand- 
ing behind a table and ladling soup out 
of a big metal pot. McGuire got into 
line. When he reached the table, the pot 
was almost empty. He saw a piece of 
meat at the bottom. "Kin I have a piece 
of meat in mine, pal?" he whined. 

"Sure," said the fat man, and as he 
handed McGuire his soup, he dipped his 
thumb in it. 

At Two-thirty p.m. 

At two-thirty Old McGuire found a 



[ 1 ] 



bench in Grant Park near the lake- front. 
He sat down and looked out at the boats 
riding at anchor in the harbor. He 
looked at the long arm of Navy Pier, 
reaching out in the lake. He looked at 
the round-domed Planetarium, the three 
nuns in black and white sitting on the 
rocks, the blue-green waves slapping 
against the rocks, the gray-haired colored 
man fishing off the pier, the gray gulls 
wheeling overhead in wide lazy arcs, the 
Sand-Sweeper creeping across the lake 
and the long black trail of smoke leaning 
back from her funnels, the boats riding 
at anchor. And somehow looking at all 
these things made Old McGuire think of 
all the things he had seen and done. Of 
riding back and forth across the conti- 
nent on the big freights. Of all the places 
— the far places, the strange places, the 
enchanted places .... all the places 
that are America. Of the lights that he 
had seen and the women. Of the shut 
doors and the staring faces. Of back- 
door handouts, breadlines, mission- 
houses, jungle camps, small-town jail- 
houses. Of the Bowery, of New Orleans, 
of San Francisco — the orange groves, 
the pea fields, the canneries. Of waiting 
outside theatres, opera houses, night- 
clubs, and whining at the soft-looking 
ones, "I'm down and out now, Mister. 
Kin I have a quarter?" And of always 
keeping an eye peeled for the cop stand- 
ing on the corner. 

Old McGuire thought of all these 
things, and thinking of them made him 
tired, and being tired, he stopped think- 
ing of them, and being empty of all 
thought, he dozed off on the park bench. 

At Seven-thirty p.m. 

While McGuire was sleeping, the three 
nuns left ; the approaching night hovered 
for a while over the lake and then crept 
across the city; the automobiles arrow- 



ing down the Outer Drive turned on their 
headlights, and the jeweled bracelet of 
the Chevrolet sign started to move ; the 
business people and the shoppers 
swarmed out of the downtown buildings 
and the downtown streets into busses, 
L's, street cars, cabs, and automobiles, 
and rode south, west, and north to the 
residential districts of the city. 

When McGuire woke up, it was seven- 
thirty. The first thing he noticed was 
that it was night ; the second thing he 
noticed was a familiar sickening empti- 
ness in his stomach. 

He got up from the bench and walked 
back to South State Street. He walked 
past a Burlesque show (Fifteen Gor- 
geous Beauties in Parisian Scandals) ; 
past a used phonograph shop (Tiventy 
Thousand Records — Dirt Cheap) ; past 
Ma.xie's Pawn Shop (Cameras, Watches, 
Old Gold — Bought and Sold) ; past liq- 
uor stores (Bonded Whiskey and Do- 
mestic Wines — Prices Slashed); he 
walked past the dime flop-houses and 
the places where the red lights were 
burning in the hallways until he came to 
a small tavern. The sign in the window 
said Joe's Plcu'e — 10 O". Beer for a 
Nickel. 

McGuire walked in. He sat down in 
front of the pretzel bowl and ordered a 
beer. Every few minutes he took time 
out from eating pretzels to take a small 
sip of beer. 

At Nine in the Evening 

It was nine o'clock when Old Mc- 
Guire sauntered out of Joe's Place, con- 
tentedly chewing a toothpick. He stood 
for a moment, delicately sniffing the 
night air. He put his hand in his pocket 
and felt the two pennies between 
his fingers; then he turned and started 
walking back to Grant Park. Passing 
through Downtown, he dropped two 



( 2] 



pennies in a BliWd man's hat. The Wind 
man turned and looked at him in 
surprise. 

When Old McGuire reached Grant 
Park, he found an old newspaper. He 
laid the newspaper under his head and 



stretched out in the grass. He looked up 
at the sky. The sky was velvet, set with 
diamonds. Every sixty seconds the white 
band of the Palmolive Beacon sheared 
across it. 
After a while McGuire fell asleep. 



Incident 

Hector Manjarrez 
Rhetoric L Theme 8, 1939-1940 



'T'OR TEN consecutive hours I didn't 
•*■ say a word. For ten hours, all the 
way from Laredo, Texas, I had been 
sitting in one of those luxurious but ter- 
ribly uncomfortable seats of a bus. The 
country didn't seem to be very friendly. 
I was scared, and although I was hungry, 
I didn't have the courage to step out of 
the bus to buy a bite in the small road- 
side restaurant where we had stopped. 
I was still too busy trying to put together 
all the thoughts that came to my mind, 
still full of memorable words muttered 
by beloved lips when we said goodbye. 
Then, all of a sudden, I realized I was 
alone. I began to realize that in leaving 
Mexico I had left, perhaps forever, all 
the things that had been dear to me. I 
felt like crying. I left the bus, went 
into the inn, and sat at one of the tables. 
I was looking helplessly at the sur- 
roundings when a little woman came up 
and started talking to me. Since I didn't 
know what she was saying, I remained 
silent. I couldn't say anything because 
I didn't know her language. The moment 
was tense. Finally, finding strength in 
weakness, I said, "Me Engleesh speek 
no," and hurriedly proceeded to point to 
some of the items on the menu. I don't 
remember how many things I asked for ; 
but she looked startled, and without say- 
ing one more word, disappeared into the 



back room. Pretty soon she was putting 
three dishes of ice cream, one milk 
shake, one ice-cream soda, one Pepsi- 
Cola, one Coca-Cola, and a cup of coffee 
in front of my astonished eyes. Evi- 
dently this conglomeration had been my 
order, and I proceeded to eat it. What 
else could I do? 

After the ordeal was over, I found 
that I still had seven minutes at my dis- 
posal. "In seven minutes I should be 
able to wash my face," I thought, and 
without hesitation I directed mj^ steps 
toward the doors labeled "Ladies" and 
"Gentlemen." This time I was not going 
to be tricked ; so I opened my dictionary 
and read: "Gentleman, n. A man well 
born ; sometimes, anyone above the social 
condition of the yeoman." (The Span- 
ish and English definitions are alike.) 
"That is not my place," I thought ; "I 
am an ordinary individual." Further- 
more, I vaguely remembered that boys 
were called lads in this strange land; 
therefore, ladies must be the diminutive 
form of lad. 

A strident scream was more than 
enough to convince me that I was wrong ; 
another shriek made me run back to the 
safety of the bus. Once there, I swore 
never to believe in dictionaries and never 
to order meals in a restaurant again. 



[ 3 ] 



Parachute Fever 



Ruth E. Dann 
Rhetoric I, Theme 15. 1939-1940 



A FAMILIAR, hot sensation pricked 
^*- the length of my legs, now shuf- 
fling and "heel-tapping" with nervous- 
ness. A flash of hot fire gripped the small 
of my back, and seared under m^' left 
shoulder. I picked up my hands, looked 
at them, looked at the rivulets of per- 
spiration, and smiled. My nose stung. I 
couldn't bear the tinglings in my ears, 
and I pressed their tips and felt the 
warm blood course through them. 

I had substituted the airline company's 
black wool sweater for my brown leather 
jacket, and a pale, poised stewardess 
strapped the chute tightly over it. The 
life-package was bulky, cumbersome, and 
the suspenders cut dirty-white lines in 
the sweater. I fingered it hesitantly, 
repeating the curt, controlled instruc- 
tions given me. Count ten and pull the 
rip cord! Count ten and pull the rip 
cord ! Count ten — would I know when 
it was ten ? How would I know ? How ? 

I stood impatiently, third from the 
safety door. Two thoroughly frightened 
women were ahead, clenching their 
knuckles. And yet watching them, I sud- 
denly felt stronger, freer. And unafraid ! 
Stepping out, out and away, was to be 
my experience! I felt eager for the 
doubled-up hurtling, and the pain of first 
breathing! Eager for the drunken lilting 
through air, and the snapping of the 
wind-driven folds. I wanted to fall ! To 
fall through cottony mists and sun- 
spattered air, to the green and brown 
floor below. 

Hysterical, the two women were 
firmly urged out. The stewardess and 
co-pilot clocked the necessary sixty sec- 
onds and nodded. Now — fear! Sudden 



and agonizing fear ! I couldn't ! I 
wouldn't ! 

There were three smiles, and I al- 
lowed my feet to slip! In the swift, 
stabbing rush of tearing wind, I tried to 
count. My bungling fingers reached the 
cord, touched it, freed it ! I shot down 
without breathing; and, finally, slapping 
gusts of wind filled the belly of the chute 
and jerked me upwards. I held onto my 
straps with ferocity. Shoes were burden- 
some and stiffl)- heavy, and m}' skirt 
ballooned with wind. Far below, I could 
see my successful comrades, floating 
away like tiny chips of pure, white soap 
adrift in a blue, wide tub. 

My fear of height deserted me, and I 
resented the slipping by of precious 
minutes. Now and then, a sudden, sharp 
onslaught of air would buffet me, and a 
sick feeling "queasied" through my 
stomach. And soon, a less violent, but 
more determined breeze would waft me 
far, far to the side, so that I traveled 
slowly across the sky, instead of down. 
I could feel the blood leaving my arms, 
and glancing up I saw them as white 
and rigid as the parachute. My ears 
were beginning the first warnings of a 
change in atmospheric pressure, and my 
ej^elids became heavy. 

The ribbons of road and pin-points of 
humanity far below grew larger. I fol- 
lowed the skim of a black, sleek car for 
several miles, until I lost it in a cloud. 
When I emerged from the patchy, mist- 
ing vapors, I tried to find it again, but 
it had dipped into some valley, and I 
turned dim attention to a huge red truck 
creeping up a hill. The trees seemed 
richly foliaged, and I planned my couch 



[ 4 ] 



with care. I had decided on the fat, 
green tree, straight below me, but the 
chute floated annov-ingly away, and I 
kicked the empty air in vain. Farmers 
had discovered our descent and were 
shouting vociferously. It was soon to be 
over ! I shut my eyes and memorized 
the far-away sounds below, and the 
small, anemic whistle of the wind. 

I was ven.' close to the ground ! I 
became frightened again, and clutched 
the straps violently. I flexed my ankles, 
and bent mv knees. The wind was wild ! 



It was to be a stubbled corn field. I 
waited. 

I sat dowTi, arose, and bumped down 
again. The clipped stalks scratched my 
legs and arms. The wind was raking 
me across the field. I twisted my straps 
and dug my numb toes into the hard 
ground. I could not stop the painful 
rolling. In the near distance there loomed 
a black oak. I licked mj' lips, went limp 
for protection, and with a slapping and 
kicking thud, rapped my tired body 
against the trunk. 



Haircut 



Shirley Shapiro 
Rhetoric I, Thenie 2, 1940-1941 



T WAS FIRST. The barber parted my 
* straight black hair in a long line down 
the center 

Mrs. Grey boarded us for the Child 
Welfare Agency with all the enthusiasm 
of a turtle and possibly a little less 
imagination. The four of us were stand- 
ardized by unbecoming Dutch bobs which 
required a minimum of attention when 
the oatmeal needed stirring. We ate a lot 
of oatmeal. It has calories or something. 

The barber tickled the scissors across 
my forehead and a shower of shorn 
bangs teased my nose as the haircut went 
on 

Once a month I visited the hospital. 
Mother sat up in bed and pretended com- 
pliments about my "good" yellow dress 
with the celluloid buttons ; she asked me 
about school and food and tooth-brush- 
ing; she told me funny stories about 
what the doctors did and said, and we 
had a nice laugh. Then came a per- 
formance consisting of a poem, a song, 
and a ballet dance in my best manner 
.... addressed to "the deaf man in 



the back row." Occasionally a nun would 
come in to sit with my mother and the 
mixed audience we had invented for the 
day, and then the clapping was twice as 
loud after my curtsey; sometimes it was 
loud enough to warrant a curtain call 
from behind the Japanese folding screen 
with the broken hinge. 

Daddy took me walking on Sundays; 
after a morning of reporting my week's 
activities I was always more than ready 
to be stuffed to the gills by one of grand- 
ma's dinners. On!}- once can I remember 
not enjopng dinner ; as I tried to swal- 
low each bit of roasted chicken it stub- 
bomh- refused to be swallowed. After 
that I didn't smoke any more of those 
skinny, brown "Indian cigars" that grew 
in Grey's front yard on an excitingly 
wicked tree. 

/ climbed out of the chair and Larry 
zi-as lifted into it. The barber parted her 
yellow hair in a long line down the 
center 

Even at the age of three, Larr\^ had 
a vague idea that her mother was some- 



[ S ] 



thing not quite orthodox; because, al- 
though Mrs. Grey tried to persuade the 
woman not to be silly, she insisted that 
Larry know her as "Ruth." 

Ruth came to see Larry every week 
and brought a strong, too-sweet odor of 
perfume into the house. Her cheeks 
were two smudges of pink under her 
deep eyes. \\"hen she talked, there was a 
white slit in the red streak that couldn't 
have really been all her mouth. Larry 
thought, even said, that Ruth was beau- 
tiful .... but she called Mrs. Grey 
"mamma." 

The barber bounced Larry out of the 
chair and beckoned to Twila. She sat 
looking at herself in the wavy mirror 
while he parted her bargain permanent 
in a long line down the center. .... 

When things got to be too much of an 
ordeal for Mrs. Grey, thirteen-year-old 
Twila came to the house to help out. 
Between duties, she told me the first 
smutty stories I had ever heard; every 
lurid detail grew more lurid on Twila's 
tongue. She had kissed a boj- and she 
had been to a funeral ; her descriptions 
of both experiences were embellished 
nightly as we lay in the iron beds at one 
end of the attic dormitory. 

She had a picture of her mother in a 
coffin with a black dress, and some 
flowers that Twila told me were blue. 



She had a picture of her boy friend, too ; 
he wore a striped bathing suit and carried 
a big beach ball. On the back was 
written, "Hi, kid." 

When Twila's hair was done, Mardell 
and Martha argued the merits of being 
"first" until Mrs. Grey decided the ques- 
tion. In turn, the barber parted their 
twin heads of brown hair in long tTmn 
lines dozL'n the center 

The twins had several queer and an- 
noying customs. At breakfast, their 
two-year-old minds prompted them to 
turn half- full oatmeal bowls upside down 
in their hair. At lunch, they bathed in 
jello. One day the two of them extracted 
three dozen eggs from the grocery order 
on the kitchen table to make a horrible 
yellow mess on the floor. Why in 
heaven's name they were !Mrs. Grej^'s 
favorites I can never tell, but she tried 
time and again to persuade their widowed 
father to place them for adoption. He 
never did, but she never stopped trpng. 

Mardell and Martha accepted their 
lavender lolly pops. The four of us were 
smothered in blue wool coats and herded 
out of the shop. As we left, a little girl 
struggled up onto the barber's chair. He 
combed her hair dozen over her face. 

"Oh," he apologised to her mother, 
"Fve forgotten again. Which side do we 
part this onf" 



Problem Child — or Problem Parents? 

Proud parents watch their offspring: with great vig-ilance and are thrown into a 
panic if a child doesn't react the way the psychologist assures them it should react. 
The horror-stricken mother announces to the bewildered father that they have a prob- 
lem child on their hands. And immediately the household is plunged into a spirited, 
relentless campaign to change the "problem child" into a normal one. All this pro- 
ceeds to the amazement and amusement of the perplexing child. . . . 

In the past the most competent authorities have directed their advice entirely at 
the parent. It's all been about how to deal with the problem child. That's all very 
well, if the parents take the advice, and if the child really constitutes the problem. 
But sometimes it's the other way around. I for one am firmly convinced that it would 
be invaluable for children to have some advice on how to handle their "problem 
parents." — Regina Eberle 



[ 6 ] 



Old O. B. Smith 



Vincent West 
Rhetoric II, Theme 5, 1939-1940 



THE MOST unreasonable fellow I 
ever worked for was old O. B. 
Smith. He had been driven from his 
pecan factory when irate parents and 
husbands discovered the slave-driving 
tactics he used on the young girls in his 
employ. Here on the farm, however, 
there were none to object. Here, his 
outrageous disregard for the health and 
safety of his employees flourished un- 
abated. He regarded each of us as just 
one more inefficient piece of machinery; 
just another pawn over which he could 
flaunt his authority. 

When the tinny jangle of the farm 
telephone called Avery from our break- 
fast of deeply browned hot cakes and 
crisp bacon, I knew that something was 
amiss. From where I sat I could hear 
Avery's replies. 

"Yes, yes. I've been up for an hour." 
Actually, he didn't even have his shoes 
on. 

"No, I haven't seen the steer." 

"We might. You'll send another man, 
won't 3'ou?" I walked in to where the 
phone hung on the wall. Now I could 
hear O. B.'s harsh old voice crackle over 
the wire. 

"I want that steer ready when the 
truck gets there. I can't get a man at 
this hour, so you fellows had better start 
looking for him. I don't like your back- 
talk, either." Bang! The receiver hit the 
hook at the far end of the line. 

We had no alternative. The steer 
must be tied when the truck came in, or 
we would soon be looking for new jobs. 
The animal to which he referred was a 
great half-ton white-face, which had 
been our chief source of misery and 



worry for the past five months. As a 
rangy four-hundred-pound calf, newly 
arrived at the farm, he had knocked 
down the three men who tried to get 
him off the truck. Then he had walked 
over them and come down the chute 
without further ado. Ever since, his 
mischief had increased in proportion to 
his increase in size. Whenever the steers 
w ere moved from one pasture to another, 
he was invariably in the unfenced woods. 
He leapt the fences as easily as his 
herd-mates leapt the shallow streams 
which flowed across the pasture. He was 
all bad. He seemed really to enjoy his 
deviltry. Xow old O. B. expected us to 
pit our puny strength against him. It 
was impossible. Yet our jobs depended 
upon it, so we slipped into our jumpers 
and started out, not knowing what we 
would do, nor how we could hope to 
effect the capture. 

Beside the barn was an old creep- 
feeder. Here we had fed the younger 
calves to protect them from such tyrants 
as the one we were after. It was here, 
surprisingly enough, that we found him. 
Since the feeder was no longer used, the 
gate had been left open. The steer, as 
though anxious to investigate the one 
pen into which he had never jumped, 
had entered the feeder and was busily 
licking the empty salt trough. It would 
be an easy capture, I thought. I could 
sneak along the corncrib and close the 
gate before he knew I was near. That 
pen would surely hold him. Xo steer 
could jump a four- foot fence from a 
standing start. I was sure of it. 

I was so sure of it that as the heavy 
gate swung shut I laughed aloud. It was 



[ 7 ] 



the first indication the white-face had of 
my presence. He turned to stare, and 
then, just as the gate clicked, he took a 
single step forward, grunted his defiance, 
and rising hke a horse at the first hurdle, 
he cleared the gate in a seemingly effort- 
less leap which carried him to the ground 
before me. He lowed. It was a tri- 
umphant blast. Then, walking a few 
feet away, he began to nibble the lush 
blue-grass as unconcernedly as a dairy 
cow just loosed after a long night in the 
barn. 

I had been so engrossed with this ex- 
hibition of massive agility that I had 
completely forgotten Avery. I had not 
even noticed that he had returned to the 
house as I crept along behind the corn- 
crib. Even if I had noticed this I would 
have had no way of divining his inten- 
tions. Now I could see him approaching, 
shielded from the steer's range of vision 
by a haystack. He carried an old clothes 
line rope coiled to form a lariat. It 
seemed impossible that he could expect 
that slender strand to hold the brute, 
but there he came, shaking out a large 
loop. He had often boasted of his prow- 
ess with a rope ; perhaps he knew what 
he was about. 

The steer seemed to sense his danger. 
He raised his head and stood nervously 
taut, his eyes on the haystack. As Avery 
shook out the loop for the last time and 
stepped around the stack, the steer Hed 
for the fence. Just as he launched him- 
self into another of those magnificent 
leaps, the loop settled about his horns. 
He seemed to collapse in mid-air. His 
head bent under him, his feet went high 
in the air, and head foremost he crashed 
into the ground. There was a crunching 
sound, as of breaking bones. The steer 
lay on his side, stunned, with blood 
spurting from his poll. A little apart 
from him stood one of his horns, impaled 
in the hard earth of the driveway. 



Across the drive Aver)' lay sprawled 
in the grass, the rope slack in his hands, 
for the breaking of one horn had allowed 
the rope to slip from them both. Only 
the force of the fall prevented the steer 
from escaping into the un fenced wood- 
land behind the pasture, where he could 
have eluded capture as long as he liked. 
I realized, however, that the battle had 
scarcely begun, for the steer even now 
was making feeble efforts to get up. 
Knowing that a crippled steer is vicious, 
and realizing at the same time that our 
only chance lay in keeping him down, I 
leapt upon his head. 

Scarcely had I secured a hold upon 
him when he began to struggle. All his 
range-bred viciousness seemed to come to 
his command. In a futile effort to shake 
me off he struck with his horn, swung 
his head back and forth, and rolled from 
side to side. I realized the danger of 
his hoofs, but I soon found that I could 
no longer keep behind him. His hoofs 
struck nearer and nearer until they were 
digging great chunks out of the hard- 
packed earth of the driveway right beside 
my leg. Though my breath was coming 
in hot, dr}' gasps, which seemed to burn 
as they passed through my throat, and 
though my lungs seemed about to burst 
and my muscles ached from the sheer 
effort of holding on, I summoned my 
ebbing strength in order to roll over his 
massive head to the comparative safety 
behind his back. In this position the 
blood from his wound spurted into my 
face and eyes. I couldn't wipe it away. 

I don't know whether I grew weaker 
or the steer grew stronger, but at any 
rate he shook me off and began once 
more to strike at me with his hoofs. 
These soon began to rip through the 
loose legs of my trousers. Very soon 
they were digging painfully into my legs. I 
Such pains shot through my body that it 
seemed I must relinquish my hold ; that 



[ 8 ] 



I could not pit my exhaustion against the 
agihty of his brutish determination. Just 
when I had decided to let go, the steer's 
club-like hoofs ceased their tattoo upon 
my legs, and his struggles became less ; 
soon he lay quite subdued, his great 
sides heaving from the struggle. Look- 
ing back, I found that Avery had finally 
secured the steer's feet in the coils of 
the rope. We had won. In just a 
moment Avery had fashioned a pinch- 
halter of the loose end of the rope, 
and slipped it over the steer's bloody 
head. 

It was only then that I relaxed. Loos- 
ening my grip, I rolled a few feet away, 
and lay flat on my back, breathing 
deeply. I was near collapse, and would 
have lain there for some time if I had 
not heard O. B.'s truck in the lane. At 
this I got up and stood leaning against 



a tree while he got out. After inspecting 
the steer, he berated Avery, as we knew 
he would, for allowing the steer to be 
injured. As I stood there, the fields 
before me swayed and shimmered behind 
a pink and lavender mist. I rubbed my 
eyes. My hand came away stained with 
blood. The sickish sweet odor of it so 
nauseated me that I turned away, and 
would have gone to the creek to wash, 
had O. B. not turned upon me at this 
moment. 

"Well, what are you waiting for?" he 
demanded. "Avery and I can handle this 
steer." He pulled his watch from his 
pocket and continued, "You're five min- 
utes late already. Now, get those mules 
hitched out in a hurry." 

That was the thanks I got for a ten- 
minute wrestling bout with the wildest 
steer in Arkansas. 



So-long Roommate 

Frederick Jauch 
Rhetoric II, Theme 2, 1939-1940 



WHEN I returned he was there, 
standing beside the bed. 

"Hello, Jub. Just get back?" 

He said nothing. His eyes were sober. 
His feet moved, and then he smiled. 

"I'm leaving, Fritz," he said. 

There were two packed grips with 
Illinois posters upon the bed. The two 
bottom drawers of the bureau were open 
and empty. There was only dust upon 
the top shelf of the bookstand. Save for 
several pairs of trousers that belonged 
to me, the closet was bare. 

It was incredible. He was joking. 

"How many hours of 'D'?" I asked. 

He grinned sheepishly. "Twelve," he 
said. 



There was an unbearably long silence. 
He leaned against the foot of the bed, 
his fingers drumming upon the post. I 
stood for a moment in the center of the 
room. I could feel drops of sweat on 
my forehead. I moved to the window 
and flung it open. The cold, fresh air 
felt good. 

It was twilight outside, and I could 
see yellow campus lights in the distance. 
The chimes were ringing. 

I heard him mumble, "It's five 
o'clock." 

I lit a cigarette. "Going to get 
married?" 

He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe." 
He was smiling again. 



[ 9 ] 



"Going to stay home and farm?" 

His eyes lighted up. "Yes. Until I 
get one of my own." 

He turned toward the window, and 
his eyes looked far off. He looked at 
yellow rows of com, green pastures of 
clover, black, freshly-plowed earth. He 
belonged with the earth. 

"I've got to go." 

"I'll help you." 

"She's waiting for me in the car. 
Didn't you see her?" 

"Hunh-uh." 

I grabbed one bag. He took the other. 
We started down the winding stair. 

"Coming out?" 

"I'll say goodbye in here." 

"You wanta see her?" 

"I've seen her. She's beautiful." 



"Yeah," he said. 

He grabbed the grip I held. He 
clutched my shoulder. He was laughing 
now, but his eyes were wet. "I knew I 
wouldn't cr}'," he said. 

"She'll make a better roommate than 
me," I said. 

He laughed. The door closed. 

I climbed the stair to my room. The 
window was open. The air felt good. 

I dropped upon the bed and reached 
for a pillow. There were two there. I 
needed only one. 

I heard a motor. I heard the gears 
shift. 

The bottom drawers of the bureau 
gaped open. The bookstand was half- 
empty. The closet shelf was dusty and 
bare. 



The Major 

Charles Waterman 
Rhetoric 11, Theme 3, 1939-1940 



THE ROOM was nearly empty when 
I went in for the first class of the 
new semester: only a handful of men 
was there and the Major had not yet 
come. I didn't know any of the men, so 
I sat down in the most convenient seat 
and waited for things to happen. 

Rapidly the room began to fill. Men 
seated near one another exchanged in- 
formation freely on the merits of the 
instructor for this course, some declaring 
that he was a "pretty low grader," and 
others countering that he was "a lot of 
fun." Engrossed in the conversation, 
most of us failed to realize the Major 
was coming into the room until some- 
body cried "ATTENTION!" We all 
snapped to our best "attention," and it 
was not until he got to the front of the 



room that he came into our line of 
vision. 

"Be seated, gentlemen," he said. He 
sounded friendly. 

He was bigger than you would at first 
realize. His broad shoulders made the 
chair behind the table seem pretty inade- 
quate, and his weight on the raised plat- 
form caused the boards to squeak when 
he took a step. 

For a while nothing was said. The 
Major was sorting his books and papers 
and was gfiving them all of this attention. 
Suddenly he yawned — not politely or 
cautiously, but slowly and deliberately 
and as widely as possible. Then he 
looked up and blinked his eyes as if to 
say, "Well ! Are you here ?" 

What he actually said was, "Now, 



[101 



gentlemen, I think you ought to under- 
stand the way I conduct a class. I always 
make it a rule never to do anything in 
the classroom that a student can do. 
Moskowitz, front and center!" We all 
laughed. "Take these cards and seat 
these — ahem — gentlemen in reverse al- 
phabetical order about the tables, starting 
here. I'll give you two minutes." Here 
he took out his watch and laid it on the 
table. When the student tried to ask a 
question the Major would interrupt him 
with, "Do you know the alphabet? 
Good! Use it !" 

Finally Moskowitz realized that he 
had to do it by himself, and after a 
couple of false starts he got us seated in 
the order named, with places reserved 
for absentees. 

"Barley, front and center!" 

"Berley, sir." 

"All right. Barley, you are the section 
marker. You take the roll and write the 
names of those absent on the blackboard 
— perhaps I should add, with chalk. 
Whoever comes in late erases his name 
olT the board ; otherwise he is absent. Is 
that understood?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"It is your further duty to call the 
class to attention when I come into the 
room. You will salute me, present me 
with the roll card, and say, 'Sir, section 
800. Four men absent, sir.' Then at the 
end of the period you will rise and say, 
'Sir, it is ten minutes of the hour, sir!' 
Then it's my job to take my books and 
get the hell out of here, see?" 

All this was done with strict military 
rigor, but with a veneer of humor that 
took the sting out of it. 

"Now you gentlemen will learn how to 
recite. You will stand, come to atten- 
tion," (he emphasized his words as if he 
were addressing a company of 300 men 
or more) "and preface and conclude 



your remarks with a little three-letter 
word — namely, sir. And now that you 
may show me that you know how to 
recite, as I call off your names you will 
rise, come to attention, say, 'Sir, my name 
is I know how to re- 
cite, sir.' Hereafter I won't say anything 
unless you fall flat on your face or some- 
thing, but I keep a stink list and every- 
time you recite improperly I take a pen- 
cil and" (here he showed us the blank 
page) "write your name right here. At 
the end of the semester if I find you are 
between a D and an E and your name's 
on the stink list you get an E. But if 
you're between an A and a B with a 
clean slate, I have to give you an A 
whether I want to or not. Now recite." 

We recited. There was a minimum of 
mistakes. 

"We'll have a little lesson now. Brown, 
you name the divisions of the United 
States Army and give the purpose of 
each." 

"The — the engineers. They uhh, they 
build bridges .... and — " 

"That's enough. Go on." 

"The Signal Corps, sir. They handle 
messages, sir. 

"The Medical Corps, sir. They take 
care of the wounded — uh — sir." 

"The casualties. Go on." (Pause) 
"The most important br — " 

"Oh, the infantry." 

"What do they do?" 

"They, uhh, they handle the marching, 
sir." 

A roar of laughter followed this sally. 

"Sir, it is ten minutes of the hour, sir." 
This from the section marker. 

The Major hastily grabbed up his 
papers, books, and pencils, tucked them 
under his arm, and ran off like a school 
boy late for class. 

"Class dismissed," the section marker 
said. 



[11] 



Those Americans 



Milton Hoefle 
Rhetoric II, Theme 5, 1939-1940 



HIDDEN" in the rolling green hills of 
the Rhine X'alley, the little German 
town of Adenau looked like a segment 
of the Middle Ages that had been 
transplanted into a modern setting. An- 
cient buildings of medieval architecture 
crowded the narrow, cobblestone streets, 
and at the top of a distant green hill, one 
saw the remains of an old castle covered 
with lichens. The citizens of Adenau 
held grimly to the atmosphere of antiq- 
uity that pervaded their town, and every 
holiday they would appear in their tra- 
ditional garb and celebrate in the same 
old manner. Life moved smoothly here; 
each action was done by habit ; all tasks 
were done in the same old way estab- 
lished by some long-dead ancestor. It 
seemed strange that such a town could 
exist, that time could pass and the town 
yet remain unchanged. Perhaps this was 
caused b}- the town's seclusion and its 
independence of the rest of the world, 
but whatever the cause, the result was 
Adenau, a town where nothing realh' 
important had happened since the end 
of the World War. 

Occasionally some inquisitive visitor 
wanders into the town and disturbs the 
quiet of its daily life. Curious eyes fol- 
low his movements, and when they meet, 
the citizens greet him shyly and hxnvy on 
their way. But sometimes the stranger 
stops them and inquires about lodgings, 
and then they direct him to the old 
"Wirtschaft von Konigsberg," an inn 
that was named after the castle on the 
hill. The inn is a narrow, three-storied 
building that seems even older than its 
neighbors that are crowded against it. 
Downstairs are a barber shop, a bar, and 



a kitchen, while the upper stories are 
used as the "quarters," and as the home 
of two elderly ladies who own and oper- 
ate the inn. As the stranger enters the 
inn, he is met by a wizened old lady who 
smiles, revealing her toothless gums, and 
asks her guest what he wishes. If it is 
a room, she goes behind the bar and gets 
an ancient ledger and assigns a room to 
the stranger. Then she always engages 
the stranger in conversation by comment- 
ing upon the weather or questioning him 
about his journey. But no matter what 
the conversation may be, she alwavs asks 
the guest if he has ever known any 
Americans. And if he appears willing 
to remain and talk, the old lady draws 
him a stein of beer, and then leans for- 
ward and rests her elbows upon the bar. 
"Those Americans," she sighs and then 
smiles in memory. "Ja, those Americans 
are funny people." And with this begin- 
ning she relates an old story. 

The sun was just showing itself when 
Frau Engelmann opened the shutters of 
her small inn. Curiously she looked up 
and down the main street of Adenau, 
which was hung with gay bunting and 
the colors of Imperial Germany. Usually 
the street was deserted at this early hour, 
but today it was different. Already 
people dressed in their best clothes lined 
the streets so that they might cheer the 
last few remnants of the evacuating 
German army. For a week now it had 
been like this; for almost a week the 
Germans had been withdrawing from 
the Zone of Allied Occupation. At first 
there were only convoys of supply 
trucks ; then came the cannons, and now 
the front line troops. 



[12] 



Far down the street Frau Engelmann 
could hear the sound of marching men, 
and ahhough she couldn't see them be- 
cause of a bend in the road, she could 
picture the straight ranks of grey stained 
by the mud of the trenches and the road. 
Her heart throbbed to the rhythm of 
the marching feet, but tears formed in 
her eyes as she thought of her husband 
and her son who would never march 
again. Herr Engelmann had been killed 
in the early part of the war, and her son 
had been among the few chosen to hold 
the famous Hindenburg Line, where he 
too was killed. But she mustn't think of 
those things ; it was a sacrifice that must 
be paid. She dried her eyes with the 
edge of her apron and smiled at the on- 
coming troops. "They are so thin and 
pale, and once they were so strong," 
she thought, and she wondered at the 
youthfulness of their features. And once 
more tears lined her eyes, but they were 
tears of thankfulness and I'oy for the 
peace that had finally come. 

Slowly she turned away from the win- 
dow and began wiping and polishing the 
top of the bar. The sound of marching 
feet and cheering died away. Suddenly 
she stopped in her work and stared 
fixedly into the mirror behind the bar 
as if she hoped to find the answer to 
some question there. In the back of the 
building she could hear her daughter 
cleaning up the barber shop. Silently 
she walked around to the back of the 
bar and wiped away a speck of dust she 
imagined was upon a stein. Hers was the 
only inn in Adenau, and although there 
weren't many customers, the business fed 
them. But now what would happen to 
them and the inn? After their troops 
were gone, then the Americans would 
come, and everyone knew the Americans 
were uncivilized. Often she had heard 
the old men of Adenau talk about the 



Americans over their evening stein of 
beer. She heard how blood-thirsty the 
Americans were ; how they would allow 
the Germans to approach close to their 
positions and then suddenly appear and 
open fire. And, too, she had heard how 
the Americans still fought Indians in 
their country. 

The group of officers who had rested 
at the inn the night before said that there 
was to be twenty- four hours' difference 
between the two armies to avoid any 
trouble. If that were so, it would mean 
that the Americans would arrive some- 
time the next morning. Somehow she 
couldn't help wondering what the Ameri- 
cans would look like, how they would 
talk and act, but primarily, she wondered 
how they would treat herself and her 
neighbors. Hopefully she reached for 
her rosary and prayed. 

By noon the last of the German Army 
had passed through the town. Now there 
was nothing more to do other than wait 
for the coming of the Americans. Frau 
Engelmann stepped outside her inn to 
take down the decorations of bunting, 
and as she worked, she talked to her 
neighbors who were also removing the 
many decorations. Suddenly they were 
stopped in their work by the noise of an 
approaching automobile bouncing upon 
the cobblestones and charging up the 
main street. The last of the Germans 
had passed through more than an hour 
before. It must be those Americans, but 
they weren't supposed to arrive until the 
next morning. Quickly Frau Engelmann 
slipped inside her inn and bolted the 
door behind her. Then she cautiously 
went to a window in order to see what 
was happening. A mud-splattered ambu- 
lance had stopped across the street ; she 
could tell it was an ambulance because 
the Red Cross insignia was painted on 
its side, but she also recognized that it 



[13] 



was no German ambulance. Two men, 
one tall and the other small and stocky, 
climbed out of the ambulance, stood a 
second gazing down the empty street, 
and then strode rapidly towards the inn. 
"They're coming here," she whispered 
incredulously, and suddenly she was 
afraid. Fear caused her heart to pound 
like some giant drum, and the little veins 
in her temple knotted themselves with 
each frenzied beat. She remained mo- 
tionless as though she were frozen ; only 
her eyes followed the two figures in 
their olive-drab uniforms. 

She watched the latch move, and she 
held her breath as the weight of a man 
pushed against the bolt. The door held 
firm, and the American rattled it, im- 
patiently shouting to attract attention. 
"My goodness," she thought, "are they 
going to break down the door?" She was 
certain that every shout of the two men 



was a terrible threat directed at her 
home, or perhaps her life. Some instinct 
told her to run, to get away from here, 
but she couldn't leave her inn because 
that was all she owned. Perhaps she had 
better open the door. Surely they 
wouldn't hurt an old lady. "Be calm," 
she called. "I am coming." 

Frau Engelmann fingered the cross at 
her throat as if she found courage 
there, and then she opened the door 
a few inches and peered out. The 
tall one smiled. "Could we have some 
beer. Mother?" he asked in broken 
German. 

Frau Engelmann stood and stared. He 
had called her "mother," she thought, 
and too, he resembled the son who had 
been lost on the Hindenburg Line. Sud- 
denly she smiled, and stepping back, she 
swung open the door as an invitation. 
"Ja, ja, zwei Glasser Bier." 



Hash-house Opera 

Tony stood behind the counter, mechanically washing soiled dishes and slopping 
out bowls of chili and mugs of coffee, and all the men who have ever lived with 
burning ambition stood beside him. Tony is not going to be a hash-slinger all of his 
life, because he can sing. He had brought some operatic records for me to hear, and 
between customers he would rush back to put a new one on the victrola-radio he had 
rigged up. His chest would swell up and he would break into a powerful melody. 
The stained apron around his waist would miraculously vanish and he would be 
garbed in the clown costume of Pagliacci. But when the music had finished he'd be 
Tony again, and the callouses on his hands where he had husked corn for his father 
would stand out, although his eyes would go right on flashing with the mystery of 
his emotions. — Mary Ann Stoker 

Tavern 

At the table in front of us was an interesting couple. He was a fat man — the 
jovial type with a round, red face. His head was practically bald, but the deep 
dimples in his full face, which would attract you first as they did me, took years away 
from his dignity. She was the solemn, sober, hard-working stenographer type. She 
seemed to be bored with everything, as if she had seen it all many times before and 
no longer thought any of it interesting. 

Well, he was a little drunk, and as a result he wanted to sing. He did — and loud ! 
He had a tenor voice that was mellow and clear, but I'm afraid the way he was 
using it right then wasn't doing it justice. When he opened his mouth, the skin on 
his face, which had been so perfectly fitted for his somber moments, seemed ready 
to crack. When he closed his mouth and took a deep breath, his pufTed, red cheeks 
shone like Jonathan apples. 

She was terribly embarrassed. I could tell by the expression on her face and the 
pitch of her voice that she was giving him the devil. — J. F. Denning 



14] 



Pressure Plus 



Harold Grant 
Rhetoric II, Theme 5, 1939-1940 



IN SPITE of the warm sunshine that 
shone unobstructedly down upon the 
baseball field, my forehead was stream- 
ing with cold perspiration. The palms 
of my hands were damp and clammy. 
One thought and only one thought 
drummed through my mind. Three 
more men ; three more men ; three more 
men. Again and again, as I sat on the 
players' bench, I could hear this phrase 
as distinctly as if a chorus were shout- 
ing in my ear. Could I do it? Could I 
retire three more batters without allow- 
ing one of them to get a base hit? 

Finally Wally, the catcher, came over 
and sat down beside me. "Well," he 
said, "what shall we throw at these next 
three dummies? Your arm should be 
pretty tired. I'm afraid you'll hurt it if 
you throw any more fast curves. May- 
be we'd better use a straight, fast ball 
and mix in your floater for a change of 
pace. That should be enough to get 'em 
without taking any chances of hurting 
your arm." 

"O. K. Wally," I replied. "Now this 
first man up is poison. He hits left- 
handed and crowds right up on top of 
the plate. Anything over the inside 
corner is practically lost. I'll throw the 
first ball right at his head. It'll be fast 
but not fast enough to prevent him from 
getting out of the way. This may scare 
him back away from the plate, and we'll 
get him on low outside pitches. But if 
he gets on base, be careful. He's very 
fast and loves to steal. Now the second 
batter isn't very tough. He's their sec- 
ond baseman, and he struck out the last 
two times he was up. I don't know 
what to throw the next man. You know 



that great big catcher? He's hit the ball 
every time up, but someone has always 
been able to get under it. We'll keep the 
ball high and outside to him and pray 
that he doesn't connect solidly." 

Talking with Wally had helped to 
loosen some of the tension in me, and, 
as it ended, our shortstop made the third 
out. It was time to go back to work. As 
our side was retired I picked up my 
glove, tightened my belt, and started for 
the mound. Never before had the dis- 
tance between the bench and the pitcher's 
box seemed so great. Nervously I picked 
up the ball and looked toward the plate 
where Wally waited to take my warm- 
up pitches. 

"You get five ; then we'll play," 
shouted the umpire. 

"You get two more after that," called 
the opponent's third-base coach; "then 
you'll be on your way to the shower." 

"Come on, nothing-bailer," razzed the 
first-base coach. "You've been plenty 
lucky so far. Before this inning's over, 
you'll think you're standing in the center 
of a merry-go-round." 

Perspiration once more popped out all 
over my body. Hastily I wound up and 
delivered the first warm-up pitch. The 
ball slipped out of my wet fingers, sailed 
high over the catcher's head, and 
bounced off the backstop. Again a great 
outbreak of ribbing from behind first 
and third. This time I paid no attention 
to the coaches as I wiped my hands on 
the resin bag and finished warming up. 
The catcher took my fifth pitch and 
threw the ball to the second baseman, 
who returned it to me. The umpire 



[15] 



called, "Play ball," and the batter 
stepped into the box. 

As I had expected, the batter crowded 
right up next to the plate and crouched 
until the upper halt of his body was 
actually bent across the pan. The catcher 
squatted and gave the signal for a fast 
ball. Slowly I wound up and threw the 
ball right at the batter's head. Instinc- 
tively I realized that the pitch was too 
fast. The batter seemed paralyzed as 
he watched the ball speeding straight for 
his head. Suddenly he fell to the ground, 
but he had waited too long. The ball 
struck him a glancing blow on the top 
of his head, knocked his cap at least 
twenty feet away, and bounced com- 
pletely over the low screen of the back- 
stop. I rushed to the plate to see how 
badly he was injured. Luckily he was 
blessed with a thick skull, and, after he 
had rested for a moment, he refused to 
allow a pinch-runner and took his place 
on first base. Once more I returned to 
the pitching mound, greatly relieved by 
the fact that the batter was not seriously 
injured but very much aware that a no- 
hit ball game was still possible. 

The opponent's second baseman, a 
good fielder but a very weak hitter, was 
the next batter. I looked toward the 
plate for the catcher's signal, but, in- 
stead, I detected some sort of signal 
being passed from the batter to the base 
runner. Acting on the spur of the 
moment, I called time and tied my left 
shoestring. This was a signal for the 
infielders to plaj' for a bunt. The third 
baseman picked up a handful of loose 
dirt and tossed it aimlessly in the direc- 
tion of third base, the shortstop and 
second baseman both shouted "Easy 
baby," and the big, first baseman let out 
a low roaring "Come on, gang!" Al- 
though seemingly meaningless, these re- 
sponses actually meant that each of the 



plajers had seen my signal and would 
play their positions accordingly. 

The catcher had seen and heard all the 
signals, and he responded by calling for 
a fast ball shoulder high. This is the 
most difficult kind of pitch to bunt be- 
cause it is easily popped into the air 
rather than on the ground. I took my 
position on the rubber, glanced toward 
the runner on first, and threw the ball. 
My third baseman came charging in 
with the pitch ; the first baseman took 
three quick steps in and stopped ; the 
second baseman covered second while 
the shortstop ran over to cover third in 
view of a possible play at that base. My 
hunch had been right, and, as things 
turned out, our defensive play was per- 
fect. The runner on first had gone down 
with the pitch while the batter, instead 
of bunting a slow grounder, popped the 
ball up in the air. The third baseman 
caught the pop fly and quickly whipped 
the ball to the first baseman, who stepped 
on first base to complete the double play. 

Gleefully the infielders threw the ball 
around the horn while the spectators 
applauded and threw their hats in the 
air. Two men were out, no one was on 
base, and still the opponents hadn't had 
a hit. The catcher returned the ball to 
me, and the next hitter stepped into the 
batter's box. He was a huge fellow, 
and, as far as anj^one knew, he had no 
weakness at the plate. He always hit the 
first good ball, but he wouldn't go after 
a bad one. The first time up he had 
fouled out on a fast ball, but the next 
time he had hit the same kind of pitch 
hard and on a line right to the second 
baseman. The last time he had hit a 
long fly to the left fielder who caught 
the ball only after a long, hard run. 
What couldn't he hit? Surely he must 
have some weakness. 

The catcher, as though he were read- 



[16] 



ing my mind, took a lot of time before 
passing out the signal for the next pitch. 
Slow ball ! Sure, why hadn't we tried it 
before ! I wound up and threw a floater. 
It was a perfect pitch. The ball turned 
very slowly, wobbled back and forth, 
and, just as it reached the plate, broke 
sharply downward. The batter seemed 
to hesitate momentarily in mid-stride. 
Then, with a tremendous swing, he sent 
the ball high and far down the left field 
foul line. No one could catch that ball. 
Uttering a silent prayer and swallowing 
a lump in my throat, I looked toward 
the umpire. He was watching the flight 
of the ball intently and finally, as it 
came to earth, signalled it a foul. 

Once again I could breathe, but I still 
didn't know what kind of pitch to 
throw the hitter in order to get him out. 
As a last resort I called for the catcher 
to come out to the mound. 

"Damn my arm, Wally," I began, "I 
want this man out, and I want him out 
in a hurry. I'm going to throw him 
a fast curve. If he misses it, and I 
still have an arm left, I'm going to 
throw him another one faster than the 
first." 

"O. K.," replied Wally. He started to 
say something else but seemed to be 



afraid to trust his voice any farther. 
Instead he gave me a friendly pat on the 
back and returned to his position. 

There was no need for signals now. 
Wally and I both knew what I was 
going to throw. The batter waved his 
big yellow bat once as I started to wind 
up. Silence fell over the entire field. 
Everyone was too interested and excited 
to utter a sound. I took one last deep 
breath, flung my left foot high in the 
air, and threw the ball with every ounce 
of strength that I possessed. The batter 
swung viciously and connected solidly 
with the ball. Like a shot it sped back 
toward me, shoulder high and slightly 
off to the right. Desperately I flung my 
gloved hand across my body and dove 
through the air. The ball went on, pass- 
ing just over my outflung glove. With 
a feeling of dismay I twisted to watch 
the flight of the ball. Suddenly my heart 
seemed to quit beating. The spectators 
were going completely insane. Our 
shortstop had run far to his left, dived 
through the air, and caught the ball just 
off the grass tops to retire the last hitter. 
The ball game was over, and, because of 
a sensational fielding play by the short- 
stop, I was credited with a no-hit ball 
game. 



Night Driving 

The hum of the wheels on the flat macadam highway, the faint glimmer of the 
dash lights, and the heavy breathing of my sleeping companions made me drowsy. I 
was having my turn at the wheel, as we sped across the Great American Desert on 
our way to my sister's wedding in California. The stars were a milHon pinpoints 
of light. The pale moon, crescent-shaped and ghostly, hovered over the distant foot- 
hills, its pale light making the desert, dull enough in the daytime, a land of mystery. 
Through the side windows I could see distant buttes of sandstone like sheets hanging 
up to dry on a summer's day. The sage brush, gleaming, silvery in the moonlight, 
appeared to be growing as I watched. The thin haze surrounding the moon and the 
foothills, made me feel as though the whole scene were something make-believe .... 

Finally I stopped to stretch my cramped body, smoke a cigarette, and get a bit 
of fresh air. I stepped out of the car into a clear, chill blast of air. I breathed 
deeply, and marveled at the beauty of that vast, moon-bathed desert. After my short 
rest, I climbed back into the car, to continue that monotonous repetition of sound, the 
hum of the tires on the highway, and the breathing of my sleeping passengers. 

— Robert E. Wright 



[17] 



Cyclone Around Me 

William Randolph 
Rhetoric I. Theme 2, 1940-1941 



ALL DAY we had been expecting one 
of those fierce March storms that 
predict an early spring, but as the last 
bell rang, it appeared as if we were to 
be disappointed. The sun was now shin- 
ing very brightly, and only a slight breeze 
moved the few clouds above us. As I 
went from my last class to the audi- 
torium, I found myself wondering how 
such a beautiful ending could come from 
such a poor start. My beautiful ending 
was a false one, however, for before the 
sun finally set, the hospital was full and 
ten people had been killed. 

The day had been cloudy, and the sun 
had seldom appeared; the air was warm 
but damp. About three it turned dark, 
and a half hour later artificial lights were 
needed. At this time a wind, bordering 
on a gale, swept in from the southwest ; 
the sky turned green. We at school were 
filled with apprehension. Rain fell for 
about three minutes and then abruptly 
stopped. The sky cleared very rapidly, 
and in fifteen minutes the sun was shin- 
ing in an almost cloudless sky. 

In the auditorium the music depart- 
ment was holding try-outs for the spring 
operetta. I remained after my try-out, 
waiting for a friend. As I was lolling 
about in the corridor, Mr. Schmidt, our 
principal, rushed in the door. Very hur- 
'riedly he told us to raise the windows 
and hold open the doors, for a storm 
was about to strike. Just as T got one of 
the doors open a terrific wind blew it 
back against me. I called for help, and 
it took four of us to hold it. We didn't 
realize that we were pushing again.st a 
seventy-mile-an-hour gale. Actually we 
were not feeling the full force of the 



cyclone, for we were one hundred and 
fifty yards out of its direct path, and the 
sun shining over our heads made us think 
that it was merely a windstorm. But we 
saw a car turned on two wheels bj' the 
wind, and rubbish was dashing through 
the air at alarming speeds. 

When the storm passed, I went out to 
see what damage had been done. As I 
headed toward Union School, half a 
block away, I noticed that the huge 
smoke stack of the canning factory was 
missing. A closer view disclosed that the 
whole factor}- had been demolished. At 
Union School the trees were gone, the 
roof was gone, and half the second story 
had been swept away. I went inside. I 
found desks bent, windows shattered, 
and the stairs in splinters. I saw nobody, 
and went to the basement just as the 
janitor, only slightly scratched, was 
climbing out of his room. He said that 
everyone had left a half hour before. As 
he could help himself, I went out into 
the street. What I saw there stunned me. 

At first the streets were empty, but 
presently people appeared from every- 
where. Here a whole house was smashed 
into a cellar. As I watched, a man stag- 
gered out of the ruin. He was naked 
and bloody. He reeled, and two men 
came and helped him. I turned toward 
the filling station. It was gone com- 
pletely — not a tank, not a brick was left. 
I looked across the street — cars piled on 
end against a building — cars three deep, 
and not the thickness of one. By this 
time people were all around. A scream- 
ing mother searched for her child. Every- 
where people moaned and sobbed. They 
were too dazed to cry out. A boy ran up 



[18] 



to me and said, "You're needed. We 
must give first aid." 

I went with him to help. Bandage this 
one. Support here. Help here. Run 
there. Lift a baby, battered and blue, 
from a water-filled cellar. Guard a wire. 
Clear a path. "Here's help." "Help com- 
ing." "Help coming." Here was a leg, 
but no man. Bewildered and stunned, I 
sought to do all I could. Ambulances 
and doctors were here now. I was tired, 
scared, and sick — very sick. I started 



home, dazedly and slowly first, but soon 
faster and faster; stumbling over wires, 
tripping over branches, I broke into a 
run. I ran and ran. 

Exhausted finally, I returned to a 
walk. As I looked around me, I saw that 
the houses of this neighborhood were in 
one piece, only torn shingles and broken 
branches giving evidence of the storm. 
A block farther, and only bits of straw 
and leaves had been disturbed. Another 
block, and I was home. 



The Quack Novel 

Lois Mell 
Rhetoric II, Theme 2, 1940-1941 



THE quack novel is a thing which 
looks like a book, and which is com- 
pounded, advertised, and marketed in 
precisely the same fashion as Castoria, 
Wine of Calorta, "Mrs. Hottner's free- 
to-you-my-sister Harmless Headache 
Remedy," and other patent medicines, 
harmful and harmless. 

As the patent medicine is made of 
perfectly well-known drugs, so the 
quack novel contains perfectly familiar 
elements ; and like the medicine, it comes 
wrapped in superlative testimonials from 
those who sa}' they have swallowed it to 
their advantage. Instead of, "After 
twenty years of bed-ridden agony, one 
bottle of your Foxforo cured every ache 
and completely restored my manhood," 
we have, "The secret of his powers is 
the same God-given secret that inspired 
Shakespeare and upheld Milton." This, 
from the Chicago Tribune, accompanies 
a quack novel by Mr. Harold Jones, of 
whom the New York Journal remarks, 
"It is this almost clairvoyant power of 
reading the human soul that has made 



Mr. Jones' books among the most re- 
markable works of the present age." 
Similar to that aroma of piety and char- 
ity which accompanies the quack medi- 
cines, an equally perceptible odor of 
sanctity is wafted to us with Mr. Jones ; 
and just as imitators will make their 
boxes and bottles to resemble those of an 
already successful trade article, so are 
Mr. Jones' volumes given that red cloth 
and gold lettering which we have come 
to associate with the bindings of Mr. 
Winston Churchill's very popular and 
agreeable novels. Lastl}' — like the quack 
medicines — the quack novel is gen- 
erally harmful ; not always because it 
is poisonous (though this occurs), but 
because it pretends to be literature and 
is taken for literature by the mil- 
lions who swallow it year after year 
as their chief mental nourishment, and 
whose brains it sops and dilutes. In 
short, both these shams — the book and 
the medicine — win and "bamboozle" 
their public through methods almost 
identical. 



19] 



Racial Inequality in Hawaii 



Jane Powell Wyatt 
Rhetoric I. Theme 5. 1939-1940 



HAWAII is called the "melting pot 
of the Pacific," and its residents 
say proudly that it has complete racial 
equality. That statement might seem to 
be true to the tourist, who sees that the 
various races living there attend the 
same schools, theatres, hotels, and social 
functions. I know, however, that racial 
equality does not exist in Hawaii. 

At the University of Hawaii the Jap- 
anese students hold all of the school 
offices, but only because they are the 
majority. The Caucasians try hard 
enough to get positions and, after fail- 
ing, make fun of the so-called "Oriental 
dynasty" and let it go at that. The 
Caucasian students rarely go to the Uni- 
versity dances ; when they do, they 
would not think of exchanging dances 
with their fellow students of Oriental 
or Polynesian ancestry. They would be 
social outcasts if they tried it. If a 
Japanese boy and a Caucasian boy 
graduate at the same time and apply for 
the same job, the Caucasian boy will 
usually get the job, even if the Japanese 
boy has been at the head of the class, 
and he at the foot. It is very difificult 
for Orientals to find really good jobs. 
Many Oriental women graduates of the 
University of Hawaii become maids, or 
work in the pineapple cannery. The men, 
too, work in the cannery, and in the 
sugarcane or pineapple fields. Many be- 
come small shopkeepers, tailors, or 
policemen. Sometimes Orientals with 
degrees from mainland colleges hold 
civil service jobs of minimum salary, 
although at adjoining desks can be found 
Caucasian high school graduates who 
are making just as much money. 



This state of inequality is due partly 
to the Orientals themselves. They are 
American citizens and they have Ameri- 
can ideas, but they don't have the Ameri- 
can standard of living. They are ac- 
customed to, and are contented with, 
their lower standard of living, and many 
are satisfied with their low wages. 

But the main obstacle confronting 
racial equality is, I think, the presence 
of so overwhelming a number of Naval 
and Army officers and personnel in the 
Islands. People who reside there for 
less than three years cannot get used to 
thinking of the different races as Ameri- 
can citizens instead of "foreigners." 
Most mainland Caucasians have been 
accustomed to thinking of the Oriental 
as a stealthy individual wearing a ki- 
mono and carrying a dagger in his 
sleeve. When thej' were )'oungsters they 
no doubt stopped in front of a Chinese 
laundry and chanted, "Chink, Chink, 
Chinamen eat dead rats." 

People must be made to realize that 
when the Hawaiian Islands became a 
Territory in June, 1900, all citizens of 
Hawaii automatically became citizens of 
the United States, and all children born 
there, regardless of nationality, likewise 
are citizens. Until this fact is realized, 
there can be no racial equality. The 
mailman who is emptying an American 
mailbox confesses to a far Eastern an- 
cestry. The man on this corner who 
wears a policeman's uniform is a Poly- 
nesian, on the next a Japanese, and on 
the next the son of an immigrant from 
Portugal or perhaps Russia. A fat, 
middle-aged Oriental woman and a Jap- 
anese school girl with bobbed waved hair j 



20] 



drive cars through the heavy traffic. Four 
out of five of the faces seen are not the 
sort of faces one would call "American" 
at home. It seems that the United States 
has been invaded by a throng of aliens ; 



yet these people are all American citi- 
zens. More important than the fact that 
they are citizens is that they want to 
be good Americans ; therefore they de- 
serve to be accepted as such. 



Hobbies 



R. Keith Hudson 

Rhetoric II, Theme 8, Summer Session, 1940 



A HOBBY is an insidious thing. It 
grows on you — like a wart. Well, 
not exactly like a wart, either, for a wart 
is but a minor irritation, and a hobby is 
an affliction that, well into its advanced 
stages, is virtually incurable. All classes 
and types of people are susceptible to 
hobbies ; one person seems to succumb 
about as easily as another. Having con- 
tracted one, you may not at once be 
aware that you have it. Even your fam- 
ily and your best friends may be totally 
oblivious of it for a while. 

The most discouraging fact about hob- 
bies is that they are no respecters of 
persons. They prey on the strong as well 
as the weak, on the sane as well as the 
slightly addled. It's all the same in the 
end, though ; however normal in the 
beginning, a person suffering from a 
hobby will be addled before he is 
finished. 

Before you are stricken by your hobby 
you are rolling through life just like any 
other ordinary citizen. Little warning 
have you that at any moment you may 
jump the track. You are doing the things 
you are accustomed to — commuting to 
and from your work every day, going to 
school, or studiously loafing — the same 
as ever. You may not have the slightest 
warning that you are menaced. But you 
are. You are not safe anywhere. Unlike 
other diseases, hobbies are not contracted 



in any specific way; therefore, they may 
not be guarded against by vaccines, 
vitamins, antitoxins, or other nostrums. 
No definite procedure seems to furnish 
any protection, and no special mode of 
life seems to guarantee immunity. Only 
people who have a matter-of-fact inter- 
est in life are in any way immune to 
hobbies ; imaginative people are push- 
overs. Hobbies are so contagious that, 
once exposed, a person is lost. The onset 
of a hobby is imperceptible at first ; you 
are invariably caught off-guard. As the 
disease progresses, you begin to experi- 
ence faint stirrings and vague premoni- 
tions. But soon forgetting the warning, 
you put your fears behind you, and go 
about your regular activities for all the 
world as if you were in your right mind. 
Your outward appearance remains un- 
changed. Even your actions do not start 
to become really noticeable until the dis- 
ease is well advanced and your case is 
hopeless. It is the mental effect that is 
the most devastating. You become vague- 
eyed and dreamy, you slowly lose your 
powers of concentration upon your ordi- 
nary affairs, and you fall into reveries 
and seem a little deaf to your associates. 
Whatever form your affliction takes, 
the results are almost always the same. 
Your bank account, if you have one, 
slowly disappears, and you become pos- 
sessed of a multitude of singularly use- 



[21] 



less objects such as electric trains, model 
airplanes, hound dogs, turtles, or gold- 
fish. You become a fanatic about postage 
stamps, old coins, beer bottles, picture 
postcards, fossils, arrow heads, or 
wooden Indians. You become morose 
and uncommunicative toward your more 
normal fellows, yet a wonder of loquac- 
ity when in the company of others who 
suffer the same disease. You become a 
patron of clubs or societies, leagues or 
associations, brotherhoods or fellowships 
— all composed of wild-eyed individuals 
like yourself, each endeavoring to out- 
talk or out-brag the others. Rational 
citizens begin to look at you askance ; 
you are labeled a "crank," or a "nut," or, 



at the least, "queer." Your domestic life ' 
becomes practically non-existent, home is 
but a place to eat and sleep, and you are 
scarcelj' to be seen by the world except 
at meal times. Your wife, if you have 
one, becomes a golf widow, a fish widow, 
or a camera widow ; if you are domi- 
nated by one of the more strentwus 
obsessions of the ardent hobbyist, such 
as motorcycles, hobo automobiles, out- 
board hydroplanes, ice-boats, racing 
skiflfs, long-distance swimming, cross- 
country running, or firearms, she may 
become simply a widow. 

If you get it bad enough, in any form, 
it's the booby hatch and a padded cell 
for vou, sure. 



Nutty Lindy' 

Milton Bremer 
Rhetoric I, Theme 10, 1939-1940 



SOME people rush into situations with- 
out looking or thinking. Such a per- 
son is Charles Augustus Lindbergh. 
However good his flying may be, how- 
ever lucky he may be in other efforts, 
his skill and luck don't hold in his 
journalistic attempts. Only his name gets 
Colonel Lindbergh's writing into national 
publications. 

In the November, 1939, issue of 
Reader's Digest, Mr. Lindbergh pro- 
pounds a very pretty philosoph}^ telling 
us of the danger that the Asiatic races 
constitute to our Western civilization and 
how the airplane is a divine gift to the 
western nations and so on and so on. 

I cannot imagine where Lindbergh 
ever got the idea that he knew anything 
about race unless it might possibly be 

'This article was suggested by a short edi- 
torial in The Xew Rel'ublic of Nov. 15, 1939. 



from fooling around with a chicken heart 
with Dr. Alexis Carrel. Even his manner 
of writing suggests that he doesn't know 
what he is writing about. There is a 
vagueness about his words as though he 
had an idea in his head but didn't know 
why it was there or how to tell about it. 
His article makes it quite evident that he 
didn't do very much research in his sub- 
ject before writing. 

What aroused my curiosity at once 
was his "pressing sea of Yellow, Black, 
and Brown." What does Lindy mean? 
Is Father Divine running for President? 
Is Mahatma Gandhi promising a sacred 
white ox in the parlor of every Indian? 
What threat are the "teeming millions 
of Asia" making against the W'est? It 
seems to me that the majority of the 
Asiatics are busy fighting among them- 
selves. The rest are kept busj- staying 



22] 



out of the way of the beUigerents. They 
want no part in our hemisphere now, 
and there isn't much indication that they 
ever will unless William Randolph 
Hearst has the real lowdown on the 
Japanese spy business. 

The western nations seem to be doing 
quite an efficient job of raising a hulla- 
baloo in one of the most complicated 
messes I've ever heard of. Liars and 
thieves, murder nations and martyr 
nations, are inextricably mixed together. 
France is trading iron for coal with 
Germany. What race is what in Europe ? 
Who's fighting whom? Is there a war 
going on or not? 

It isn't the Yellow, or the Black, or 
the Brown race that is pressing on the 
Western nations, but it's the Western 
nations pressing on themselves. If ever 
the Asiatic or African races dominate 



the world, it will be because the white 
man will have defeated himself with 
Colonel Lindbergh's idea of the divine 
gift — the airplane. Of course he'll use 
cannon and tanks and other implements 
of war too. I don't know whether these 
are divine gifts or not. Colonel Lind- 
bergh didn't say. He didn't say a lot of 
things that could be said, and he said a 
lot more that should never have been 
put in print, unless in a "Letters to 
the Editor" column in the Tribune, 
signed by Elmer Zilch, of Gutch Cor- 
ners. It strikes me as just the sort of 
narrow-minded "crank" letter an un- 
informed and misinformed person would 
send in. 

Lindy should let his wife take care of 
the literary efforts of the family. It's 
evident that the Colonel doesn't know 
what it's all about. 



Conformers and Non-Conformers 

F. C. Gehant 
Rhetoric I, Theme 12, 1939-1940 



" A ND this," said the landlady, with all 
^*' the pride and condescending benev- 
olence of a small-town mayor dedicating 
the new waterworks, "is the dorm." In 
my eagerness to inspect its wonders and 
enchantments, I almost kicked over a 
basket of rotten apples. I was — putting 
it mildly — a wee bit surprised to behold 
nothing but bare rafters, a line of battle- 
scarred cots, and in one corner a pile of 
junk which had obviously taken man}' 
tedious years to accumulate. All I could 
think was, "This is just like our attic at 
home ; only Mom doesn't keep our rotten 
apples in it." Furthermore, at home I had 
never been called upon to sleep in the 
attic, and I reckoned that at twenty-two I 
was a little too far advanced to begin. 



When I finally built up enough cour- 
age to tell her I didn't want to sleep in 
her beautiful dorm, she looked down her 
nose at me in wonder and said, "Why, 
all the boys sleep up here!" The nasty 
inference of the words shocked me. It 
was as if she had called me a downright 
infidel and considered me a sort of 
abnormal fellow who went around de- 
stroying sacred traditions, and who 
would bear considerable watching. Here 
it was again. The dread problem which 
I had been meeting for the past ten years 
— whether to conform to other people's 
ideas on what I should do and be mis- 
erable but honored, or to do what I 
wanted to do and be happy but ignomin- 
ious. 



[23] 



To know that I am not alone in my 
quandary is some comfort. The popula- 
tion of the entire world is divided into 
two groups — those who strive to con- 
form to convention, and those who do 
as they like. I do not mean to detract in 
any wa\' from the glory of the con- 
formers. They are the people who build 
our national institutions ; they are the 
guardians of our traditions. On the 
other hand, the non-con former, like me, 
is a minor menace to society. 

He is likely to be an exceedingly poor 
business man, because he will, without 
the slightest qualm, drop ever\-thing and 
go fishing when the notion strikes him. 
If you ask him if he has seen "Gone with 
the Wind," he will undoubtedly say 
"No," and be quite surprised when you 
stare at him in open-mouthed amaze- 
ment. The true non-conformer fails to 
conform not merely to be contrary; in 
fact, he is seldom aware that he is break- 
ing any precedents when he suggests 
serving beer at the church bazaar. True, 
he knows that beer has never been served 



at the bazaar, but he can see no reason 
why it shouldn't be, inasmuch as every- 
one would like to drink it, and it would 
bring in a nice profit. 

The non-conformer is a simple soul ; 
he does not need to strive for happiness. 
His happiness comes automatically from 
simply not doing that which would make 
him unhappy. The conformer is caught 
in the whirlpool of conventionalism. On 
a Sunday evening, when he would much 
rather be out shooting craps with the 
non-conformers, he invites the Smiths 
over to play bridge, merely because the 
preceding Sunday evening he played 
bridge at their house. He hates golf, but 
joins the country club because all his 
friends belong and membership will im- 
prove his social standing. In the event 
of war 3'ou are certain to find him in the 
trenches dodging bullets, or on the street 
corner giving long-winded speeches to 
build up the fighting spirit of the non- 
conformer, who is probably headed for 
the river with a fishing pole and a can of 
worms. 



Relief Client 

She pushed the button on her desk, and, when her secretary appeared, asked that 
the first relief client. Grandpa Rhodes, be admitted. In walked a rather tall, white- 
haired man of about seventy, wearing a battered old ten-gallon hat. and carrying an 
old scarred-up cane. He propped his cane against the desk, drew his chair up close, 
and began telling Evelyn about his wife, who, it seemed, was sick. He was very 
thankful for a new wrapper that he had received, and told Evelj-n that she should 
visit his wife to receive her thanks, and to see his climbing roses which were bloom- 
ing on his back fence. Talking about flowers seemed to get him warmed up. and 
before long he was telling Evelyn how he ran away from his home in Kentucky to 
become a cowboy on a ranch in the Texas panhandle, how he met his wife, married 
her, and took up gardening to make her happy with the flowers. In his eyes there 
was a far-away look as he and Evelyn sat there in silence for a few long seconds 
reminiscing. "When things get to growin' and the wind gets to rustlin' through the 
trees and the moon shines down softlike on the green grass just come pushing up, 
then, Lordy, I get restless to shove my foot in a stirrup once more." he continued. 
Once more there was that short silence before he finally said goodbye and hobbled 
off. — Richard Shoulders 



[24: 



America versus Sweden 



Everett L. Haag 
Rhetoric II, Theme 12, Summer Session, 1940 



Sweden, the Middle IVay, by Marquis 
Childs. 
Rich Land, Poor Land, by Stuart Chase. 

WE IN America, who have thousands 
of magazines and millions of books 
to read, often do our reading aimlessly . 
and carelessly. We often read magazines 
because of the attractive covers or be- 
cause our friends read them, and we 
often read a book because the sound of 
the title is euphonious, or because it is 
recommended by the Book-of-the-Month 
Club. Sometimes we find a good maga- 
zine or a good book by those methods, 
but too many times we fail. In my read- 
ing of Rich Land, Poor Land and 
Sweden, the Middle Way, I fully rea- 
lized the value of guided reading, for in 
no two books that I have ever read have 
the facts in one book illuminated the 
facts in another book in so forceful and 
striking a manner. The wasteful destruc- 
tion of natural resources in America by 
free and rugged individualists, although 
we are living in a world that needs those 
resources, seems all the more unjustified 
when America is compared to Sweden — 
a land that has learned from experience 
the necessity of collective protection and 
through reverence the desire for that 
protection. I read the book about Sweden 
first. I felt as I read it that many of the 
measures being taken in that country 
could, perhaps, profitably be adopted in 
America and I realized, too, that some 
of those measures are being attempted by 
our present administration. Then I read 
Rich Land, Poor Land, a book about 
America — the richest and newest coun- 
try in the world — a book about the 
destruction of natural resources. I read 



about the wasteful cost of this destruc- 
tion, which reached billions of dollars. 
I read how, while we waste and destroy, 
we are permitting people to live in slums 
without proper food, medical care, or 
adequate housing facilities. And I dis- 
covered the falsity of the American 
standard of living that overlooks vast 
areas in the South, in the Appalachian 
Highlands, in the Ozarks, and the Dust 
Bowl. Why? 

The people of the United States have 
made the worship of bigness an official 
and national religion — everything must 
be big, with special emphasis on the size 
of profits. In reading Szveden, the Mid- 
dle Way, one understands how Sweden 
has made her domestic economy serve 
the greatest good of the greatest number 
by abolishing or curbing profits, and 
how this has resulted in a national life 
of stability, of order, and of sanity. 
Sweden has discarded out-worn indi- 
vidualism, and has devised a system of 
state control and a new collective order 
of cooperatives. Production is for use 
and not for profit, and the cooperative 
union is carried on not only for the 
practical advantage of lower prices to 
consumers but also as a fundamental 
social duty. 

The struggle of the cooperatives for 
power was slow and at times seemed 
doomed to failure, for it was met with 
resistance from various groups and asso- 
ciations of manufacturers and retailers 
at home and abroad. The first consum- 
ers' production unit was a unit for 
margarine, and once a foothold was 
gained, its activities slowly spread to 
consumers' and producers' units in flour, 



•25- 



rubber, savings banks, insurance, light 
bulbs, liquor, tobacco, cash registers, 
gasoline, and coffee. The state gradually 
gained a controlling interest in the utili- 
ties, in the means of transportation, in 
the mines, and in the forests. The facto- 
ries, mills, and apartment houses built bj* 
the cooperatives are ultra-modern and 
are arranged for the convenience of the 
users and for a high degree of efficiency. 
As the cooperatives produced goods, 
their respective products were placed on 
the market at a much lower price than 
the goods produced privately ; in order 
to stay in business, these private com- 
panies had to reduce their prices. Light 
bulbs dropped in price from thirtj'-seven 
cents to twenty cents ; kilowatt-hour costs 
dropped from a ten- and fifteen-cent rate 
for household uses to a one- and two- 
cent rate. There were corresponding 
savings to consumers in all the coopera- 
tives' products and services. 

The government of Sweden owns 
many of the railroads, the airlines, and 
the major lines of communication — the 
telephone and the telegraph. The rates 
set by the government's companies 
serve as yard sticks for the private com- 
panies, and the government operates its 
companies on policies as sound and prac- 
tical as those of the private companies. 
Sweden has many conservation laws, and 
although the country is one of the world's 
largest exporters of lumber, her national 
forest laws protect the future supply of 
lumber, and that supply is actually in- 
creasing. In one mining town where the 
government has a controlling interest in 
the mines, the children go to a free 
school where they receive free dental 
service and medical care. Hot lunches 
are served without charge in all Sweden's 
schools. The schools provide a rudi- 
mentary scholastic background and spe- 
cial training to capable boys and girls. 
There are also many government-sup- 



ported adult schools. Everj'one over the 
age of sixteen contributes to an old-age- 
pension system according to his income ; 
and for those who can not contribute, 
the local community pays. At sixty-seven 
everyone gets a pension according to the 
amount contributed by him, regardless 
of his need. The housing program is 
financed by loans from the state, varying 
from fift)'-five to ninety-five per cent of 
the value of the property; and the state 
also subsidizes the rents of tenants hav- 
ing three or more children. 

Albin Johansson, president and man- 
aging director of the cooperative move- 
ment, is paid only $5,000 a year, and he 
is said to be the most astute merchant 
in the country. He, like all the officers, 
takes pride not in making profits but in 
running the business efficiently. He lives 
modestly in a five-room house although 
he is recognized as a leader of the coun- 
try. He helped to formulate the method 
by which Sweden met the depression ; 
and. although the country was aided by 
fortuitous external circumstances, its 
recovery was phenomenal. 

Sweden, a country of patient, perse- 
verant, and cautious people, a country 
that puts a high value on democracy and 
opposes the principles of the totalitarian 
states, a country that has not hesitated 
to curtail or abolish profit or the eco- 
nomic freedom of the private business 
man, has profitably taken a course mid- 
way between the absolute socialism of 
Russia and the development of capital- 
ism in America. 

America is pictured in Rich Land. 
Poor Land, as a land of unchecked and 
unbridled initiative ; as a land that gives 
to the owners the power to destroy and 
the power to waste with no thought of 
their fellow citizens or of posterity. The 
individual has used and destroyed the 
forests, the mineral resources, and the 
wild game with the thought of only 



[26] 



private profit and with no thought of the 
rightful heritage of every person born 
upon the continent. Each bit of legisla- 
tion passed from time to time has been 
met with the criticisms that it is inter- 
fering with the individual's rights — the 
individual's rights to destroy the forests, 
the individual's rights to take one-fifth 
of the oil from the earth and to cause 
four-fifths to be lost forever, the indi- 
vidual's rights to take one-third of the 
coal from a mine and to cause the re- 
mainder to be irretrievable. The men 
coming to America after Columbus 
looked upon its resources as infinite. In 
the swift pursuit of private profits, men 
tormented, hurt, and beat the continent 
of North America until its patience be- 
came exhausted and it turned upon its 
tormentors. It set about to drive them 
from the continent, and it used as its 
weapons those that its tormentors had 
given it — the flood, the forest fire, the 
dust bowl, the lack of grazing ground, 
the erosion of soil, the dearth of wild 
game, and the emptiness of mines. If 
the people living in North America suc- 
ceed in completely destroying the con- 
tinent, it in turn will completely destroy 
them. Only by protecting it can they 
protect themselves. "All during this 
time of destruction, red-faced gentlemen 
in silk hats have declared this progress, 
and bankers have looked benevolently 
over their wing collars and declared 
everything sound." 

After almost three-hundred 3-ears of 
more or less complete blindness, men are 
beginning to protect the continent, but 
to date the means are entirely inade- 
quate. The present administration has 
initiated various plans to check the in- 
roads of destruction, and further at- 



tempts are being made through educa- 
tion. Our natural resources have been 
exploited by individual action, but noth- 
ing in the history of this e.xploitation 
allows us to conclude that our resources 
will be restored by individual action ; for 
it is a costly and difficult process to 
rehabilitate our forests and plains. 
Proper restoration can onh- take place 
through group action, initiated and spon- 
sored by our federal government. 

No one would want to disparage his 
country's achievements, but one must 
admit that they are not enough. A great 
many more conservation laws will have 
to be enacted before the destruction of 
natural resources and the rehabilitation 
of natural resources will be in balance. 
Many countries have changed their eco- 
nomic structures, and capitalism in 
America today is greatly changed from 
the capitalism of a hundred years ago. 
Perhaps Sweden has found the correct 
"middle way." 

Does capitalism mean license for a few 
private individuals, or does it mean free- 
dom for all? We may have to decide, 
for we are living in a rapidly changing 
economic, political, and social world. 
Time and war do not respect the status 
quo. The conservative London Times, in 
commenting on the new order, warned 
against defining democratic values in 
nineteenth-century terms: "If we speak 
of democracy we do not mean democracy 
which maintains the right to vote but 
forgets the right to work and life ; if we 
speak of freedom, we do not mean rug- 
ged individualism which excludes social 
organization and economic planning ; and 
if we speak of equality we do not mean 
political equality nullified by social and 
economic privilege." 



27] 



The Interpretation of the Negro 
in Modern Negro Poetry 

Bessie King 
Rhetoric II, Theme 11, Summer Session, 1940 



THE "NEW NEGRO" is a term 
which was coined shortly after 
the World War. It was then that there 
emerged a new Negro character, stim- 
ulated by the social and economic 
changes which were in turn stimulated 
by the war. During the war period, 
thousands of Negroes migrated to north- 
ern industrial centers to replenish a de- 
pleted labor supply or to take positions 
formerly closed to them. The sudden 
influx of so man}' Negro families gave 
rise to housing and other sociological 
problems. Hence the interest of the 
white population was awakened to the 
needs, problems, and characteristics of 
the race. Because of this delving into the 
race problem, there developed a new 
view of the Negro character. He was 
recognized as having something more to 
offer than vaudeville clowning, shouting 
of hymns, or being porter to the nation. 
As a consequence of this sincere interest 
manifest in some groups, the Negro be- 
came intensely interested in self -revela- 
tion, and his poets began to write more 
prolifically and more revealinglj' than 
ever before. These poets, representative 
of the "new Negro," were anxious to 
reveal themselves as being "race con- 
scious and race-proud, independent and 
defiant, conscious of their powers and 
not ashamed of their gifts."' 

Such pride of race is something new 
for the Negroes, and they are conscious 
of the reasons for this pride. The war 
helped them discover themselves. Ne- 
groes at home showed themselves cap- 
able of handling efficiently jobs and 



positions which had been exclusively 
"white" positions ; abroad, their regi- 
ments and soldiers exhibited excellent 
ability and spirit. The war over, they 
looked back over the years and saw that 
they had produced scientists, educators, 
writers, and musicians of whom they 
could be proud. 

The Negro's pride in his race as it has 
developed in America, has led to a new 
interest in his African beginnings. He 
realizes that Africa has given him a 
heritage of music and art — phases of a 
distinctive civilization. He desires to cul- 
tivate the African in his personality. 
Langston Hughes expresses the connec- 
tion of the Negro with Africa in the 
poem, "The Negro Speaks of Rivers:"^ 

I've known rivers. 

I've known rivers ancient as the world and 

older than the flow of human blood in 

human veins. 
My soul has grown deep like the rivers. 
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns w^ere 

young. 

I built my h'ut near the Congo and it lulled 
me to sleep. 

I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyra- 
mids above it. 

I heard the singing of the Mississippi when 
Abe Lincoln went down to New Or- 
leans, and 

I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden 
in the sunset. 

I've known rivers. 

Ancient, dusky rivers. 

My soul has grown deep like the rivers. 

The older Negro was conscious of his 
humble station and accepted it as his due. 

'Redding, T. Saunders, To Make a Poet 
Black, 93-125. 

'Johnson, James Weldon, The Book of 
American Negro Poetry, 241. 



:28] 



Sometimes he protested, but very feebly. 
He was conscious always of being a 
Negro, hence an inferior being. The 
race-consciousness of the modern Negro 
is quite different from that. True, it is 
a consciousness which springs from a 
sense of living in hostile surroundings. 
The Negro is not able to forget that he 
is a problem, that the color of his face 
closes doors which would otherwise be 
open. But, more important than that, he 
is conscious of belonging to a race which 
has made its contribution to civilization. 
And his race-consciousness is increased 
by the realization that the so-called en- 
lightened nations of the world, ruled by 
other races, have spent years in tearing 
one another to pieces and have not yet 
arrived at an equitable peace. ^ 

Negro poets are so imbued with this 
awareness of their race that, although 
they try to restrain it, it usually colors 
their work. 

The fact that Negroes are aware of 
their problem and protest against its 
existence is some evidence of hope for a 
brighter future. The optimistic, hopeful 
expression is recurrent in Negro poetry. 
In the older poetry it is a hope vested in 
a God who would lead the Negro race 
into a better world. Now, there is hope 
for the future, but a hope which depends 
upon continued struggle ; a hope which 
says "bide your time." Countee Cullen's 
"From the Dark Tower"* discloses this 
type of optimism: 

We shall not always plant while others reap 
The golden increment of bursting fruit, 
Not always countenance, abject and mute. 
That lesser men should hold their brothers 

cheap ; 
Not everlastingly while others sleep 
Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow 

flute. 
Not always bend to some more subtle brute ; 
We were not made eternally to weep. 

The night whose sable breast relieves the 
stark 
White stars is no less lovely being dark, 



And there are buds that cannot bloom at 

all 
In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall; 
So in the dark we hide the heart that 

bleeds, 
And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds. 

The love of the physical aspects of 
nature is not lost to the Negro in his 
constatit battering against racial barriers. 
It is a love which has been associated 
with the traditional Negro, only his was 
a more utilitarian love. Nature was the 
provider, the giver of life. To the mod- 
ern Negro, nature is a source of beauty 
and pleasure. His is a sensuous delight 
in warm colors, in the richness of the 
soil, in the lushness of tropical greenery, 
in the coolness of leaping rivers. Some 
of these delights are expressed in the 
following poem by Claude McKay.^ 

After the Winter 

Some day, when trees have shed their 

leaves 
And against the morning's white 
The shivering birds beneath the eaves 
Have sheltered for the night. 
We'll turn our faces southward love, 
Toward the summer isle 
Where bamboos spire the shafted grove 
And wide-mouthed orchids smile. 

And we will seek the quiet gill 

Where towers the cotton tree, 

And leaps the laughing crystal rill, 

And works the droning bee. 

And we will build a cottage there 

Beside an open glade. 

With black-ribbed bluebells blowing near 

And ferns that never fade. 

The Negro is, of course, highly emo- 
tional. The traditional Negro expressed 
his over-flowing feelings in song and 
religious orgy. The old-fashioned Negro 
minister was adept at playing on the 
emotions of his congregation. The mod- 
ern Negro has the same power of deep 
feeling, though he tries to conceal it 
under a cool exterior; and it often blazes 

'Brawley, Benjamin, A Short History of the 
American Negro, 178-179. 
'Johnson, op. cit., 228. 
'Ihid., 271. 



29" 



forth with doubled energy, as in Claude 
McKay's poem, "To My White 
Friends:"' 

Think you I am not fiend and savage too? 

Think you I could not arm me with a gun 
And shoot down ten of you for everyone 
Of my black brothers murdered, burnt by 
you? 
Be not deceived, for every deed you do 
I could match — outmatch: am I not Afri- 
ca's son. 
Black of that black land where black deeds 
are done? 

This passage expresses, incidentally, 
the bitterness so characteristic of the con- 
temporary Xegro. The traditional Negro 
was resigned to his fate. He believed 
that his fate had been ordained by God, 
and that it was not his place to complain. 
Bitterness was not a part of his char- 
acter. But here again we may see the 
influence of the World War. When the 
regiments arrived from France in 1918, 
there was, of course, a need for readjust- 
ment. Negroes who had held good posi- 
tions were dismissed in favor of return- 
ing white soldiers. Many Negro soldiers, 
returning to some of our Southern states, 
were severely beaten and stripped of 
their uniforms. These were the means 
taken by the Southern mob to re-instill 
in the Negro the knowledge of what his 
"place" was in the South. Discontent 
and injustice in Northern states pre- 
cipitated several race riots. No wonder 
that defiance and bitterness were instilled 
into the Negro ! They are his shield 
against race antagonism. In "If We 
Must Die" Claude McKay again ex- 
presses this defiant spirit, the poem being 
occasioned by the numerous riots of the 
year 1919: 

If We Must Die' 

If we must die — let it not be like hogs 
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, 
While round us bark the mad and hungry 

dogs, 
Making their mock at our accursed lot. 
If wc must die — Oh, let us nobly die, 
So that our precious blood may not be shed 



In vain ; then even the monsters we defy 
Shall be constrained to honor us though 

dead ! 
Oh kinsmen! We must meet the common 

foe ; 
Though far outnumbered, let us show us 

brave 
And for their thousand blows deal one 

death-blow ! 
What though before us lies the open grave? 
Like men we'll face the cowardly pack. 
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back. 

Despite this bitter, defiant attitude the 
Negro has a reputation of being gay, 
laughing, carefree. He is all of this, and 
something else, too. After the Civil War, 
laughter and gaiety facilitated his entr>' 
into a white world. He gained a toler- 
ance through being the buflfoon, the lazy, 
irresponsible clown. Now he resents 
being thought a fool. He laughs, he is 
gay; but his laughter is often ironic and 
deliberate, his gaiety is often empty of 
joy. It is the type of humor expressed 
in this poem by Countee CuUen: 

Once riding in old Baltimore 
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee 
I saw a Baltimorean 
Keep looking straight at me. 

Now I was eight and very small 
And he was no whit bigger 
And so I smiled, but he poked out 
His tongue, and called me "Xigger." 

I saw the whole of Baltimore 
From May until December 
Of all the things that happened there 
That's all that I remember.' 

Langston Hughes captures this ironic 
humor in the short epitaph, "For a Lady 
I Know."' 

She even thinks that up in heaven 
Her class lies late and snores. 
While poor black cherubs rise at seven 
To do celestial chores. 

The physical expression of love is 
not a moral question to the Negro. It is 
an expression of a natural instinct and 
is not to be denied. To him, physical 

'Ibid., 169. 

VWrf., 168. 

'CuUcn, Countee, Color, 50. 

"Redding, o^ cit., pp. 110-111. 



[30] 



expression, like the beauties of nature, 
is to be enjoyed, not condemned. He 
glories in the fine mechanism of his 
body. This poem by Countee Cullen 
illustrates the Negro's attitude toward 
love : 

That brown girl's swagger gives a twitch 

To beauty like a queen ; 

Lad, never dam your body's itch 

When loveliness is seen. 

For there is ample room for bliss 
In pride in clean brown limbs 
And lips know better how to kiss 
Than how to raise white hymns. 

And when your body's death gives birth 
To soil for spring to crown 
Men will not ask if that rare earth 
Was white flesh once or brown.'" 

Perhaps the fact that the Negro's con- 
cept of religion is changing accounts 
partly for the attitude that sexual ex- 
pression is not the sin that the tradi- 
tional Negro thought it to be. Although 
the relationships between the Negro 
slaves were usually casual, conventions 
of a white society were pressed upon 
them ; in the light of the Christian doc- 
trines taught to them, these casual alli- 
ances appeared immoral. Religion, how- 
ever, came to be more practical than 
spiritual. The Negro's religion was 
simply his hope for an after-life of 
peace and surcease from toil. 

The contemporary Negro does not 
place his faith in the religion of his par- 
ents. He sees clearly what their religion 
was and relegates it to the past. James 
Weldon Johnson used the thought and 
color of the traditional Negro minister 
in his book, God's Trombones, which he 
wrote not because he believed in the 
philosophy expressed but because he re- 



spected the tradition that left such 
beauty and strength of expression. 

Listen, Lord 

Oh Lord, we come this morning 

Knee-bowed and body-bent 

Before thy throne of grace. 

Oh Lord — this morning 

Bow our hearts beneath our knees, 

And our knees in some lonesome valley. 

We come this morning — 

Like empty pitchers to a full fountain, 

With no merits of our own. 

O Lord — open up a window of heaven. 

And lean out far over the battlements of 

glory. 
And listen this morning." 

Johnson has done with this material 
what should be done with the heritage 
of the Negro race. There would thus 
be a race proud of its heritage, made 
distinctive by the contributions of its past 
and fused with the nation of which it is 
necessarily a part. 

"Cullen, op. cit. 
"Johnson, op. cit., 125-126. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Becker, M. L. "Negro Writers of Prose and 
Poetry," Saturday Reiieiv of Literattcre, 
5 (jSIarch 16, 1929), 787. 

Br.^wley, Benjamin. A Short History of the 
American Negro. New York: Macmillan 
Company, 1937. 

Cullen, Countee. Caroling Dusk: An An- 
thology of Verse bv Negro Poets. New 
York: Harper and Brothers, 1927. 

Cullen, Countee. Color. New York: Harper 
and Brothers, 1925. 

Cullen, Countee. Copper Sun. New York: 
Harper and Brothers, 1927. 

Green, Elizabeth Lay. The Negro in Con- 
temporary American Literature. Univer- 
sity of North Carolina Press, Vol. 7, June 
1927. 

Johnson, Ja.mes Weldon. The Book of Ameri- 
can Negro Poetry. New York: Harcourt, 
Brace and Company, 1931. 

Redding, J. Saunders. To Make a Poet Black. 
Chapel Hill: University of North Caro- 
lina Press, 1939. 



Shower-room 

You don't need a compass to find it. If you follow your nose, you can't miss it. 
That damned locker room smells worse than a convention of Russian ditch diggers. 
The "NO SMOKING" signs are wholly unnecessary, for the reek of steam and 
sweat and dirty clothes is so heavy that a match couldn't possibly burn. — Tom Shiff 



[31] 



Rhet as WMt 

(Material written in Rhetoric I and 11) 



Instead of balancing the budget Roose- 
velt has made it even more larger with 
his ideas of unemployment and etc. It is 
true that he has employed several people 
by his W. P. A. and his other work 
programs. By introducing these pro- 
grams he has made our taxes larger and 
he has started us on our way to Ameri- 
canism. Mr. Roosevelt has taken over 
the farmers as much as he thinks he can 
without having them revolt. He tells 
them how much acreage of each grain 
he is to plant .... These along with 
other reasons is why I dislike our present 
President. 

• ■ • • 

Confidentially, what is the future of 
Old Dobbin? I guess he just he has no 
future. The old gray mare is being 
squeezed out of all his enterprises. 

I am happier for having gotten away 
from "mamma's apron strings" and lived 
on my own instead. 

• • • • 

How many times we have sat and 
chat about religion. 

• • • • 

I was originally born in New York 

City This was before the Appeal 

of the Eighteenth Amendment. 

The quiet, unassuming young man who 
a few years ago was almost in poverty 
now lies in the nook of luxury atop the 
ladder of success. 



They thought he was only marring 
her for her money. 

• • • • 

This oak had large roots growing up 
out of the ground and snarling around 
in ever}' direction. 

• • • • 

The next stand that we come to we'll 
eat. 

The eight men contestants wore a light 
pair of trousers. 

• « • • 

The pledge has had the sharp corners 
of his bad points pretty well rounded off. 

We now noticed his flaxen hair which 
protruded from the edges of a sailor 
cap that I don't know where he could 
get it in that desolate land. 

• • • • 

When I registered in September, 1939, 
I felt extremely proud of myself in that 
I had been able to wiggle in a nine 
o'clock MWF tennis and ice skating 
class. 

$2000 worth of teeth were imported 
into Philadelphia in one year from skulls 
found on the battlefield of Waterloo, 
fought on June 18, 1815, for dental 
purposes. 

• • • • 

If Hitler wins the recent European 
War the two American contents would 
be in great danger. United States would 
be in a ticklish possession. 



Many people in Germany today are 
more proud of their dictator for his 
cruelity then we as Americans are of our 
president for his finery. 



The author seemed to have the 
strangest and the most unfitting endings 
for his conclusions at the end of all his 
stories. 



32] 



Honorable Mention 

Alice Alden — Drury Lane 

Bert Bernstein — Communism, a Way of Life 

James Brown — Mono-Raciality, a Problem 

Julian Dawson — Campus Businessmen 

Byron Elsner — Escape 

Pat Galvin — The Failure of Civilization 

H. P. GuiMARAES — The Cattle Drive 

Lorna Hanselman — Surrealistic Art 

Ealon Roberta Harris — Martha Berry 

June Ann Hart — Manahatta 

William Higginbotham — The Robber Barons 

Mary Louise Jackson — Personality 

Delbert Jones — Proration of Illinois Oil 

Lorene Kettenburg — The Tour Way 

Otto E. Johnson^ — The Grasshopper Strikes 

Kingsley Keiber — The Challenge of Waste 

Robert Lafferty — The First Muskellunge 

Keith Lance — Four Bright Silk Scarves 

J.' Kenneth Leininger — A Wheat Thresher 

G. W. McGiLL— Kid Calahan 

Carroll O. Meyer — First Date 

Leonard Sankstone — Why Live at Home? 

MARLA.N Shepherd — A Heeler 

Nick Shuman — Copy! 

Jeanette Smith — We Too Are the People 

Paul Stark — Spider 

Louis H. Stern — Free Sample 

A. C. Trakowski — Circus Blaze 

John M. Wells — The Last Puritan 

Deane White — My Attitude toward the Negro 

Donna Wilcox — Revenge 

Jacqueline Willoughby — Indian Lake 




No. 2 




TABLE OF CONTENTS 

STATE CASE 1 

Shirley Shapiro 

FIGHT 3 

Orange Apple 

PROM TROTTER 5 

J. W. Mcintosh 

THE HUNTING INSTINCT 6 

James R. Cooper 

SPOTTED JERSEY 8 

Gordon Peabody 

CASUAL RESCUE 9 

Bill H. Dagley 

PLAYING COPS 10 

Emmet O'Connell 

ERNEST AND THE BATS 11 

Lois Slyder 

IN THE STOCKING 12 

Virginia Kluge 

PIGS 13 

Martha Carlisle 

BAND— ATTEN-TION! 14 

William R. Brophy 

HYBRID: A DEFINITION 15 

James H. Francis 

B. M. O. C 16 

Alberta Menzel 

SPOON RIVER VALLEY COON-HUNT .... 18 
Carroll O. Meyer 

A COUNTRY BEWITCHED 20 

Bessie King 

WILDLIFE RESTORATION AND THE FARM . 22 
Keith R. Hudson 

COLOSSUS ON THE COLUMBIA 28 

Arnold Kohnert 

RHET AS WRIT 32 

(Material written in Rhetoric I and II) 

PUBLISHED BY UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS, URBANA 



JLuE Green Caldron is published four times a year 
by the Rhetoric Staff at the University of Illinois. 
Material is chosen from themes and examinations 
written by freshmen in the University. Permission to 
publish is obtained for all full themes, including those 
published anonymously. Parts of themes, however, 
are published at the discretion of the committee in 
charge. 

The committee in charge of this issue of The Green 
Caldron includes Mr. Donald Hill, Mr. Kenneth 
Andrews, Mr. Kerker Quinn, Mr. Robert Geist, 
and Mr. Charles Shattuck, Chairman. 

The Green Caldron is for sale at the Illini Union 
Bookstore, 715 South Wright Street, Champaign, 
Illinois. 



THE GREEN CALDRON 

COPVRIOHT 1941 
BY THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 

W// riffhts reserved 
No part of this periodical may be repro- 
ducea in any form without permission in 
writing from the publisher. 



State Case 



Shirley Shapiro 
Rhetoric I, Theme 8, 1940-1941 



■npHIS is Lupe." 



Lupe didn't acknowledge the intro- 
duction. She turned her face toward the 
wall and closed her eyes, so that all I 
could see was a tangle of straight, inky 
hair and a pink ribbon above the sheet. 

"She'll warm up to you when I leave 
the room," the nun promised me. 
"Lupe !" 

The tangle of hair moved and the two 
blackest of all eyes opened wide and 
distrustfully. They closed slowly and 
Lupe said nothing. 

"I think you'll get along. She's very 
friendly," the nun insisted. "She knows 
only a few words of English, but it 
isn't hard to make her understand." 

Again the tangle moved. 

"Lupe. Want to hear a story?" 

The tangle stirred negatively. I began 
to doubt whether this four-year-old 
Mexican baby had any intention of being 
friendly. 

"Lupe. Want to play dolls?" 

Lupe's eyes looked through the nun 
and through me ; they wandered aim- 
lessly around the room. They stopped 
for a moment at a far corner of the 
ceiling, then went on to the opposite wall. 
Nothing held them. They glanced past 
my red dress, and I gave up hope. When 
I visit the hospital to amuse the children, 
I always wear my red dress because it 
attracts their attention and gives me an 
opening to some sort of conversation 
about clothes or favorite colors. Lupe 
dismissed the red dress. My self-confi- 
dence dropped, and Lupe closed her eyes 
again, as if to discourage me completely. 

Sister Katherine must have decided 
just then that Lupe and I would be great 



pals at any moment, for she swished out 
of the room. I walked over to the bed 
and stood there foolishly. 

"Lupe." All in a second I felt that I 
had spoken much too loudly, I had mis- 
pronounced the name, I would like to go 
home, and I wanted to make Lupe laugh. 
There was no response. I sat down on 
the chair near the bed and opened my 
picture book. 

"Oh, look at the bunny. What color is 
a bunny? Blue? {Heliotrope? This 
isn't doing our Pan-American relations, 
any good, you devil.) Here's an elephant 
with big ears and a long trunk .... 
see? And there's a horse with a tail." I 
was talking to myself. {"Come on, foots; 
I'm supposed to be amusing you, not 
myself.) Oh, look at the pig! Isn't that 
funny?" I forced a laugh. "That's 
funny!" 

"Dot's fawnee !" I was startled out of 
my soliloquy by the repeated phrase — 
half Mexican accent, half baby talk. The 
tangle of hair turned and Lupe squinted 
in an unmistakable smile ; then, looking 
straight at me, she broke into a Satanic 
grin. 

"You little devil," I said, nervously. 

"Dot's fawnee I" Lupe laughed out 
loud and I knew she was teasing me. I 
felt better. Here was a four-year-old 
with a sense of humor, even if she 
couldn't speak English. I began to turn 
the pages of the picture book again, and 
Lupe pointed to each new page and 
laughed at the: 

"Elephant running." 

"Aylphun ronning." 

"Bunny rabbit." 

"Bawnee rapt." 



[ 1 ] 



"Purple cow .... oh, that's funny!" 

"Dot's fawnee!" Lupe's giggling was 
low ; it came from somewhere near her 
stomach and rose spasmodically to her 
mouth, where it issued from the corners 
in tiny explosions. 

"Would you like to color the pic- 
tures?" I asked, holding out a crayon so 
that she would understand. I wasn't sure 
that Lupe was able to use her hands ; so 
many of these state wards were complete 
cripples, even paralyzed to such an ex- 
tent that they could not talk. I waited 
an instant ; Lupe drew one hand from 
under the sheet and took the crayon. It 
was a green one, but she immediately 
reached out and covered a page of dogs 
with irregular strokes, like blades of tall 
grass. 

For an hour we looked at the book. I 
turned the pages and Lupe colored violet 
chickens and yellow horses and pink rab- 
bits with the same reckless, uncontrolled 
scrawl. She grew too warm and pushed 
the sheet back in a crumpled ball against 
the wall ; she was wearing a regulation 
split-up-the-back muslin gown, and it 
made her body look very small, her face 
very brown. Both legs were in casts, and 
she was strapped to a long, wide board 
so that she would not try to move her 
back. I don't know whether she had any 
pain, even any feeling, in her bod}' be- 
low the waist ; but she seemed to be 
alive only from the waist upward. Her 
eyes were most alive. I would have given 
anything to know what lay behind some 
of their expressions! I know she could 
understand almost nothing of what I 
said; yet there was no look of question- 
ing in her eyes. Possibly she thought I 
was the one who didn't know a lan- 
guage; after all, she named the pictures 
in words of her own, words her family 
would have understood .... and when 
I told her the English names she re- 



peated them patiently. Still, she must 
have felt superior to me, for she knew 
that "bunny" and "cow" and "elephant" 
were things I made up ; those weren't 
really their names. 

I couldn't tell whether she had ceased 
to tease me or was merely humoring me. 
I know her laughter became more spon- 
taneous and higher pitched until I was 
sure she knew some joke I could never 
know. Then she began to address her- 
self to me. She pointed to her pink 
ribbon. 

"Dot's fawnee." 

I laughed and nodded, and she laughed 
and nodded back. I picked out a pink 
crayon and handed it to her. 

"Pink. Pink ribbon on the horse?" 
I suggested, pointing to the picture of a 
new page. She handed me the crayon, 
and I put a ribbon on the horse's tail. 

"Just like Lupe. See? Isn't that! 
funny?" 

"Dot's fawnee." 

At four o'clock the nun came back to 
tell me that the visiting hours were over. 

"Are you having a good time, Lupe?" 

Lupe's eyes lost their life, her smile 
drooped, and she turned toward the walll 
again. 

"Thank the nice girl for coming to see 
you, Lupe !" 

There was no answer. The nun sighed| 
impatiently. 

"Oh, Lupe has no manners today. 11 
know she loves to have people visit herj 
though." 

We turned to leave the room, hut 
when we heard a high squeak and 
giggle, both of us turned to see whati 
Lupe was doing. She was pointing a^ 
my red dress. She opened her eye 
wider than ever and her nose wiggled 
with excitement. 

"Dot's fawnee!" she exploded — and 
closed her eyes and turned to the wall. 



[ 2 ] 



Fight 



Orange Apple 
Rhetoric I, Theme 8, 1940-1941 



ID ILL gulped down his beer. He drew 
■^ a deep breath. "Goddamit, my chick- 
en's better than that dunghill of yours, 
an' a huntert dollars says it's so." The 
alcoholic flush in Shorty's face deepened. 
"Call Fireboy a dunghill, will you? IfFen 
you put southern gaffs on that sick 
rooster of yours he couldn't win. I'll 
take the bet." 

As Bill drove down the road he began 
to wonder if he had done right. With 
each blast of cold fresh air through the 
car window his doubt grew. Back at The 
Pit everything had seemed simple ; he 
knew his cock could win and a hundred 
dollars was a small sum. But out here 
in the cold night, with the reassuring in- 
fluence of alcohol turning into a tired, 
sick feeling, he was uncertain. Suppose 
his cock didn't win. Business at the road- 
stand was none too good, and Martha 
was always nagging him about the birds. 

Thank God, here was his place at 
last. He turned into the driveway, 
killed the motor, and slumped behind the 
wheel. Jesus, he was tired ! His head 
throbbed, his stomach jerked to the same 
rhythm. He'd put the car in the garage 
tomorrow — right now he wanted to sleep. 
He opened the door, stepped out. God, 
but the cool gravel felt nice against his 
face. He couldn't lie here all night 
though. He got up, found the house 
door, opened it, and made his way to 
the bedroom. He stripped to his under- 
wear and crawled in, the springs pro- 
testing his weight. His wife groaned. 
He slept. 

• • ■ • . 

Never had the patch of sun on the 
floor moved so slowly, and when it 



finally disappeared the clock slowed 
down. Why, the last three times he had 
looked it said 8:30. He brought a cus- 
tomer a hamburger, looked again; at 
last it was time. .He walked through the 
kitchen. 

"I'm leaving, Martha." 

"Go ahead," she snapped. 

She hadn't said much today — still mad, 
he guessed. He walked out to the runs, 
and entered the tar-papered shack. He 
stood in the narrow aisle a minute, then 
opened a small door, reached in, and 
pulled out Joe Louis. He admired the 
bird's trim body, the way the light 
gleamed on his brown feathers. Every- 
thing useless was gone — the comb, the 
excess wing feathers, the spurs. He 
walked over to the exercise table and 
tossed the bird a few times. Then he 
reached up to a shelf, took down a small 
leather case, and opened it. The two 
bits of metal shone bright in the light 
of the single bulb. He began to hone 
them. As he worked he watched the 
cock strut about on the table. There was 
no mistake, the bird was good — he 
couldn't lose. He finished, laid the gaffs 
on the velvet and snapped the case shut. 
He caught Joe Louis and crated him. 

The long drive to the barn, where the 
mains were to be held, bolstered his con- 
fidence. He parked his car with the 
others and entered the building, carrying 
the crated rooster. They had a big crowd 
tonight — big shots and society people 
from Chicago, farmers from the sur- 
rounding country, and men like himself, 
who had game cocks to fight. He greeted 
his many friends, and stopped to talk 
with one of them, a mechanic from the 



[3] 



city, who raised cocks. Then he made 
his way to the judge's stand. 

"Hello, Sheriff." 

"Hello, Bill. I been talking to Shorty, 
an' yours is gonna be the first bout. Let's 
weigh your chicken." 

He took the rooster out of the crate 
and placed him on the scales. The weight 
was right. Rill took the leather case out 
of his pocket and began to fix the gaffs. 
Carefully he wound the strips of oiled 
leather around the stump of the bird's 
spur. The gaff's had to go on just so. 

Bill climbed down into the pit, heard 
the judge announcing the names of the 
birds and their handlers, noticed by the 
upraised hands in the crowd that the 
betting was heavy. People hereabouts 
knew his birds. He held Joe Louis out 
and let him take a few preliminary pecks 
at Shorty's bird. A word from the judge 
and he let go. The birds rushed forward 
and met in a tangle of feathers. They 



beat each other's wings, thrust and par- 
ried jabs. Shaking with excitement, Bill 
watched. They had slowed down now, 
were fighting coldly, methodically ; but 
when an opening appeared, always it was 
Joe Louis that leaped in and struck. 

Then it came. Joe Louis sprang high 
in the air, driving down on the other's 
back. The gleaming gaffs disappeared 
from view. He'd won^the hundred dol- 
lars was his. The game cocks rolled over, 
turning and twisting. They separated. 
The other bird was dj-ing. Bill felt a 
grin spreading over his face. But sud- 
denly Shorty's bird leaped forward, 
striking wildly in its dying flurry. A spur 
pierced Joe Louis's head, and he died at 
once. The other bird lurched halfway 
around the ring and fell dead too. 

Bill heard the judge's voice clearly. 
"The last bird on his feet and the win- 
ner, Fireboy, handled by Shorty Gates." 

What would he say to his wife? 



Direct from Broadway 

Now if you've ever been in a one-act play with innumerable scenes, (or if you've 
ever seen one) you're aware of the fact that if the changes aren't made much sooner 
than you can think of Rumplestiltskin's name, it's just too bad. So we make quick 
changes. This works out just fine when the person changing from one of these 
yarded costumes has a little aid. I always did have — our bargain hunter usually 
pinned me together. (We never even attempted to use the buttons.) 

Well, on this fatal night, I tore into the shirt and blouse, straight-pinned the 
blouse front together, and with the customary huge diaper-pin I fastened the back 
of me. This was for the scene in which the villain, played by our harried director, 
chases the poor heroine, me, around and around the table. 

Usually, he placed his foreboding walking cane on the table. But being worried 
about his wife, he leaned it against the table. 

He started after me. I started around the table. Something was scratching — I 

peered down. The front of me was coming open. I held it together. Once around 

the table. I felt something sticking me in back. I glanced down. My skirt had fallen 

'to the position of a hula-dancer's. With my free hand, I clutched it up and started 

my plea for "Help !" Then I tripped over the propped-up cane. 

Something had happened backstage to detain the hero, who was to come in to 
save me. I think it can truthfully be said that the audience was rolling in the aisles. 
They actually thought it was funny. There I was — stuck on all sides, grabbed at 
from behind, and tripped from the front. Finally amidst unwarranted applause, the 
hero arrived. — Betty Steiner 



[ 4 ] 



Prom Trotter 



J. W. McIntosh 
Rhetoric II, Theme 2. 1939-1940 



"|\/TAY I CUT?" 

•^'*- I tapped the back of a black 
dinner jacket. The pasty face turned 
reluctantly, washed-out eyes glared bale- 
fully — but he let her go. Rae came into 
my arms, smiling her charming smile, as 
she had come into so many others' arms 
in the past five years. 

She had been my brother Bill's date 
five years ago when Bill was a senior at 
Dartmouth. She was just seventeen 
then, the prettiest deb of the season in 
the Westchester crowd. Since then she 
had not missed a Dartmouth Winter 
Carnival, a Princeton "Houseparties," or 
a Williams Carnival, and now she was 
plebeian enough to come to a Cornell 
Prom. 

Five years ago she was the date of the 
season, and for a big dance you'd ask 
her months ahead. Now she was fair 
game for any fellow who went to one 
of the "better" schools. 

She arched her back a little so that 
she could talk. "How's Bill?" 

"Fine. He's a proud father now." 

Her "Oh" was noncommittal. 

"You know, John, you've always 
seemed like a kid brother to me." The 
black eyes sparkled. "But you're not, 
are you? Two more years and you'll be 
a great big engineer. Are you going to 
build bridges and skyscrapers?" 

"Yes," I said. She could hardly be 
expected to remember that I was an 
electrical engineer. 

"I was up at Dartmouth last week. 
Billy Reynolds — you know him, Johnny, 
don't you?" 

"Yes, I saw you there." 

"Why how silly of me to forget. You 



skied didn't you? Are you as good as 
Bill?" 

"Bill's mark still is tops for the run. 
Reynolds will be a good skier, though. 
Otto Schniebs has whipped him into 
shape in a hurry." 

We danced on in silence. How differ- 
ent Rae was from the girl Bill used to 
go with. Not different in any real way. 
It was a relative difference, a difference 
in intensity. Then she had been a lovely 
kid, black hair and eyes. The hair was as 
black and bright as ever, but the eyes 
were faded. She seemed diluted, like 
the last cocktail from the shaker. 

"Williams had a nice carnival three 
weeks ago. Did you ski there?" 

"No." 

"Fred Hawkins asked me up. Fred 
lives in Albany. You know him, don't 
you ?" 

I knew him. 

"They had Glenn Miller there. What 
a swell band he has, real rhythm. And 
did Fred get tight! — only a few drinks, 
too. I can't understand it." She rattled 
on. "This is a lovely school, Johnny. The 
lake looks so pretty when it's frozen. 
And looking down on the town from the 
hill — it's just like fairyland. You boys 
are lucky you can go to a real school, 
no Sarah Lawrence or Bryn Mawr lady 
stuff." 

"Sometimes we zvork here, too." 

"I'll be glad when May is here. Prince- 
ton's 'Houseparties' are such fun, and 
I've just met the cutest boy that goes 
there. He's from Illinois, or Texas, or 
somewhere. He's so serious — says he's 
there to study. He's cute though. Any- 
way I'll work him for a bid. It will be 



[ 5 ] 



nice to go with him — lots of wide-open- 
space ideas — and simple — . But he's 
sweet. Maybe this is the real thing. Do 
you think so, Johnny?" 

"I hope so, Rae. Something should 
happen to you. You've been chasing 
proms ever since Bill had you up to 
Dartmouth. You've gone crazy like the 
rest of Westchester. You're afraid to 
admit that your deb days are over. You 
keep chasing around to any damn club or 
school, keep chasing boys three and four 
years younger than you. You'd go with 
anyone before you'd miss a party." 



"You sound like Brother Bill. What 
am I supposed to do — sit home and carry 
pipes and slippers for one man, when I 
can have a hell of a lot of fun playing 
the field?" The black eyes sparkled 
again ; her face became alive. 

Then the eyes softened. "You're cute 
when you get angry, Johnny. You're like 
Bill only you have pretty blue eyes and 
his were brown. I think you're nice — 
you're so .... so refreshing." 

"Cut." The hand of good fortune fell 
on my shoulder. "Gladly," I murmured. 
I turned, and hurried to the stag line. 



The Hunting Instinct 

James R. Cooper 
Rhetoric I, Theme 6. 1940-1941 



I HAVE the hunting instinct. I refuse 
to say whether I feel proud of it 
or ashamed. Probably I cannot help the 
fact that while I love wild animals I 
also love to kill them. 

The American ideal of sportsmanship 
in liunting is supposed to be derived 
from that of the red man. Hiawatha 
thrilled to see his buck give a mighty 
convulsive leap when the arrow drove 
home ; yet pleasure was to him always 
secondary to necessity. HI have a code 
of hunting ethics, it may appear in the 
telling of one of my hunting adventures. 

One day last winter I borrowed my 
brother's shotgun and walked eastward 
from the house to a grove of barren 
osage orange snags. My memory and 
instinct tcld me that here was the nearest 
good cover for rabbit or pheasant. I 
would ex])Iore tlic bases of the creaking 
hedge trees and the protected places in 
clumps of grass, beside rotting logs, by 



fence posts, where a canny bunny might 
choose to bed down. Then, from this 
starting point I would traverse a well- 
planned, methodical circuit of our farm. 
Like Hiawatha, I moved quietly and 
unhurriedly, wishing to detect game be- 
fore flushing it. I searched carefully, but 
without visible reward, while in the 
grove. When I had explored every pro- 
tected cranny, I stepped lightly over the 
fence and moved away from the grove, 
walking in long, snow-scraping strides. 
My eyes searched the fencerow as it 
glided past me. White landscape was 
the only landscape that morning. For 
weeks the good Illinois wheat soil had 
been frozen — gray, hard, and unyielding, 
bare to the lashing winds and the blank 
sky. But in the night, new and beautiful 
snow had disguised and enveloped it in 
loveliness. Living, cool draughts of air 
poured in through my nostrils, and thick 
animal steam puffed out from them. Life 



[ 6] 



pleased me. But I was bent on destroy- 
ing life. 

Abruptly I was aware of an exciting 
spot in the snow not five paces dead 
ahead, where a brown fringe showed 
distinctly above a deep impression in the 
snow. I stopped in the middle of a 
stride, clasping my gun with both hands 
diagonally across my body, ready to 
throw it to my shoulder and fire. 
Stealthily I backed away a few steps, 
turned, partially circled the prey, and 
advanced on him from the direction he 
faced. This brought me to an ideal posi- 
tion. I could start him up, then quickly 
take him with the gun, no matter which 
way he went. I looked at him and 
hesitated. 

This rabbit was not of the timid type 
which so often has failed to escape my 
search by taking refuge in the advantage 
of dark shaded spots and protective 
coloration. This was a competent, ex- 
perienced fellow. He had assumed a 
crouching position in the open, his brown 
coat plain against the snow. Here he 
could see for four dozen long hops on 
any side, li his enemy were a dog, he 
would see it coming and bound lightly 
down the adjacent fencerow. The dog 
would never see him, for it hunts with 
eyes intent on the snow beneath its nose. 
And if the rabbit were seen he could 
easily foil the dog by sewing his tracks 
from one side of the fence to the other. 

As rabbits probably know, a human 
hunter seeks always to find game in thick 
cover, never on open snow-covered spots. 
But unluckily for my rabbit, he had not 
anticipated that he should lie in my direct 
path. No doubt I looked quite harmless 
as I clumped along the fencerow. I 
must have seemed to be just another of 
those huge, obvious beings that lumber 
along in a single direction, seeing nothing 
except what they stumble over. The rab- 



bit, hesitating to leave his comfortable 
squat, sat motionless and waited for me 
to pass him by unnoticed. 

But I had seen him. Surely he knew 
he was discovered. Yet he crouched, 
tense with a fear of the strange enemy 
which did not rush at him to crush his 
back in red jaws. Just for an instant, 
pity and sympathy, even a sense of love 
and understanding, rose high in me. No 
twitch of his body betrayed his readiness 
for instant action. There were only two 
great, warm eyes looking from a spot 
in the snow, eyes pitifully afraid, yet 
questioning — gazing full upon me, sens- 
ing my purpose, but still searching, im- 
ploring. My eyes looked at the dark 
eyes in the snow and my resolution 
began to waver. It seemed to me that I 
should never forget those eyes if I 
made them close in death. 

Then I brought myself to reality with 
a stiffening jerk. I had come out to kill 
meat for supper. I was carrying a gun 
— not an instrument of manslaughter, 
but a hunting gun — an instrument of the 
old American sport of bagging wild 
game for food. The rabbit had wounded 
my vanity by appealing to my conscience. 
The gates of mercy swung shut, exclud- 
ing the little brown rabbit. I would 
avenge the mental injury which his in- 
nocent eyes had silently done me. 

Moving forward, I deliberately kicked 
snow toward him. He started up and 
bounded rapidly along the fence. The 
gun in my hand crashed, and my victim 
made a high somersault, then fell on his 
side. Twice he quivered all over, then 
lay still. I walked to the spot where his 
body lay. I was proud of my marks- 
manship. 

One great brown eye bulged from the 
little brown head, staring aimlessly at 
the sky. Warm red blood dripped into 
the white snow. 



[ 7] 



Spotted Jersey 



Gordon Peabody 
Rhetoric I, Theme 3, 1940-1941 



SANDY is the best cow dog in the 
neighborhood. He could chase any 
cow through any gate he desired, until 
we bought old Spotted Jersey. She was 
never "dog broke," and I suspect she 
never will be. 

Spot is a gentle cow, but she allows 
no other animal to boss her. She likes 
to stand idly in the shade of the willow 
clusters, lazily swaying from side to side, 
and chewing rhythmically on her cud, as 
she stares sleepily across the blue-grass 
pasture. Her sleepy brown eyes seldom 
move when I approach. She remains 
indolently motionless except for the in- 
cessant cud-chewing and an occasional 
switching of her tail. When I slap her 
on the rump with an accompanying, "Get 
along there, Spot," she awakes. Glancing 
slowly around at me. as if she were say- 
ing, "Where did you come from?" she 
slowly turns her back and labors toward 
the big red dairy barn over the hill. The 
other Jerseys follow her to the barn. 

Sandy used to go with me to bring in 
the cows, but the first day Spotted Jer- 
se\' was in the pasture, she broke him 
of that habit. I went to Spot first that 
day to start the cows home ; Sandy was 
dashing wildly about me. Spot was 
standing under a clump of willows — 
swaying, and chewing, and dreaming. 
When we approached half way down the 
hill, Spot, staring straight ahead, sud- 
denly stopped chewing. .Sandy, who had 
been watching her very closely, edged 
nearer to me. When we sauntered 
nearer, Spot unexpectedly turned. Her 
mild brown eyes Hashed anger and 
hatred as she violently shook her head 
at Sandy. Lowering her head, she bel- 



lowed deep in her throat and lunged 
beyond me toward Sandy, who had just 
decided that he had an engagement at 
the barn and was consequently high- 
tailing it in that direction. Spot, gather- 
ing speed, bellowed again, and the entire 
herd took up the chase. 

The enraged cows turned Sandy back 
toward the middle of the pasture. Run- 
ning in a wide circle and jumping a ditch, 
he finally reached the barnyard fence. 
Although unaccustomed to jumping, he 
easily cleared the five- foot board fence. 
Then sitting on his haunches across the 
.strong fence from the bellowing cows, 
he repeatedly panted and barked at the 
infuriated, pawing spotted Jersey. 

Realizing that pawing the dust would 
not bother the dog. Spot finally calmed 
down. Soon she forced her way through 
the crowding, curious cows, and after 
drinking thirstily from the huge cement 
watering tank, she again became the 
quiet, tranquil cow who had been sway- 
ing contentedly in the pasture a minute 
before. Resuming her cud-chewing, she 
ignored the other Jerseys, ignored the 
barking dog, and stared dreamily across 
the pasture. 

• • • • 

I had been so engrossed in reading 
The Grapes of Wrath that I had grown 
tired. At the end of a chapter, I glanced 
casually away from the book. My sight 
immediately fell upon the face of the 
girl who was sitting across the table 
from me. She wasn't studying, but was 
staring into the depths of the closely 
grained table-top before her. Her big 
brown eyes were shining softly, and 
gazing in meditative thoughtfulness. 



8 ] 



With her tongue she caressed a large 
wad of gum, twisting and turning it 
over and over. Each time she rolled the 
gum, her lower jaw dropped; then 
rhythmically, in a sweeping, circular mo- 
tion, she clamped her teeth shut on the 
gum ; after forcing the wad to a different 
part of her mouth, she began to repeat 
the whole sequence of movements all 
over again. 

I grinned as I gazed at the twisting 
motions she made. "It's a lot like old 
Spotted Jersey does it," I thought. When 



I grinned, she glanced up. Seeing me 
staring at her, she glared indignantly. 
The soft brown eyes lost their thought- 
fulness ; now they flashed dark anger 
across the table. She had ceased the 
rhythmical chewing in the intensity of 
her anger. 

I grinned sheepishly; I couldn't help 
it. "She changed just like Spot did when 
Spot first saw Sandy," I mused. Again 
I looked at the girl. She was chewing 
methodically — ignoring my presence just 
as Spot ignored Sandy's. 



Casual Rescue 

Bill H. Dagley 
Rhetoric I, Theme 7, 1940-1941 



■npHE first day I ever wore a life-guard 
*■ jersey, I strutted along the hot 
sandy beach as if I knew all the answers 
and as if this life-guarding was old stuff 
to me. But down deep inside I felt lost, 
and I halfway realized the responsibility 
which I had accepted, responsibility for 
the lives of all those people who were 
frolicking about and enjoying one of 
those rare days in June. I walked out 
on the dam, where most of the guards 
were posted. The dam, which is about 
three feet high and four feet wide, 
divides the shallow pool from the deep 
pool. 

"You're new here, aren't you?" asked 
one of the guards. 

"Yeah," I said, trying not to act too 
thrilled. 

"What's your name?" 

"Dagley. Bill Dagley." 

"Mine's Ed Toban. Glad to know 
you. Bill." 

Ed was about six feet two inches tall, 
sun-tanned like a model for a Coca-Cola 
advertisement. He never looked away 



from the bathers in the pool all during 
our conversation. 

"You'll like it here," he continued, 
"and once you get in, you're set." 

I gathered that he meant if I voted 
for Roosevelt, I'd be set. 

"Ever guard before?" he asked, still 
keeping his eyes peeled to the water. 

"Nope." 

"That's bad. If you've never had any 
experience, this place is — " 

Then suddenly, as if shot from a can- 
non, he sprang from the dam. He dived 
parallel to the water, keeping his head 
erect and his eyes straight ahead. His 
body slapped the water, making a ter- 
rific splash, but only one thing mattered. 
Get there ! His legs pounded powerfully 
at the water, and his arms stretched at 
each stroke as if to reach for the victim. 
He dug and pulled at the water with all 
the strength that was in his arms. Then 
I spotted the person in difficulty. No cry 
of help was uttered. It was a choking, 
screaming cry of terror. I could see only 
a face looking skyward, and two arms 



[9] 



struggling against the depths of the 
water — clutching, grasping for some- 
thing, anything! But nothing was there. 
When Ed was about three yards away 
from the unfortunate fellow, he went 
into a surface dive. Both bodies disap- 
peared from sight. A second later, two 
heads broke the surface of the water 
together. Ed had a firm grip over the 
victim's right shoulder, across his chest, 
and under his left arm pit. By that time, 
another guard had arrived at the spot 
with a boat. Luckily, the victim was still 
conscious. He and Ed clung to the side 



of the boat while the other guard rowed 
them in to shore. 

It all happened so quickly that I be- 
lieve I was more excited than any one of 
the trio. My heart was beating double 
time, and I was trying to think of some- 
thing that I should have done to help 
out. Ed climbed back on the dam, picked 
up a towel, and began briskly drying 
himself. 

"How's the water?" I asked jokingly, 
trying to cover up my nervousness. 

"Dunno," came a quick, panting reply. 
"Wasn't in long enough to tell." 



Playing Cops 

Emmet O'Connell 
Rhetoric I, Theme 7, 19-40-1941 



OUR big black sedan, labeled "Chief 
of Police," rounded the comer and 
slid over to the wrong side of the street. 
Fortunately there were no cars coming 
from the opposite direction. 

"Take it a little slower, Bob," I or- 
dered in my most authoritative tone. 
"Maybe some kids will try to hitch their 
sled on behind and we can pinch them." 

It was Boy's Day — the one day of each 
year that mere kids are allowed to take 
over the public offices of the city. I had 
been appointed Chief of Police for the 
day and I was determined to make at 
least one arrest. So a few of my sub- 
ordinate patrolmen and myself were 
cruising about in the Chief's special car, 
hoping to find a law-breaker. We had 
had an all-night drizzle, followed by 
freezing temperature, and as a result the 
Streets were very slippery. 

"Drive over to the west side of the 
tracks," I ordered. "There's nothing 
doing on this side." 



"There's a bunch of kids with their 
sleds standing on that corner," said 
someone in the back seat. "Take it easy 
going past. Maybe we'll get one." 

"O. K. You watch out the back and 
let me know." 

"Just keep going the way you are. 
That's fine. Here comes one! No — he 
stopped. No, he didn't ! He's on !" 

"Keep on going and pull over to the 
curb just before you get to the corner," 
I said. 

When the car came to a stop, I jumped 
out and confronted the surprised 
youngster. 

"Say, Buddy," I said, flashing my gold! 
badge, "don't you know you're violating! 
a city ordinance? You come along with] 
me. We'll see what the judge has to] 
say about this !" 

By the time we reached the City Hallj 
the unfortunate j'oungster was pale with 
fright. When the judge called for our 
case, I leaped to my feet and presented] 



[10] 



the situation in the most complicated 
legal terms I knew, recommending the 
maximum punishment. After much de- 
liberation, his Honor, better known to 
us as Jimmy O'Brien, looked up with a 
scowl and ordered the defendant to rise. 
With shaking limbs, the defendant stood 
up. The judge gave him a severe lecture 
on all the trouble he might have caused 
or got into. He ended it with a dismissal. 



"Since this is your first offense," he 
said, "we'll overlook it. But don't let it 
happen again, mind you. You might not 
get off as easy the second time." 

At this the lad's eyes opened wide. 
He grabbed his sled and made a dash for 
the door. Suddenly he stopped, turned, 
made a face. "To hell with you guys," he 
yelled, and scampered quickly through 
the door. 



Ernest and the Bats 

Lois Slyder 
Rhetoric I, Theme 8, 1940-1941 



TT was evident from the first that Er- 
••• nest resented the bats. My uncle's 
home was built during the Revolutionary 
War, and it is no wonder that it con- 
tained an intricate chimney system which 
bats loved to explore. Even we guests, 
new to Connecticut, could understand 
this and see the humor in the situation 
when a black shadow would come flut- 
tering out of the fireplace. But it was 
Ernest, the butler, who had to exter- 
minate them. No one could look very 
dignified swatting at bats, and if there 
was anything that Ernest resented, it was 
losing even the smallest portion of his 
dignity. 

At all hours of the day, he was the 
soul of propriety. He never moved faster 
than necessary, never spoke a super- 
fluous word, and went quietly and efifi- 
ciently about his work. He seldom 
varied his uniform black trousers and 
coat, stiiif- front shirt, and black bow tie. 
Ernest had a carefully planned program 
for each day, so swatting bats down and 
sweeping them into the long-handled dust 
pan upset his schedule of action as well 
as his dignity. 



The day we arrived was unseasonably 
cool, and fires had been built in all the 
fireplaces, upstairs and down. Ernest 
had been chasing bats all day at spas- 
modic intervals as the heat drove them 
from their hiding places. At dinner, the 
conversation switched to his unusual 
dexterity at the "game," but we could 
tell by his pained expression that it made 
him uncomfortable to have the subject 
mentioned, even though his superiority 
in the field was unchallenged. 

The evening passed without the ap- 
pearance of any more bats, and by bed- 
time we had all forgotten about them. 
My cousin and I were sitting peacefully 
before the fire in her bedroom when, 
without warning, two bats darted past 
our noses from the fireplace. I jumped 
up and dashed for cover while Nan 
started to push the buzzer frantically 
for Ernest. She was so frightened that 
she made a terrible racket ! In a moment 
the door burst open and there stood 
Ernest with the fire extinguisher. His 
conservative gray pajamas showed be- 
neath the hem of his dressing robe and 
his thin, sparse hair stood on end all 



[11] 



about his head. Only the previous week, 
Nan had rung like that when the rug 
before her fireplace had merrily begun 
to blaze. 

For a moment, Ernest stood and 
looked about the room, but when he 
sighted the bats, a look of consternation 
came over him. He glanced down at his 
apparel, then at the extinguisher; then, 
turning suddenly, he disappeared from 
view. 

Puzzled, we waited, warily keeping 
one eye on the wild creatures, who had 



withdrawn into the darkest corner of the 
room. 

About five minutes later, we heard a 
soft knock at the door, and when my 
cousin answered she found Ernest wait- 
ing calmly outside. His hair was care- 
fully combed, and he had donned his 
black trousers and coat, his stiff-front 
shirt and his bow tie. Clutched reso- 
lutely in his hands were the broom and 
the long-handled dust pan. 

"Did you want me, Miss Nancy?" he 
asked. 



In the Stocking 

Virginia Kluge 
Rhetoric I, Theme 8. 1940-1941 



TINA heard the sound of sharp bitter 
words coming from the woodshed. 
Otto was reprimanding Louis again, "Vy 
do you go oudt hunting ven you know 
there is vork needs to be done? Every 
day and every day. Some day I tell you, 
'Get oudt'!" 

Then there was silence. Tina watched 
her son walk rapidly away from Otto. 
When Louis was out of sight she hur- 
ried out to the shed. Over and over she 
kept thinking, "Otto must not get so ex- 
cited. The big doctor in Minneapolis 
said it was bad for his heart. Otto must 
not get so excited." She found her hus- 
band sitting on an old sawhorse, deep 
in thought. 

Carefully she said, "Otto, you must 
not let Louis vorry you ; he is a goot 
boy underneath. He vill help us ven he 
gets a little older." 

Otto grunted non-committally. He got 
up and they walked slowly back to the 
house. Tina started to prepare supper, 
while Otto sat in the old armchair in the 



corner of the kitchen and watched her 
listlessly. When the meal was ready they 
sat down. Louis had not returned yet, 
but he would soon — he always did about 
bedtime. 

"How much money do ve haf in the 
stocking now?" Otto asked after a while. 

"Almost vun hundred dollars," Tina 
replied proudly. 

"Goot, goot !" Otto exclaimed, reach- 
ing for the corn bread. "Soon Louis und 
I vill start building the new room." 

After supper was over and the dishes 
were done they pulled their favorite 
chairs close to the big kitchen range. 
Tina languidly darned socks while Otto 
talked about the new room he planned 
to add to the house. They were startled 
to hear the clock in their bedroom strike 
ten. Their thoughts turned to Louis. He 
should be home by now. Just then the 
telephone rang. Two short rings and 
three long: the call was for them. Tina 
jumped up to answer it. It was Louis. 

She heard him say, "Ma, Becky Hall 



[12] 



and I just got married. We're at the 
railroad station. Becky is sick of small 
towns so we're going to Minneapolis. 
May I borrow the money you and Pa 
saved? I'll pay it back." 

Tina paused. Then she said hastily, 
"No, no, not that." 

"I've already got it. Ma. But I'll pay 
you back as soon as I get a job. Honest 
I will." Louis' voice seemed to be com- 



ing from a far distance. She heard a 
mumbled "Goodbye." 

Tina hung up the receiver, and re- 
turned to the kitchen. 

"Who vas it?" asked Otto. 

"Just wrong number," she responded, 
thinking, "I can't tell Otto yet, not to- 
night anyway." She started to mix the 
bread dough for the following day. It 
would have to set overnight. 



Pigs 



Martha Carlisle 
Rhetoric I, Theme 7, 1940-1941 



SWEAT dripped off my face. My new 
shirt stuck to me. My hands were 
smeared and my shoes muddy. My wet 
hair strung over my face. But it didn't 
matter — I was showing pigs. I eased my 
pig around in front of the judge. A boy 
in a blue shirt tapped his pig lightly and 
caught the judge's eye. I moved near 
and tapped mine. Her head went down ; 
her back arched beautifully; her ears lay 
next to her head ; she stood well up on 
her toes. She was the pride of my life — 
this smooth, dark red, Duroc Jersey gilt. 
But twenty other Durocs were in the pen 
too, and among them that big, clean, 
stylish one, belonging to the boy in the 
blue shirt. His pig looked at mine and 
grunted. The judge seemed puzzled as 
he looked from one pig to the other. His 
eyes shone ; he brushed a smile from his 
face. He pushed his hat back and 
scratched his head. A low chuckle came 
from the crowd standing around the pen. 
I glanced up and saw my mother and 
dad standing with anxious, yet amused, 
looks on their faces. My little sister was 
chewing her fingernails ; my younger 
brother unconsciously pulled at his ear. 



Neighbor farmers crowded around the 
ring, and one of them smiled at me. 

The judge poked the other pig with 
his cane. It moved slowly and stylishly 
across the ring. Mine brushed past the 
judge and turned, giving him a side view 
of herself. Her body was deep and her 
head broad, but her legs were a little 
too long, and her body stretched too 
much when she walked. I looked out of 
the corner of my eye at the boy in the 
blue shirt. He wiped the sweat from his 
face with his shirt sleeve. He anxiously 
kept one eye on the judge and one on his 
pig. I glanced up at the judge. He 
moved around the two pigs for a final 
decision. I swallowed a few times. My 
stomach felt empty. I breathed in short, 
quick breaths, and heard my heart 
thumping fast and hard. There wasn't a 
sound. Everyone waited. Only the judge 
stirred as he studied the two pigs. I was 
tense, and the sweat dripped off my chin. 
My hands trembled. 

The judge sighed. He took out his 
handkerchief and wiped his face. He 
moved across the pen to the man with 
the ribbons and said something that we 



13] 



couldn't hear. The man nodded his head 
and fumbled through the box. He pulled 
out a blue ribbon and came toward the 
boy in the blue shirt and me. He handed 
it to me and smiled. 

Each person drove his pig back to its 
individual pen. As I was leaning over 



the partition and feeling pretty proud of 
mj' pig, somebody came up behind me. 
I turned around. The boy in the blue 
shirt stood there with a big grin on his 
face. He slapped me on the back and 
said, "Nice goin', Sis. Sure glad we 
could keep it in the family." 



Band — Atten - tion ! 

William R. Brophy 
Rhetoric I, Theme 6, 1940-1941 



WITH a third cornet part being blown 
into my left ear, a French horn 
part into my right ear, and into both ears 
the musical conceptions of some 160 
other band members, I vainly try to re- 
member what I am supposed to do next. 
The letter that I and some twenty or 
thirty are making is, to one with a good 
imagination, L. 

All ^t once the music stops. The 
drummers tap lightl)' on the drum shells, 
and everj'one starts moving. 

"Brophy, you belong up there. Get 
going!" I go. More music. Frantically 
I fish for the score of the number they're 
playing now. I get it up just in time to 
stop playing. Suddenly everyone starts 
playing again. Rut they stand still and 
play. Then without even fair warning, 
they start marching. Naturally, I am 
caught unaware. The first thing I know, 
the man behind me runs into me. The 
man behind him runs into him. 

A whistle blows. The loudspeaker 
roars. "You must step off on the first 
beat after the introduction. On the first 
beat!" That's Mr. Hindsley's voice. 

The drums pound loudly for five 
beats. The "roll-oflf." We, or rather 
they, start playing again. This time, by 
deep concentration, I manage to start 
marching with the rest of the band. 



"Brophy, guide right!" 

"Brophy, guide left!" 

"You're ahead of the line." 

"Brophy, cover off the man in front 
of you !" 

At last we are serenely marching down 
the field. Six steps to five yards — just 
the way they taught me. 

Then all at once a confusing thing 
happens. Those in the front end of the 
band start doing column movements 
toward each other. Oh, yes. I remember 
now. This is what they call a counter- 
march. When I am supposed to march 
in the half circle turn, I obediently fol- 
low the man in front of me. Nobody 
says anything; I must be doing it all 
right. Just then a trombone player going 
in the opposite direction reaches for 
sixth position and jabs me in the stomach. 
Slightly ruffled, but none the worse, I 
continue to follow the path blazed by the 
man ahead of me. Destiny does not hold 
that I shall continue on my way unmo- 
lested, however. A bass drum pla3'er 
violently waving a club (some call it a 
drum stick) takes a vicious swing at my 
head. He misses by inches. 

Through with this ordeal, we march 
down the field singing. "• — For the men 
who are fighting for 3'ou. Here's a cheer 
for our dear Alma Mater, — May our 



[14] 



love for her ever be true." Everything 
is perfect. 

The man on my left shouts, "The next 
yard line is it !" Everyone in the rank 
shouts to everyone else in the rank, "The 



next yard line is it !" The next yard line 
is what? That's what I want to know. 
And it isn't long before I find out. 
Everyone but me stops on the yard line. 
Perhaps I should have studied violin. 



Hybrid: a Definition 

James H. Francis 
Verbal Expression, 1940-1941 



hy'brid (hl'brid), n. [L. hybrida, hibrida, the 
offspring of a tame sow and a wild boar.] 
— Webster's. 

A HYBRID is a distinct type derived 
^*- from unlike sources. More special- 
ized or limiting definitions are: "(1) the 
offspring of the union of the male of one 
race, variety, species, genus, etc., with 
the female of another;" "(2) a word 
composed of elements from different 
languages." 

Hybrid words are quite common in the 
English language — especially as Ameri- 
.cans speak it — because English is based 
on many other languages and because 
America's many immigrants tend to com- 
bine words of their mother tongue with 
others of their adopted tongue. An ex- 
ample of a hybrid word is bureaucracy, 
from a French word meaning bureau 
and a Greek word meaning to rule. A 
bureaucracy is a system of carrying on 
government through various depart- 
ments. 

The hybrids with which most people 
are best acquainted, however, are plants 
or animals. Breeders often develop hy- 
brids for a specific purpose, usually the 
improvement of a standard type or the 
I combination of the assets of two or more 
I different types. The mule, traditional 
' work animal of the South, is a typical 
example. A mule is a cross between a 
horse and an ass, and, like many true 



hybrids, is incapable of reproduction. 
This cross-breeding results in an animal 
with the horse's size, strength, and stam- 
ina, and with the ass's ability to with- 
stand heat and hard labor. 

Of course, a hybrid is not necessarily 
an improvement over either of its par- 
ents. Controlled hybridization usually 
produces an improved type, but un- 
planned cross-breeding often produces in- 
ferior types or degenerates. One dic- 
tionary defines hybrid as a "mongrel or 
half-breed" — terms generally used with 
slurring implication. 

The word hybrid has come to the at- 
tention of the American farmers in the 
Middle- West during the last few years, 
and is now in the vocabularies of most 
of them. Hybrid corn — strong stalks 
which will stand erect in spite of wind 
and rain ; large, evenly spaced ears pro- 
ducing more grain on less acreage ; re- 
sistance to plant diseases, to drouth, and 
even to the ravages of insects — this has 
become the standard crop throughout the 
corn belt. By inbreeding types with 
desirable characteristics to obtain the 
pure strain, and by then crossing several 
of the pure types thus obtained, com- 
mercial producers have developed plants 
which approach the maximum of effi- 
ciency for all kinds of soils and climates 
in the corn belt. The commercial pro- 
ducers have coined such words as "hi- 



[15] 



bred" and "hy-bred," which they use in 
reference to their own particular seeds. 
Thus the word hybrid has come to 
imply superior quality and high breed- 
ing. This favorable implication may be 
contrasted with the unfavorable conno- 
tations of mongrel and half-breed, which 
most people have long connected with the 



word hybrid. When people living in the 
central states think of hybrids now, they 
think automatically of better tj-pes of 
plants and animals, because of the com- 
mercial stress upon this idea. For just 
such reasons as this, many words have 
passed through complete changes 
meaning through the years. 



m 



B. M. O. C. 

Alberta Menzel 
Rhetoric II, Theme 10. 1940-1941 



GET into activities . . . ." "The 
house is going 100% for the X 
Club . . . ." 

"Petition for the whoosis committee 



Activities, activities, activities! "What 
did he do in college?" "He was a big 
success — he had three inches of activities 
after his name in the Illio." 



The university student does not exist 
who has never heard these tj'pical pep 
talks. The freshman's identification card 
is hardly warm in his hand when the 
clamor starts. Do the upperclassmen tell 
him, "Now here's how to use the library' 
to supplement your class work . . . ." or 
"This is the way you can best remember 
what you learn ...."? No — they tell 
him "Here's how to petition." And every 
university student knows the repercus- 
sions. 

"I should go to the library, but there's 
a Purple Pillow meeting^ . . . ." 

"I have three meetings that night and 
an hour exam the next day . . . ." 

"I haven't read a book outside of as- 
signments since registration — I'm just too 
busy . . . ." 

"How can I get more sleep in less 
time?" 

At least one girl is slipping fast be- 
cause "the house requires us to attend 
every meeting of the Green Star, the 
Monday Evening Club, and the Woman's 
Circle . . . ." 



The average college student wants to 
be somebody — and to do it, he plunges 
into activities. As a rule, the more intel- 
ligent he is, the greater his interests, and 
consequently, the greater his extra-cur- 
ricular efforts. 

Now I certainly have no desire to 
abolish all activities outside of the class- 
room. There are, it is true, certain ad- 
vantages to be gained from an activity — 
but notice that I use the word in the 
singular ! I believe that the stress should 
be laid on the student's choosing one 
activity and not scattering his energies 
like birdshot. 

In the first place, whether we students 
admit it or not, we're supposedly here 
for an education. With activities clutter- 
ing up the day, a minimum of time is 
left for that little item known as study- 
ing. Ever}' student could leave the uni- 
versity with a really thorough education 
if he spent more time in the library or 
in laboratories. The ordinary student 

'Any resemblance to clubs living or dead 
is absolutely intentional ! 



[161 



never digs deep enough into his course 
to reach the point where it becomes 
really interesting. Instead, he gulps down 
his courses and graduates with an un- 
digested mass of ideas and a string of 
activities to his credit. His average may 
be high, even so — but doesn't an educa- 
tion imply having something more than 
a five point? 

Of course, activities should help a 
freshman to make friends ; yet he has 
opportunity only to make acquaintances. 
Think of an activity on which you have 
concentrated at one time — didn't more 
friendships develop from your participa- 
tion in it than from your membership in 
larger groups? One criticism of modern 
life is that people rarely have a chance 
to enjoy their friends ; this is as true in 
a university as elsewhere. 

Sometimes activities such as French 
Club and the Hexapoeia supplement 
what is learned in class, but here again 
the over-rushed student sits through 
meetings, plans programs, sells tickets, 
and raises money until his real object is 
engulfed in the customary "functions" 
of a club. Yet think of the stimulating 



power a group with a strong common 
interest could generate, if each member 
could put the best of his effort into it! 

Activities, it is true, vary campus life, 
but so do a lot of other things. You 
don't need a club to play tennis or skate 
or read a book or crochet or see a movie 
or go dancing; the impedimenta of or- 
ganizations are not necessary. Where 
students were formerly held together by 
bonds of friendship and interest, they 
must now be united by constitutions, 
dues, committees, and Roberts' Rules of 
Order. 

The great danger on this campus is 
that, as one woman expresses it, we are 
"spreading ourselves too thin." Being in 
several activities means that the student 
can only skim the surface of each while 
hastily squeezing his studies to wring 
grades from them. The freshman who 
is wise would attend meetings and seelc 
information concerning a number of ac- 
tivities for about three weeks, choose the 
one which attracts him most, concentrate 
on it and his courses ; then serenely smile 
while harassed upperclassmen exhort him 
to "go out for activities !" 



The Musical Plumber 

He was a tall, handsome, young man with early blue-black hair and dark Italian 
features. His dirty, grease-stained shirt stretched over his heavy chest every time 
he took a breath between phrases of the music, and again each time he wielded the 
hammer against the corroded joint of the pipe. Whenever one hand was free from 
the exacting job he was doing, he would send it forth into the air in a magnificently 
placed gesture which bore an air of triumph and success. He would throw back his 
head on a high G and grin in the manner of a young boy who has just climbed to 
the top limb of the highest tree in the neighborhood. He worked to the rhythm of 
his music and enjoyed it. Picking up a wrench, he placed it on the pipe and began 
to exercise his great biceps to the anvil beat of the song. The pipe gave way as if the 
vibrations of his overtones had broken the corroded matter into a million scintillas of 
nothingness. Upon finishing his song he picked up the hammer again and struck one ■ 
of the bath-tub pipes with it. "F-sharp," he said to himself and immediately sang, 
progressively, a dominant-seventh chord in the key of F-sharp. This giving him the 
key to the "Largo al Factotum" from the Barber of Seville, he opened his lungs and 
gushed forth the staccato babblings of the distinguished hero-braggadocio of Ros- 
sini's opera. — Thomas Steinbach 



[17: 



Spoon River Valley Coon-Hunt 

Carroll O. Meyer 
Rhetoric II, Theme 15, 1939-1940 



THE Spoon River, beginning in the 
extreme northern part of lUinois, 
follows an erratic course and finally 
empties into the Illinois River just op- 
posite the coal docks at Havana. In late 
spring and early summer the Spoon over- 
flows its banks, and the valley becomes 
a huge lake ; in the summer it provides 
an ideal place to catch cat-fish, but in 
the late fall, when the leaves have fallen 
from the trees and there is a hint of 
snow in the air, the tall maples and pin- 
oaks which line its banks reverberate 
with the baying of coon-hounds. 

The Spoon River Valley, especially 
near the river's mouth, is perfect coun- 
try for coon-hunting. The clay soil re- 
tains the moisture from the spring floods 
the 3-ear round — a boon to the hunter, 
since damp soil holds the scent better 
than dry soil does. Coons live here in 
great numbers, making their dens in the 
tall hardwoods that grow here, and using 
the heavy growth of underbrush for 
protection. 

Crashing through thick underbrush on 
a cold damp night requires plenty of 
stamina and an even larger quantity of 
love for the sport ; so only the hardier 
make coon-hunting their regular fall and 
winter sport. Most of the hunters are 
relatively poor — poor enough to appre- 
ciate the commercial value of the sport, 
and. many coon hides have been sold in 
order that family larders might be 
filled. 

The dogs used by the coon-hunters 
are usually mongrels, with hound char- 
acteristics predominant. I have seen all 
breeds of dogs used, from fox terriers 
to German shepherds. Usually, however, 



a dog with a voice like a hound or ears 
like a hound is preferred. These dogs are 
selected more for their usefulness than 
for their pedigree or appearance. The 
dog must first be able to follow scent. 
He must be endowed with enough brains 
(or instinct, if you will) to discern be- 
tween the scent of game and that of 
domestic animals. Some hunters demand 
that the dog be trained to follow only 
the scent of coon, and they will refuse to 
claim a dog who runs all night, singing 
at the brush of an elusive fox. Some 
hunters prefer open trailers ; some prefer 
silent trailers. If the man is more inter- 
ested in the price he gets for the coon 
hide than in the sport of listening to the 
chase, he will prefer a silent trailer that 
slips up on the coon and doesn't sound a 
bark until he has the coon treed. It is 
important that the dog have a good voice 
because the best time for coon-hunting 
is a windy night, and often the dog trees 
a coon so far from the hunter that the 
hunter can hardly hear him. 

Hunters often become deeply attached 
to their dogs. My friend Bang, for in- 
stance — a boy who graduated from high 
school with me, and whom I always 
think of as a typical Spoon River coon- 
hunter — feeds his dogs before he himself 
eats. When a hunter finds that he has 
a good dog, he gives it the best of care 
and attention. I shall always remember 
one night last Thanksgiving vacation 
when I went out with Bang. The night 
was clear and frosty — far from ideal 
coon-hunting weather. Bang's dogs had 
been on what seemed to be a cold track 
for almost three hours. Every now and 
then one of the dogs would give up the 



il 



18] 



track and come in to our lantern. But 
Red, the old red-bone hound, never gave 
up, and his deep "oow-oow-oow-oow 
ooooooou" would soon bring the dogs 
back to the track with fresh hope. The 
coon was old and wise. Bang said that 
they had chased that same coon several 
times in the last couple of weeks, and 
that the dogs alwaj'S lost him after he 
swam the river two or three times. About 
three o'clock in the morning, two of the 
dogs had come in to stay, and Red's howl 
had grown verv' faint. Suddenly Bang got 
up from the fire. "Old Red's treed," he 
announced. I listened, and sure enough 
I could hear Red's steady, choppy tree 
bark far on the other side of the river. 
Bang loaded the revolver, took a couple 
of flashlights, and headed towards the 
river. I heard him splashing through the 
water, but soon all was silent except for 
Red's incessant barking. Finally I heard 
the report of the revolver. I put some 
more wood on the fire and waited. Soon 
Bang returned, with the triumphant Red 
at his heels. Both were soaked and ap- 
peared to be freezing. As Bang sat on 
a log in front of the fire, fondling the 
coon, he said, "I hated like hell to wade 
that river, but I knew that if I didn't 
Red would never leave that tree." 

I, too, knew that Red wouldn't have 
left the tree. I had seen him develop, 
under Bang's training, from "just a good- 
looking dog" to the best hound I've ever 
hunted with. Bang had traded an old 
Airedale to get him. The first night we 
hunted with him we found why his 
owner had been willing to trade off so 
st)"lish a dog. It was mid-October, and 
we had gone out soon after dark. We 
turned Red loose about a mile from the 
river, and in less than fifteen minutes he 
struck a track. I remember now that my 
eyes watered when I heard him strike. 
A voice like his does things to a boy. I 



had seen the movie. The Voice of Bugle 
Ann, and if Ann had a voice like a bugle. 
Red's was like a philharmonic orchestra. 
It was four deep baj-s, all of the same 
pitch, and then one last bay, beginning 
at the same pitch but rising until it be- 
came inaudible. 

That was a night filled with music — 
and plent>- of hills. Red headed straight 
for the bluffs, leaving no doubt in our 
minds that he was on a fox traU ; a coon 
would have headed toward the river. We 
followed that red dog and that red fox 
until the gray of dawn appeared and 
then Bang finally succeeded in calling 
him off the track. As we were heading 
back to town and an eight o'clock Latin 
class. I asked Bang if he was going to 
train Red for foxes. 

"No, he's too old to last ver>' long 
chasing foxes," he replied. "I'm going 
to try to break him of that. If I can, I'll 
make him into the best damn coon dog 
in the count>"." 

They say that you can't teach an old 
dog new tricks, and I've heard hunters 
expound loud and long on the theon," 
that a dog that chases fox will never 
make a good coon dog; but these men 
didn't know Bang's perseverance. By the 
end of that same him ting season, Bang 
had trained Red so well that he would 
trail nothing but coon or possum. ""When- 
ever old Red opens up, you can be sure 
he's got his nose pointing toward a coon 
or possum, and whenever he sa>"S "It's 
treed,' you can be sure it just takes a 
little shooting to get some fur to tack to 
the board." I've followed Red for two 
years, and Bang doesn't have to argue 
with me on these points to convince me. 

When I was home for Christmas vaca- 
tion, I went up to see Bang. After an ex- 
change of greetings, he took me out to 
show me his hounds. There was the old 
Airedale, and the tvvo pups out of the 



[19] 



Airedale, sired by old Red, but Red him- 
self was not around. Bang told me that 
Red had caught his last coon that night 
during Thanksgiving vacation. It seems 
as though he had a feeling that he was 
getting too old to do much hunting, and 
he put ever}-thing he had into that last 
chase. He had given up the same track 
several times before on nights when it 



was easier to follow scent, but on this 
night (a hunt which Bang had for my 
special benefit, I guiltily thought to my- 
self), he had kept at it until he finally 
treed. Well, Bang and I are both sorrj' 
to lose a dog like Red, but Bang tells me 
that when those two pups of Red's get 
on a trail together, their blended voices 
sound a good deal like their sire's. 



A Country Bewitched 

Bessie King 
Rhetoric II, Theme 12, Summer, 1940 



Escape, by Ethel Vance. 
The House That Hitler Built, by Stephen 
H. Roberts 

GERMANY was for me a fairy-tale 
country peopled with spotlessly 
clean and joyous beings. It was a country 
filled with song and the warm, pervasive 
fragrance of beer. It was a country 
whose beautiful lakes, rivers, plains, and 
forests were made more beautiful by 
legend and tradition. But now, though 
the landscape and the traditions and 
legends remain, the countr\' is under the 
spell of an ogre more powerful than anj' 
one of story-book fame. 

Escape is the storj' of a victim of the 
ogre in this bewitched country, Madame 
Emmy Ritter, an actress, who had re- 
turned to Germany to sell her famous 
family home. She had been imprisoned 
for. depositing the money from the sale 
in an American bank — a serious political 
crime. Being gravely ill at the time of 
her imprisonment, she was moved to a 
concentration camp and placed under the 
care of Dr. Ditten, an embittered party 
member. The remainder of the story 
concerns the almost hopeless attempt to 



rescue Madame Ritter. The plan of res- 
cue is so fantastic as to render the story 
almost unbelievable ; it could happen only 
in a country which lay under a spell. 

The tragedy of Escape arises from 
the unreasoning, sometimes terrified 
loyalty of the people of this story — a 
loyalty which they feel will revitalize the 
fatherland. The author depicts a back- 
ground of glorious, snow-covered peaks, 
delightfully quaint old inns and gracious 
cities, before which is enacted a scene 
by people whose one underlying emotion 
is fear. One feels with Mark Preysing, 
Madame Ritter's artist son, the awful 
dread which hangs over the lives of any 
who would go counter to the dictates of 
the huge Nazi machine. 

Whatever doubts one may have about 
the plausibility of Escape, Roberts' The 
House that Hitler Built will disperse 
them. It begins with the story of Hitler 
and tries to analyze his complex char- 
acter. "It is one of the ironies of his- 
tory," Roberts says, "that world affairs 
today depend on the accidental contacts 
of a spoilt down-and-out in the Vienna 
of thirty years ago — on the resentment 
complexes of an adolescent who had 



[20] 



failed solely because he refused to sub- 
mit to authority and had not the stamina 
to achieve normality." 

Although Hitler did not rise to power 
until 1933, the German people were 
ready for Hitlerism as early as 1918. 
Disillusioned by the suffering they had 
undergone — war, starvation, humiliation 
— they were ripe for a superman. Hitler 
was well advertised as that superman. In 
his rasping voice he played on their 
emotions — firing them to a fever pitch. 
He assumed the air of a God-sent leader 
who would guide Germany out of its 
Slough of Despond. Roberts points out 
that the Germans did not want individual 
freedom. They derived their feeling of 
strength from being a part of a strong 
state. Hitler provided them with a myth 
— a potent feeling of national unity. 

Hence Hitler had a fertile field. Al- 
though there were set-backs, the growth 
of the small workers' party, formed im- 
mediately after the war, was phenom- 
enal. The party grew to an almost un- 
wieldy size. The many provinces and 
states of Germany were brought together 
under the one big state. Sensing a grow- 
ing revolution of the socialistic Brown 
Shirts who had lifted him to power. 
Hitler and his henchmen in one fateful 
night killed at least seventeen leaders. 



many of whom were Hitler's personal 
friends. After this purge Xationalism 
grew apace. Imports and exports were 
juggled in an attempt to balance a bad 
economic situation ; the Gestapo became 
more and more efficient in discovering 
treason ; Jew-baiting, or the purifjing of 
the race, was climaxed in 1935 when the 
Nuremberg law relegated Jews, already 
subjected to every degradation, to a posi- 
tion of serfdom ; the military machine — 
army, navy and air force — was being 
built on a mammoth scale ; imperialism 
was being preached as the means of re- 
gaining Germany's honor. 

Roberts carries his discussion of 
Hitlerism up to 1935, and he concludes 
the book with this statement: "Hitlerism 
cannot achieve its end without war; its 
ideologv' is that of war." There need be, 
in 1940, no comment on that prophecy. 

Yes, Germany is under the spell of an 
ogre — an ogre of misdirected emotions, 
mob hysteria, and propaganda. For what 
end is the German capacity for sacrifice 
and heroism being exploited? These 
two books, Escape and The House That 
Hitler Built, do not give the entire 
answer, but they are well worth reading. 
They tell a story of which we should like 
to say, "Utterly fantastic," but are forced 
to say, "It is all too true." 



Woman Smoking 

She sat back stiffly in her chair, held her chin high, and surveyed the cards with 
an air of haughty indifference. Her eyebrows arched unnaturally over coldly quiz- 
zical eyes. Like most women smokers, she smoked awkwardly. She held between her 
thumb and forefinger a cigarette over which at lengthy intervals she hunched, and 
from which she inhaled deeply until the cigarette glowed. Then she blew out her 
breath sharply, and the smoke passed from her nostrils and mouth, the twin streams 
converging into a dense cloud that whirled and hovered over the table and finally 
dispersed into a fine haze. Her smile, if it can be called a smile, was not contagious; 
if it were, the world would have far less humor and mirth. Her smile was a 
momentary lengthening of her thin lips into a straight line as though she had jerked 
strings attached to each corner. It would be difficult to determine whether she cut it 
short to make it look less a sneer, or whether she was unwilling to waste any of her 
precious cheerfulness on anyone. — H. B. Christianson 



[21] 



Wildlife Restoration and the Farm 



Keith R. 
Rhetoric II, Theme 

WHEN the World War broke out in 
1914 there were set into motion 
forces which, aside from military con- 
siderations, were to have the most pro- 
found effect upon agricultural methods 
in the United States. Ever since our 
country's earliest days there had always 
been good farm land in unneeded abun- 
dance, at least in the region east of the 
Mississippi river, and little effort had 
been made to clear and cultivate any but 
the choicest areas. The early farmers 
had picked the best spots out of a multi- 
tude of good ones; their descendants 
continued to cultivate the same land. 
Even in the most predominantly agri- 
cultural regions many scattered patches 
were left in their natural state — regarded 
as waste ; in less favorable regions, par- 
ticularl)' the Great Plains of the western 
hinterland, only cattle were to be found. 
On ever}' eastern and middle-western 
farm small woodlots were common, and, 
except in the northern forests where 
extensive lumbering had been carried on, 
areas of deciduous woodlands occurred 
practically in their original state. Wild- 
life in all forms was quite plentiful, and 
even game animals suffered little except 
at the hands of the commercial hunter. 

The World War, with its unprece- 
dented demand for foodstuffs, lumber, 
and other products of the land, caused 
the' American farmer to undertake ex- 
tensive land clearing and intensive cul- 
tivation. Even before our own entrance 
into the war the millions of Europe's 
armies and civilian populations were cry- 
ing for food and more food. Allied pur- 
chasing missions scoured the country for 
raw materials; Allied governments 



Hudson 

11, Summer, 1940 

begged our own for shipments in un- 
limited quantities. When the United 
States itself bec"ame a belligerent, the 
strain on the countrj^'s natural resources 
was astounding, and every possible meth- 
od of increasing production was resorted 
to. 

With the big war boom in agricultural 
and lumber prices began a fever of ex- 
ploitation unparalleled in the nation's 
history. Millions of acres of virgin soil 
were plowed up, thousands of acres of 
timber were stripped almost completely 
bare, and hundreds of drainage-basin 
areas were drained in order to be sown 
to crops. Mass production was the watch- 
word. It made no difference whether 
the land was suited to crops or not; if, 
as on the Great Plains, for instance, as 
many as ten bushels of wheat to the 
acre could be produced, the venture was 
profitable at the high prices then pre- 
vailing. The government cooperated 
with private enterprise in wringing every 
last particle of produce from the soil. 
Nobody gave a thought to the ultimate 
results of such a policy. If anyone did, 
he said, "To the devil with the conse- 
quences; get while the getting is good!" 

Because there was a great shortage of 
manpower, the farms, especially in the 
semi-arid west, were expanded as much 
as possible in order to make fullest use 
of labor-saving machiner3^ Every nook 
and corner that was at all fertile was 
cleared for cultivation "in order to pre- 
vent waste." On the older, smaller 
farms, f encerows were cleaned out and 
cultivated as closely as possible ; hillsides 
were broken and planted to crops ; nar- 
row valleys were cleared of brush. 



\ 



[22] 



plowed, and planted. Some marshes and 
ponds that had lain in their natural state 
since time immemorial were drained and 
planted, sometimes with great success 
but usually with very little. The price of 
timber was so high that the farmers cut 
every last foot of saleable wood from 
their woodlots, and then, in order not to 
lose a single dollar, planted corn between 
the stumps. The wealth of the whole 
country was being skimmed off the land 
as cream from milk. No voice was raised 
to ask what was being put back in return 
for that taken. No one seemed to have 
heard about the law of diminishing 
returns. 

It should not be difficult to imagine the 
effect upon the wildlife of the country 
of this gigantic program of land clear- 
ance and maximum utilization. The wild- 
life became creatures without homes, like 
apartment dwellers summarily ejected 
and left standing in the street with no 
place to live, nothing to eat, and nowhere 
to go. Wild animals in every state in the 
Union died by the millions from starva- 
tion caused by the destruction of their 
food resources, from thirst caused by the 
draining of collection basins and the con- 
sequent drying up of small streams and 
springs, or from failure to propagate 
because their nesting refuges were all 
gone.^ Many that did not die outright 
were, like the rabbits of the Western 
states, slaughtered wholesale to be 
canned and sent by the shipload to the 
soldiers at the front. More than ten dif- 
ferent species of wild birds and mam- 
mals were driven to extinction during the 
World War or during the early part of 
the "roaring twenties" immediately after- 
ward. It has been variously estimated 
that there were upwards of forty to fifty 
million ducks on the North American 
continent in 1916. In the seven years 
following, over thirty million of them 



died in what had once been their marshy 
breeding grounds in the northern United 
States and Western Canada, their bodies 
littering the fields in places where they 
had perished of hunger and thirst. In 
parts of northern Minnesota and in Sas- 
katchewan and Manitoba the farmers 
gathered them up by the wagon load for 
fertilizer. This is only one particularly 
horrible example out of many. 

Now it does not follow that utilization 
of once-virgin land for agriculture must 
inevitably result in the extinction or dis- 
placement of all, or even most, of the 
wild creatures that once lived there. One 
cannot expect, of course, that the con- 
ditions of civilization will be wholly as 
favorable to wildlife as those existing 
under a state of undisturbed nature, but 
reasonable utilization of the land can pre- 
serve an environment that, while not 
exactly ideal, is still favorable to wild- 
life after some adaptation.^ The English 
countryside, with which most Americans 
are familiar, at least from reading, is an 
admirable example, even though it has 
been occupied for hundreds of years. In 
America, however, when farms take the 
place of virgin land — whether it be 
forest, prairie, swamp, marsh, or pond — 
the environment favorable to wildlife is 
largely destroyed. The extent of the de- 
struction is dependent upon the thorough- 
ness with which the land is cleared, 
drained, and cultivated ; but, even so, 
wildlife has remarkable powers of adap- 
tation and can maintain itself fairly well 
if given half a chance. The smaller' 
creatures are the most adaptable, espe- 
cially the birds ; the larger ones, both 

^Wildlife and the Land: A Story of Regen- 
eration. Washington, D. C. Special Commit- 
tee on the Conservation of Wildlife Resources, 
7Sth Congress, 1st Session, 1937. 

'Wallace B. Grange, and W. L. McAtee, 
Improving the Farm Environment for Wild- 
life. Washington, D. C. United States De- 
partment of Agriculture, 1934. 



[23i 



birds and mammals, begin to disappear 
at once if their environment is seriously 
disturbed. Some creatures seem actually 
to benefit from a preliminar)' opening up 
of virgin land, especially if it has been 
largely an area of timber. Nearly all 
birds up to the size of crows, and nearly 
all mammals up to the size of rabbits 
apparently profit from the diversification 
of cover and the cleaning out of trees 
which, when too thick, prevent the 
growth of the small food plants which 
most non-predator)' small animals live 
upon. Birds eat weed seeds and insects, 
which in a dense forest are at a mini- 
mum. But, as cultivation becomes more 
and more intensive — as woodlots are cut 
down, fencerows grubbed out, and fence 
corners and other small waste areas 
brought under cultivation — even the 
smaller forms of wildlife find the en- 
vironment unsuitable, and begin to 
decline. 

The environment favorable to wildlife 
is destroj'cd by intensive cultivation be- 
cause such a practice deprives the ani- 
mals of food and protective cover. The 
big mammals go first because thej' are 
most conspicuous and require the most 
cover, the most food, and the largest 
range. Large creatures require not onl)' 
brush, but woods or forest to hide them 
from their enemies. This is particularly 
true of the large, non-predatory animals 
which are hunted by both man and the 
large, carnivorous beasts. It is entirely 
impossible for such animals as moose, 
elk, and the large bear to survive in 
regions which are thickly settled and 
widely cultivated, nor is it desirable that 
they should, except, perhaps, in limited 
numbers. Even such animals as wolves, 
coyotes, and cougars soon disappear 
after the large, non-predatory animals 
are gone. Mankind and big game are 
unable to exist long, side by side. 



But the small animals up to the lesser 
deer can be maintained in cultivated 
regions without great inconvenience to 
the people, and with very real economic 
and esthetic advantages. It is only nec- 
essary to maintain some of the conditions 
that prevailed when the land was first 
cleared, and to see that the refuges of 
the animals are not encroached upon. 
Pioneer agriculture is the start of the 
whole thing, when natural refuges are 
created by the opening of feeding areas 
in the forests b\' lumbering. Where the 
trees are not so thick the small animals 
can find more food and are at the same 
time protected from their larger enemies 
who are forest denizens. Small birds up 
to the size of the crow profit by the 
breaking up of land and the cutting 
down of trees, which uncover or shake 
down food that the birds have otherwise 
been unable to reach. Yet the light re- 
maining cover is sufficiently dense to 
protect the small birds and mammals 
from the elements and from predatory 
enemies that are too large to hide in 
light cover. 

What finally drives the small creatures 
out of intensely cultivated areas is that 
their temporary' "boom" environment, 
caused by preliminary clearing of land, 
gradually gives way to a "depression" 
environment, caused by the destruction 
of their food sources and cover. The 
extra supply of food that is provided by 
preliminary clearing is soon eaten up, 
and if intensification progresses so that 
the small animals are crowded closer and 
closer into the few remaining wild areas 
they will soon die off. When they are 
too crowded, they are subject to famine, 
to exposure, to disease, and to predators 
who take advantage of the abnormal 
concentration. 

Many who contemplate the disappear- 
ance of wildlife will say, "Oh, well! It 



[24] 



is inevitable that the animals make way 
for progress." Progress indeed ! It has 
been wisely said that, "When nearly all 
the land on a large area has been culti- 
vated and practically all tree and shrub 
growth has been eliminated, agriculture 
has certainly been intensified to its own 
disadvantage."^ When small birds are 
deprived of cover and nesting sites they 
emigrate or die off, leaving the farmer 
to cope from year to yfear with an ever- 
increasing insect and weed menace. What 
does it avail the farmer if he labors for 
a year to clear off twenty-five percent 
more land to plant corn or wheat on, and 
then loses half his crop from insects the 
following year? Even if only the game 
birds are gone the farmer suffers, for, 
although these birds are not so effective 
as the songsters in insect and weed de- 
struction, the farmer is deprived of the 
sport and the considerable supply of meat 
that hunting them could provide. The 
small mammals are good game, too, and, 
if properly protected during the breeding 
season, will maintain their numbers quite 
satisfactorily. It is all so very simple: 
give the animals a few scattered places 
to live, don't destroy their food supply, 
and they will repay the consideration 
fivefold in either cash or pleasure. What 
is true of upland animals and birds is 
true also of migratory waterfowl and, 
to a lesser extent, fish. There are farm- 
ers in New York who make as much as 
three hundred dollars a year renting 
blinds on their private ponds to duck 
hunters at ten dollars a day. There are 
at least three pounds of good meat on a 
normal-sized duck, and to the farmer 
himself such a bird is worth at least 
seventy-five cents as food. A three- 
pound trout raised in the farmer's own 
pool is worth at least fifty cents in any 
man's money. A farmer who harvests 
his own game crop or rents hunting 



privileges will be dollars richer with little 
effort to himself. Game, unlike domestic 
stock, will take care of itself if it has its 
natural food to eat, and all the farmer 
will have to do is see that not all the 
animals are killed off and that some are 
left over the winter for propagation. 
Ducks come back year after year to the 
same nesting grounds; quail from a 
single covey have been known to live 
within a mile-square area for as long as 
fifty generations, although periodically 
hunted. 

Over-intensive cultivation, besides de- 
stroying the wildlife supply, has other, 
perhaps even more serious, disadvan- 
tages for the farmer. If he farms his 
land too heavily, the soil, given no rest, 
is slowly exhausted of its vital elements, 
and he is discouraged by poor crops. 
Again he faces the demonstration of the 
law of diminishing returns. If the far- 
mer clears all the land he can in order to 
sell yearly surpluses of staples in an al- 
ready glutted market, he is being not 
only unwise but ridiculous. In eft'ect he 
is working more and more to get less 
and less. The Government, through the 
Department of Agriculture, the Biologi- 
cal Survey, the Forestry Service, and the 
Soil Conservation Service, has been try- 
ing to convince him of these facts for 
years. Too intensive cultivation deprives 
the soil of its natural vegetative cover, 
and, as a result, the land is subject to 
destructive water erosion which can nul- 
lify the value of a farm altogether. Lack 
of trees for windbreaks is also a serious 
consideration, whether it be on a farm 
in the South or the North, the East or 
the West. Conditions do vary somewhat 
in the different areas, but, in general, 
lack of field windbreaks causes the far- 
mer's crops to dry up in the summer, 
frost in the spring, and fail to store up 
'Ibid. 



:2S] 



the winter snow which is desirable for 
conservation of moisture. Dryness of 
topsoil and an unbroken sweep assist the 
wind in blowing away the topsoil when 
it has been deprived of its protective sub- 
vegetative cover. In the north, lack of 
trees lets roads drift over in winter when 
they should be protected by living wind- 
break snow-fences, and poor protection 
about the farm buildings themselves in- 
creases the farmer's heating problems. 
Lack of windbreak trees for orchard 
borders causes fruit trees to attain too- 
early spring growth, with the conse- 
quent danger of later freezing. Further, 
the farmer lacks wood for fuel, fence 
posts, and building materials, and for the 
lumber market. 

It is within the power of almost any 
farmer to make his lands attractive to 
most forms of desirable native wildlife 
if he will, and he doesn't have to kill 
himself doing it.'' He can, for instance, 
take measures to restore the cover and 
nesting areas for birds and small mam- 
mals, if these have been destroyed. All 
he has to do is to let a little brush grow 
here and there — in hollows, along fence- 
rows, and in fence corners; or, at the 
most, to plant a few food and cover- 
shrubs about his farm where they will 
not interfere with its normal operation. 
Small birds live in these places, and the 
larger upland game birds and mammals 
will delight in the protection of a little 
brush left to grow in gullies that will 
retrograde without this vegetative binder 
anyway. Scattered brush- and wood-lots 
left- in strategic places so that the animals 
will not be crowded are ideal for upland 
game. If the farmer has a small pond 
or marsh area on his land he will be 
amazed at the life that will be supported 
there if he will see to it that two or three 
essential kinds of food plants are grow- 
ing there. Anything done to restore the 



food supply of the wild things will be 
amply repaid. It does not cost him much 
to leave an occasional corn shock stand- 
ing, hollow-ed out so that the quail and 
pheasants can get at the corn inside when 
winter ice covers the ground. It does 
not deprive him of much to leave, near 
cover, of course, a row of corn here or 
there, or a few rows of wheat or other 
small grain. Small mammals do not 
usually present such a food problem as 
do birds; they get along very nicely if 
they have only a few places for shelter 
from the elements and from their ene- 
mies. Once or twice during the winter, 
for a week or so, it will pay the farmer 
to resort to artificial feeding when the 
animals are near starvation after a par- 
ticularly hard storm or cold wave. TKe 
farmer can tempt migratory waterfowl 
with wild celery and other aquatic plants 
in the spring; he can keep down preda- 
tors that prey on all valuable wildlife by 
occasional trapping or shooting, if neces- 
sary. And, most of all, he can ruthlessly 
discourage the kind of self-styled 
"sportsman" who considers it his consti- 
tutional prerogative to burst in at a far 
corner of the farmer's land, kill or 
cripple every single individual of a covey 
of quail or other game birdy bag (prob- 
ably) a cow or two, and depart as 
quickly as he can, leaving a broken fence 
behind him. Such morons are insuffer- 
able. 

Aside from the indirect benefits, the 
farmer can derive considerable direct 
profit from an intelligent game-restora- 
tion and game-management program on 
his farm. Many farmers, especially in the 
East, make from two to three hundred 
dollars a year from trapping, if they 
have a fairly large farm that they have 
made attractive to fur-bearing animals. 

*Loomis Havemeyer (Editor), Conservation 
of Our Natural Resources. New York City, 
The Macmillan Company, 1937. 



[26] 



Some go in for game breeding on a more 
or less limited scale, all in their spare 
time, and sell game birds and mammals 
to shooting preserves, sportsmen's clubs, 
game sanctuaries, or other breeders. Un- 
like ordinary farm produce there is 
usually a ready sale for game animals. 
Groups of farmers can even go together 
and organize group shooting preserves, 
on the order of the Williamstown (Mich- 
igan) Hunting Exchange Association, 
selling tickets to selected sportsmen — 
the real kind — who are glad to pay for 
hunting privileges on land that is well- 
stocked and that is not overrun with the 
irresponsible brotherhood who make life 
equally as dangerous for human beings 
and livestock as for the game itself. One 
hunting association in Ohio, comprising 
a number of farms and 24,000 acres of 
land, realized an average of one hundred 
and twenty-five dollars per member in 
one season in 1938. A well-stocked farm 
of two hundred acres or more, where 
the number of hunters who may pursue 
their sport on any one day is limited 
and where the farmer reserves the right 
to examine the game bag, is a Mecca to 
which real enthusiasts will drive a hun- 
dred miles to shoot over. The farmer 
should think about this. He can't lose. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Chase, Stuart, Rich Land, Poor Land. New 
York City, Whittlesey House, 1936. 

Darling, J. N., Sheldon, H. P., Gabrielson, 
Ira N., Game Management on the Farm. 
Washington, D. C, United States Depart- 
ment of Agriculture, 1936. 

Darling, J. N., The Unharnessed Forces of 
Conservation. Speech given over the Mu- 
tual Broadcasting System through the co- 
operation of the American Wildlife Insti- 
tute and the General Wildlife Federation, 
1936. 

The Game Restoration Program. Boston, Mas- 
sachusetts, National Sportsman, Incor- 
porated, 1936. 

Grange, Wallace B., and McAtee, W. L., 
Impromng the Farm Environment for 
Wildlife. Washington, D. C, United 
States Department of Agriculture, 1934. 

Grange, Wallace B., Winter Feeding of 
Wildlife on Northern Farms. Washing- 
ton, D. C, United States Department of 
Agriculture, 1933. 

Havemeyer, Loomis (Editor), Conservation of 
our Natural Resources. New York City, 
The Macmillan Company, 1937. 

7Sth Congress, 1st Session, Wildlife and the 
Land: A Story of Regeneration. Wash- 
ington, D. C, Special Committee on Con- 
servation of Wildlife Resources, 1937. 

Shoemaker, Carl D., Wildlife and the Farm. 
Speech given over the Mutual Broadcast- 
ing System through the cooperation of 
the American Wildlife Institute and the 
General Wildlife Federation, 1937. 

Upland Game Restoration. Western-Winches- 
ter, Incorporated. New Haven, Connecti- 
cut — East Alton, Illinois. 1936. 



First Semester 

When I came to college this fall, I was enthusiastically earnest. I came for an 
education. Feeling that I was headed for my goal, I worked hard and conscientiously. 
My object at the time was high grades; they seemed the means to my end. For six 
weeks my happiness was complete. As I was not carrying many hours of work, there 
was time to study thoroughly and to play too. When time for recreation came, I 
enjoyed whatever I did whole-heartedly, more than would have been possible had I 
not applied myself during the week. The fascination of the situation lay in the fact 
that I enjoyed everything that I did. My mind was alert and awake all the time. 
But now, somehow, I have lost that faculty of living keenly that I then possessed. 
The incentive is gone. Perhaps it was the novelty of college. At any rate, whatever 
it was is no more. Mental stimulation is needed; my mental habits are lazy; I slide 
over things without realizing that they are happening. I neither resent nor appreciate 
things as I should. My mind is passive. — ^Jeanne Knox 



[27] 



Colossus on the Columbia 



Arnold Kohnert 
Rhetoric II, Theme 16, 1939-1940 



TT II ROUGH the state of Washington 
^ Hows the mighty Columbia, the sec- 
ond largest river in the United States. 
Thousands of years ago it was even 
larger than it is today, but a series of 
mammoth lava Hows, seven of them in 
all, tried in vain to cover the thundering 
torrent and succeeded only in piling on 
its banks huge mounds of soft ashes. 
Then came the great Cordilleran ice 
sheets spreading downward from the 
North and carrying with them tons of 
earth, rock, and sand to pack down the 
soft banks of the river. Slowly the mass 
mounted in height until it blocked the 
rushing water with a natural dam that 
was over 800 feet high. Turning south- 
ward the river began anew its task of 
cutting through the layers of soil, and 
before long it had formed an immense 
gorge that was thousands of feet deep 
and in some places fifty miles across. At 
one place there was formed a cataract 
that was four times higher and a great 
deal wider than the famous Niagara 
Falls. Professor H. Betz of the Uni- 
versity of Chicago describes it as "the 
greatest example of glacial stream ero- 
sion in the world."' As the water plunged 
seaward it formed a huge basin of fertile 
land out of the arid lands that sur- 
rounded the Rockies, but the rich agri- 
cultural lands were destined not to re- 
main. Nature had again changed her 
mind and now was busy melting the 
mammoth dam she had so thoroughly 
constructed. When the last of the ice 
gave way to the sun, the Columbia re- 
turned to its original and lower course, 
leaving its new path a barren ditch full 



of strange stratum and rock formations. 
The western folk call these depressions 
in the plateaus "Coulees," and thus was 
given the name of Grand Coulee to the 
now dry bed of the Columbia. 

As the West was rapidh' being settled, 
there was a great deal of speculation 
among its people on the possibilities of 
again damming the rushing Columbia 
and thus providing the dry, sandy farms 
of the basin with water. Herbert Hoover, 
while he was Secretary of Commerce, 
tried hard to encourage some develop- 
ment of the Columbia, and Coolidge 
knew the need of such an undertaking 
when he told a group in Philadelphia 
that "the Columbia Basin project is not 
far distant."^ But the Grand Coulee was 
a lifelong dream of one President who 
finally had the good fortune to sign the 
very bills that provided the government 
funds necessary for the construction. 
Back in 1920 while he was campaigning 
for the Vice-Presidenc}-, Franklin D. 
Roosevelt noticed during his tour 
through the state of Washington "all of 
that water running down unchecked to 
the sea."^ A few hours later he was 
telling Spokane listeners that some day 
it would be developed to serve "thou- 
sands of citizens just like us."* Later, in 
his presidential campaign, he again 
showed his desire for Grand Coulee's 
development: "The next hydro-electric 
development to be undertaken by the 

'Grace Kirkpatrick, "Building the World's 
Great Dam," Trarcl, 67 (Sept., 1936), 25. 

'Richard L. Ncubcrger, "Biggest Thing on 
Earth," llarfcrs, 174 (Feb., 1927), 257. 

M^ichard L. Neubcrgcr, "Colossus in the 
West," A'.-u' Republic, 97 (Jan. 18, 1939), 310. 

'Ibid. 



[28] 



Federal government must be that of the 
Columbia River."' About a year later 
he signed a bill granting $63,000,000 to 
start the construction. Not only were 
prominent national figures behind this 
undertaking but also many local men like 
Rufus Woods, Gale Mathews, and Wil- 
liam Clipp. These citizens did their part 
by printing ideas for the project in the 
Daily World, a small newspaper of 
Wenatchee, and later they enlarged their 
group by forming the Columbia River 
Development League. Thus by the fall 
of 1933 the way was paved for the 
greatest engineering undertaking that 
was ever attempted in the United States. 
Before the foundation of the $400,- 
000,000 dam could be started, it was 
necessary for the engineers to locate bed 
rock or solid granite upon which to place 
the tremendous weight of the concrete. 
To insure accurate results the engineers 
used three methods to locate a solid base. 
They started by sending electric shocks 
into the ground to determine the rock 
depth by the length of time between the 
original shocks and the reflected im- 
pulses. This was followed by electrically 
driven diamond drills that could take 
samples of the earth at various levels. 
But the final test, always necessary for 
complete results, was a pit dug into the 
earth just as any mining shaft would be 
sunk. By this procedure the engineers 
at last found a huge layer of solid gran- 
ite 280 feet below the surface. 

Already preliminary supplies had ar- 
rived on the location. Transporting ma- 
terials to the dam was indeed a costly 
factor on this particular project, for 
there was neither a road nor a railroad 
within twenty miles. The only solution 
was to build one or the other, and it 
later proved worthwhile to build both. 
Much of the hauling expense was cut 



down considerably by the uncovering of 
a gravel pit near the dam. It was also 
discovered that the huge supply of ce- 
ment could be blown through an eleven 
inch pipe instead of being hauled by 
freight. After reaching the dam this 
cement was stored in large silos that fed 
the world's largest mixers." These were 
two mammoth buildings, eight stories in 
height, which were given the names of 
Westmix and Eastmix to facilitate the 
giving of directions. To insure a capac- 
ity production of cement these mixers 
were entireh' controlled by electricity. 
Light flashes in the main control room 
recorded to the second every step in the 
process. Sixteen seconds elapsed during 
the loading, two minutes ticked by while 
the mass was agitated in the mixer, and 
six seconds later the wet material was on 
freight cars heading for the dam. The 
containers were eight-ton buckets placed 
on flat cars at the top of the grade over- 
looking the dam. By telephone connec-' 
tions it was possible for the workmen 
below to signal the exact time they were 
ready for delivery. At the dam the ce- 
ment was poured in layers of five feet 
so that it could be cooled in a short time. 
Cooling was done by means of pipes 
carrying water from the Columbia. If 
the engineers had waited for the heat 
that was formed by the chemical re- 
actions to leave the cement naturally, 
they would have had to wait 150 years.' 
But with the aid of the Columbia the 
mass was cooled in thirty days. Ther- 
mometers were even imbedded deep in 
the heart of the cement blocks to keep the 
engineers informed as to the exact state 
of the concrete at any time. 

'Richard L. Neuberger, "Biggest Thing on 
Earth," Harpers, 174 (Feb., 1937), 257. 

"R. G. Sherrett, "Grand Coulee Progresses," 
Scientific American, 159 (Dec, 1938), 299. 

'"Portfolio of New Deal Constructions," 
Fortune, 14 (Xov., 1936), 11. 



[29] 



After the dam was completed, eighteen 
pumps of enormous capacity were in- 
stalled to lift 1,800,000 tons of water an 
hour up to the Grand Coulee reservoir.* 
Since this water will be retained in order 
to insure a constant supply for the basin 
below, there will be formed an artificial 
lake that is fifty-one miles across. The 
power for these pumps will, of course, 
come from the generators on the upper 
and lower dams. These combined gen- 
erators will have a total output of 
2,640,000 horsepower.* So great is the 
power that is developed that the cost will 
be extremely low, and with the receipts 
from the sale of some of this power the 
Federal government believes it can pay 
for the dam in twenty or thirty years. 
The exact cost of the power to the farms 
surrounding the dam will be 2.25 mills 
per killowatt hour, but it will be raised 
slightly for some of the distant cities.^" 

In building this 4,290 foot dam, the 
contractors met with many problems that 
are seldom realized when one views only 
the finished project. One big difficulty 
was the diversion of the river during the 
actual construction. Tunnels for this 
mighty river were far too costly, and 
besides they would surely have length- 
ened the building time beyond the spec- 
ified limit. So the contractors built two 
circular coflfer dams 3,000 feet long. 
These dams diverted the water into the 
center of the river, while the permanent 
dam was built out from the two banks 
up to the very edge of the water. Then 
as the water flowed through the spillways 
in' the completed portions of the dam, 
another coffer dam held the water away 
from the center when the original two 
were removed. Thus the dam had been 
placed across a huge volume of rushing 
water without checking it or causing it 
to leave its bed. 

On one occasion 2,000,000 cubic yards 



of earth started sliding down into a 
ravine near the east cofiFer dam. The 
contractors hastily constructed a dry dam 
to halt the landslide, but it failed. When 
they saw that their powerful shovels 
could not remove the excess rapidly 
enough, they inserted 2,000 miles of pipes 
through 377 holes at various depths of 
the soil. Then by joining these to two 
ammonia compressors that produced 
eighty tons of ice a day, they froze the 
earth into one solid mass. 

A universal problem at most of our 
American dams is the disposal of re- 
moved earth. The engineers at Grand 
Coulee devised a belt conveyor that car- 
ried the earth a mile and a half to a 
nearby coulee." Here, after lifting the 
soil 500 feet into the air, the conveyor 
inverted itself over Rattlesnake Canyon. 
In a good day's work it was able to move 
51,000 cubic yards of earth, and in all 
15,000,000 cubic yards of material w-ere 
carried from the dam. 

The problem of a leak in the east 
coffer dam almost proved fatal to the en- 
tire project. When the hole increased in 
size until 35.000 gallons of water were 
pouring out a minute, the contractors 
tried to check the flow with a dike around 
the gap. But they failed to get a satis- 
factory structure in front of the swirling 
torrent and decided to try filling the hole 
from the inside. For a filler they used 
a large quantity of grout, a substance 
familiar to all engineers because of its 
usefulness for sealing any cracks or 
crevices in cement, rock, or earth. It is a 
mixture of sawdust, cement, shavings, 

'Grace Kirkpatrick, "Building the World's 
Great Dam," Travel, 67 (Sept., 1936), 25. 

"Grace Kirkpatrick, "On a Natural Dam 
Site, Grand Coulee Dam," Scientific American, 
152 (April, 1935), 199. 

""More Power for the Northwest: Grand 
Coulee Project," Review of Reviews, 89 (Jan., 
1934), 49. 

"R. G. Sherrett, "Grand Coulee Progresses," 
Scientific American, 159 (Dec, 1938), 296. 



[30: 



and Bentonite (a light, loose earth that 
swells to about thirty times its original 
volume when it becomes wet). After 
pouring tons of grout into the huge 
hole, the contractors finally slowed the 
flow of water to only 200 gallons per 
minute. This was easily controllable. 

A minor difficulty to engineers but a 
grave concern to industries and conserva- 
tion organizations is the salmon spawn- 
ing. Thomas A. E. Tally, chairman of 
the Washington State Game Commission, 
firmly believes that the fish in this area 
will become extinct, and his opinion is 
shared by the Astorian Budget Press. ^^ 
In one editorial it declared, "If the fish 
do manage to pass above Bonneville on 
their way to spawning grounds. Grand 
Coulee will surely shut them off ... . 
and the difficulties and expense of build- 
ing adequate fishways in connection with 
such a structure are insurmountable."^' 
This is not necessarily true, for other 
dams have proved there are successful 
ways of meeting this situation. If little 
pools of running water are built around 
the dam, the fish can leap past the struc- 
ture by raising themselves gradually. 
The fish that will not go up by this 
means may be raised by a ladder that 
lifts them up through a column of water. 
In addition to these aids a hatchery is 
being built in front of the dam. 

The completed dam of Grand Coulee 
will bring about an ideal reclamation of 
the Columbian territory in the arid West, 
but some financial difficulties have arisen 
about the sale of land in the basin. Land 
speculation always runs high when a 
project shows a chance of enriching 
property. At Grand Coulee some land 
that used to sell at a dollar an acre is 
now for sale at sixty to seventy dollars 
per acre. One small piece of property 
changed hands six times in a couple of 
weeks, and the last owner recently re- 



fused 2,500 dollars." Of course, poor 
people cannot pay these exorbitant 
prices, and the government is rapidly 
taking steps to check the entire sale of 
all land except under federal supervision. 
But in spite of this difficulty of land 
ownership there are great possibilities in 
the million and some acres of land that 
are now receiving a much needed supply 
of water. When the full electrical de- 
velopment of the dam is completed, there 
will be sufficient power to supply 30,000 
farms of forty acres each.^^ Even heat 
for these farms will be provided by 
electricity. Thus the area should make 
ideal homes for approximately 1,500,000 
people in the very near future. 

I am sure that the feeling of many 
Americans is expressed in a statement 
by a minister who had spent his entire 
life in the Columbia River valley. "You 
know," he told a friend one day, "for 
years I have been reading about the 
building of the biggest battleships, the 
biggest bombing planes, and the biggest 
artillery on earth. It thrills me immeas- 
urably to stand above the great dam 
and see ingenuity put to useful rather 
than destructive purposes. Thank God 
that some of the biggest things on earth 
are to make life better rather than to 
end fife!"'" 



"James Rorty, "Grand Coulee," Nation, 140 
(March 20, 1935), 330. 

"Ibid., 330. 

"James Rorty, op. cit., 329. 

'"Richard L. Neuberger. "Colossus in the 
West," New Republic, 97 (Jan. 18, 1939), 311. 

"Richard L. Neuberger, op. cit., 311. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Case, R. O. "Eighth World Wonder," Satur- 
day Evening Post, 208 (July 13, 1935), 23. 

Chase, S. "Great Dam," Atlantic, 162 (Nov., 
1934), 593-599, 

Clover, Katherine. "Planning for Power," 
Survey Graphic, 25 (Oct., 1936), 568-572. 

"Cooling Grand Coulee Fever," Popular Me- 
chanics, 69 (March, 1938), 377-378. 



[31] 



Davenport, VV. "Power in Wilderness; Grand 
Coulee and Bonneville Navigation Proj- 
ects," Colliers, % (Sept. 21, 1935), 10-11. 

Gansett, G. "Great Works," Saturday Eve- 
ning Post, 211 (April 8, 1939). S-7. 

"Grand Coulee," Fortune, 16 (July, 1937), 
79-89. 

"Grand Coulee Dam, Biggest Thing on Earth," 
Pofular Mechanics, 69 (April, 1939), 489- 
496. 

"Grand Coulee Problems," Time, 29 (April 12, 
1937), 63. 

"Grand Coulee Project to Start," News Week, 
4 (July 7, 1934), 6-7. 

"Huge Ice Pack Saves Dam," Scientific Ameri- 
can, 156 (Feb., 1937), 103. 

KiRKPATRiCK, Grace. "Building the World's 
Great Dam," Travel. 67 (Sept., 1936), 24- 
27. 

Kirkpatrick, Gr.\ce. "On a Natural Damsite, 
Grand Coulee Dam," Scientific American, 
152 (April, 1935), 198-200. 



Limerick, Sally. "White Power for the 
Northwest, Grand Coulee Project," Re- 
view of Reiiews, 90 (Aug., 1935), 52-53. 

Mair, Walter E. "World's Greatest Dam," 
Popular Science, 128 (Feb., 1936). 11-13. 

"More Power for the Northwest: Grand 
Coulee Project," Reziew of Reviews, 89 
(January, 1934), 48-49. 

Neuberger, Richard L. "Biggest Thing on 
Earth," Harpers, 174 (Feb., 1937), 247-258. 

Neubercer, Richard L. "Colossus in the 
West," New Republic, 97 (Jan. 18, 1939), 
310-311. 

Neubercer, Richard L. "Columbia Flows to 
the Land." Survey Graphic, 28 (July. 
1939), 440-450. 

"Portfolio of New Deal Constructions," For- 
tune, 14 (Nov., 1936), 98-99. 

RoRTY, J. "Grand Coulee," Nation, 140 (March 
20, 1935), 329-331. 

Sherrett, R. G. "Grand Coulee Progresses," 
Scientific American, 159 (Dec, 1938), 296- 
299. 



Rhet as Writ 

(Material written in Rhetoric I and II) 



If you have a buddy, slip a spear pole 
through his mouth and gills, having a 
man at each end. 

• • • • 

The whole book The Big Barn was 
written around a barn, and is just what 
the name implies because it was a big 
barn. 



"His most characteristic habit is when 
he is excited or enraged in any way, he 
paces up and down the room like a 
panther scraping the vest of his suit with 
a sharp pocket knife." 

• • • • 

Onto the field trotted the men who 
compromised our team. 



A Garland for Quiller-Couch 

1. There arc many fields in the world of books. 2. But these fields do not go 
together. 3. This field interfered with my most important field. 4. Already this 
field has been playing a large part in my life. 5. I have not entered into many of 
these fields. 6. In reading books, I like to travel from one field to another. 7. My 
heart was not in that field any longer. 8. I finally got a taste of all three fields. 9. I 
buried myself in that field for several years. 

— from a set of essays on "My Reading." 



132] 



Honorable Mention 

E. L. BiBERSTEiN — Splendid Isolation? 

Maktiia Lou Bothwell — Tuesday Morning in College 

J. E. Carlson — The Post-impressionist School of Painting 

Harold Eisenberg — Speed 

Shirley Elvis — Stern-wheeler 

H. P. Guimaraes — Mathematics 

J. L. GuYON — Cattle Drive 

Julian Hamilton — Armament for the United States 

Edward Holmgren — And So They Buried Him 

Joan Malach — Handlebar Hank 

Ted Mayhall — Backstage 

Suzanne Messinger — Why? How Come? 

Bob Mitchell — The World's Largest Telescope 

Alice Rodkey — Kolno to Lida — Third Class 

John Rainey — Debut 

Stuart RosENCRANZ^Death and the Factors X and Y 

Jeannette Ross — On Writing Verse 

Julius Rubinstein — Salesmen Wanted 

Byron Sistler — The Editor 

Martin Stoker — The Reconstruction Finance Corporation 

Adra Thiry — Atlantis 

Jane von Mehren — Troubles in Germany, 1933 

C. Wolf — The Electrical Concept of Matter 

Martin Young — Imperialism of the United States in the 
Spanish- American War 

John Zamecnik — The Knights of Labor, 1869-1890 




No. 3 




TABLE OF CONTENTS 

MEET PATRICIA 1 

Norma Robrsen 

THE CHOSEN PEOPLE 4 

Ruth Shames 

SOCIALIZED MEDICINE 5 

Philip Daiton 

THEME-WRITING IN RHETORIC 6 

Martha Lou Bothwell 

GROHEAN 7 

Bill Zack 

MY DEAR HENRIETTA 8 

Alberta Menzel 

THE PROBLEMS OF A WAITER 12 

Herbert Rickert 

SPLENDID ISOLATION 13 

E. L. Biberstein 

THE McGUFFEY READERS IS 

Lorene Kettenburg 

THE MAN WITH THE GOLD COLLAR BUTTON 18 
Larry Robinson 

WHY GIRLS LEAVE HOME 20 

Ruth Shames 

UNCLE WILL 21 

Noel L. Hannah 

PART OF THE GAME 22 

Richard Ziegler 

HE'S TIRED 24 

Ruth ShaS 

SNAKE WATER 2S 

A. L. Potts 

THE TREASURE HUNT AND HOW IT GREW . 27 

Martin Stoker 

"FORTY-NINERS" by Archer Butier Hulbert ... 29 
Dorothy Johnson 

"YOU AMERICANS," ediud by B. P. Adams ... 30 
John W. Ostrem 

RHET AS WRIT 32 

(Material written in Rhetoric I and II) 

PUBLISHED BY UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS. URBANA 






Xhi- Green Caldron is published four times a year by the 
Rhetoric Staflf at the University of IlHnois. Material is chosen 
from themes and examinations written by freshmen in the Uni- 
versity. Permission to publish is obtained for all full themes, 
including those published anonymously. Parts of themes, how- 
ever, are published at the discretion of the committee in charge. 

The committee in charge of this issue of The Green Caldron 
includes Mr. Donald Hill, Mr. Kenneth Andrews, Mr. Rob- 
ert Geist, and Mr. Charles Shattuck, Chairman. 

The Green Caldron is for sale at the lUini Union Bookstore, 
71.=; South Wright Street, Champaign, Illinois. 

The Rhetoric Staflf has recently appointed the following stu- 
dent editors, who will participate in Caldron work for the re- 
mainder of the semester: Miss Alberta Menzel, Miss Jean- 
nette Ro.ss, Miss Ruth Shames, Miss Shirley Shapiro, and 
Mr. John Hunter. 



THE GREEN CALDRON 

COPYRIGHT 1941 
r.Y THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 

Alt right 1 reserved 
No p.irt of this periodical may be repro- 
duced in any form without permission in 
writing from the publisher. 



Meet Patricia 



Norma Rohrsen 
Rhetoric I, Theme 11, 1940-1941 



Patricia Theisen Heinrich, erratic 
child of an Irish shrew and an idealistic 
Frenchman, has lived forty years with a 
singleness of purpose that demands of 
me much respect and a little terror. Her 
every decisive act has been motivated by 
her greatest desire — to be the center of 
attention. For her, to be unnoticed is to 
be miserable. 

God must have fashioned her with 
happiness in mind, for even now she has 
the striking kind of good looks that 
draws stares from the casual passerby. 
At first glance he sees restless brown eyes 
set in a finely-modeled, olive-skinned 
face, and hair that is still black. Then he 
notices her high cheekbones, her humor- 
ous mouth and stubborn chin. She has 
beautiful ankles and legs, of which she is 
well aware ; but only the grace of God 
and a good foundation garment save the 
rest of her figure from dumpiness. She 
is not much more than five feet tall, but 
she carries herself with at least six extra 
inches of pride. That much of her is her 
French heritage. Her wit, her stubborn- 
ness, and her quick temper are qualities 
that all her mother's ancestors had before 
her. She did not inherit her father's 
dependability and fastidiousness. 

Pat was the child of an unhappy 
union. Her mother. Kit O'Connell, was 
never in love with Philip Theisen ; she 
was, by her own admission, never in love 
at all. Phil, on the other hand, idealized 
women, putting Kit in a perfect position 
to make a hell of his life. She did. The 
couple wrangled constantly about re- 
ligion, politics, the relative merits of tea 
and coffee for breakfast, the neighbors, 
table manners, drink, and tobacco. To- 



gether, they managed to make young 
Pat's idea of the adult world uncertain 
and insecure. 

As a child, Pat was a holy terror. Kit 
was too lazy to train her six children 
properly, so she let them roam the neigh- 
borhood while she gadded about town. 
When their small naughtinesses annoyed 
her, she punished them severely. Once, 
in a fit of temper, Pat threw a butcher 
knife at her big sister V'irginia, cutting 
a frightful gash in her head. Screaming, 
Patricia ran to her mother. "Ma ! Ma !" 
she yelled. "The butcher knife dropped 
off the shelf and cut Virginia all to 
pieces !" Virginia was crying too hard 
to deny the tale, and Pat went unpun- 
ished. She developed her natural talent 
for lying to escape punishment ; later, she 
fabricated stories for pure enjoyment. 

Soon she discovered that her genius 
for fiendishly naught}- pranks brought 
her all the attention she could wish. That 
it was unfavorable made no impression 
on her. She took especial delight in 
climbing onto the roof of their house, 
scaring the neighbors half to death. The 
lady who lived next door once offered 
her a nickel to come down from her pre- 
carious perch ; her husband promised her 
a dime to stay there out of the way. Pat 
came down. She thought it was worth a 
nickel to have them aware of her ex- 
istence. 

In high school she had no trouble 
making boys aware of her, and she was 
very much aware of them. Kit, whose 
opinions on sex were puritanical, wanted 
Pat to have nothing to do with men. It 
may have been pure contrariness that 
made Pat consider masculine attention 



[ 1 ] 



all-important. At any rate, she cultivated 
men, not very subtly. In an age and 
a community where bright colors were a 
little disgraceful, Pat dressed in red. She 
was ousted from a public bathing beach 
for wearing tlie first daring bathing suit 
in town. More than a little small-town 
gossip swirled about Kit Theisen's pretti- 
est daughter, and Pat gloried in every 
malicious word. Her boy friends ex- 
ceeded in number, if not in quality, those 
of every other girl in town. People who 
saw her for the first time stared. What 
more could she want? 

Had she been an only child, her desire 
for recognition might not have become 
a mania. As it was, four other Theisen 
girls offered competition in beauty, wit, 
and popularity. Pat's peace of mind was 
shattered by any rival to her supremacy, 
but to be outdone by one of her own 
family was unbearable. As a child she 
had always outdone them in mischie- 
vousness ; and as they grew older, she 
was the cleverest of a group noted for 
its caustic wit. Her desire to maintain 
her superiority prompted her most ridic- 
ulous antics. She demanded of her par- 
ents the counterpart of everything her 
sisters received; thus when Virginia 
went to college, Pat, who didn't want 
higher education, attended the local 
academy. She tried — unsuccessfully, it 
is true — to steal her oldest sister's fiance. 
By exerting all her powers, she seemed 
to be holding him — until he married Vir- 
ginia. Pat's reaction was "Well, if she 
can do it, so can I !" So Patricia Theisen 
entered into holy matrimony. 

I sometimes wonder whether she did 
not marry Emil Heinrich for pure spite. 
She could not have picked a man more 
displeasing to her parents. Kate and Phil 
were ardent Catholics ; Emil's father is a 
strait-laced Protestant minister. Pat and 
her family are high-strung, irritable, 



and irresponsible, but they are an intelli- 
gent lot; Emil is slow and dull. Perhaps, 
though, she really loves him ; for in her 
own queer way Patricia is an affectionate 
creature. Husband and wife get along 
well together. Her temperamental out- 
bursts and little scenes amuse, rather 
than annoy, him. He pays attention to 
her when she is angry, but he refuses to 
quarrel with her. 

The circumstances of Pat's early mar- 
ried life were not ideal. When she mar- 
ried she stepped out of the witty and 
vitriolic companionship of her family 
and friends, into almost complete isola- 
tion ; for the newly-wedded Heinrichs 
lived in the country. Most of her neigh- 
bors, as dull as Emil, were intolerable 
to Pat, who craved companionship. She 
looked for it among her five children, 
all of them husky boys with lusty appe- 
tites and remarkable talents for wearing 
out clothes. Irresponsible as she was in 
childhood, she has for twenty years now 
kept a family fed, clothed, and educated 
on an income sometimes practically non- 
existent. Many a stabler mind would 
have cracked under the strain. 

But her children have not kept her 
busy enough. Pat's uninteresting envi- 
ronment affected her just as you would 
have expected it to. She sought escape 
from her drab surroundings by drama- 
tizing herself. W^hen her brother mar-j 
ried, with all the pomp and tradition of a I 
church wedding, she regretted that she] 
had had a hasty marriage in a parsonage, 
without trimmings. Therefore, on the I 
morning of her brother's wedding day, 
she stole his thunder by having her own] 
marriage vows repeated and sanctified byj 
the Catholic Church. Since her brother] 
was the only boy in the family to carrj 
(in the Theisen name, much was madel 
over his wife when it became known thatj 
she was going to have a baby. Pat had 



[2] 



had all the children she wanted, and 
more ; but she had always enjoyed the 
fuss that women make over an expectant 
mother. So Pat went shopping for ma- 
ternity dresses and capes, and told the 
salesgirls she was expecting another 
baby. 

Pat's bids for attention may deceive 
all the rest of the world, but never her 
sister Mary — probably because Mary is 
so much like Pat that she understands 
her. Just once Pat made the mistake of 
trying to deceive her. Mary has had 
painful migraine headaches since she was 
a child, and the silence and solemnity of 
her household when she had a headache 
impressed Pat. Why couldn't she show 
the same symptoms? The plan might 
have worked had Pat not over-drama- 
tized the situation and produced pseudo- 
hysterics. "No one with a migraine 
headache," said her wise sister, "acts like 
that. All the real sufferer wants is to be 
completely ignored." That was the last 
headache Pat suffered. Her best current 
tricks are fainting spells and melancholic 
fits — both effective attention-getters. 

It is S shame that Pat is a little un- 
balanced, for she is a vivid person. Her 
wit gives life to any conversation, and 
she delights in adding to discourse the 
spice of profanity. Stopped for reckless 
driving, she has cussed out more than 
one traffic officer. While driving to a 
picnic once, she ignored a stoplight and 
was promptly hailed by an irate officer 
with a thick Irish brogue. "Well," said 
I Pat, "the car in front of me went 



through. I thought I could too." 

"Sure now, and if the other car drove 
in the river, I suppose you'd be after 
doin' it too!" 

"Sure now, and wouldn't that be a 
hell of a damn- fool thing to be doing?" 
she snapped back. The officer stared for 
a moment. Then he laughed, and let her 
go with no more than a warning. 

I am at a loss to explain her last prank. 
All I know is that when I last heard of 
her, she was in bed with a fractured 
back and a tale of falling downstairs. 
What really happened is that she jumped 
from a second-story window, being care- 
ful to land where she would not be 
killed. When she was finally well enough 
to be out of bed, she had one dress that 
would fit over the heavy cast that encased 
her body. Did she wear it? She did not. 
She visited her neighbors clad in spec- 
tacular scarlet pajamas, a purple house- 
coat, and a short yellow cape. 

Yet in spite of all her peculiarities, 
she has reared her children, as I have 
said, with intelligence, and has kept her 
family intensely loyal. The contradiction 
in her character makes me wonder, if 
there is an after world, what Pat's place 
in it is to be. She has made so many 
people miserable that perhaps she should 
burn eternally; but I think she would 
like hell-fire better than the company of 
identical angels dressed in immaculate 
white. I can just see Patricia in heaven, 
in a flaming halo and a bright red dress, 
breaking up the celestial chorus with 
"Hallelujah, I'm a bum!" 



On Handbags 

I have prepared my nerves and I want you to prepare yours. If you are ever 
walking along the street behind a woman who is carrying one of these handbags, 
and rain begins to fall, don't be surprised or shocked to see her reach into her hand- 
bag, pull out an umbrella and a slicker, pick up her dog and place him in the purse, 
and snap shut the padlock on the top. And don't be startled if a bit farther along 
she opens her bag and scolds the dog and Junior for quarreling about which one gets 
the powder puff to lie on. — George L. Alexander 



[ 3 1 



The Chosen People 



Ruth Shames 
Rhetoric I, Theme 13, 1940-1941 



npHE Israelites, descendants of the 
' tribe of Judah, followers of Juda- 
ism, have come to be known as Jews. 
The Bible calls them, "The Children of 
Israel, His Chosen People." The mean- 
ings of words are changed by common 
usage, but no word has been so used or 
misused as the word J civ. 

Now I'll admit we Jews are not the 
greatest people in the world. We no 
longer claim to be God's chosen race. We 
are the most self-defaming people in the 
universe, but we resent being defamed 
by anyone else. We don't mind criticism, 
for we admit there is much to be criti- 
cized in many of our people. But please, 
if you're going to condemn us, be con- 
sistent. We cannot all, at the same time. 
be Communists, Socialists, Capitalists, 
and Democrats. We cannot want to con- 
quer the world when we want only to 
live peacefully. We cannot possibly sac- 
rifice Christian babies at our religious 
feasts if we are all atheists. We have 
had. of course, men of all kinds among 
us — Karl Marx, Albert Einstein, Leon 
Trotsky, Baron Rothchild. Judas Is- 
cariot, and Jesus Christ. 

The Chosen People have sometimes 
been given special definition within the 
countries from which they hail. In Spain 
they were known as Infidels. In Russia 
they were said to be the authors of the 
forged Protocols of Zion, which advo- 
cated World Revolution. In Germany 
they arc now known as contaminators of 
a pure race. Hitler claims the Jews are 
not like the rest of mankind, but a 
species alien and apart. Shakespeare has 
said that a Jew does "possess the same 
organs, dimensions, senses, affections. 



and passions as a Christian," but at 
present, I am sorry to state, Mr. Hitler 
is drawing larger crowds than Mr. 
Shakespeare. 

Today Jctv has come to mean what- 
ever men feel it to mean. It is not a 
term which people use rationally, but 
enKjtionally. Americans. I believe, are 
the most unprejudiced people in the 
world. We have to be, since we are com- 
posed of practically every race, religion, 
and color. But even the American people 
can easily surrender reason to emotion. 
Patriotism is a wonderful thing, but not 
when it blinds tolerance. In these demo- 
cratic United States rabble rousers have 
yelled at the people. "Kill the negro! 
He's killing your race !" and the Ku Klux 
Klan responded. They called. "Destroy 
Communism, before it destroys you !" 
and the American Legion behaved like a 
group of children. Today the real de- 
spoilers of Democracy are shouting 
again. This time they give a new mean- 
ing to the word Jew. It now stands for 
Un-American. 

Call us what you may, there is the best 
and worst of mankind in us. But when 
America is the "last stronghold of De- 
mocracy" you can be sure the Jews are 
taking a strong hold and hanging on to 
it. There is no one anywhere who appre- 
ciates Democracy more than we do. And 
the only way that the people of the 
L'nited States can remain democratic is 
to remember that this nation is composed 
of all races and will always be, as long 
as this remains a true democracy. The 
Jews are very ready to concede that the 
Chosen People of today are the Ameri- 
can people. 



I 4 ] 



Socialized Medicine 



Philip Dalton 

Rhetoric I, Theme 14, 1940-1941 



SOCIALIZED medicine, as I under- 
stand it, is a practice which provides 
medical care for a group of people on a 
fixed contract basis, payment being made 
either by the individuals, their employers, 
or the government. In the United States 
today, there is a vital need for some 
socialization of medical service. Many 
serious shortcomings exist under our 
present system of individual practice. 
Adequate medical care, under present 
conditions, is unavailable to a large pro- 
portion of the people. There is also an 
obvious lack of preventive service — that 
is, there are too few authorities at work 
in the removal of conditions which en- 
courage disease. Another great fault of 
our present system is that communities 
throughout the nation have unequal 
facilities for medical care. Some centers 
of population are oversupplied with 
doctors and hospitals, and some under- 
supplied. The cost of medical service 
under the present system is a cause of 
widespread hardship and dissatisfaction. 
It falls heavily upon those with small 
incomes, for whom unexpected costs may 
mean years of debt. The lack of coordi- 
nation in the medical profession makes 
it difficult for the people to find adequate 
care, for they have little means of judg- 
ing the skill and conscientiousness of a 
doctor — hence the tremendous waste of 
money on quacks, cults, and other fakes. 
Irregular practitioners receive about one 
hundred and twenty-five million dollars 
a year from the American public. 

The best and most logical answer to all 
of the faults of our present system is 
socialized medicine. I believe it would 
ultimately do away with all of the present 



inadequacies. It would provide thorough 
medical care for all. Hospital facilities 
and preventive as well as curative service 
would be at the disposal of all com- 
munities and classes. It would lighten 
the financial burden of medical care. 
Many economies would be introduced — 
savings in overhead, laboratory services, 
routine examinations, and treatment. It 
would provide for more equal distribu- 
tion of costs — that is, costs would be met 
by taxation and would fall more on those 
better able to pay. It would do away 
with excessive fees, fee-splitting, unnec- 
essary operations, and unnecessary visits 
and care. It would raise the standard of 
health throughout the nation, because 
medical service would be more exten- 
sively utilized. By removing obstructive 
financial terms it would reduce the evils 
of self-treatment or delayed treatment. 
Periodic health examinations would be 
encouraged, and patients would be 
guided and assisted by competent author- 
ities in the selection of physicians. 

There are those who say that social- 
ized medicine would not be desirable. 
They claim that medical service would 
suflfer and that the quality of service 
would tend to deteriorate. They say that 
the doctors' incentive to do good work 
would be removed and that their per- 
sonal responsibility would be lowered. 
Another argument they offer is that this 
system would result in an enormous 
bureaucracy — that doctors would be 
liable to political manipulations and red 
tape. 

All of the arguments offered by oppon- 
ents of socialized medicine can be easily 
answered. There is no reason to believe 



[ 5 ] 



that medical service would deteriorate. 
The quality of service would remain 
high because of the natural love most 
doctors possess for their profession. Re- 
wards and promotions would be offered 
to physicians who do distinguished work ; 
thus the impulse to do good work would 
be stimulated. Doctors who would be- 
come careless under socialized medicine 
are just as likely to become careless 
under our present system of individual 
practice. Socialized medicine would not 
necessarily set up a bureaucracy or ex- 
pose doctors to politics, because social- 



ized medicine would be no more political 
than other agencies now operating suc- 
cessfully under government control — 
such agencies as public education, public 
health, and public postal service. Let the 
system of socialized medicine be admin- 
istrated by the medical men themselves, 
and they need fear no bureaucracy. 

Socialized medicine has been tried out 
in several foreign countries and found 
to work well. I believe that the benefits 
which might be derived from such a 
system would be sufficient to overcome 
all arguments against it. | 



Theme -Writing in Rhetoric 

Martha Lou Both well 
Rhetoric I, Theme 11, 1940-1941 



AS I labor now, endeavoring to syn- 
chronize thoughts with words to fill 
up these pages, I am seized by an im- 
pulse to throw mj- pen. to rise and shout, 
"Writers are writers, and there's them 
that ain't. And that's ALL THERE IS 
TO IT !" Zing — with a shoe or something. 

But then tomorrow's Wednesday. This 
thing has to be in. And so I struggle on, 
draw more doodles, add a line, scratch 
out two, take up a clean sheet of paper, 
and go through the whole worrisome 
process again. It is all very wearing. 

Xow there seems to exist a school 
of thought which places a great deal 
of emphasis upon self-expression. The 
advantages of adequate self-expression 
can hardly be denied. But this school 
.thinks apparently that the art of self- 
expression in writing can be taught to 
freshman students. With all the re- 
spect due to rhetoricians, 1 sometimes 
think that, considering how feebly this 
aim is accomplished, they might with 



more success take up bean-counting. 

For it seems to me that if the student 
is not especially fired by intellectual 
fevers no other power can incite in him 
the urge or the capacity to write any- 
thing more thrilling than "Jack, the dog, 
ran after the cat," and then wonder if a 
comma is necessary after the word "dog." 
I am trying to say, I think, that writing, 
like brains, is a God-given gift, and if 
He didn't bestow it' upon you — then you 
had better take it up with God and not 
with your rhetoric instructor. 

If theme-writing must be taught, how- 
ever, the struggle should take place, not 
during the freshman, but during the 
senior year. Then the mature student- 
writer could draw on a broader range of 
experience, on a more serviceable vo- 
cabulary, and on a more deeply en- 
trenched respect for intellectual pursuits. 
Until this reformation in rhetoric in- 
struction takes place, most of us will 
have to get along without self-expression. 



[ 6] 



Grohean 



Bill Zack 
Rhetoric II, Theme 14, 1940-1941 



WHEN I was first old enough to 
know that the West was peopled 
with cowboys and Indians, I discovered 
in the town library a fascinating book: 
Old Jim Bridger on the Moccasin Trail. 
It led "Young Jim," a frontiersman, 
through a never-ending series of battles 
and dangers until he was "Old Jim." 
Somewhere in this tale Jim picked up a 
grey Indian pony, which he promptly 
named "Grohean." When I learned that 
Grohean meant "grey horse" in some 
Indian language, my joy was complete ; 
I could speak Indian. Shortly after this 
discovery I was given a bicycle, named, 
of course, "Grohean." 

On my two-wheeled Indian pony I 
pursued buffalo and Indians down the 
quiet streets of Sheffield. Many were the 
times when Grohean dropped with an 
arrow in his side. After being thus am- 
bushed, I lay behind his body and des- 
perately loaded and fired my long rifle 
at the attacking "Injuns." On several 
occasions — especially after I had heard 
of Custer's last stand — the painted war- 
riors closed in and, even as I buried m}' 
tomahawk in the head of the chief, they 
brought me down and divided my scalp 
among them. 

After two years of active battle, 
Grohean was stolen, even as it happened 
in the book. In the book, Jim recovered 
his Grohean, but I had to get a new one. 
About this time, too, I got a job deliver- 
ing papers. My route was nearly six 
miles long, and for four years I struggled 
over its interminable length every night 
except Sunday, bringing the world to 



your doorstep with the Kezvanee Star- 
Courier. In order to pass the hours, I 
again rode my noble Grohean. Some- 
times I was on the Pony Express. Some- 
times I was an Indian or a road agent, 
robbing and killing and striking terror 
into the "Old West." My nondescript 
dog, Pat, was a tame wolf, accompany- 
ing me on all my raids. 

I took good care of Grohean, checking 
to see if his "shoes" were properly 
inflated, polishing his outside, and greas- 
ing his inner works. During these years 
he was ready at all times for instant 
action. Sad to say, after I retired from 
the newspaper business, I did not take 
such care of my trusty steed; the tires 
sagged, the spokes rusted, the paint grew 
tarnished. Last fall I needed money 
pretty badly and started looking around 
for something to sell. Of course Grohean 
'was my victim. With a dime's worth of 
steel wool and several dollars' worth 
of elbow grease, I made him presentable. 
As I looked at him, however, I began to 
feel sentimental. I remembered how I 
hated the rain that had beat down upon 
me and my miserable dog, soaking us to 
the skin ; how I cursed the weather, the 
papers, the customers, and even myself ; 
how I had bucked high winds and biting 
cold on the north road along the railroad 
tracks; how I had sweated and thirsted 
on broiling July afternoons. 

So I kept putting off the day when I 
would insert the fatal ad in the local 
paper. No one wants to buy a bike in the 
winter time anyway; I'll sell him in the 
spring. 



I 7 ] 



My Dear Henrietta 



Alberta AIenzel 
Rhetoric It, Theme 8. 1940-1941 



February 2, 1876 

MY DEAR Henrietta: 
If you could but see me now, you 
would marvel at my red cheeks, for I 
have just come in from a delightful 
skating party on the lagoon. How 
fortunate is my fair city of Chicago to 
have such facilities for the healthful 
sport ! I wear my gray alpaca for skat- 
ing, carry the little muff you sent me for 
Christmas, and glory in being the envy 
of the park. 

Speaking of clothes — the dressmaker 
has been here these three days past, em- 
ployed in making new gowns for Sister 
Louise and myself. Mine is to be a 
bewitching ball gown — white silk, the 
underskirt in pufi's of material with tulle 
plaiting around the bottom, an apron 
overskirt and a pointed bodice, trimmed 
in tulle, a bertha with flowers on the 
shoulders as well as in a huge pink bow 
on the fulness at the back. I shall wear 
flowers and pearls twined in mj- curls — 
doesn't that sound delicious? 

The first opportunit}' I shall have to 
wear my silk will be at the ball the 
Markhams' aunt is giving for Lucy's 
twentieth birthday — she is but one year 
older than I — which promises to be a 
most elegant affair. 

Did you know my Aunt Ric!inu)nd 
presented me with fifty dollars? Father 
counseled me to be wise and save it for 
something which will "enrich my life 
rather than my person" — you can 
imagine how it burns in my pocket ; I 
fear I am not at all sensible. 

This morning I made a few lotions 
lor myself, having no trust in those so 
blatantly advertised. 1 pass on to you 



one recipe — it whitens and purifies the 
skin most marvelously. Take a lemon, 
make a little hole in it, and fill the hole 
with sugar candy; seal the opening with 
a bit of leaf gold and roast in hot ashes. 
When desired, remove the seal and 
squeeze a little on a napkin arid wash the 
face with it. 

Yesterday, while rearranging my book- 
row, I discovered m}- old school books. 
Nothing would suffice but that I termi- 
nate my labors and leaf through each of 
the familiar volumes. I could almost see 
)0u and me, back at boarding school, 
learnedly discoursing on all matters of 
science. Sometimes I wonder if I ever 
feel so much alive as I did while in 
school. To hear me now. you would 
think me utterly incapable of setting my 
mind above dainties and dancing, ruffles 
and beaux. 

I hope 30ur dear familj- are all quite 
well ; Mama is poorly, but we pray she 
will soon be sound again. Affectionate 
regards from 

Your devoted friend, 

Julia Hermann 

March 3. 1876 
Mv dear Henrietta: 

It drizzles most miserably, depriving 

me of ni}- walk; yet I rejoice in the 

opportunity to give you an account of 

the Markliams' ball. As I anticipated, 

no cost was spared to provide sumptuous 

elegance. Mama being indisposed. Sister 

Emma and her husband obliged as my 

chaperons, as they knew I desired 

greatly to be one of the party. My new 

gown must be most attractive, for no 

sooner had we paid our respects to our 



[8] 



hostess and I taken my place with my 
sister, than I was quite besieged with 
most personable young men. I danced 
most of the evening, except while I was 
being treated to a variety of ices by one 
of my devotes — c'est le mot, n'est-ce 
pas? I felt much pity for the elder Miss 
Hanson, as she was seldom requested 
until after the sets were formed. 

Now I must confess, dear friend, that 
there was one man who has aroused 
more than a little admiration in me. His 
name is Jeffrey Alden. That is all I 
shall say now, except that I will admit 
we danced three times! He also asked if 
I would make him happy by selecting 
him for my protector home. I trust you 
will be discreet in this matter — do not 
disappoint me, I beg of you. 

The behavior of Annabelle Toskin has 
been most scandalous — I shudder to 
think of my feelings should such talk be 
directed at me. She attracts society's 
barbs by her most unseemly conduct. 
More than once have I seen her on the 
public streets after sundown — unat- 
tended ! Yet that is not the worst — she 
disappeared from the ball last night for 
five minutes ! I do not know how she 
escaped her mother's eye, nor do I know 
what motive prompted the Markhams to 
make her their guest. Certainly she will 
not be invited in respectable homes again. 

Mama calls me ; so once more adieu 

from 

Your loving friend, 

Julia Hermann 

P.S. At the ball I also met a young man 
who is studying to be a doctor. I almost 
asked him to tell me of his life in medical 
school and explain some of the new dis- 
coveries to me ; but I feared I should be 
considered indiscreet and forward, and 
confined myself to amusing him with 
prattle about the theatre. 

Yours, J. H. 



April 29, 1876 
My DEAR Henrietta: 

The doctor has just left my dear 
Mama. Every day she seems paler, 
though as saintly as ever. I feel so help- 
less, receiving Mr. Alden and attending 
theatre parties, while my mother lies in 
her darkened room. Why can I not help 
her? I long to find why she is ill — I feel 
I know the cure, yet I am too untrained 
to find it. If onl)' I knew science — I have 
read the articles on the microscope in 
Harper's over and over ; I can feel my 
fingers twirling the knobs, my brain 
finding clues to disease, while I stupidly 
crochet table scarfs, or exchange civilities 
with Mr. Alden. Making beef tea is all 
I can do, and even the servants can have 
that ability. 

I must go to her now — if she is not 
too weary I can read to her from my 
favorite, George Eliot. There was a 
woman who forced men to acknowledge 
her genius, even if she had to use a 
trick to do it ! 

May God bless you, Henrietta, for 
listening to the outcry of 

Your futile friend, 

Julia Hermann 

Tune 30, 1876 
My dear Henrietta: 

My father was certainh' most wise in 
advising me to save my money for a 
worth-while cause, for I have used it to 
go to the World's Fair in Philadelphia. 
Sister Emma and her husband proposed 
the trip, and since I had the $34.50 for 
the round trip fare. Papa gave his con- 
sent to the project that we three go. It 
has been most illuminating — my con- 
tinual amazement is that they were ever 
able to tear me away from the Woman's 
Building, where every real feminine 
achievement was illustrated. I dallied 
for hours before the display showing 
woman's work in medicine. I had great 



[ 9 ] 



hopes of persuading Papa that I might 
be allowed to study this science as do 
some of the girls of the middle class, but 
as usual, he is adamant. 

I also saw the new machine which 
writes — the typewriter, I believe. This I 
should like to learn to operate, but when 
I asked Papa, he laughed at me and said, 
"There, there, daughter, do not worry 
about such a temporary innovation — 
besides, the nervous system of the female 
is too delicate to permit such an occupa- 
tion." I fear I was impertinent, for I 
said women were no more delicate than 
men, only more sensitive. He answered 
graveh", "I am distressed to see you so 
unwomanly. And as to your argument, 
have you forgotten the misfortune of 
Mary Wilder?" 

Mary Wilder is one of my friends who 
attended Vassar. She is lately returned 
home, much upset nervously, will see 
no one, and cries without cause. Papa 
is right, 1 suppose, and yet I secretly 
hope that girls will some day conquer 
such nervous delicacy. 

Today I persuaded my brother to row- 
on the lagoon with me. I fear he will 
soon indulge in smoking and liquor un- 
less he gives up his association with the 
other dandies. I am using "woman's 
good influence" on him as Mary E. 
Walker suggests, but to no avail. If you 
can, send help please to 

Your faithful friend, 

Julia Hermann 

August 9, 1876 
My DEAR Henrietta: 

Please interrupt your well-beloved 
croquet to hear a most astounding bit 
of news. On New Year's Day I will 
be — yes! — Mrs. Jeffrey Alden. I trust 
you will share my joy at this felicitous 
event. Last June Mr. Alden addressed 
me most courteously and asked humble 
permission to be my suitor. I answered 



his letter saying that his attentions were 
neither unnoticed nor unwelcome, that 
by his worthy actions he had won his 
way into my affection and esteem, and 
that I trusted our feelings would not 
change, but ripen into the purest devo- 
tion, to be culminated and blessed with 
matrimony. 

Our engagement will be short because 
of my mother's health, as poor Mama is 
not at all well. She is highly content in 
my engagement and desires the nuptials 
as soon as proper and convenient for 
fear that she may become worse. As 
she is too weak to arise, I sew in her 
room to give her what comfort I can 
offer. 1 am crocheting a watch stand for 
Mr. Alden from a pattern in Godey's 
Lady's Book, as well as a boudoir cap. 
And, of course, my trousseau will be a 
charming amount of needle work! I 
hope I will complete it quickly. 

Tonight Mr. Alden and I attend the 
opera. I feel most gratified to appear 
there — he is so amiable that I am very 
proud, as ill becomes me. 

Do send your best wishes soon to 
Your affectionate friend, 

Julia Hermann 

P.S. On perusal of this letter, I find I 
have not shared with you Mr. Alden's 
many virtues. He is most courteous, 
attendant to my slightest desire, generous 
to a fault — our life together promises to 
be of the happiest. M}' parents are 
agreeable, nay, anxious that our union be 
effected. If I cannot truthfully say that 
I cherish for him the tenderest of affec- 
tions, at least I do esteem and respect 
him, which is all any girl can expect to 
feel when she enters into wedded bliss. 
Yours, J. H. 

November 30, 1876 
My dear Henrietta: 

Do you remember the conversations 
we had in boarding school when we so 



[10] 



fervently discussed the affairs of gov- 
ernment? All the excitement over the 
election has quite thrilled me. I consider 
Hayes the better candidate, for I do not 
blame Grant for the atrocious scandals 
which were visited upon his administra- 
tion. Nor do I consider it safe to have 
the choice of the rebels in office — the war 
is yet too recent to chance allowing a 
man like Tilden with the rebel vote be- 
hind him to seize control. Oh how I 
wish ivc could have the vote! When I 
listen to my father and his friends con- 
versing on the topic of the election, I feel 
that no woman could be more silly than 
some of the men. Hours are spent quib- 
bling over a point which seems absolutely 
clear to me. But breathe no word of this, 
my dear friend, or I shall be labelled a 
strong-minded woman. 

Though I decided that I should be able 
to discuss such matters with my fiance 
more than with anyone else, I was much 
disappointed. He said to me, just as 
Papa would have done, "Dear Julia, the 
charming heads of women were made 
for parties, not politics. I shall expect 
you to leave such affairs to me and busy 
yourself with the happiness of my home 
after we are married." After such a 
stinging rebuke from my intended, I 
could not but be silent, though I burn 
with indignation at such an estimate of 
female intelligence. 

Anticipating your presence at my 
wedding, I remain 

Your affectionate, though 
political, friend, 

Julia Hermann 

December 18, 1876 
Mv DEAR Henrietta: 

It is two in the morning. I feel your 
surprise at my writing at this hour, but 
I cannot sleep. 



In a fortnight I shall be wed — 
permanently. Even now there is no turn- 
ing back. Mama would be crushed by 
the disgrace of a broken troth. Papa 
furious at my declining such an advan- 
tageous match. 

Do not, dear friend, draw from this 
that I do not wish to marry Mr. Alden. 
Aside from the regard which I feel for 
him, there is nothing for me except 
marriage. My father with his servants 
does not need me to keep his house ; I 
am ill-trained for any useful work; nor 
would I be accepted in any profession 
except teaching, and that at the cost of 
my position in society. 

Tonight I have been wondering what 
my life would be if circumstances had 
been different. If I had been given an 
education equal to that of a man, would 
my intelligence have been sufficiently 
developed so that I would be worthy of 
having the vote? If woman suffrage 
were granted, would not woman's natural 
kindness and mercy bring a happier day 
to our nation? Just think, Henrietta — 
if I had studied medicine, might it be 
possible that I could have found a way 
to save my mother from the fate that 
hangs over her ? I even wonder whether, 
if female clothing did not demand such 
corseting and padding, ruffles and bows, 
much of woman's weakness and ill 
health might be avoided? If woman 
were equal with man, would she prove 
to be of greater worth than a lovely 
parasite? 

I have heard that every woman is 
prone to doubts and fears just before 
her marriage. Perhaps these are mine. 
Pray make no mention of what I have 
here written. But, dear Henrietta, what 
a waste of precious lives of usefulness, 
if these hypothetical suppositions of 
mine were true ! I almost hope these 



11] 



weak fancies are false, for "The saddest 
words of tongue and pen are only these 
— 'It might have been!' " 
Believe me, dear friend. 

Yours lovingly, 

Julia Hermann 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Codey's Lady's Book. Philadelphia, 1875. 
Harper's. New York, Harper and Brothers, 
1876. 



Nevins, Joseph, The Emergency of Modern 
America— 1865-1878. New York, The Mac- 
tnillan Company, 1927. 

RusKiN, John, Ad^-ice to Young Ladies, New 
York, J. Wiley and Sons, 1879. 

Thornwell, Emm.v, The Lady's Guide to Per- 
fect Gentility. Philadelphia, 1876. 

"Two Girls," Macmillan's Magazine. London, 
1876. 

\".AN Boehn, Modes and Manners of the S'ine- 
teenth Century. New York, E. P. Dutton, 
1927. 

Walker, .M.^ry E., Hit. New York, The 
American News Company, 1871. 



The Problems of a Waiter 



Herbert Rickert 
Rhetoric I, Theme 14, 1940-1941 



THE door opens. A customer staggers 
in, plops himself into a booth, 
glances at the menu, and looks up ex- 
pectantly. A white-clad student waiter 
hurries to the booth with a glass of 
water, a pad of paper, and a ready 
pencil. Once more the customer scans 
the menu from top to bottom. The 
waiter waits. Suddenly a series of sounds 
as from a badly tuned radio emerges 
from the booth. 

"Give me a blwk pulkwable mamrie 
grob, without mayonnaise, and a sasrink- 
erie blab." 

The waiter looks puzzled. 

"Pardon me, but I didn't understand 
you. Would you mind repeating your 
order?" 

The customer looks up angrily, looks 
down again, and says, "Give me a wlwk 
balpuble gumrie gub, WITHOUT MAY- 
ONNAISE, and a zindrible wbwab." 

The waiter, fearing to inquire again, 
nervoush' tries to translate the customer's 
order into English and prays fervently 
that he is right. Usually he isn't. 

Again the door opens. A chattering 
group of girls. While the waiter waits 



expectantly, they debate noisily the ad- 
vantages and disadvantages of sitting in 
certain booths, wave and shout to friends 
on the other side of the store, and finally 
sit down. Another debate on what to 
order. Slowly the topic of conversation 
changes. 

"Marie, I've got the cutest instructor 
in Rhetoric, and 3'ou'd never guess what 
he said to me ! Well, he said . . . ."- 

"Imagine!" 

"Really?" 

"Well!" 

While the morsels of gossip and 
slander are tossed about, the waiter 
waits. Finally one girl happens to notice 
him. Then, as if on a signal, they all 
give their orders as a chorus, each using 
a difYerent lyric. It is the waiter's prob- 
lem to separate tlie lyrics and note them 
on his pad. 

A little old lady enters. Slowly she 
steps down the aisle, glancing at each 
booth as she goes. She sees one to her, 
liking and eases into it. She picks upj 
the menu, reads it carefully, moving her 
lips, and then repeats the process. The 
waiter waits. 



12] 



One by one she eliminates the various 
dinners Hsted until only two are left. 
Glancing from one to another, she chirps, 
"Waiter, I'd like this dinner." (An aged 
finger descends upon the menu, hurries 
up and down, and lights on a small 
paragraph.) "Only I'd like this vegetable 
(the finger drops two paragraphs) in 
place of this one (the finger hurries up 
the menu), and the vegetable on this 
dinner (another flight of the finger) in 
place of the potatoes. Also I want this 
salad. I wonder if I could — do you have 
buttermilk ? I'll have buttermilk to drink. 
Will vou hurrv this order? I have an 



appointment in fifteen minutes. Thank 
you." 

Meanwhile the waiter stretches his 
aching neck, makes a few marks on his 
pad, sighs heavily, and leaves. 

As you see, a waiter's life can be hell. 
There are nice people, and there are 
mean ones ; there are pleasant words and 
there are insults and scowls ; there are 
tips and there are haughty silences. Many 
waiters have become so hardened to the 
eccentricities of the human race that they 
have adopted the following motto: "The 
customer is always wrong. Be sure to 
let him know it!" 



Splendid Isolation 

E. L. BiBERSTEIN 
Rhetoric II, final examination, 1940-1941 



TN THE middle of September, 1939, 
* immediately after the outbreak of the 
war, our history teacher in high school 
made a survey of the class's attitude 
toward the policy of the United States — 
whether she should pursue a policy of 
isolation or whether she had better 
intervene. As it happened, the whole 
class — about twenty persons — favored 
isolation, while only one — myself — advo- 
cated intervention. This ratio is signifi- 
cant. It was at that time about the same 
throughout the country. And no wonder, 
if you consider how sound the arguments 
justifying isolation appeared to be: in 
the first place, there isn't anything the 
Germans would want over here once 
they've defeated the Allies ; secondly, 
even after a victory, they would be far 
too exhausted and confronted with too 
many problems to attack a country as 
■ strong economically and as far distant as 



the United States. Why, then, should 
we go over there, lose our men, and 
spend billions of dollars, only to get 
cheated by our allies as we did in the 
last war ? No. let them fight it out alone, 
by all means. The average American, 
who was interested mainly in the con- 
tinuation of the way of living he was 
used to, accepted these arguments with- 
out question. 

It is too bad that history isn't a science 
like mathematics, where we can say, for 
example, that alternate interior angles on 
parallel lines are equal, no matter who 
drew them on what paper with what kind 
of pencil. History is different, simply 
because identical circumstances never 
recur. Sometimes, however, similarities 
in circumstances and events are so strik- 
ing that we can't possibly overlook them 
and may use them as a basis for specula- 
tions about what's ahead of us. Well, 



[13] 



let's see if we can't find a chapter in the 
history of men that bears close resem- 
blances to our present period. 

Was there ever before in the world's 
history a man with an abnormally strong 
belief in himself, a man who assumed 
power when his people were in great 
distress, who promised to lead his nation 
to prosperity and make it the foremost 
power on earth? I refer you to the 
Napoleonic era. The backgrounds and 
the policies of Napoleon and Hitler are 
pretty much the same. Both are men of 
force. Both tried to maintain a "friendly" 
attitude toward their powerful neighbors ; 
both would suddenly undertake some 
coup of annexation, and then affirm im- 
mediately afterwards their desire to 
maintain peace. Napoleon succeeded, 
and Hitler has succeeded so far, in trick- 
ing their enemies each time they tried to. 
The main thing, however, and this dis- 
arms one isolationist argument, is that 
Napoleon did not show any intention 
ever to stop as long as there was another 
great power on earth beside his own. 
Hitler acts in the same manner: he 
wasn't contented with Austria, with 
Czechoslovakia; he took Poland, Den- 
mark, Norway, Holland, Belgium, Lux- 
emburg. France, and still he wants 
colcjnies and concessions from Britain. 
So there is no reason to believe that he 
does not want the United States in whole 
or in part. 

In the question whether Hitler would 
be too exhausted after the war to attack 
this country, I refer again to Napoleon, 
who fought continually for sixteen years 
without exhaustion. WJien he did not 
have enough men at his disposal, the 



people he had subdued had to go into 
battle for him. The same thing happened 
at Dakar, where the French fought for 
Fascism against their own countrymen 
and former British allies. Hitler might 
use this method against the United States 
should he defeat Canada. Besides, Hit- 
ler's close friends, Russia and Japan, 
are evidently anxious to acquire some 
more territory. Wasn't an airplane base 
discovered only recently on one of the 
Russian Aleutian Islands? And who 
can tell what is going on on the many 
little "uninhabited" Pacific Islands which 
cannot be found on any map? How 
about Mexico? Wouldn't she be grate- 
ful for her "lost territory" of Texas, 
New Mexico, and Arizona? We shouldn't 
forget that, during World War I, Mexico 
was all set to line up with Germany 
against the United States. An official 
from the German embassy happened to 
leave his brief case in a subway, so that 
the whole plot was discovered. Maybe 
this time the plotters will be a little more 
careful about the things entrusted to 
them. 

Anil what does all this mean? It 
simply shows that the question is not up 
to us at all. Suppose a man, standing in 
the rain, wanted to decide whether or 
not he should get wet. His decision does 
not affect the rain drops. They fall on 
him no matter what he decides. They 
may drop from the gray-black sky any 
minute now. We may have waited too 
long. We should have gone with the 
others. We should have put up our share 
of the cab-fare long since. Will we be 
able to pay the fare alone? I hope so, 
but I doubt. 



[14] 



i 



The McGuSey Readers 

LORENE KeTTENBURG 
Rhetoric II, Theme 15, 1939-1940 



DURING the years between 1825 and 
1875 many German, Scotch-Irish, 
and EngHsh people came from northern 
Europe and settled in the newly opened 
Northwest Territor}'. These people were 
hard-working. God-fearing, and consci- 
entious, and they quickly established 
themselves in new homes, soon forget- 
ting their native countries in this land of 
wealth, opportunity, and work. After 
they had secured themselves in new 
homes, their next thought was for the 
education of their children. Schools were 
very few, and textbooks were rare. 
The Puritanical Readers and Murray's 
English Readers were the two best 
known texts, but neither was suitable for 
these rugged pioneers, being too sug- 
gestive of the drawing rooms of the 
smug Bostoners and of the governesses 
and estates of the English nobility.^ 
These Midwesterners were a new people 
who needed a new reader. The McGuflfey 
reader filled this need. 

The originator of the McGufFey read- 
ers was tall, redheaded William Holmes 
McGuffey, an Ohio farm boy, born Sep- 
tember 23, 1800. McGuffey had little 
opportunity for education during his first 
eighteen years, but his father taught him 
arithmetic and surveying, and his mother, 
by borrowing books and by using the 
Bible, instructed him in reading and 
writing. Schools in those times were far 
apart and were dependent upon the 
voluntary subscriptions of the settlers: 
consequently, the sessions were irregular 
and timed in order not to interfere with 
heavy field work or building. 

Young William possessed a remark- 
able memory, and by the time he was 



twenty-one he was able to recite ver- 
batim any book of the Bible.^ In later 
life as a preacher he delivered over 3000 
sermons, and though he never wrote one 
of them out, he was able to repeat any 
given one almost as he had originally 
delivered it. He took up Latin and Greek 
when he was nineteen and became in 
time one of the foremost scholars in 
the country. McGuffey attended Wash- 
ington College, graduating in March, 
1826, and then went to Oxford Univer- 
sity at Miami, Ohio, where he worked 
for part of his board and tuition. A 
kindly professor paid the amount which 
he lacked. Board at that time was 
seventy-five cents a week and the tuition 
three dollars a j-ear.^ 

McGuftey spent several years of dili- 
gent and hard \\ ork at the university and 
in 1829 was ordained. In 1832 he be- 
came a professor of moral philosophy. 
He stayed at the university ten years in 
all. It was during this period at Oxford 
that McGuffey conceived the idea of 
compiling a reader for primary education 
and first began work on it. He had for 
some time realized the grave need for 
a new reader for the children of the 
Aliddle West. 

It is interesting to note here his 
method of teaching. Much of his experi- 
menting in child psychologA- he did out- 
of-doors at the edge of the woods where 
trees were being felled to make new 
buildings. He had a log for reading, a 

""^IcGuffey Readers," Ohio Archaeological 
and Historical Quarterly, 36 (1927), 161. 

'Minnich, U'illiam Holmes McGuffey and 
the Peerless Pioneer McGuffey Readers, 21. 

'H. S. Fullerton, "That Guv :McGuffey," 
Saturday Eveninq Post. 200 (Nov. 26, 1927), 
57. 



15] 



log for spelling, one for arithmetic, and 
one for grammar. To encourage the 
spirit of competition, the student doing 
the best work was permitted to sit on 
the big end of the log and protect his 
position from all challengers.* McGufFey 
first arranged his children in age groups, 
tested their capacity to learn by his pre- 
pared lessons, and made necessary 
changes every day. Gradually he codified 
the lessons until he could take children 
step by step through an elementarj' edu- 
cation. From his arrangement of the 
work he evidently believed that there 
should be a primer and four readers. His 
fifth and sixth readers were works of 
later times. The nucleus of his readers 
consisted of the classic stories he had 
had copied in long hand and sewed into 
cloth book covers.' He used these cloth- 
covered books to test his students. In 
the informal setting of the woods, Mc- 
Guffey was able to watch the reaction 
of his students to the various stories and 
was able to determine which stories 
would be suitable. If a story had a 
good moral and the children enjoj'ed it 
enough to ask for it again, McGulTey 
incorporated it into his book. McGulYey 
always insisted upon having a moral in 
his stories, and, though he did not permit 
the moral to be stated bluntly, virtue 
always triumphed, and sin and evil were 
punished. 

In 1836 McGuffey made a contract 
with Truman & Smith, publishers, to 
prepare four readers in the ensuing 
eighteen months. According to the terms 
M-cGufifey was to receive a 10% royalty 
until the sum obtained from the sales 
reached $1000, at which time the pub- 
lishers got the entire receipts." In the 
next fifty years eighty to ninety million 
books were sold, and after the Civil War 
the jiublishers voluntarily paid McGuii'ey 



an annuity for the use of his name. At 
one time more than one-half of the 
school children in the United States used 
his readers. 

The first reader contained seventy- 
two pages, was bound with green paper A 
backs, and sold for twelve and a half " 
cents.' This book attempted to plant in 
the "infant barbarian mind" a sense of 
dependence upon parents and of respon- 
sibility to them. It taught the students 
as much as it was able in its seventy-two 
pages about behavior and the rights of 
others. A section at the beginning of the 
primer, and in the other readers also, 
was devoted to speech, gestures, and 
elocution. Apparently McGufTey believed 
in teaching his young students how to 
talk and persuade before they reached 
the great classics. By the time they read 
this difficult material they would be able 
to repeat passages of the classics aloud 
with oratorical emphasis. AIcGuffey him- 
self was a great orator, and on him may 
be placed much of the responsibility for 
the Fourth of July style of oratory. 

The second reader contained 164 
pages, and its purpose was to lay the 
foundation for manly integrity. The price 
of this reader was twenty-five cents. The 
third reader cost fifty cents, and within 
its 165 pages social responsibility was 
introduced.* Students were taught co- 
operation and mutual respect. The fourth 
reader, of 324 pages, cost seventy-five 
cents ; the advanced selections included 
work of authors like Rousseau, Schiller, 
Dr. Johnson. Sir Walter Scott, and 
Shakespeare. 

The reputation the McGuffey readers 
won was due to the care with which Mc- 



'Ibid., 58. 

'Ibid. 

°VV. J. Cameron, The Mind of McGuffey, 15. 

'H. S. Fullerton, of. cit., 64. 

'Ibid.. 63. 



[16: 



Guffey had gathered his selections. He 
had included what he considered the 
proper proportions of humor, pathos, 
love, adventure, sorrow and an especially 
large proportion of material on death and 
on preparing to die. The emphasis on 
death" was not uncommon in those days; 
all the school books printed before Mc- 
Guffey's time had devoted even more 
space than he to this depressing subject.^ 
It was thought that the children should 

i be prepared early to meet the inevitable. 

1 McGuffey's readers, however, in contrast 
to the old ecclesiastical readers and the 
Bible, which was used extensively in 
educating children, contained more flow- 
ers, woods, birds, and starlit nights than 
stern men and subjects for fear. Mc- 
Guffey gave his readers action. He gave 
them even a dash of sex at times, as 
shown b}' this one-syllabled illustration: 
"Ann and Nat. Ann has a fan. Nat has 
a hat. Ann can fan Nat." 

After the readers had been on sale for 
several years, they were thoroughly re- 
vised, and in 1853 they were worked 
over and issued in six books, called the 
New Readers. In 1878 they were re- 
vised again, and new selections were put 
in for old ones. When the books were 
revised last in 1901, new material was 
added, but even the latest editions retain 
about 20% of the contents of the original 
books. Today, first editions of McGuf- 
fey's readers are rare ; even the Library 
of Congress does not have a complete 
set ; as far as is known no complete first 
edition set exists.'" 

With McGulTey's careful selection of 
material, his arrangement of it, and his 
psychological study of students' likes and 
dislikes, it is little wonder that these read- 
ers spread in popularity and were used 



all over the Northwest Territory and 
even got into the Eastern schools. The 
effect which these books had upon the 
entire Middle West was profound. The 
practical German, the thrifty Scotch, and 
the witty Irish all read these books, and 
all enjoyed them. They opened the gates 
of literature to all these people, and their 
stories in many instances opened the 
people's eyes to a much vaster store of 
knowledge which could be obtained 
through other books. McGufifey's simple 
readers did more for American educa- 
tion, morals, and culture than those of 
any other educator, and they had great 
influence — particularly on the people of 
the Middle West. 



'Ibid. 

'""McGuffey's Edifying Texts Become Mu- 
seum Pieces," Neivs Week, 8 (Tuly 25, 1936), 
26. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Cameron, W. J., The Mind of McGuffey, Ox- 
ford, Ohio, Miami U. Press, 1937. 

"Eclectic Reader," Time, 28 (Aug. 3, 1936), 
26-27. 

FuLLERTON, H. S., "That Guy McGuffey," 
Saturdav E^'ening Post, 200 (Nov. 26, 
1927), 14 ff. 

McGuffey, W. H., The Eclectic Fourth Reader, 
Cincinnati, Winthrop B. Smith, 1844. 

McGuffey, W. H., McGuffey's Newly Re- 
vised Rhetorical Guide or Fifth Reader of 
the Eclectic Series, Cincinnati, Wilson, 
Hinkel, and Co., 1857. 

McGuffey, W. H., McGuffey's Neiv Sixth 
Eclectic Reader and Exercises in Rhetori- 
cal Reading, Cincinnati, Sargent, Wilson, 
and Hinkle, 1857. 

McGuffey, W. H., Neti'ly Revised Rhetori- 
cal Guide or Fifth Reader of the Eclectic 
Series, Cincinnati, Winthrop B. Smith, 
1857, 

"McGuffey's Edifying Texts Become Museum 
Pieces," Nezus IVeek, 8 (July 25, 1936), 26. 

MiNNiCH, William Holmes McGuffey and The 
Peerless Pioneer McGuffey Readers, Ox- 
ford, Ohio, Miami U. Press, 1928. 

"Presentation of McGuffey Readers," Ohio 
Archaeological and Historical Quarterly, 
36 (1927), 157-180. 



[17] 



The Man with the Gold^Collar Button 



Larry Robinson 
Rhetoric I. Theme 14. 1940-1941 



THE battered covered wagon labored 
across the creek and up the broad 
low knoll into the shade of the oak trees. 
It creaked to a stop and the women 
dropped the reins over the dashboard. A 
moment later a man on horseback, driv- 
ing ten or twelve gaunt cows, rode up 
beside her. He leaned on the saddle 
horn. 

"Well, Sarah, this is it." He dis- 
mounted. It could be seen that he was 
small and wiry. His black coat was tight 
over his wide shoulders, and his legs were . 
bowed from long hours in the saddle. 
There was a youthful growth of black 
whiskers over his jowls and chin. He 
spoke in a loud, flat voice. 

"We've worked a long time for this 
land and now that we have it we're going 
to make something of it. You see that 
land out there?" He pointed toward the 
west over a vast rolling plain. "We're 
going to own that land too some day. 
We're going to build our house right 
here and then, b}' God, I'll raise more 
cattle than Illinois thought there was in 
the world !" 

They worked hard and the time went 
fast. Early in the spring of 1850, they 
began their house, building it sturdily of 
oak and brick. Then in the fall of 1852, 
when the farm was ready to be re- 
stocked, the man left for the West. He 
traveled widely, picked out the best 
spring heifers he could find, and when he 
had gathered a fine herd he drove them 
back and set them loose with his other 
stock in the Mackinaw River region. 
They were hardy Longhorns and Here- 
fords, and the)' multiplied fast under his 
experienced care. Many other people 



had settled with him at the same time, 
but soon the lure of land and gold in the 
West drew them away. The man bought 
their land, and his territory grew. By 
1865 he had three thousand acres and 
two thousand cattle. He hired men to 
buy cattle in the East and West and to 
send them to him. When a herd was 
fattened he sold it at the right time and 
made thousands of dollars. In a few 
more years he had five thousand acres 
and four thousand cattle. He had 
achieved a quick success. 

Now that his farm was established 
and his sixty men were running it for 
him, he began a life of comparative 
leisure, but he never lost his energy and 
ambition. He used to ride at a gallop 
over his land, jumping fences and 
ditches. He had good horses and a spe- 
cial forty-pound saddle, and he could 
stick to a horse like the horse's own hide. 
His ability to ride was as well known as 
his gold collar button. His daily apparel 
(it never varied) was a shim- black suit, 
boots, a broad-brimmed black hat, a 
celluloid collar, a huge solid gold collar 
button, and no tie. He kept the collar 
button shin}' and was never without it. 

Like most men, even most successful] 
men, he had a weakness. After selling I 
a train load of cattle, he rode to Eureka] 
on Saturday night with his pockets bulg-j 
ing with mone}". There he got into a craj 
game or a cock fight or a poker game. 
Invariably he was beaten. Then, with 
his budd)', the town drunk, he went to 
the tavern. He didn't touch alcohol from 
one Saturday to the next, but on Satur- 
day night he howled. Not long before 
dawn he staggered to his horse, and rode 



[18] 



i 



home to bed — just in time to get up and 
go solemnly to church with the family. 
He was known to everyone as a pious, 
hard-working, honest cattleman. Of 
course he was a real "hoss-trader," but 
no one held that against him. He had a 
reputation for being "damn good on a 
trade — beats the devil how he connives 
around till he gets what he wants." He 
was respected both by "the boys" and 
by the ladies of the Temperance League. 
Before long he became known as the 
"Cattle King of Illinois." His success 
had grown more and more impressive. 

On a winter night, in the middle of a 
raging blizzard, one of his men stamped 
into his office and reported that he 
hadn't been able to find the prize bull 
and the cows that followed the bull. 
Because these were the best cattle on the 
farm he couldn't afford to lose any of 
them. He pulled on his boots, donned 
his black suit, hat, and coat, and his gold 
collar button, saddled the mare, and set 
out. He headed for the Mackinaw River, 
where he thought the cattle might seek 
shelter, rode along the bank for several 
miles, and found fairly fresh tracks 
leading into the water. Urging his horse 
on, he started across. The thin layer 
of ice over the river shattered before 



horse and rider as they plowed through. 
Suddenly, in mid-stream, the horse 
stumbled. The rider was hurled into the 
water, but he clung to the reins, got the 
horse on its feet again, and started on. 
After searching for two more hours, he 
finally found the herd, huddled beneath a 
dirt bank, their tails to the wind. Crack- 
ing his bull whip and cursing, he headed 
them back. After five hours of hard 
riding he turned them into the corral. 
The next day he had a bad cold. A few 
days later he died of pneumonia. 

There is a story that the old timers 
tell as they sit on the high stone curbing 
of the town square in Eureka, Illinois: 
"Afore Henry M. Robinson died he had 
built the biggest damned monument in 
Eureka cemeter}-, and he had her put up 
in his corner plot and had ROBINSON 
carved on it in letters a foot high. When 
he died he had the biggest funeral this 
town ever did see — damned near s'many 
people as they was at the mayor's third 
wedding. Well, he was buried next to his 
wife, and 3^'know — damndest thing — the 
people across the road said that every 
Saturday night about midnight the town 
drunk would come out, stiff' as a lord, 
and lean on that two-story monument, 
and holler and cry there all night long." 



Professor 

He speaks earnestly and sincerely. His features are mobile, frown following 
smile in quick succession. He loves his subject and is thoroughly familiar with it. 
He strains to impart it. Occasionally he pauses, rigid with thought. Then eagerly 
he catches up and resumes the lecture. He mimics and gesticulates feelingly, yet 
ever presents a dignified picture. \\'hen he speaks in the vernacular, the words auto- 
matically assume quotation marks around them — as though they were not really his. 
Sometimes he sniffs excitedly as he pounces upon particularly important points. 

History plays upon the stage. Scenes shift. Now tragedy, then comedy. I give 
myself up to it unreser\'edly, forgetting to take down notes in my absorption. 

AL\RTHA Lou BOTHWELL 



[19] 



Why Girls Leave Home 



Klth Shaues 
Rkelorie I. Theme 11. 1940-1941 



\\/HEN a college boy dates a college 
Vv girl, he seldom asks her what she 
intends to be or do. He takes it for 
granted that she intends only to be a 
wife, and that she's doing her best to find 
a husband. \\ hctlier he is right in his 
assumption is not the question; the 
qucition is whether any girl should come 
to college lor the sole purpose of finding 
a husband. 

Well, why not? Aren't college men 
considere<l the cream of the male crop? 
Aren't they the best educated, the best 
e(|uip|)ed for a vocation? These are the 
future professional men. the men who 
are placed in the most responsible posi- 
tions. .\nd what girl wouldn't want to 
sec herself sharing in a husband's fame? 

When a mother pridefully outfits her 
girl for college it's for two reasons: a 
mother wants her daughter to attract the 
male eye, and the daughter wants to at- 
tract the male eye. Many parents find it 
a good investment in happiness or ma- 
terial prosperity to send their girls man- 
hunting. .Xnd even the sophisticated par- 
ents of today who loudly pnx-laim their 
lives to be their own still find their great- 
est pleasure in their children's pleasure. 
F'arents from a small town know that 
college life and college men will give 
their daughter a bigger world, give her 
a chance to meet many people. Among 
them, perhaps, her husband-to-be. A girl 
in a city is able to meet more men than 
a small-town girl can, but at a large col- 
lege she can become well acquainted with 
many more men. if she tries. Thus col- 
lege Inrnefits l>oth the city and the 
country girls in their search for suitable 
spouses. 



Marriage is also the refuge of a girl 
with no particular talents. She can 
always pick up the abilities of a good 
housewife in Home Ec classes. It's a 
shame, perhaps, that the state has to pay 
for her education when her mother could 
probably do just as good a job for much 
less. But we the people of the United 
States want to make our citizens happy, 
and if the girl finds a suitable mate she'll 
be happy. If their daughter is happy the 
parents will be happ\'. Even the man will 
be happy, for at worst her cooking could 
not be as bad as the average college fare, 
and at best she might turn out to be 
everything he thinks she is. 

Rut let's look at this question from 
an(3ther direction. It is known that a 
girl matures sooner than a boy. There- 
fore a girl of the same years as a college 
boy is usually much older, and, in a good 
many ways, much wiser, than he. The 
college boy is either dependent on his 
parents for his money, or on iiis own 
talents or limited resources. A boy who 
leaves college to marry is not usually pre- 
pared to support a wife, and even the 
college graduate often finds that the 
business world has a hard shell protect- 
ing it from immature interlopers like 
himself. Of course if he is lucky he 
might find a generous father-in-law who 
would place him in business, but this 
status is seldom satisfactory. 

If a girl's chief desire in life is a 
husband, then, I don't believe that col- 
lege is the place for her. In spite of what 
many college girls believe, there are 
many men who, having never been in an 
institution of any kind, are not only 
capable of making excellent husbands. 



(201 



but are nice people as well. Wh_v then 
do a girl's parents send her to college 
to find a suitable mate? The University 
of Illinois, whose venerable foundation 
was laid on Indian hunting grounds, is 
one institution which was never intended 
as the hunting grounds for stalking 
females. It seems to me it would be 
more beneficial to the girl, too, to spend 
her time and money on clothes and ex- 
pert grooming. Then if she needs to 
meet men let her travel. She can prob- 
ably acquire a more suitably practical 
education and meet more men traveling 
than she can in a classroom. Studying 
science doesn't benefit a girl if her mind 
is on at least six other subjects — all male. 
If a girl leaves her books to go out for 



a walk under the moon the night before 
an exam, of what benefit is her course 
to her? If she cuts classes to go coking, 
what good are her classes? She is willing 
to get by on a minimum of work as long 
as she gets a maximum of pleasure. 

Frankly, I believe she ought to find 
pleasure elsewhere, and leave the col- 
leges for those who sincerely want to 
make the most of their education. Young 
women ought not to consider a Univer- 
sity a perpetual "Sadie Hawkins' Day." 
Why don't they go home and give the 
rest of us a free hand? We don't believe 
in using a college as a marriage bureau, 
but of course if Mr. Right comes along 
it's possible we might sacrifice our career. 
Say, mister, are you married? 



Uncle Will 



Noel L. Hannah 
Rhetoric I, Theme 14, 1940-1941 



UNCLE WILL'S eyes were the most 
striking thing about him. Usually 
they were flashing and glaring, remind- 
ing one of angry ocean waves. A few 
times I saw in them a soft light — then 
they were comforting and beautiful. His 
eyebrows were large and shaggy, his 
face smooth white, his hair a glossy 
black. A handsome man in features and 
physique. Prosperous looking. And in- 
deed he was prosperous. To each of his 
nine children he willed one hundred and 
sixty acres of the finest of Illinois' rich 
farm land. 

He had, unfortunatel}-, one serious 
fault — so serious, in fact, that it turned 
what could have been a happy, useful 
life into a wasted, tragic one. It was his 
temper! His temper grew beyond his 
control and caused everyone to fear him. 



His own children shrank from him. 
After an outburst of temper, he was 
oftentimes cruel to his wife. Therefore, 
as soon as the children were old enough 
to provide for themselves. Aunt Ida left 
him. After forty years of living with 
him, she got a divorce and moved into 
town. No one blamed her. We of the 
family were glad to see her rid of him. 
A good thing for her. 

But a bad thing for Uncle Will. He 
continued to live in the huge farmhouse. 
He hired several housekeepers, but none 
could endure him as an employer. One 
of his daughters tried to do his laundr}' 
and mending, and another cleaned his 
house once a week, but they soon quit. 
As time passed, he grew worse and 
worse. Sometimes, on Sunday mornings, 
he would come to our house to play 



;21] 



checkers with my father, and within an 
hour he would have lost his temper and 
left, raging like a bull. The time came 
when he was actually unwelcome at our 
house — and at everyone else's house. 
Everyone hated him. To no person did 
he as much as say "Morning" or "Eve- 
ning." He never visited his children's 
homes, and none of them bothered about 
him. No one could get along with him. 
lie rode around the country in his 
muddy, red Chevrolet coupe, never 
nodding or making any sign of greeting 
to his neighbors. Father used to worry 
about his being so alone, never knowing 
the companionship of a human being, 
rebuking any advances of friendliness. 
For three years I delivered Uncle 
Will's groceries and picked up his cream 
and eggs, and in all that time he never 



said a word to me. When I walked into 
the kitchen, he just looked to see that 
everj'thing was as he had ordered, gave 
me the basket of eggs, and carried the 
cream cans to the truck. I was always 
glad to speed down the drive again, 
eager to get away from the old savage. 
It was on one of these delivery trips that 
I last saw him alive. 

The next morning some neighbors 
found his body about thirty yards from 
his car. The car had apparently skidded 
down the slippery banks of the lane that 
led up to his farmhouse, and had crashed 
into a tree. His right leg had been 
broken and the other injured to such an 
extent that he couldn't use it. He had 
tried to drag himself to the telephone to 
summon help, and had frozen in the 
sub-zero weather. 



Part of the Game 



Richard Ziegler 
Rhetoric I, Final Examination, 1940-1941 



THE COACH Stands in front of the 
window of his room, musing. It is 
Monday morning and time to go to 
.school. The life of a coach, he thinlcs, is 
a fine life. Last Friday night they tripled 
the score on Mooseville, and the people 
have been patting his back ever since. 

Monday evening comes. The coach 
pulls on his white pants, basketball shoes, 
and sweat shirt. Everybody is out to 
practice ; tonight is the last practice be- 
fore the game with Dalton, the strongest 
team in the league. 

"Okay, boys," calls the coach, "start 
that half-and-half drill." Everyone re- 
sponds to the order. Nets swish and 
basketballs bounce, Mr. Brown comes to 
the coach and sits beside him. 



"Pardon me, Mr. Ball," says Mr. 
Rrovvn, "but I think Junior ought to 
have got to play more last Friday. Now 
it isn't because he's my boy, but I think 
that he's a better player than Jones and 
he played the whole game." 

( Roy, what a spot !) "I'll tell you, Mr. 
I'.rown," the coach answers. "I didn't 
let Junior play very much last Friday 
because it was such an easy game. Maybe 
he'll play more next time." 

"I'm sure he will. Good evening." The 
visitor leaves. 

"Who the devil does he think he is?" 
the coach wonders, looking at the re- 
ceding back. "That kid couldn't play a 
good game of tiddly-winks. Some of 
these people think that their brats are the 



[22] 



only ones in school." About this time he 
sees Dave Smith trying a freaky back- 
hand shot from under the basket. 

"All right, Dave," he yells. "There 
aren't any photographers here, so cut out 
the horseplay." 

He steps on the Boor and blows his 
whistle. All of the players group around 
him, shoving for a position next to him. 
Everybody is feeling fine. He gives 
orders for a short scrimmage and lines 
up two teams. Things are going along 
swell. Now if only something doesn't 
happen. Five minutes later the coach 
sees Dave trying that crazy shot again. 
"All right. Flash," he calls, "you're 
through for tonight. Go down and 
dress." 

The embarrassed player goes out the 
door. A substitute is put in and prac- 
tice continues. Fifteen minutes later the 
squad is dismissed, and the coach goes 
to the local restaurant for dinner. 

Tuesday drags by ; Dave is mad and 
threatens to quit the team. He'll be back 
by game time — maybe. 

Tuesday evening comes. The squad 
files into the dressing room and begins 
to dress. The coach writes the lineup 
in the scorebook and starts giving in- 
structions. "Jones and Hart take the 
two forwards. Dave, you go to center. 
Charley, you and Blaine play guard. 
Now all of you listen ! Play this game 
slow tonight. They are faster than you, 
so don't take chances on losing that ball. 
That's all — wait ! Don't go up yet. 
There's plenty of time." 

Then the door opens, and big Jake 
Mooney comes in. Back in '29 Jake was 
a unive'rsity flash. "Hello, boys," he 
booms. "Everyone in fine shape, eh? 
Well, ril tell you just what to do. Go 
in there and fast break and shoot every 
chance you get !" 



"Good lord," thinks the coach, "who 
does he think he is ? I'll have to send the 
boys out and get 'em away from him." 
"Okay, boys," he yells, "let's go." 

The game starts. The home team gets 
the ball and begins to work as the coach 
has told them. Then the ball is passed 
to Dave, and he tries that ungodly shot 
that he was sent to the showers for. The 
ball goes out of bounds. The visiting team 
takes it, streaks down the floor to score. 

"Come on, boys, play her steady," mut- 
ters the coach. Just then Dave fires away 
again, and the ball goes over the bank- 
board. 

"What the hell made him do that?" the 
coach groans. "Bill, get in there in Dave's 
place and pass that ball." Dave comes 
out of the game, and the crowd begins to 
stamp their feet. 

"Put Junior in. Put Junior in!" That's 
Mr. Brown. 

"Fast break, fast break or you'll lose 
the game!" roars Jake. 

The first half ends ; the teams take 
their rest ; the people sit in the bleachers 
upbraiding the coach or commenting on 
the refereeing. The second half comes, 
and with it comes defeat to the home 
team. 

"Mr. Ball, I know we would have won 
if Junior had played," puts in Mr. 
Brown. 

"My god, coach, how do you expect to 
win with an offense as slow as that," 
moans Jake. 

"We lost the game when you took 
Dave out," counters Mr. Smith, shaking 
his head sadly. All of these accusations 
fly through the air at once. 

Finally, tired and disgusted, Mr. Ball 
reaches his room. Sitting on the bed, he 
resolves never to take another coaching 
job at twice the salary. 



[23] 



He's Tired 



Ruth Shaff 
Rhetoric I, Theme 14, 1940-19-11 



XTOW he just sits and smokes and 
^ ^ thinks. The pipe hangs droopily 
from the corner of his mouth, and saHva 
trickles down his wrinkled chin un- 
noticed, finally falling into the folds of 
his coffee-spotted vest. His bleary eyes 
stare blindly through the blue haze, and 
white streams of smoke issue from his 
nostrils in lazy spurts. His fingers move 
idly through the front lock of his white 
hair, pause at the temples, scratch. 
Scenes from the past drift through his 
mind in jumbled array. 

He hasn't always been old and useless. 
I can remember well the times when I 
toddled into his drugstore to ask for 
pennies. Those were the good old days 
when a drugstore window bore only a 
sign in Old English lettering such as: 

DRUGS & SUNDRIES 

T. H. FiLSON, Proprietor 

I held him in awe then. That little drug- 
store was his kingdom. He sat in his 
dingy shop in a sagging Morris chair and 
chewed the rag with some small-town 
politician, fixed radios, or mixed mys- 
terious solutions in the back room. Once 
or twice a fortnight he'd pass lightly 
over the showcases and tickle the odd- 
shaped bottles with an ancient feather 
duster. Smart salesmen loaded him with 
immovable stock, and his want-list re- 
mained unchecked for weeks. His win- 
dow display usually consisted of a giant, 
fl3'-specked laxative ad and was changed 
onl)- with each new season. The back 
room reeked of turpentine and chemicals, 
and stale smoke hung over the green- 
shaded lamp that lighted his table. Here, 



in this musty little drugstore, he puttered 
and smoked and chatted with friends. 

But he was a success in that way of 
life. He was a standpat Republican, a 
member of the town board and school 
board, and a respected business man in 
the community. A more stubborn man 
never existed. Democrats were all worth- 
less, all public officials deficient, neigh- 
bors' children spoiled, and prices too 
high. Yet, however grumpy he was when 
he had to open on Sunday for horse 
medicine or croup remedy, people still 
loved him. He spun endless yarns of the 
Hallowe'en pranks, bicycle trips, 'play 
parties," and skating sprees he had en- 
joyed in his youth. He ate hearty meals 
and wanted them served on time. The 
louder he cursed, the more the family 
humored him. He was the head of the 
household, then. 

The depression came. His spirit was 
hard to break, even after his business 
had failed. The cash register grew 
rusty, the shelves never emptied, and 
still he sat in the back of his store, wait- 
ing for times to get better. His bank 
account dwindled ; the house ran down. 
Finally he sold the store. His wife got 
a job in a larger town, and the family 
moved. He had to leave his home, where 
he was respected by men and feared by 
little children. In this new town he was 
just another jobless man, with white hair 
and a faltering walk. He tried to get 
work, but times were bad. and he valued 
his services far too highly. He washed 
dishes and cooked and swept. He grew 
more contrary and bitter. He stormed 
and cursed. Democrats were still worth-J 



24] 



less, public officials still deficient, prices 
still too high. Times would be better 
when the administration changed. 

But ten }'ears have passed, and his 
spirit is broken now. Coffee splashes 
onto his vest as his trembling hands 



raise the cup to his lips. His trousers are 
threadbare and wrinkled, his shoes are 
unshined. He can't earn a living for his 
family. 

He just sits and smokes and remem- 
bers things that happened long ago. 



Snake Water 

A. L. Potts 

Rhetoric I, Theme 14, 1940-1941 



ONE lazy summer day several years 
ago, my three cousins and I were 
loafing along the South Fork of the San- 
gamon River. We were in disgrace with 
our families because, the night before, 
we had got into a fight with some fellows 
from a nearby town, and had broken a 
boy's arm. Consequently, we were camp- 
ing out till things cooled off at home. 
As we rounded a bend in the river, we 
came upon a stretch of water known in 
those parts as "the snake water." 

At this point the river roughly re- 
sembles the letter Z. We had rounded 
the downstream curve of the Z, and 
were looking at the middle stretch. The 
stream is wide for the Sangamon at this 
point, and about four feet deep. The 
width, combined with the depth and the 
peculiar curves, makes the muddy, slug- 
gish water nearh- cease to flow. Willows 
crowd into the stream as if they are 
trying to choke it. Here the Sangamon 
seems more like a pond than a river. A 
pitiful story is connected with the 
naming of the snake water. 

Several years ago the willows did not 
grow so thickly, and the water flowed 
more swiftly. The boys and young men 
in the surrounding territory swam here 
regularly. One day a water moccasin 



was seen. That day marked the end of 
swimming here for a long time. 

One Sunday afternoon a young man 
was taking a short-cut past the snake 
water on his way home. When he 
noticed the old swimming-hole, he de- 
cided to take a little dip, just to do 
something he hadn't done in a long while. 

He stripped, poised on the bank, then 
cut the water with a dive. Powerful 
strokes pulled him through the water. 
He banked at the far end and started 
back. There was a splash behind him ; 
he felt scales scrape his back ; he felt a 
rending pain in his right shoulder. He 
turned to see an ugly, triangular black 
head drop out of sight beneath the 
muddy water. For a moment he was 
dazed ; then he realized that he had been 
bitten. He screamed and made for the 
nearest bank. Even as he scrambled 
frantically from the water, another moc- 
casin bit him on the leg. He ran, naked 
as he was, for home. 

A neighbor found his body the next 
day about a mile from the hole. He lay 
face downward. His fingers were dug 
into the ground, and his body was 
twisted grotesquely. His bitten leg and 
his head and shoulder were blue, almost 
black. His features were swollen almost 
beyond recognition, and from the swell- 



[25] 



ing and the discoloration it was obvious 
in what agon}' he had died. 

"Look," said Harold, "Snake Water." 

"Yeah," added Harrj', "that's where 
Johnny Wallace got his." 

"Nobody swims here any more," 
Howie said. "Bet you're scared to swim 
here, Potsie." 

"I'm not scared of anything," I 
boasted. I had lately got a reputation for 
courage by stealing melons from the very 
patch in which the farmer was working, 
and I'd talked about it so much that I 
actually believed mj-self fearless. Never- 
theless, I regretted the boast. 

"Talks big, don't he?" 

"You think I won't swim here?" I 
said, kicking off a shoe. 

"I know you won't." 

"Yeah? Listen, wise guy, if you'll 
carry my clothes to the other end of 
the snake water. I'll swim down there 
and be waiting for you." 

Howie agreed, and I unbuckled my 
overalls and stepped out of them. I un- 
dressed in silence, waiting for one of the 
fellows to tell me that he knew I was 
brave enough to take the swim. No one 
spoke. They were calling m}^ bluff. 

I shoved off my last sock and strode 
to the edge of the bank. As I stood 
poised for a dive, I could think of 
nothing but stories of Johnny's death. 
Here I was about to do the same fool- 
hardy thing that had killed him. Those 
willows must hide hundreds of cotton- 
mouths. Dragon-flies hung on quivering 



wings over the water. Where there were 
"snake-doctors" there were always 
snakes. Just as I was about to admit that 
I was afraid, Howie called, "What are 
you waiting for, lacy pants?" I tensed 
my legs to dive, but I couldn't. 

Harry called, "Look, kid, I know 
you've got guts. You'd better put your 
pants on and come along." That did it. 
Harry was the oldest of the four and my 
particular pal. I couldn't have him think 
I was a bluff'. I dived. 

The snake water hit me in the face and 
brought full realization of what I had 
done. For a moment I couldn't stroke. 
My feet sank into the soft mud of the 
bottom. Then I took oft". I know I never 
swam so fast in my life. I was con- 
scious onh' of swirling waters, throbbing 
fear, a constantly nearing bank. 

Scales brushed my leg. I thought, "Oh, 
God, here it is." I pulled harder, ex- 
pecting at any moment to feel cruel fangs 
slashing my flesh. But nothing happened. 

My hand touched the muddy bottom. 
As I rose to flounder to shore, I felt 
something coil tightly about my leg. I 
froze where I stood. As long as the snake 
remained under water, he couldn't bite 
me, but as soon as I left the river, he'd 
sink his fangs. My heart nearly stopped 
beating, I seized a stick, which was float- 
ing nearby, slid it down m}- leg, and tried 
to pry the hateful coils loose. They gave 
readily, and a pliant willow root rose to 
the surface. After two more steps I was 
on dry land. It was sorte time before I 
could put my clothes on. 



What's Wrong with Rhetoric? 

They made me rcsjistcr for Rhetoric in a class that meets at four o'clock. WTien 
the class is over I ride home on my bicycle, and by that time it is always dark. I am 
a no-handed bicycle rider — that is, I use no hands. No-handing is a sport that gives 
a sense of freedom to the soul, and an effortless gliding: motion to the body. But, 
after dark, it is dangerous. I often hit objects: people, automobiles, rocks, trees. 
This hurts me and makes me angry, and this is what I don't like about Freshman 
Rhetoric. — Wendell Winkelmann 



[26] 



The Treasure Hunt and How It Grew 



Martin Stoker 
Rhetoric II, Theme 5, 1939-1940 



THE Treasure Hunt started at eleven 
o'clock on a dreary and uninviting 
February night. The weather that night 
was chilly and biting, and the air, wet 
with dew, hung heavily over our heads. 
The ground was soggy, dotted with 
puddles and small mud holes. The dew 
was turning into rain, and the wind 
rustled the treetops. The night was dis- 
mally dark, the dull light from street 
lamps making only a soft dull glow 
around the lamp-post tops. Everyone 
had gone to bed now, and the world was 
quiet, save for the sound of our feet 
upon the pavement. A train whistle 
cracked the silence twice. The night was 
the kind that makes you want to go to 
bed early, or just to sit inside and read, 
or just to sit inside, or just to sit. It was 
anything but the night I would pick for 
my own treasure hunt. 

The first lap of the Treasure Hunt 
had been fairly easy. The note we got 
before leaving the house had directed us 
to a certain corner of the Old Gym. 
Slopping through the night, we soon 
reached the place. During the walk we 
sang songs, and called out joyously to 
one another, and the hunt seemed to be 
better than we had anticipated. 

The ease of the first leg of our search 
prompted Ralph Wilkins, one of the 
more exuberant of the pledges, to re- 
mark to me, "It isn't so bad, after all, is 
it, Bill?" No, it wasn't so bad, I thought. 
"Almost good clean fun," I said. But as 
Bob Niggot, the president of the pledge 
class, read the second note, the sky 
became dark again. 

"Go to a point 15 degrees west of the 
45 minute 30 second longitudinal line 



west of the prime meridian which abuts 
the back door of the British Broadcast- 
ing Company," Bob read. "Thence from 
a point chosen at random by dropping a 
pin which must be heard, proceed south- 
ward upon the dividing line between 
Champaign and Urbana for 678 paces. 
When this point has been attained, tack 
to west for the sum of seven blocks, then 
again to the south. Message No. 3 will 
be found reposing quietly at the base of 
a blinking red eye, the Bloody Eye, or 
how many did you drink?" 

Niggot was puzzled. "Go to a point — ." 
He mused over the note again. 

"Gee, I don't get this," he finally said. 

"Well, look," I interposed. "If we go 
south on Wright Street, we can't go 
be3ond the Librar}', so that must be 
where we tack west. That street ends at 
First, so we must go south there. And 
the bloody eyes are the two WILL 
radio towers." 

Everyone agreed immediately that my 
diagnosis of the note was penetrating. So 
we tacked south. As we passed the 
Place Where Friends Meet our crowd 
was growing very unhappy. Pledge- 
brother Wilkins was fast becoming 
morose. The wind and rain were becom- 
ing colder and wetter. So far I had 
remained fairly comfortable, and so far, 
too, I was not complaining. 

After we passed the Stadium our hunt 
suddenly began to turn grim. The blink- 
ing red lights of the radio towers had at 
first seemed to hug the city limits. But 
the farther we trudged along the muddy, 
cinder roads, the farther southward those 
blinking red lights seemed to retreat. I 
began to feel the cold. Perhaps I wasn't 



[27] 



dressed so warmly as I had thought. 

Long minutes later we approached the 
radio towers. They were tall, much taller 
than 1 had anticipated. Hidden away 
among the supporting girders at the bot- 
tom of one of the towers was our third 
note. Again we had to un jumble a jum- 
ble of navigation terms. Our third 
destination was the South Farm. 

"The South Farm," repeated Xiggot. 
"Where's that?" 

"Well, mini Nellie lives there, doesn't 
she?" someone brightly suggested. 

"Oh, I think I know," piped up Elmer 
Lambby, our Pershing Ritles man. 
"That's the place we sometimes take the 
horses in military. We were out there 
just the other day. It's over that way." 
He flung his arm to the east. 

"Oh, over that way, huh. How far?" 

"I don't know. Mile. Maybe two." 

"Yeah, and maybe three," I added 
glumly. 

Again the class set out. This time with 
no high spirits. This time cold. This 
time not singing. This time thoroughly 
disgusted with the whole thing. 

The cinder road from the radio towers 
to the South Farm proved no better than 
the one we had previously used. The 
wind and rain persisted. Everyone was 
wet ; there was no doubt about it now. 
Everyone was cold. But on we trudged, 
knowing full well it was folly to turn 
back. Disgruntled mutterings began to 
rise from our caravan. No one seemed 
to be enjoying the hunt. 

"Well, maybe this'U be the last one," 
Bob suggested. 

Kfo one w-anted to venture a guess. 
Everyone was quiet. 

"Yeah, and then again maybe it isn't," 
someone replied. 

"Well, every other class's done it, 
haven't they?" Bob defended no one in 
particular. 



"Well, sure, but I'll bet they didn't on 
a night like this one." 

We were coming to the South Farm 
now. Big brick barns, better than any 
other barns I had ever seen, were slowly 
taking form against the dismal sky. Even 
if this wasn't the end of the hunt, I told 
myself, at least we had completed an- 
other leg — at least we were that much 
nearer the end, nearer home, nearer bed. 

"It's supposed to be over by this silo 
somewhere," Niggot said. We began 
scratching in the mud. We found the 
note and breathlessly awaited its order. 
In sadness and anger we heard our next 
stop was not home but the Stadium. 
We had passed the Stadium on the way 
to the radio towers. What kind of 
business was this ! 

This was the Treasure Hunt, I sadly 
told myself. Yes, the Hunt. The yearly 
Hunt. It was done ever}^ year. Yeah, 
it was traditional. Yeah, sure. Yeah, we 
were on the damn thing. We were doing 
our part. And it was cold. It was rain- 
ing. The wind was blowing. The fog 
was nasty. I didn't like it. My legs were 
tired. I was tired. I wanted to go to bed. 

We found our note under Seat 20 in 
Row LL of the Stadium. Bob's voice 
cracked hoarsely as he read the message. 
"Go home, you frogs. Cold, isn't it?" 

"Home! God, a bed!" someone 
shouted, and soon the cry rang from 
one end of the line to the other. 

Yes, we were going home. At last thei 
hunt was over. Happy, singing again, 
wc started. The night, cold and dark 
and rain\- as it was, seemed more] 
friendly now. We were making plenty 
of noise, singing and laughing and 
shouting. Suddenly a car turned down 
the road and a swinging spotlight pierced j 
the dark and found its target on us. 

"The cops !" 

One shout was enough. We left the] 



[281 



road as if a giant plow had been driven 
through our group. I ran to the stables 
on the north side of the road and 
stumbled clumsily and numbly over the 
iron fence. The darkness was impene- 
trable. I jumped quickly over, close to 
the side of the stables and lit in — some- 
thing. The car with the spotlight passed 
slowly by, apparently not searching for 



anyone. I felt around myself. Had I — ? 
I smelled the air. Yes, dammit, I had. 

From then on home the journey was 
short. I wanted a shower and a bed, 
and relentlessly I pushed my tired legs 
toward that goal. 

"Lotta fun, wasn't it, guys?" Niggot 
said later, in a steaming hot shower. 

"Yeah, lotta fun," everyone agreed. 



Forty-Niners by Archer Butler Hulbert 



Dorothy Johnson 
Rhetoric II, Dl, 1940-1941 



THE diary of a fictitious Argonaut of 
the gold-rush days of '49, based on 
actual contemporaneous journals, consti- 
tutes the framework for A. B. Hulbert's 
Forty-Niners. A record of the experi- 
ences of a party of forty-niners on the 
2,200 - mile trek from Independence, 
Missouri, to Hangtown, California, it 
presents in a new light the timeworn 
tale of the heroic struggles of our an- 
cestors over "plain, desert, butte, moun- 
tain, river, and ravine" to a land of "milk 
and honey and gold." The expedition is 
comprised not of the conventional family 
with a poorly equipped covered wagon, 
but of thirty male adventurers led by the 
indomitable Captain Meek and possess- 
ing "sixteen masterpieces of wagon 
building." Their experiences — the in- 
evitable hazards of such a journey 
granted — are not the dire hardships 
which less fortunate forty-niners suf- 
fered, but are comparatively successful. 
With a minimum of difficulty, they meet 
and overcome every obstacle, finding a 
challenge in each succeeding one with 
which they are confronted. They are 
eager to "see the elephant" — that is, to 
undergo the privations of the California 



trip and to arrive at their destination. 
The securing of gold, their primary 
objective, is subordinated throughout the 
book to the lure of the unknown. As the 
narrator says, ". . . . this California 
trail spreads its line along the way with 
great cunning." 

But while the relatively fortunate 
events of the trip are being told, the 
reader is never permitted to lose sight of 
the misery of other, less well-equipped, 
and less well-manned trains. The "hor- 
rible, precipitous ravines" of Ash Hol- 
low, the "tortuous Sweetwater," the 
"poison water in the ghostly Goose Creek 
Mountains," the "Valley of the Alkali 
Shadow of Death," are described in the 
authentic phrases of an eye-witness. 

Casting the story into the form of a 
diary is highly effective in that it pro- 
vides an actual account of the California 
gold rush. The tremendous amount of 
detail, however, and the short accounts 
of daily incidents necessarily included in 
such a diary, are difficult to remember 
and, in the main, are irrelevant to the 
story as a whole. Consequently, if one 
fails to keep in mind the fact that the 
book is a diary, it frequently seems 



[29] 



choppy and disconnected and becomes 
difficult to follow. 

The by-play in which the author in- 
dulges — that of introducing contempo- 
raneous comic illustrations and songs 
sung by the way (the songs collected for 
the first time in this book) — greatly 
enhances the reader's enjo}'ment of the 
story. Who would not appreciate a 
cartoon depicting any one of the crazy 
whims of a forty-niner in search of gold? 
Or what better expresses the spirit of the 
gold rush than 'Oh ! Susanna," or the 
following ditty: 

In spirits we will keep ourselves, — 
The Metal's coming in, Sir. 
And not a man will now be found 
Who'll say he wants for 'tin,' Sir? 

An interesting sidelight to the main 

account of the journey is found in the 

references to the followers of Brigham 

Young and the description of their 



"Paradise" in the desert. Most of the 
remarks concerning the Mormons were 
utterly fallacious, having been concocted 
b}- those who were envious of the suc- 
cess of the Mormon colony and having 
been kept alive by the prejudice of each 
new tide of emigrants. But creditable 
reports were also broadcast — especially 
by those who had sought and foimd 
relief in the new-found city. That the 
place was a virtual paradise compared 
to the dust}', parched trail no one denied. 
Perhaps no more authentic modem 
chronicle of the California gold rush 
could be found than the Forty-Niners; 
for Mr. Hulbert wrote from the jwint 
of view of one whose purpose it was not 
merely to seek gold but also to record 
his day-by-day impressions of the sweep- 
ing drama in which he played so vital a 
role. 



I 
I 



You Americans, edited by B. P. Adams 



John W. Ostrem 

Rhetoric I, Theme 11, 1940-1941 



THE phrase edited by gives the clue 
that You Americans is not a book 
authored by one person, but rather a col- 
lection of compositions b\' several 
authors. Fifteen foreign correspondents 
of unusual economic, political, and social 
insight contributed essays interpreting 
American life, particularly in its relation 
to their own countries. I have found this 
to be a totally absorbing, although dis- 
quieting, book. 

Although each contribution was writ- 
ten by its author separately and without 
reference to the thesis of another's work, 
there is a striking relationship in several 
of the articles — namely, those written by 
South Americans. 



It takes no expert at psychoanalysis to 
perceive the fiery jealousy which prompts 
the Chilean correspondent to write his 
criticisms of the United States. He 
points out the similarity in the rise and 
fall of South America and North Amer- 
ica. Relating how South .\merica was 
prosperous and cultured, while the 
United States was still a wilderness, and 
how through unproductiveness and dis- 
sension South America separated into 
numerous little pseudo-republics, he at- 
tempts to show that this country is fol- 
lowing the same general course and that 
soon South America will surpass us. To 
support his conclusion he describes this 
country's falling birthrate, slowing of 



[30] 



production, falling off of exports, and 
weak politicians, who cater to the wishes 
of the public. He is amazed, however, 
at the way in which America has dif- 
fused its achievements in science among 
the common people. Ancient Rome had 
the equivalent of modern plumbing and 
central heating, but only in the palaces of 
the proconsuls. In spite of this wide- 
spread diffusion of the results of science, 
however, when one-third of the popula- 
tion depends directly or indirectly on the 
government for sustenance, he says it is 
difficult to believe that a system of 
private enterprise prevails. His Argen- 
tine cohort chimes in with a similar note 
of disaster. He says, and not without 
considerable economic perception, that 
now that the frontier has disappeared, 
America must look to some solution to 
her economic problems other than free 
land. A fellow Latin from Italy fore- 
sees the slow decay of America due to 
the inadequacy of our system of distri- 
bution. Distribution is, of course, a 
problem — a problem which must be 
solved : but the United States is still a 
growing country in many ways and must, 
as a matter of course, cope with serious 
economic problems. 

As if in answer to these critics, a 
Hungarian relates the intelligent way in 
which Americans discuss and solve their 
problems. A Norwegian answers the 
Latins' argument by stating that, al- 
though the geographical frontier has 
been swept away, there still exists the 



frontier of the mind — that is, we are not 
contented with the advantages we now 
possess ; we are always striving for those 
objectives conjured up by the mind. He 
concludes his argument with this state- 
ment: "America has everything, wealth, 
brains, and ambition. It is collecting 
talents of a score of races as oppression 
sweeps Europe and Asia. Whatever hap- 
pens in Europe, the future is .\merica's." 

Some foreign views of the tj'pical 
American differ greatly from our own. 
For instance, a Mexican tells us that we 
are more deeply religious than his own 
supposedly devout people. Hard and 
Yankee go together, but according to this 
observer we are really soft. The fact 
that the adjective gregarious is used 
throughout the book in defining the 
American people suggests that others do 
not share our prized conception of 
Yankee individualism. 

Often in a book authored by one man, 
discussion swings around a single 
thought or idea. This, of course, could 
not be true of You Americans. Each 
author had a new idea, a fresh viewpoint, 
or an argumentative answer to another's 
statement. The freshness and variety of 
these ideas, moreover, increase the value 
of the book, for the opinions held by a 
foreign correspondent are significant, 
since they are a reflection of his coun- 
try's attitude toward the United States 
and an indication of what his coimtr)' is 
being led to believe about the United 
States. 



:3i] 



Rhet as Writ 



(Material written in Rhetoric I and II) 



The two Beavers were trying very hard 
to dam the creek, and each time they 

would try again The thought I 

had in mind when watching the Beavers 
reminded me of Boulder Dam. The men 
who worked on the dam looked like 
Beavers because they worked on and on 
even at night. The dam had many diffi- 
cult things of their own to plan out as 
the Beavers. 

Then came the final event. The two 
men took their places at the starting line. 
It was to be a hundred 3'ard dash. 
Smith's knees wobbled slightly, and then 
they were oflf. 

• • • • 

In the mean time her husband who 
comes back from England lives with the 
jjreacher not letting him know that he 



was the husband of the girl he had il- 
legally gave a baby too. 

This book helped me to increase my 
vocublarly. 

True platonic friendships are rare, and 
they are usually culminated by marriage 
which legalizes the offspring of the 
friendship. 

In my senior year I don't remember 
of writing but only 1 theme. But I do 
not believe that it was our instructor's 
fault because we didn't have to take our 

last year English In my other 3 

years of school, we studied a good deal 
of grammar but the only critizism I have 
is that we did not have to write enough 
theme to practise of it. 



32] 



Honorable Mention 

Allyn Agdesteen — College Conversation 

Lucille Albin — Life on a Mississippi Cotton Plantation 

Arabelle Birge — Tracy 

Burton Brody — It Could Happen Here 

James Brown — New England Hurricane 

George Clark — Bah ! Humbug ! 

Fern Freedman — The Negro Makes Music 

Eunice Gore — Are You Guilty? 

BuELL HuGGiNS — Senseless Art 

John M. Hunter — The Increase in Governmental Activity 

Dorothy Johnson — The Range of Chaucer's Humor 

Mary Elaine Johnson — Days of Our Years 

Dorothy Joost — Miss Effie 

Christy Knaak — Daydreamers 

John Levensohn— //e// on Trial 

Alberta Menzel — As Different as Black and White 

Pauline Mitchel — Musical Training for Children 

John Podraza — Alcatraz Island 

William E. Pugh — The Wearing of the Green 

Paul Schutz — A Meek Attempt at Prophecy 

Richard Shotliff — Eddy May 

Lois Slyder — The Importance of Living 

Harold Sussman — Credo 

Robert Wolff — My Home Town Newspaper 




TABLE OF CONTENTS 

I LIKE HER— A LOT! 1 

Eunice Gore 

CORRUPTION AND EFFICIENCY IN 

MACHINE-POLITICS 4 

George R. Clark 

MAY THE EAST WIND NEVER BLOW . . . H 
Lucy Cundifl 

I'M GOING TO BE A CHEMIST 12 

Blossom Zeldman 

WOMEN IN CHEMISTRY 15 

Mary E. Smashey 

PAGE 213 16 

Bennett Sherman 

THE CORSICAN AND THE HOUSE-PAINTER . 17 
Doris Eleanor Scott 

IN DEFENSE OF RHETORIC THEMES ... 19 
Sheldon Leavitt 

"STRANGE FRUIT" 20 

Harold Sussman 

THE SPANISH SPORT 21 

William Preston Albaugh 

LET'S WIN BACK LATIN-AMERICA 25 

Paul Youle 

THE PROBLEMS OF A CUSTOMER 27 

Richard A. Roberts 

SENSELESS ART 28 

Buell Dwight Huggins 

"THE GREEN PASTURES" by Marc Connelly . . 31 
Edward Holmgren 

RHET AS WRIT J2 

(Material written in Rhetoric I and II) 



No. 4 



iMJ\}K 




PUBLISHED BY UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS, URBANA 



T. 



HE Green Caldron is published four times a year by the 
Rhetoric Staff at the University of Illinois. Material is chosen 
from themes and examinations written by freshmen in the Uni- 
versity. Permission to publish is obtained for all full themes, 
including those published anonymously. Parts of themes, how- 
ever, are published at the discretion of the committee in charge. 

The committee in charge of this issue of The Green Caldron 
includes Miss Alberta Menzel, Miss Jeannette Ross, Miss 
Ruth .Shames, Miss Shirley Shapiro, Mr. Kenneth An- 
drews, Mr. Robert Geist, Mr. John Hunter, and Mr. Charles 
.Shattuck, Chairman. 

The Green Caldron is for sale at the Illini Union Bookstore, 
715 South Wright Street, Champaign, Illinois. 



I 



THE GREEN CALDRON 

COPYRIGHT 1941 
BY the university OF ILLINOIS 

All rights reserved 
No part of this periodical may be repro- 
duced in any form without permission in 
writing from the publisher. 



I Like Her— A Lot! 



Eunice Gore 
General Diz-ision I, Theme IS, 1940-1941 



IT wasn't that my mother minded my 
coming. By all means not ! But my 
three brothers, ages one to four, all had 
the measles, and m}- father, the biggest 
baby, had just been put to bed with his 
second case of measles. All in all, I don't 
suppose I picked a very opportune time, 
but nevertheless I decided to be born. 
My coming was very typical of the life 
I lead now that I am here. My whole 
life has been surrounded by four boys 
(including Father) and Mom, who is 
forever giving us nasty pills to swallow, 
but who always has a piece of chocolate 
ready in the other hand. We live what 
I always took to be a normal life. We 
dislike having company because then we 
can't tell dirty jokes at the table ; we 
cried like babies when my oldest brother 
got married ; Mom is forever telling 
Father he must put on a white shirt ; 
my youngest brother is the best-looking 
and most conceited boy I have ever 
known ; Mom still can't comb her own 
hair ; we have lived in a ten-room house 
for the past eighteen years ; I have never 
been refused anything in my life ; we are 
all good at music ; Father owns a book- 
binding factory ; we never know what to 
get Mom or Father for their anniversary 
and inevitably buy something useless : 
Jerry has made a five-point for the past 
two years ; Father is an atheist ; my 
family insists on calling me "Sister" ; 
my brothers are all over six feet and I 
am exactly five ; neither Mom nor Father 
ever got past high school — Al graduated 
from Northwestern two years ago — 
Jerry graduates from Illinois this spring 
— Mel will be a law3'er in two years — 
I'm still here. 



It was only when I came into contact 
with so many rrew people here at college 
that I discovered that I and my family 
and our way of life were not normal; 
my new friends called us "original." To 
my further astonishment I found this 
was meant to be a compliment — and who 
was I to discourage them ? It seems that 
I am a rare bird, because — I enjoy talk- 
ing to my history teacher ; I continually 
cut my hair ; I bring negroes into the 
house ; I ask boys to take me for a walk ; 
I don't give a damn what people think of 
me ; I swear like a street-girl ; I never 
used lip-stick until I came to college ; I 
never hesitate to say what is on my 
mind ; I have a scar between my eyes ; 
I despise high heels ; I wake up each 
morning at six-thirty ; I play Bach well ; 
my hair is naturally curly ; I take a 
shower every morning ; I answer my mail 
promptly ; I've been going steady for the 
past five years ; one Sunday afternoon I 
refused a date and went to an organ 
recital instead. Now that just shows 
you ; I can't possibly be normal. 

• ■ • • 

"How can you tell whether the baby 
is a boy or a girl?" I asked this bright 
question at the age of four, and I haven't 
lowered my voice at the end of a sen- 
tence yet. I have always allowed my 
curiosity to go where it will. After all, 
what fun would there be in life if you 
couldn't at least ask "why?" Why does 
the moon follow us ? Why do mosquitoes 
bite? Why does minus one, plus minus 
one, equal plus two? Why does Hitler 
win? Why do boys want to kiss girls? 
Why do voices come over the air? Why 
do cocoons turn into butterflies? Why 



[ 1 



was Roosevelt elected? Why do I be- 
lieve in God? Why haven't I a date 
for Saturday night? 

I have asked many questions, silently 
of myself, openly of others. Some have 
been answered, but verj- few to mv satis- 
faction. I will continue to ask questions 
because questions are all I can think of. 
I will continue to ask questions until my 
curiosity has been satisfied. When that 
day comes, I hope the good Lord has 
sense enough to take me from this earth. 

Ever since the time we were babies, 
if my brothers wanted anything, they 
always had me ask for it. They knew 
that neither my father nor mother would 
refuse me anything. It's not that my 
parents love me more than they love my 
brothers. It's just that they couldn't 
pamper my brothers; they grew up too 
fast; they left home too soon; they 
became independent. My parents decided 
that I was to be the spoiled, petted child ; 
I was to have anything my heart desired. 
I have never been disappointed. I have 
been brought up with the belief that my 
slightest wish was their command. It is 
all summed up in something my grand- 
mother always said to me: "Du bist ein 
heilig kind." You are a sacred child. T 
was treated as such all my life. T find 
it very hard to have it otherwise. 

• « • • 

"Sis, that's one thing I like about you. 
You're not a lady." So think my brothers. 
They are, unfortunately, the only ones 
who feel that way. It seems that one of 
my worst faults is that I insist upon 
doing everything that will mark me as 
unladylike. Only the other day I was 
reprimanded for sitting on the floor 
while listening to a concert. A tall man 
dressed in a dark suit informed me that 
there were plenty of seats available. I 
sat on a chair until he left. It's not that 



I don't know how to be a lady. When I 
remember and try, I do a very good imi- 
tation, but when I'm perfectly natural 
I'm forever being reminded to act my 
age and be a lady. And so I try, but 
it's very hard. I still can't see why I 
have to wear shoes in the summer time, 
when all I walk on is dirt. I know it's 
proper to say "How do you do" to the 
chaperons, but they always look stuffy 
and uninterested. I've been told, I don't 
know how many times, to keep my el- 
bows oflf the table, but they get tired in 
my lap. I know it's wrong to swear at a 
boy when he steps on my foot while 
dancing, but when he does it all evening 
— well, there's a limit. I know I do the 
wrong things a lot of times. I try so 
hard to be a lady, but damn it, it's very 
dull. 

I remember my grandmother praying. 
She would place a white shawl about her 
head, look out the window a second, 
light the candles, and with her hands 
over the flames say, "Boruch atch ado- 
shem, elohanu meloch hoelum." She 
would finish her prayer, look at me and 
smile. "Gott, mein kind, Gott." God, 
my child, God. 

I can see my father at Rosh Hashonu, 
buying the family a block of tickets for 
the holiday services. The rabbi would 
ask him whether he would be at the 
services also. "Hell, no," he would say, 
and laugh loudly. 

Aly grandmotlier was the wife of a 
rabbi ; my father was a believer only in 
himself. They let me decide for myself. 

They sent me to a Hebrew grade 
school ; they sent me to an ultra-modern, 
painless Sunday School ; they sent me to i 
hear Dr. Preston Bradley. None of these] 
made much difference to me. I didn'ti 
know. I didn't care. 

A month before my grandmother died,! 
she lost her memory. Someone whoj 



[ 2 ] 



understood Yiddish had to be near her at 
the hospital all the time. They gave the 
job to me. Grandmother didn't have 
much to say to me, but she talked con- 
stantly. She talked to God. I can't get 
those four weeks out of my mind. She 
wasn't begging for a miracle ; she wasn't 
asking the magician for favors. She was 
simply talking to someone she knew very 
well, to someone she had trusted and 
loved all her life. She was talking to 
God. 

I sat for hours at a time, half-listening 
to her mumbling. There must be some- 
thing to this God, I thought. There must 
be, if a woman can spend her whole life 
believing in what m}' father said was the 
bunk. I started to believe in God. I 
began to have faith. 

The day they buried my grandmother 
was fresh with spring. As they lowered 
the white casket into the earth, it seemed 
as if it must be true. 

• • • • 

I Hke boys. They are the only class of 
the vertebrates I can talk to except dogs ; 
they are the only humans that will listen 
to me except my mother. Not boys just 
to sit and hold my hand (I have one of 
those, too), but boys as friends, com- 
panions — someone to go for a walk with 
on Saturday morning ; someone to listen 
to the symphony with ; someone to miss 
me when I'm not there ; someone to talk 
to when I have something to say; some- 
one to take me swimming; someone I 
can telephone without his thinking I'm 
chasing him ; someone I can eat supper 
with on Sunday night, paying my own 
way; someone to ask me what I think 
about a book ; someone I can confide in ; 
someone to whom I can speak as I 
please; someone who thinks I'm more 
than a date ; someone who'll trust me and 
ask my opinion ; someone who says when 
he hears my name, "Euni ? Sure I know 



Euni. She's my friend." This is the kind 
of boy I like. This is the only kind of 
boy I care about. 

• • • • 

GIRLS— FOO ! 

They say you're awful if you kiss him twice. 
They say you're a prude if you don't. 
They say you're a crock if you don't go out, 
They say you're loose if you do. 
They wear your stockings and return them 

unwashed. 
They wear your clothes without permission. 
They don't like to walk because it hurts their 

feet. 
They don't like to talk because they've nothing 

to talk about. 
They never eat bread, just two pieces of pie. 
They're forever borrowing your nail polish. 
They judge your conquests by the number of 

bids. 
They always wear tight yellow sweaters. 
They spout secrets as if they were seeds of an 

orange. 
They gossip day after day. 
Now don't get me wrong. 
It's just that I don't like girls. 



A piggy bank without pennies is an 
empty, hollow thing. Only until it is 
being fed copper is its full usefulness and 
importance felt and known. That is how 
I am about music. I exist without music ; 
my body flourishes as well as usual, but 
the hollow, empty feeling needs to be 
filled. 

My whole life has been surrounded by 
music. My mother always sang while 
peeling potatoes or baking a cake ; we 
were awakened each morning by Father's 
deep voice singing a Russian love song 
or Take Me Out to the Ball Game; we 
each started the piano at the age of ten, 
and at twelve we were allowed to choose 
any other instrument we wished ; each 
afternoon, from three to five, was spent 
in practicing or listening to the flute, 
clarinet, and saxophone going at the same 
time. To this day we must perform for 
company, the four of us — Al, Mel, Jerry, 
and I — all chiming in on The Golden 
Wedding, the only thing we can play 
together that people ever recognize. We 



[ 3 ] 



always tune in the opera and symphony 
on Saturdays and Sundays. We have 
passed manj' rainy evenings in the 
country by a continual concert, either of 
records or of our own interpretations 
of the masters. 

Music to me has come to mean that 
part of life which is the happiest. Ciio- 
pin's Polonaise always means a spring 
Sunday morning, with my brother play- 
ing, his mcjuth stutTed with waflle ; Mo- 
zart's fortieth symphony — Mom and 
Father's anniversary, and tears in their 



eyes as we dedicate the newly learned 
symphony to them ; Mom and Father 
dancing to Strauss waltzes ; all six of us 
piling into the car and celebrating 
Thanksgiving by hearing Jascha Heifitz. 
Eunice Gore? Well, I think she's a 
rather nice kid. She has her faults, but 
then so does everyone else ; she has her 
good points. She laughs at off-colored 
jokes ; she cried during Gone until the 
Wind. I guess she's ordinary, run-of- 
the-mill .... I guess I'm prejudiced, 
because I like her . . . . a lot ! 



Corruption and Efficiency in Machine - Politics 



George R. Clark 
Rhetoric II, Theme 8, 1940-1941 



THE year 1931 brought more than 
breadlines, bank failures, and bank- 
ruptcies to the citizens of Chicago — it 
brought them a new mayor, Anton J. 
Cermak. The uninformed person might 
well ask, "What is so spectacular about 
that?" The answer was not very clear 
in 1931, but three years later it was be- 
coming more and more apparent as each 
day sped on. Now, in 1941, the answer 
is known to thousands of people all over 
the United States: tlie election of Mayor 
Cermak was the cornerstone in the build- 
ing of one of the world's most astute and 
efficient political organizations — the 
Kelly-Nash machine. Tn looking back 
over the long road the machine has 
traveled since that first triumph, we arc 
able to see vividly the reasons why it now 
exists. Perhaps reform movements would 
achieve a great deal more if they fol- 
lowed some of the basic princii)les exem- 
plified by the machine. Let us look into 
the history of the political rulers of the 
second largest city in the Western 
Hemisphere and see how master crafts- 



men have constructed a master machine. 
Anton J. Cermak, known to both 
friend and foe as "Tony," did not be- 
come mayor through any surprise upris- 
ing of the Democratic party. On the 
contrary, he started in local politics at 
the very bottom and moved upward, 
organizing as he went, from precinct 
captain to state assemblyman, chief bailiff 
of the Municipal Court, alderman (twen- 
ty-second ward), president of the Cook 
County Board, and finally, mayor. In 
additioti to holding these ])ositions. Cer- 
mak also included real estate and banking j 
among his occupations. From this | 
glimjjse at his career we can easily see , 
that Cermak must have possessed many 
special qualities of leadership and a de- 
cided flair for organizing. From 1915 1 
until 1931, "Big Bill" Thompson and thej 
Republicans had control of Chicago, but] 
Cermak won for himself the title of the I 
"master politician" by wresting the rulej 
of Cook County from them and estab-i 
lishing himself as president of the Cook] 
Countv Boaril, an office often considered! 



( 4 



the mayorship of Cook County. Before 
Cermak's rise to this position, the Demo- 
crats' power in city poHtics was being 
weakened by internal dissension centered 
chiefly upon the all-important race ques- 
tion.^ The Irish dominated the Demo- 
cratic ward organizations and naturally 
named Irishmen to all important posts. 
The flaw lay in expecting Jews, Bohe- 
mians, Swedes, Poles, Dutchmen, and 
Italians to vote for them- — something 
that* these "unprivileged races had no 
intention of doing." Cermak broadened 
the sphere of Democratic control in 
Chicago by enlisting the support of a 
large number of races who previously 
had only known what it was to be gov- 
erned without enjoying the satisfaction 
of governing."^ This enlisting of all races 
was of tremendous importance, as sixty 
per cent of Chicago's population is either 
foreign born or of first or second genera- 
tion foreign extraction: 433,000 Ger- 
mans; 220,000 Scandinavians; 194,000 
Irish: 182,000 Italians ; 170,000 Russian 
Jews ; 122,000 Czechs ; and 108,000 Eng- 
lish : plus a sizable number of Lithu- 
, anians, Yugoslavs, Hungarians, non-Rus- 
sian Jews, Greeks, Rumanians, Hol- 
landers, Mexicans, Persians, French, 
Swiss, Belgians, Luxemburgers, Finns, 
Filipinos, Chinese, Latvians, and Japan- 
ese.* Add to these the racial unit of the 
Negroes, of which there are 234,000. 
Cermak's new system of handling the 
racial problem was summed up by "Big 
Bill" Thompson when he quipped, "It 
used to be Tinkers to Evers to Chance 
and the Giants were out ; now it's Cer- 
mak to Szymczak (city comptroller) to 
Zintak (clerk of county court) and the 
Irish are out."^ 

In 1931 Cermak inherited from his 
defeated opponent, Thompson, a munici- 
pal government that seemed to be on the 
verge of a complete financial breakdown. 



The taxpayers owed the city $240,000,- 
000 in taxes, wages for school teachers 
were six months in arrears, and banks 
were crashing on all sides.'' Better Gov- 
ernment leagues took one long look at 
Thompson's cabinet of advisors during 
his last term as mayor and were almost 
stunned into passivity. Their reaction 
seems justified when one recalls that the 
Corporation Counsel was Sam Ettelson, 
former Insull attorney; and the City 
Sealer was Dan Serritella, "generally 
reputed to have been Al Capone's repre- 
sentative in the city administration."' 
Cermak pitched in with all his character- 
istic energy to bring order out of chaos. 
He cut the city's budget twenty-five per 
cent in 1932 and set about restoring the 
city's good name in financial circles.* 

On February 16, 1933, a stray bullet 
wrote the first words in the last chapter 
of Anton J. Cermak's brilliant career as 
a politician and administrator. While 
chatting with President-elect Franklin 
Roosevelt, "Tony" was struck by a bullet 
intended for Roosevelt ; and on March 
6, after a remarkable struggle for life, 
the "master-politician" of Chicago passed 
away, leaving the mayor's chair and the 
party boss' position unoccupied. 

Edward J. Kelly, the man who has 
succeeded Mayor Cermak, came up to the 
City Hall by a long, hard route. Iden- 
tified with the Sanitary District of Chi- 
cago from 1894 until 1933, Kelly held 
down, at one time or another, every job 
in the service, working successively as 

'"Kelly-Nash Machine," Fortune, 14 (Aug. 
1936), 114. 

'Ibid. 

'Ibid.. 115. 

'Ibid. 

'W. H. Stuart, The T-ccentv Incredible 
Years, 497. 

"C. W. Gilbert, "Czech Reign," Colliers, 91 
(Jan. 7, 1933), 21. 

'V. O. Key, Jr., "The Unholy Alliance," 
Survey Graphic, 23 (1934), 473 f. 

'Gilbert, op. cit. 



I S ] 



axmaii, rodman, computer, head in- 
spector, levelman, instrument man. sub- 
stitute assistant engineer, assistant engi- 
neer, assistant chief engineer, and chief 
engineer. This battle for success by a 
good-natured, hard-working Irishman 
was paralleled by his simultaneous ad- 
vancement as a practical politician. As 
an illustration of the latter, Kelly was 
appointed .South Park Board commis- 
sioner by Circuit Court in 1922 and was 
elected president of the Board in 1924; 
he served as commissioner until 1927 and 
as president until 1934. 

As president of the South Park Board 
and chief engineer of the Sanitary Dis- 
trict, Kelly earned a place of prominence 
among municipal officials for his many 
accomplishments, which include the 
building of Soldier Field, seating 100,000 
people, the restoration and conversion of 
the Fine Arts Building into the well- 
known Rosenwald Museum of Science 
and Industry, and the improvement of 
Grant Park, which is located on re- 
claimed land on the shore of Lake Mich- 
igan. One of Kelly's most clever political 
moves during this period was the con- 
solidating of all park districts, thus 
putting himself in charge of seventy 
miles of parks and boulevards. 

In 1933, Edward Kelly was appointed 
mayor of Chicago, to serve out the un- 
expired term of Anton J. Cermak. His 
appointment was sponsored by Patrick 
A. Nash, Democratic National Commit- 
teeman and sewer contractor. Strange 
though it ma}' seem, Xash's being a con- 
tractor probably had a great deal more 
to do with Kelly's selection than Nash's 
being the titular head of the party. While 
Kelly was chief engineer for the Sanitary 
District, Nash Brothers received $8,000,- 
000 in contracts, and Dowdle Brothers, 
Nash's nephews, received $4,000,000 in 
contracts from tlic District." During this 



same time the famous McCormick "bridle 
path" was built of cinders that the Sani- 
tary District gave away, then purchased 
back from private contractors.*" Thus 
the selection of Kelly for mayor, a selec- 
tion that the people themselves had no 
voice in, was to a greater or lesser degree 
the paying oflF of old obligations and at 
the same time securing a strong, politi- 
cally acceptable man for the mayor's 
chair. 

As soon as Mayor Kelly was firmly 
entrenched in his new position, his 
thoughts and actions were turned to- 
wards the mayoralty election of 1935. 
It was of vital importance to the stand- 
ing of the Democrats in Illinois that 
Kelly be re-elected by an overwhelming 
popular vote, for President Roosevelt 
had not yet quite forgotten how Cermak 
and the Illinois delegation had fought for 
Al Smith at the National Convention in 
1932." There seems to be little doubt 
that the Chicago Democrats had to put 
on a good show in 1935 to prove to 
President Roosevelt that they were not 
only on his side but possessed a pow- 
erful vote-getting machine," which could 
prove very useful in the impending 1936 
presidential election. In preparing for 
the big show of 1935, Chicago's first 
"grade AAA" political machine was es- 
tablished. Before delving into the com- 
plex mechanism of the famous Kelly- 
Nash machine, it might be best, first, to 
consider briefly just what a "machine" is 
and what is its real objective. An excel- 
lent definition states that "a 'machine' is 
a group of men who obey the orders of a 
boss in return for political jobs, and pre- 
requisites an organization that trades 

""Kelly-Nash Machine." Fortune, 14 (Aug. 
1936), 125. 

'"Ibid.. 126. 

"\V. H. Stuart, of. cit . 494 

""Kelly-Nash Machine." fortune, 14 (Aug. 
1936). 119 (T. 



I 6 ] 



with other people's money for votes." 
The immediate objective of a machine is 
to produce votes, "the production of 
which are the condition of its survival."" 

Like all other political machines, the 
Chicago model has in addition to the 
"boss" — Mayor Edward J. Kelly — men 
behind the scenes in key spots in the 
city's structure. First of all, credit 
must be given to the man who laid the 
foundation, Cermak. Then we have 
County Judge Edmund W. Jarecki, who 
insists that "less than ten per cent of 
Chicago's vote is fraudulent."" His offi- 
cials are the ones that permit the very 
helpful "less than ten per cent." We 
cannot forget Patrick A. Nash, whom 
we have mentioned before as having the 
most to do with Kelly's appointment — 
thus the name, Kelly-Nash machine. Of 
late, Jacob Arvey, twenty-fourth ward 
alderman, has been taking over a good 
deal of the aging Nash's work. Arvey 
is given credit for achieving a modern 
political miracle in the 1936 primary 
when he deHvered his ward for Kelly 
and Bundensen against Horner. "This 
is a remarkable feat when one considers 
that Bundensen was born in Germany, 
Kelly is an Irishman, while the ward and 
Horner are both Jewish. It is even more 
remarkable when one realizes that pri- 
mary day was on the Passover, when 
no orthodox Jew was supposed to mark 
paper."^^ This is just an example of the 
almost unbelievable power and influence 
of a well-oiled machine, like the one now 
operating in Chicago. 

It was stated above that the objective 
of a machine is to produce votes, the 
production of which is to win elections. 
The student of "practical" politics finds 
that a Chicago election is unsurpassed as 
an example of the steal, lie, cheat, buy, 
and smash type of election. Too often, 
however, the city's elections are con- 



demned outright, and no examples or 
evidences of corruption are given. Let us 
examine the main discoveries of a study 
of Chicago elections made by a well- 
known magazine in IQSO.'** The river 
wards (first, twentieth, twenty-seventh, 
twelfth) contain the city's worst slums. 
As Chicago is the largest railroad center 
in the world, thousands of bums drift in 
and out of the city, and during their 
stop-overs between "excursions" they live 
in the flop-houses, which can be found 
throughout the river wards. In return 
for the food and lodging furnished by 
the aldermen and ward committeemen, 
who own the "flops," these bums vote the 
party ticket on election days. The com- 
mon procedure followed by the ward 
bosses is to send a group of bums to the 
polls at six o'clock in the morning. Eager 
to collect their "fifty cents and a shot of 
rye" they vote as citizens — although fre- 
quently they are registered from vacant 
lots or even under dead citizens' names.'' 
A tremendous number of votes for the 
machine always come from the job-hold- 
ers and favor-seekers, who must, in order 
to preserve their own scalps, respect the 
wishes of the boss. In Chicago proper 
there are some 50,000 official job-hold- 
ers ; the Park Board has an added sup- 
ply of 3,800 votes, the police department 
7,000, and the fire department 3,000. Not 
to be overlooked are the 76,000 W. P. A. 
workers who can't afford to lose their 
income, or the countless tavern keepers 
who want to evade the one o'clock rule, 
or the 5,000 handbook operators, or the 

"Ibid., 46. 

"Ibid.. 46 f. 

"Ibid.. 120. 

"Ibid. The facts concerning crooked elec- 
tions in Chicago are taken from the article in 
Fortune. 

"Because of the number of "ghosts" who 
vote in Chicago, its election days have been 
called Resurrection Days ! See, for example, 
W. H. Stuart, of. cit., 551 f. 



[ 7 ] 



3,000 professional prostitutes — all have a 
"must" share in the election of the ma- 
chine candidate. In addition to these 
methods, there are what J-ortiiiw calls 
the "thirteen ways of getting tlie right 
answer from the ballot box": intimida- 
tion and violence, outright purchase of 
legally registered voters, false registra- 
tion, voting "illiterates," manipulating 
the line, stuffing the box, weighing the 
ballot box (deciding before the election 
what the results were to be), cheating on 
the count, erasures, spilling the ballots, 
substituting a new tally sheet, substitut- 
ing a new ballot box, and more indirect 
methods, such as controlling the clerks, 
judges, etc. 

The 1935 mayoralty election employed 
all the tricks mentioned above, possibly 
more, and the results were liiglily pleas- 
ing to the machine. Mayor Kelly was 
"re-elected" with a smashing total of 
798,150 votes — a majority of 543,853 
over his "opposition," Emil C. Wetten. 
This amazing success left President 
Roosevelt very favorably impressed, and 
the "big sliow" resulted in the White 
House's stamp of approval on the 
"Roosevelt and Humanity" hook-up of 
later Oiicago elections. "Now finally 
what had .started with A. J- Cermak's 
election in 1931 had been consummated. 
The Chicago Tammany was built in, 
apparently impregnahly entrenched."'' 

We have seen the various steps and 
methods used by Cermak and the others 
to bring into effective existence their 
powerful organization. After facing these 
cokl facts, many people, not just Chi- 
cagoans, but people from every state in 
the Union, open their eyes in incredulous 
amazement and loudly deride the Kelly- 
Nash machine as being some strange, 
prehistoric monster. Asking themselves, 
"How can Chicago stand such filthy gov- 
ernment?" thev fail to realize that their 



own municipal government, although 
probably on a smaller scale, is just as 
corrupt. "Political corruption is an in- 
evitable, successful policy, and cities 
differ from one another according to 
age."'" In other words, Chicago is worse 
than its critic's home town only because 
it is larger and older in experience. "No 
one class is at fault, nor any breed, nor 
any particular interest or group or party. 
The misgovernment of the American 
people is misgovernment by the Ameri- 
can people."-" In other words, Chicago 
alone is not to bear the scorn of our 
country's citizens because of its boss 
rule ; W'C are all more or less in the same 
position. 

"We will admit that this corruption is 
almost universal," our anti-Chicagoans 
say, "but surely the Kelly-Nash machine 
is the most corrupt, rotten political or- 
ganization in the history of Chicago and 
the United States." Well, as Al Smith 
once said, "Let's look at the record." 
Calling the present machine the worst in 
Chicago's history, a favorite trick of the 
Republican party, seems a rather errone- 
ous accusation w-hen one recalls the 
regime of William Hale Thompson. This 
Republican boss plunged Chicago into 
actual bankruptcy.-' and it was the exist- 
ing machine that pulled the city out of 
the mess in which it was left bj' the 
administration of "P>ig Bill" Thompson.^' 
And the only fair criterion for judging 
the present machine in respect to the 
organizations of other cities is to con- 
sider what it has done for and why it is 
accepted by the citizens of Chicago. 

"\V. H. Stuart, of. ril., 554. 

"Lincoln Steffens, Autoh\ografh\ of Lincoln '< 
Sicfffiis. 413. 

'Vhid.. 4M. 

"Dr. J. L>Tich, "Boss Rule, a Challenge to I 
.\nierican Cities," Literary Digest, 117 (May] 
5, 1934), 11. 

"'The Heavy Cost of an Eight Dollar Pis- 
tol," Literary Digest, 115 (Mar 18, 1933), 26. 



[ 8 1 



Of major importance is the fact that 
the powerful Democratic machine is 
headed b}' hard-working, hard-fighting 
Edward J. Kelly, who has done much 
for the city. In addition to his numerous 
accomplishments as chief engineer of the 
Sanitary District which have already 
been mentioned, Mayor Kelly's endeavors 
have carried him into other activities. He 
conceived and sponsors the annual "Chi- 
cago Homecoming" celebration, which 
brings thousands of potential customers 
back into the city's streets and stores ; 
he organized Chicago's public health and 
welfare leaders into the Committee for 
Control and Eradication of Venereal 
Disease; he established the "Keep Chi- 
cago Safe" committee, whose activities 
have greatly reduced automobile fatalities 
and injuries in the city. Thus one sees 
that it isn't all take and no give with 
Mayor Kelly. In addition to having a 
popular, powerful leader, the machine 
has other sources of strength: it does not 
try to live off the poor alone, but re- 
ceives most of its financial support from 
the moneyed classes ; it does the best it 
can for a maximum number of citizens; 
Cermak and Kelly have, under the boss 
system, kept the city finances in good 
order ; the machine keeps its hands off 
national business ; it does not take sides 
in labor disputes ; it has appointed an 
honest police commissioner — James P. 
Allman ; the machine keeps its zvordP^ 

In discussing political machines, we are 
led to consider a direct outgrowth of any 
kind of corrupt politics — the reform 
movement. There have always been 
idealists among us — men and women who 
are shocked at discovering the wide- 
spread domination of a machine. Band- 
ing together in the form of better gov- 
ernment leagues or election watchers, 
they set out to clean up city politics. But 
it seems that they always either fail to 



reform or actually become machines 
themselves. Why don't they succeed? 
Many theories have been advanced to 
explain the failure of reform, and the 
general conclusion leaves little hope for 
the future success of such movements. 
Too often big business men, who should 
be our leading citizens, have a good deal 
of their wealth tied up in firms or in- 
vestments which require a friendly and 
lenient govenmient to protect them and 
insure profits.^* A reform movement 
might therefore, by upsetting the status 
qua, cause the business man financial 
trouble, and so he is inclined to iiack the 
machine against the reformer. Even if 
a "cleanup" group should overcome this 
opposition from wealthy citizens, it is by 
no means safe, for then it must tackle 
the crime situation. And the underworld 
powers, who have been receiving favors 
from the machine, do their best to dis- 
credit the new government at every op- 
jjortunit}'. In attempting to secure an 
efficient system, therefore, the reform- 
ers are forced to make peace with the 
underworld^' — an action which the de- 
posed machine immediately flings before 
the general public, who then begin to 
wonder if changing horses wasn't a mis- 
take. In the midst of all this dissension 
and confusion the machine once more 
swings to the front, "stops" the crime 

^'I am again indebted to the article in 
Fortune referred to previously in footnote 16. 

;;W. H, .Stuart, o/>, cit., 585.' 

"'"No honest police force, tinaided, can deal 
with crime," Lincoln StefFens concludes from 
his many years of investigating miuiicipal 
government. The necessary aid, he finds, lies 
in a collaboration between the government and 
some lesser criminals — notably gamblers, pros- 
titutes, and some saloon keepers. For the 
privilege of being allowed to operate, these 
criminals give the government clues to the 
solution of major crimes like robbery and 
murder. A government that refuses to com- 
promise itself with this collaboration finds the 
solution of major crimes practically impos- 
sible, and public indignation and wrath soon 
follow a - series of unsolved crimes. See 
Steffens, op. cit., 387-391. 



[ 9 ] 



wave, and in a short while is again firmly 
entrenched in office. 

The citizens of Chicajjo are well aware 
that their municipal government is not 
the best possible. They realize its corrupt- 
ness. They know that they no longer 
elect city officials — but they also know 
that tbey are getting a much better deal 
than they ever got before. Gambling, 
crime, and prostitution continue, but 
these vices are as old as mankind itself, 
and, to my knowledge, no American 
municipal government has eradicated 
them. Yes, Chicago knows it's being 
bossed by a machine, but it is young and 
rich, strong and powerful, and it can 
afford to tolerate what amuses it or 
helps it. 

BIBLIOGR.APHY 

"Chicago," Britaitnica Book of the Year, 1938- 
1939. Encyclopedia Britannica Inc. 1938 
and 1939, pp. 147 ff., 150 fit. 

Flynn, E. J. "These, Our Bosses," Colliers, 
105 (June 29. 1940), 14-15; 106 (July 6, 
1940), 24; 106 (July 13, 1940), 21-22. 

Gilbert, Cli.vto.n' W. "Czech Reign," Colliers, 
91 (Jan. 7, 1933), 21. 

H.^RT, .Albert Bushxell, "Corrupt Judges and 
Political Bosses," Current Uistorx, 31 
(Nov. 1930), 180-182. 

"The Heavy Cost of an Eight Dollar Pistol," 
Literary Digest, 115 (May 5, 1934), 14. 

"Illinois Goes to the Polls," New Republic, 83 
(August 29, 1936). 331. 

Kahey, J. L., ".Anything Can Happen in Chi- 
cago," Nation, 142 (Jan. 1936), 12-14. 



Kelly, Edw.ard J., .-Imeriia's Progress in 
Municipal Housekeefing, Pamphlet, City 
of Chicago, 1939. 

The Voting Man in Polities, Pamphlet, 



City of Chicago, 1939. 

"Kclly-Nash Machine," Fortune, 14 (Aug. 
1936), 46-52. 

Kelly, Edwaru J., IVho's Who in America, 
ed. Albert Nelson Marquis, Chicago, .Al- 
bert Nelson Marquis Co., 1940. 

, Who's IVho in Chicago, ed. Albert 

Nelson Marquis, Chicago, Albert Nelson 
Marquis Co., 1936. 

, Who's Who in Engineering, ed. Win- 
field Scott Downs, 4th ed., New York: 
Lewis Historical Publishing Co., 1937. 

lilio's Who in Government, New 



York: Biographical Research Bureau, 1936. 

Key, V. O., "The Unholy .Alliance," Survey 
Graphic, 23 (1934), 473-476. 

Lepawskv, .Albert, "City Plan: Metro Style," 
Pamphlet reprinted from The Journal of 
Land and I'liblic i'tilit\ Economics, May, 
1940. 

Lynxh, Denis Tilden, "Boss Rule, a Chal- 
lenge to .American Cities," Literary Di- 
gest, 117 (May 5, 1934). 11. 

Mayer, Miltox S., "Chicago Doesn't Care," 
Nation, 146 (Feb. 5, 1935), 149-152. 

Mayer, Milton S.. "Ed Kellv," Nation, 148 
(Feb. 25, 1938), 223-224. 

"Mayor Kelly's Victory," Literary Digest, 119 
(March 9, 1935), 10. 

Steffens, Linxoln, Autobiography of Lincoln 
Steffens, New York: Harcourt, Brace 
and Company, 1931. 

Stuart, William H., The Tu'enty Incredible 
Years, Chicago: M. A. Donohue and 
Company, 1935. 

Yust, Walter, "Chicago Circus," Current 
History, 3i (1931), 261-271. 



High School and College 

High-school hy.iiienc teachers insist upon your remembering that undulant fever 
is brucellosis and that the etiological agents are brucilla melitensis, alkaligenes meli- 
tensis, alkaligenes abortus, and micrococcus melitensis. Here in college, undulant 
fever is undulant fever and is contracted by drinking the milk of an infected cow. In 
high-school English, the students that write flowery themes arc the "A" students. The 
more synonyms you can use and the more different names you use for the subject of 
your themes, the better grade you receive. In college, flowery phrases are labeled 
"trite" and you're supposed to call a spade a spade. — Helen Gor.max 



[10] 



May the East Wind Never Blow 



Lucy Cundiff 
Rhetoric xl, Assignment 2, 19W-1941 



V/OU may have your Royal Coach- 
*■ mans, your Pflueger reels, your out- 
board motors! Give me a can of angle- 
worms, a long bamboo pole, and a 
flat-bottomed boat. Give me a lazy sum- 
mer day. And if there is some magic by 
which time can be turned backward, let 
Old Jay Brown be sitting in the stern 
of the boat talking quietly while our 
fishing lines drift in placid waters. 

Fishing and Jay Brown are inseparable 
in my memory. He was my instructor in 
the art of fishing. He taught me how to 
bait hooks and make catches, and what 
is more important, he taught me those 
virtues of patience and introspection 
which should be a part of every fisher- 
man's make-up. 

When my brother Hugh and I were 
youngsters. Jay was to us what Captain 
John and Robin Hood are to other 
children. That much-used and often ill- 
used word glamour rightly describes 
what he meant to us. The magic in his 
person and in his way of life fascinated 
us more than that of the heroes of fiction. 
He had none of the outward aspects of 
a traditional hero. He was tall, stoop- 
shouldered, and gaunt. His square head 
was set like a chunk of cordwood on his 
long, thin neck. His hair, what little 
remained of it, formed a sparse, gray 
semi-circle around the bald crown of his 
head. He lived in a weatherbeaten shack 
on the edge of the river that bisected our 
little Wisconsin town. To my brother and 
me, his domestic arrangements were 
ideal. He had but to step out of his back 
door to be on the little dock to which his 
boat was moored. He shared his home 
and a considerable portion of his fishing 



catches with Venus, his dog, an old 
hound with a lean, mournful face like a 
crumpled velvet pillow. She was lame 
with age, and asthmatic, but wherever 
Jay went she lumbered in his wake. 

His most fascinating quality was his 
ability to "play games." He never seemed 
to us one of the grownups. He entered 
into our world, or took us with him into 
his. Getting into the boat to go fishing 
he would say to me, "Now, Lou, you just 
sit up there in the prow and pertend yer 
the Lily Maid." Many a long summer 
afternoon I dreamed myself Elaine, while 
Jay and Hugh brooded over idle fish- 
poles. Jay invested all of our make- 
believe with a quality of reality. When 
he was with us we didn't have to pretend 
we were Jim Hawkins and Alice in 
Wonderland at all. We zvcre Jim Hawk- 
ins and Alice in Wonderland if Jay was 
there to say so. 

One thing about Jay added a dash of 
daring to our association with him. He 
fished because he loved to fish, but he 
also fished to make a living — and broke 
the game laws freely. He ran setlines 
at night, and though the warden warned 
him often about the possibility of arrest. 
Jay went his way unperturbed. We 
didn't question his methods, but accepted 
them as a natural part of his existence. 
In an era when the children of fiction 
too often followed the Elsie Dinsmore 
and Horatio Alger patterns. Jay strode 
through our lives like a tattered but 
triumphant warrior. 

If Jay had been a student of the scrip- 
tures, he could have taken as his motto, 
"Sufiicient unto the day is the evil 
thereof." He asked nothing more of life 



[11] 



than that he be allowed to fish w hen he 
liked, to have Venus always with him, 
and to live by the river he loved so well. 

The river was a living creature to Jay. 
He spoke of it in the familiar way in 
which people speak of kindred. "She" 
was "in a temper," or she was "gentle 
as a new lamb." She had "moaned all 
night," or she had "sung him to sleep." 
When the spring floods came he never 
moved out of his shack, though some- 
times it seemed in peril of being carried 
off by the violence of the river. He 
talked of the rising waters half-disap- 
provingly, half-proudly, as a parent 
speaks of a precocious but willful child. 

In winter, though the river was ice- 
covered from bank to bank, it still pro- 
vided him with his livelihood. He set 
traps for muskrats, and would tramp 
miles every day across the ice to the little 
mu.skrat houses which dotted the white 
expanse like small mounds of firewood. 
On the infrequent occasions when we 
visited him in wintertime, the air in his 



shack was always strong with the odor 
of drying hides. He stretched them on 
pointed boards and hung them from the 
rafters. By late winter the blood-tinged 
skins were brown and smoke-stained, 
and the odor in the shack was so pungent 
that even Venus preferred lying in a 
sunwarmed spot on the dock to staying 
indoors. 

It was in summer that Jay came into 
his own. The richness of his content- 
ment was almost tangible. Sitting in his 
boat, with Venus at his feet, his fishpole 
lying across his lap, the smoke from his 
pipe curling upwards around his battered 
straw hat — this is the picture of him that 
I remember best. Judged by conventional 
standards, it is the picture of a failure ; 
judged by the more sensible standard of 
a man's search for happiness, it is one of 
a memorable success. 

I hope that now, when Jay goes fish- 
ing in celestial waters. \'enus still lies at 
his feet, his pipe smoke still curls 
upward, and "the east \\ind never blows." 



I'm Going to Be a Chemist 

Blossom Zeidman 
Rhetoric II. Theme 5, 1940-1941 



¥ FELT sharp pains as if someone sud- 
* denly used my face and arm as a pin 
cushion. Simultaneously I heard glass 
crash on the floor and my high school 
chemistry laboratory partner scream. 
People moved very hurriedly behind me. 
I saw my instructor come toward me. 
He grabbed me by the nape of the neck, 
and held my face, partly turned upward, 
under water. 

"Does your face burn?" he asked. 

"Yes," I blubbered. 

He picked up a dirty sponge that had 



been used to wipe chemically stained 
equipment and dirty laboratory desks, 
and he repeatedly dabbed it on my face. 

"My hair," I screamed, half-hysteri- 
cally, "you're ruining my hair." 

My instructor released me, and I stood 
up ; I put my hand up in order to touch 
my face, but he pulled it away. "Don't 
touch an acid burn, it is — " He stopped, 
thrust his hand in his pocket, and 
brought out a small knife. With my 
hand clasped in his, he ripped the sleeve 
of my blouse — it was serving as a wick 



112] 



for the acid. When I looked down at my 
arm, I was panic-stricken. Up its entire 
length spread raised, red marks, which 
were beginning to blister. 

"Oh," I said, "what does my face 
look like?" 

I needed no answer. The expression 
on everyone's face told me. I was too 
frightened and confused to cry. "What 
happened?" I asked. 

Virginia, my laboratorj' partner, an- 
swered, "I spilled some concentrated 
sulfuric acid on my hand and it burned. 
I was excited, and instead of dropping 
the bottle, I threw it back. I guess the 
acid got on you." She was nearly in 
tears. "Oh, Bios, I'm so sorry." 

What could I say? It was done. Oh, 
I didn't want scars. I hesitatingly asked 

Mr. G , my instructor, whether it 

would scar. 

He didn't answer for a while, but 
busied himself by treating my face and 
arm with a first-aid preparation. "Dilut- 
ing with water and applying this is the 
best anyone can do, and if you take care 
of it, you have every chance of recover- 
ing without a scar. It's just one of those 
things you have to watch out for, and 
contend with, in chemical laboratories." 

But danger won't stop me. I'm going 
to be a chemist ! 

My knees nearly gave way when I 
walked into my first chemistry quiz class 
this semester. I was the only girl ! Some 
of the boys smiled when they saw me ; 
some nudged their friends ; others 
coughed affectedly. I looked around for 
an empty place. I saw just one — right 
in the middle of the room. I went toward 
it. All the boys in the row stood up. 
. "The lady wants a seat," said the boy 
on the end. 

"The lady wants a seat," the next 
boy repeated. 



"The lady wants a seat," said each boy 
in turn as I passed in front of him to 
get to the empty seat. 

As I sat down, my vocal cords some- 
how managed to put together a few 
syllables that sounded like "Thank you." 
All of the boys answered in unison, 
"Don't mention it. Anything for a lady!" 

I did not dare take off my jacket for 
fear the boys would rip off my arm, 
trying to play the part of the perfect 
gentleman by helping me. I did not dare 
turn my head either way. All I felt was 
eyes. Thank God the instructor walked 
in soon after. 

"Fellas," he said, without looking too 
closely at us, "this is Chem. 6, Section 
64 A." He looked up, and I caught his 
eye. He smiled, a little embarrassingly, 
but did not bother to make a correction 
to include me in his address. "Be sure 
you are in the right place. Chem. 6 is 
for chemistry majors." I felt that that 
remark was directed at me. "It deals with 
the chemistry of metals," he continued, 
"and is not a pipe course." Was that 
another for me? Perhaps I was just 

supersensitive. "My name is Mr. H ." 

He stopped for a while and took up a 
pile of registration cards. He went 
through them, one by one, and called 
aloud, "Adams, Benson, Beller, Carson," 
and so on. After each name the owner 
looked up and in a low voice answered 
that he was present. Everyone turned in 
order to be able to connect a name with 
a face. "Simson, Smith, Thomas, Wells, 
Wilson, and — Miss Zeldman." From the 
back of the room someone gave the well- 
known horselaugh. My voice sounded 
unusually high as I answered. 

But ribbing won't stop me. I'm going 
to be a chemist ! 

The jagged end of a piece of freshly 
broken glass-tubing cut deeply into my 



[13] 



finger. 1 jerked my hand back and then 
thrust it under a tap of running water. 
The blood flowed steadily, and the cool- 
ing comfort of the water seemed to have 
no effect. No one in the laboratory saw 
what had happened, and I didn't utter a 
cry. I took my hand out of the water, 
hoping that the blood had clotted, but 
immediately a small pool of blood gath- 
ered on my finger. I felt no physical 
pain — only shame. Why did all the petty 
accidents in chemistry laboratories hap- 
pen to girls? I couldn't bring myself to 

tell Mr. H , even though we had 

specific instructions to report any injury, 
no matter how^ small. I wrapped my 
clean handkercliief around my finger. In 
a short time it was soaked with blood. 
I was t(jrn between two desires. Should 
I tell and suffer the shame, or should I 
let my linger bleed and perhaps sufTer 
serious consequences ? T finally convinced 
myself that I had no reason to be afraid 
and that accidents can happen to anyone. 

I went up to Mr. H w-hen no bo}' 

was around. I did not say anything; 
I just held out my hand. He got the 
idea! 

"Put _\our hand under the faucet; I'll 
get something to put on it." 

He came back with a bottle which he 
took off the shelf. "This will clot your 
blood." He poured the contents, very 
generously, on my finger. I did not say 
anything. He did not say anything. My 
classmates came by, one by one, to get 
a bottle off the shelf near us, to replace 
a bottle, or to weigh some salt on the 
scale next to us. Each in turn looked 
at me in contemptuous silence. I wanted 
to crawl down the drain. The solution 
from the bottle colored my finger blue. 
I took advantage of that and broke the 
silence. 

"Look, I am an aristocrat !" 

Mr. H smiled. "You must have 



been cut rather deep. I'll put a bandage 
on, and then I think the blood will stop." 

As he wrapped an elaborate bandage 
around my finger, my classmates again 
came by, one by one, to get a bottle off 
the shelf near to us. to replace a bottle, 
or to weigh some salt on the scale next 
to us. Amused, and, oh, so smug! 

But humiliation won't stop me. I'm 
going to be a chemist ! 

The lecturer cleared her voice and 
waited until the group of girls quieted 
down. "I'm going to talk to you tonight 
about the future for women in the field 
of chemistry. All of you have some 
interest in connection with chemistry for 
a vocation and would like to know the 
possibilities for a job. I'm afraid the 
outlook isn't too favorable; I'm afraid 
many of you here tonight will give up the 
idea of being a second Madame Curie." 

There was a rustle in the group. Some 
girls laughed at the suggestion that they 
were aspiring to be Madame Curie : 
some girls commented on the surprising 
attitude the lecturer took, considering 
that she was a successful chemistry in- 
structor ; some girls, obviously disap- 
pointed, seemed to be half convinced to 
give up the idea of becoming chemists. 
I didn't belong to any of these categories. 
I merely listened, without comment, to 
the woman's point of view. 

"Now I'm not trying to disillusion 
anyone, hut I am trying to present facts 
to you, and offer you my experience. It 
is an opportunity for you to hear about 
the thorns in your path, an opportunity 
that many graduate woman chemists did 
not have. There are some positions al- 
ways open to women having chemical 
training. For example, they may be- 
come chemical secretaries or chemical 
librarians." 

I could just see myself working in an 



(14 1 



office or a library. I'm taking chemistry 
to be a chemist. 

"There are places open to women de- 
siring to be instructors in high schools, 
but almost every other field is filled by 
men. Practically every firm hires men to 
hold positions in preference to women. 
They feel that men are more capable." 

I don't think men are more capable. 
Besides, the presence of a woman in a 
laboratory can have results that are not 
often considered. Men are much more 
inclined to work harder when a woman is 
around in open competition with them. 



If I can sell an employer the idea that, 
in setting up a mild form of competition 
among his workers, he can attain a much 
more efficient organization, then I can 
easily get a job. 

"Another feature in which men have 
the advantage over v>omen is that women 
stand to suflfer more, in connection with 
personal beauty, when they are injured 
in any way in the laboratory. For this 
reason, I regret to have to tell you, men 
again are preferred." 

But competition won't stop me. I'm 
going to be a chemist ! 



Women in Chemistry 

Mary E. Smashey 

Rhetoric II. Theme 5, 1940-1941 



UNTIL I changed roommates this 
semester, I had never thought much 
about women in the field of chemistry. 
I knew that there were some, but I had 
always carefully avoided them. Then I 
moved in with Mac. 

Mac works with men all day. In fact, 
the reason she is called Mac instead of 
Margaret is that the men in her classes 
felt ill at ease when using a feminine 
name. She knows more men on the 
campus than I ever will, but her rela- 
tions with them are quite different from 
mine. Mac goes to a dance only when 
Bill, her favorite chemistry engineering 
pal, finds that his pin girl from Chicago 
can't possibly make it for the Annual 
Chem Engineers' Ball. Her typical week- 
end date consists of coking at Farwell's 
with the chem majors, discussing the 1-3 
shift and its relation to the formation of 
polymers. The one day all semester that 
she had a date with someone other than 
a chemistry major, she spilled pentanoic 
acid on her hands ; the odor lasted for 



two weeks. Mac prides herself on having 
a speaking acquaintance with all the jani- 
tors in the Chemistry Building; every 
Friday night at closing time they sweep 
her out with the rubbish. 

Mac is onl}' five feet tall. She has 
given up trying to look dignified when 
she reads the three-foot high barometer. 
Her instructor once walked in and saw 
her climbing up the lab desk to see the 
reading, and he has been watching her 
suspiciously ever since. She often spends 
one hour trying to put up the equipment 
for a half-hour experiment. Although 
Mac is small, she is rather clumsy. For 
last month alone, her bill for breaking 
equipment was ten dollars. 

When I walk into our room, I can tell 
in an instant whether Mac has been 
there. I'm not psychic, but I can detect 
the characteristic aroma of the second 
floor of the Chemistry Building. I am 
gradually becoming accustomed to it. If 
you have never been in an organic chem- 
istry laboratory, it is useless for me to 



[15] 



describe the odor. I try desperately to 
keep the door to Mac's closet closed, 
because all her clothes smell like organic 
chemistry no matter how often she has 
them cleaned. I have considered giving 
her some strong cologne for a gift, but 
the mixture of the two odors would be 
unbearable. 

Mac also has other troubles with her 
clothes. She must constantly replace the 
thing she ruins in labs. The damage is 



not always the result of her own clumsi- 
ness; yesterday the other woman chem- 
istry major in her class spilled sulfuric 
acid over Mac's new tweed suit. Mac's 
clothing bills are twice mine. 

If my account of Mac hasn't convinced 
you that women should not major in 
Chemistry, I am afraid nothing will. 
Every time I talk to her, I give a sigh 
of relief that I am majoring in some- 
thing feminine like French. 



Page 213 

Bennett Sherman 

Rhetoric I. Theme 10, 1940-1941 



PICKED up my Zoo book, turned to 
page 213. Bang! The door flew 
">pen. In floated what appeared to be a 
ballet dancer. "Look," I yelled, "I've got 
so damn much homework. Will you 
please get the hell out of here?" With 
this my guest stop])ed dancing. 

"What's the matter? You've got a 
whole week-end. Study tomorrow." 

"You don't understand. I'd like to 
finish it now so I wouldn't have to worry 
about it for the rest of the week-end. 
Just 'cause you're happy over finishing a 
practical is no sign you have to barge in 
here dancing like a fairy." 

Picked up my Zoo book, turned to 
page 213. A bugle-blast from the next 
room. "You're in the army now. You're 
in the army now." 

. Got up and went into the next room. 
There, sitting in a chair, blowing like a 
cyclone, was another member of the 
house. 

"Would you please stop playing that 
contraption?" 

"Why?" 

"Because I've got homework. Good 
enough ?" 



'Do it tomorrow." He turned and 
started to play again. 

"What do I have to do to shut you 
up?" 

"Nothing," he stopped. "Just let me 
finish this verse." 

"O. K." 

Picked up my Zoo book, turned to ■ 
page 213. In walked my roommate. 
"Click," and on went the radio. This 
time I saw red. "Say, for crying out 
loud, do you ever see me turn on the 
radio when you're studying?" 

"No. but it's Friday. You've got the 
whole week-end." 

"What do you mean the whole week- 
end? Isn't it better to work now and get 
it over with?" 

"Well, that's up to )ou. Personally. 
I'd rather do it Sunday night and ha\ 
some fun over the week-end." 

"That's you, not me. Now turn it ofT.' 

"All right, but you're crazy." 

Picked up my Zoo book, turned to 
page 213. Bang! The door flew open 
again. This time it was all of them. 
"Into the showers with him." 

"Not on vour life," I shouted. No use. 



[16] 



"As long as I'm under here," I thought, 
"I might as well get them wet too." I 
did. 

Got out of the shower, took off my 



clotlies, wiped myself off, and put on 
some dry things. 

Picked up my Zoo book, turned to 
page 213. 



The Corsican and the House -Painter 



Doris Eleanor Scott 
Rhetoric II, Theme 7, 1940-1941 



' I ""HE interventionists have argued by 
*■ analogies from history to prove that 
the United States should intervene in the 
present war. Hitler, they have said, is a 
second Napoleon, and they have said that 
the eras of Hitler and Napoleon are 
similar. It seems to me, however, that 
insofar as any similarity exists, the iso- 
lationists can use it to better advantage 
than the interventionists do. 

In a great many important respects 
Napoleon and Hitler are very different. 
Napoleon was a Corsican son of the 
French Revolution, born into the age of 
Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. After 
conquering Italy, Prussia, and other 
countries, he introduced to them the 
spirit of the French Revolution. Though 
the liberty he bestowed upon these na- 
tions was a modified liberty, he allowed 
them a considerably greater degree of 
equality and fraternity. Napoleon ban- 
ished class distinctions, and he purged 
no race of people. The Jews who had 
been invited into Prussia by the Freder- 
icks were not banished. Not only did 
Napoleon champion equality and fra- 
ternity, but he also made peace with the 
Pope and re-established in France the 
Catholic Church, which had been for- 
saken during the revolution. 

Hitler, however, is destroying all the 
best that the French Revolution initiated. 
He does not even carry a "modified 



liberty" to the countries he conquers, and 
there is no ecjuality or fraternity in his 
policies — except for the "pure Aryans." 
The Jew is undergoing the worst purge 
in history, and Hitler has not made peace 
with the Pope. On the contrary, he has 
taken the place of the German's God. 
Even Napoleon was not that egotistical. 
It is true that Germany was, as France 
had been, in desperate need of a capable 
leader. It is also true that Hitler, like 
Napoleon, supplied that need, and Hitler 
too has conquered in the name of his 
adopted country. However, the odds 
which Napoleon fought against were 
greater than those which Hitler has yet 
had to face. Napoleon fought a Prussia 
which still enjoyed the power that the 
Fredericks had given her, and a Spain 
which was one of the largest European 
countries. In spite of these terrific odds, 
Napoleon, who began his foreign cam- 
paigns with a handful of ragged French 
troops, eventually dominated all of 
Europe. Hitler, on the other hand, has 
conquered countries which have been 
weak since the World War. France was 
beaten before he waged actual war 
against her. Poland had been partitioned 
so many times that she had never been 
able to build a strong national govern- 
ment, and hence was easy prey for a 
greedy Germany. After Austria was 
flooded with Nazi sympathizers, it was 



[17] 



not difficult for Hitler to gain control of 
her. These and the other countries that 
he has dominated were all doomed before 
he campaigned against them, because 
they had not yet found men to lead them 
out of the chaos brought by the World 
War. Not only have the countries Hitler 
conquered been weaker, but where Na- 
poleon began his campaign with an in- 
ferior number of half-starved troops, 
Hitler made his first march with one of 
the largest and most feared European 
armies. The military achievements of 
Napoleon are not similar to the "push- 
over" successes of Hitler. 

Napoleon's Empire, based on mili- 
tarism, was constantly threatened by up- 
risings and revolts within the conquered 
territories. Spain managed to throw off 
the French yoke, and Prussia leagued 
herself with Britain against France. Re- 
volts within France herself were con- 
stantly fostered by Bourbon aspirants to 
the throne. Hitler, having introduced 
bondage rather than a comparative free- 
dom to the conquered countries, is facing 
disturbances of the same kind as those 
which confronted the Emperor, or even 
graver ones. France, a former democ- 
racy, will not sit quietly by while Nazi 
storm-troopers goose-step through the 
streets of Paris. .Since the Czechoslo- 
vakian republic was conquered. Hitler 
has had to keep a large number of troops 
quartered there so that it will not revolt. 
These countries will be revolting not 



only against a foreign rule, but also 
against the death of civil and political 
rights. They will be fighting a desperate 
battle for the equality and fraternity 
which Napoleon gave them. 

The forces which are troubling Hitler 
today are the same forces which gave 
Napoleon trouble during his reign. Na- 
poleon's most fruitless campaign was the 
one which he led against Russia, and his 
most disastrous campaign was the one 
which he waged against Britain. Today, 
Hitler is apparently waging an unsuc- 
cessful Russian campaign. Stalin con- 
gratulated the "Boy King," Peter, of 
Yugoslavia on his defiance of the Nazi 
dictates. This is one of several "political 
slaps" that Stalin has given Hitler. 
Hitler also is facing a determined 
Britain. He has not \et been able to 
break through the blockade that has 
choked so many British enemies. Na- 
poleon failed when he confronted such 
a combination of forces as internal strife, 
an unruly Russia, and a determined 
Britain. Now that Hitler fights these 
same forces, I cannot believe that he can 
win. As was Napoleon. Hitler is doomed 
to ultimate failure. It is therefore un- 
necessary for the United States to inter- 
vene. One of the greatest lessons that 
can be learned from history is that when 
the balance of power in the world is 
broken, the man responsible for its break- 
ing will not be tolerated, and his power 
cannot last. 



F. A. Coburn, R. R. 4 

Mrs. Coburn, small and well starched, will answer the bell, dryini; her hands on 
her apron as she talks. She bids you to come in and "set a while." Mr. Coburn. whom 
you would like to talk to about doing some plowing for you is "most likely out to the 
pasture but he'll be a comin' ri,a:ht soon I s'pose." You walk in. Mrs. Coburn asks 
"will you please to excuse her, that Mr. Coburn "11 be in directly." You sit in an old 
leather chair and look at the shiny new white icebox set against the living room wall 
and the family reunion picture over it, and the calendar with the little girl and the 
St. Bernard. "D'rcctly" you hear footsteps on the back porch and the noisy disposal 
of a wad of tobacco. Mr. Coburn steps in. — Larry Robinson 



[18] 



In Defense of Rhetoric Themes 



Sheldon Leavitt 
Rhetoric 11. Theme 5, 1940-1<)41 



T AGREE with Martha Lou Bothwell* 
^ that writing is a God-given gift, and 
that onh' those individuals with a talent 
for self -expression can turn out good 
themes with any degree of ease. There 
are friends of mine who are able to 
knock ofif B themes on two hours' notice, 
while I must force myself to sit for five 
or six hours and painfully construct 
sentences and paragraphs and hope that 
they sound coherent. Even more dis- 
tressing is my inability to find suitable 
subject matter; sometimes I spend half 
an evening just trying to think of some- 
thing to write. But no matter how long 
I have been discarding thoughts and 
ideas, no matter how many times I 
have been tempted to give up and play 
ping-pong instead, I never have thought 
that freshman rhetoric should not be 
taught. 

Adequate self-expression is not merely 
"advantageous" as Miss Bothwell states, 
but necessary. I need not repeat that in 
the highly complex existence we lead 
today, clear and correct writing is one of 
the most important means — sometimes 
the only means — of transmitting our 
ideas. This I know is obvious. For how 
would scientific investigation continue if 
scientists were unable to express their 
ideas; how would business be run if 
secretaries spent hours trying to compose 
acceptable letters ; how would our social 
obligations be fulfilled if we could not 
write in proper and understandable 
English ? 

But to become proficient in writing, 
one must write. Rhetorical skill is ob- 
tained only through painful practice. 
Just as the young musician must labor 



over the distasteful scales with his violin, 
or the artist must learn the colorless 
principles of perspective, so. the student 
must struggle with grammar and themes. 
While I wrote at the rate of one para- 
graph every two hours when I first 
entered Rhetoric I, I am now able to 
write a better paragraph in an hour. This 
is not an attainment to be proud of, I 
admit ; but if I had not assumed the 
tedious job of theme-writing I could not 
boast even this small achievement. 

Most students are agreed, however, 
that college graduates must know how to 
use their mother tongue fluently. Rather 
they argue, as does Miss Bothwell, that 
instruction in the art of writing should 
be withheld until the individual has ma- 
tured and has acquired a broader range 
of experience so that he might be better 
able to write intelligently on worthy sub- 
jects. But what is to become of the indi- 
vidual in the meanwhile? He must con- 
stantly write for both his personal and 
educational use. Must his correspondents 
suffer from his misuse of the language? 
Is he to be thrown at the mercy of 
examinations, unequipped to fight back 
with clear-cut and rhetorically correct 
answers? Are his teachers to struggle 
day after day through illiterately written 
assignments? The faculty must give to 
all freshmen a course in essay-writing, if 
for no other reason, in self-defense. The 
purpose of theme-writing is not to ex- 
tract noble ideas and profound thoughts 
from freshmen, but rather to teach them 
to write correctly at the time when it will 
do them the most good. 

*Martha Lou Bothwell, "Theme Writing in 
Rhetoric," The Green Caldron, March. 1941. 



[19] 



"Strange Fruit" 

Harold Sussman 
Rhetoric II, Theme 5, 1940-1941 



Southern trees bear a strange fruit, 
Blood on the leaves, and blood at the root, 
Black bodies swingin' in the southern breeze, 
Strange fruit hangin' from the poplar trees. 

THIS is the grotesque ballad of a 
southern singer. It is indeed a strange 
fruit that southern trees bear at a lynch- 
ing. It is also strange that a sadistic mob 
should ever be permitted to run loose, 
killing to satiate its blood lust. 

We from the North who sentimentally 
admire the calm, 'idyllic landscape of the 
.South would do well to listen to the 
lines: 

Pastoral scene of the gallant South; 
The bulging eyes, and the twisted mouth ; 
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh — 
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh. 

For under the calm surface of the South, 
behind the slow drawls, the courteous 
manners, and the happy negroes singing, 
remain the cold, brutal facts. Racial 
feelings run high in the South, for the 
whites mean to rule. They mean to rule 
even if they have to kill, murder, and 
whip the entire black population into 
subservience. The negro, they claim, is 
the white man's inferior. Therefore he 
should be the white man's servant. And 
strangely enough these narrow views find 
many supporters among gallant folk in 
the North. 

Many strongly prejudiced men have 
told me, "The nigger is O. K. He just 
has to learn his place." The nigger's 
place was, it seemed, any level of deg- 
radation the white man set for him. 
A Soutliern boy living just across the 
hall from me quotes his grandmother as 
saying, after a lynching, "You know, a 
lynching is a good thing. It keeps those 
niggers in their places." The negro, ac- 



cording to people of this sort, should go 
on living as he does — a social, economic, 
and political outcast. He should not 
vote, he should not be educated, he 
should not be paid a high wage; he 
should, in other words, be crushed, 
beaten, and stripped of every rightful 
chance to live decently. He should be 
relegated to the position of "an inferior 
race." 

The average negro family in this 
country today earns about six hundred 
dollars per year. In the South he is 
usually a sharecropper, entirely at the 
mercy of his property owner, or he is an 
unskilled laborer — a coinplete wage-slave 
to any employer who hires him. His 
usual poorly balanced meal, lacking in 
green vegetables, fruit, or milk, often 
results in pellagra. Syphilis is prevalent 
among the negroes because of their gen- 
eral lack of knowledge concerning it, and 
because of their poor living conditions. 
Tuberculosis claims a high toll from 
them. 

Ill his present condition the negro 
constitutes a health menace, a problem 
for slum clearance, and a challenge to 
our educators. When these conditions are 
reinoved it will be found that the negro 
is a good citizen, an able worker, and an 
asset to our society. Under his present 
conditions — discontented, downtrodden, 
physiologically and psychologically ill — 
he provides fine material for Commu- 
nistic propaganda, and the nucleus of a 
force that may some day undermine our 
standards of living. 

Wc must consider the negro problem 
with unbiased and unprejudiced minds. 
The negro must be educated, not ignored. 



[20: 



He must be aided, not crushed ; and he 
must be fed, clothed, sheltered, and given 
his rightful place in our society. Remem- 
ber this, or some day the downtrodden 
will rise up and take their revenge. 
Etched against the southern sky, the 



gallows — the gallows from which hangs a 

tortured body. Shall this be the symbol 

of our tolerance? 

Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck, 
For the rains to gather, for the winds to suck, 
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop; 
Here is a strange and bitter crop. 



The Spanish Sport 

William Preston Albaugh 
Rhetoric 11, Theme 7, 1940-1941 



A BUGLE sounds. The band strikes 
up the processional march. Sefioritas 
in mantillas and high-backed combs ap- 
plaud frantically. Thousands of enthu- 
siastic Spaniards in fiesta attire rise and 
shout themselves hoarse. It is the bull- 
fight, one of the most interesting and 
colorful sports events in the world. 

In order to understand fully what 
takes place on the bloodstained sands of 
the bull ring, one must knovi^ a little of 
the history behind this sport. The origin 
of bullfighting is somewhat obscure. 
Geologists have recently uncovered in- 
scriptions, however, which indicate that 
it was practised in a crude form even 
before the Roman Empire was estab- 
lished. Originally it was a form of human 
sacrifice ; later the Moors, who intro- 
duced it to Spain early in the Twelfth 
Century, used it to encourage proficiency 
in the use of martial weapons. And 
gradually it has become a part of the 
Spanish racial culture. In Spain and the 
countries that Spain colonized we find it 
still flourishing today. 

Throughout its history, bullfighting has 
been repeatedly prohibited, only to be 
resurrected by popular demand. A papal 
edict in 1560, during the reign of Queen 
Isabella, threatened with excommunica- 
tion anyone participating in a bullfight 



and even forbade the administration of 
the last sacrament to anyone killed by a 
bull. In spite of such opposition and the 
damaging effects of professionalism and 
politics, the sport has survived. Today 
it is a major industry, backed by over 
seventy million dollars. 

The severest criticism of the bullfight 
arises from those who consider it un- 
sportsmanlike and cruel. Max Eastman 
sums up their arguments in his torrid 
criticism of Ernest Hemingway's Death 
in the Afternoon. 

To drag in notions of glory and honor 
here is ungrowiiup and rather sophomoric. 
But to pump words over it like "tragedy" 
and "dramatic conflict" is mere romantic 
nonsense and self-deception crying to high 
heaven. It is not tragic to die in a trap 
because although beautiful you are stupid; 
it is not tragic to play mean tricks on a 
beautiful thing and then stab it when its 
power is gone. It is the exact opposite of 
tragedy in every high meaning of the word 
that has ever been given it. It is killing 
made meaner, death more ignoble, blood- 
shed more merely shocking than it has need 
to be." 

Against this sort of attack the Spanish 
writer, Salvador Madariaga, has offered 
a logical and eloquent defense. 

The Spanish crowd looking at the bull- 
fight is not enjoying the goring and killing, 

'Max Eastman, "Bull in the Afternoon," 
New Republic, 75 (June 7. 1933), 95. 



[21] 



but the grace and beauty of the spectacle; 
color, movement, and skill on the edge of 
death, which are precisely what the Anglo- 
Saxon does not sec. The idea of a cruel 
crowd, gloating in the sight of blood and 
suffering, is the child of the Anglo-Saxon's 
morbid and tortured imagination. Just as he 
does not see the grace and beauty of it, 
the Spaniard does not sec the cruelty of it.' 

The phase of bullfighting most often 
attacked is the cruelty to the horses, 
which until recent times were often piti- 
fully gored and slashed. Even Aladariaga 
does not attempt to justify their inhuman 
treatment. lie admits that 
there is no doubt whatever that this 
part of bull-running, though very beautiful 
in itself from the plastic as well as the 
dramatic point of view, is sadly spoilt by 
the pitiful and repulsive sight of horses 
gored and finally killed. Nothing can be 
said for it. It is the blot upon bull-running 
and the stark defect in an otherwise 
beautiful spectacle.' 

EfTorts to relieve the situation have been 
made recently in the form of laws forc- 
ing bullfight promoters to pad the under- 
carriage of all horses used in the pro- 
gram. This offers a large measure of 
protection, but fatal accidents still occur 
only too frequently. Some efforts to do 
away entirely with horses have been 
made, but real followers of the sport feel 
that these measures detract too much 
from the excitement.* 

Bullfights take place in huge amphi- 
theaters, with tiers of seats rising loftily 
on all sides. Many of these arenas are 
centuries old, such as the one standing in 
Southern France originally constructed 
by the Romans to be flooded for their 
famous sea-fights. Cortez built a plasa 
de toros in Mexico City long before the 
cornerstone for the Cathedral of Mexico 
was laid. Another in Mexico City is 
among the largest, seating over 20,000 
people, and costing $700,000 to construct. 
Other famous rings stand at Sevilla, 
Madrid. Ronda, and Chapultepec. 



The fight today retains much pomp 
and ceremony carried over from medieval 
days. A selected municipal official, known 
as the presidente, presides over the pro- 
gram, and as soon as he has taken his 
seat in the central box, the band begins to 
play, and the festivities begin. Two 
acquacUes (police officers of the ring) 
ride out and salute the crowd. They re- 
tire, then return, followed this time by 
the entire colorful procession. First in 
line are the splendidly attired matadors, 
then the picadors, dressed in gleaming 
yellow, next the matador's assistants, and 
finally the ring attendants, vulgarly 
known as monos sabios or "wise 
monkeys." After a triumphant march j 
around the arena, they retire. As soon 
as they are gone, the presidente hurls the 
key to the bull pens to an acquacile, who i 
releases the first bull. Bugles blare and 
drums are rolled. As the huge beast 
hurls itself for the opening, an attendant 
leans over the side of the cage and 
plants a ribbon-bedecked dart between 
his shoulders. Then el toro charges into 
the arena. 

It is not to be assumed that el toro is 
an ordinary bull. Bred of cattle and 
water buffalo, he combines the fiercest 
qualities of both. The very best fighting 
bulls are raised on fertile plains of 
Andalusia and Navarre by wealthy 
ranchers vying for the distinction of 
raising the largest and most ferocious 
ones. Mexico imports thousands of these 
high-spirited beasts yearly, but the tre- 
mendous cost of transportation and care 
necessitates use of the less- famous Mexi- 
can bulls on all but fiesta occasions. It 
should be noted, however, that none of 

'Salvador Madariaga, "Why the Spaniards 
Like Bullfights," Lk-ing Age. 336 (May, 1929). 
180. 

'Ibid., 181. 

'The failure of the bullfight in Italy is 
credited to the fact that Mus,<!olini forbade 
the use of horses. 



[22] 



the bulls are trained, and they will attack 
anything in motion. 

At the first rush of the bull, everyone 
in the ring leaps for safety. Then the 
matador returns, advancing slowly and 
calling to the bull in sharp, staccato 
barks. El toro pulls up and survej's his 
enemy, who now holds his cape in both 
hands directly in front of his body. To 
snort and charge at the cloak and the 
man is the work of a split second, but 
when the angry beast arrives, the mata- 
dor is no longer there. "Without moving 
his feet so much as the literal breadth of 
a hair, he has swung his cloak out to the 
right with both arms, and the weapons 
that would transfix a three-inch oak 
plank have grazed the gold bobbins on 
his jacket, and the danger is thirty feet 
away. The bull pulls up, turns, and 
charges again, and again and again. "^ 
The merit of the matador's performance 
is determined both by the gracefulness 
with which he executes his dance and the 
nearness of the bull to his body as it 
thunders by. After the bull has charged 
fruitlessly six or seven times, the mata- 
dor suddenly turns his back on him and 
struts nonchalantly away, leaving the 
bull to the picadors. 

These much-less-publicized fighters are 
mounted on old and useless horses. They 
are armed with long blunt-edged spears 
which they use to keep the bull away 
from themselves and their mounts. The 
duty of the picadors is to prepare the 
bull for further playing and final death 
by tiring and infuriating him. Only too 
often the bull succeeds in reaching the 
man and his mount, and bulls have even 
been known to throw both completely 
over the five- foot wall that surrounds 
the arena. 

The picadors are given only a short 
time in the ring, and then the matador 



or his assistants place the banderillas. 
These are metal - tipped darts with 
brightly colored streamers wound around 
their two feet of length. Three pairs are 
placed in all, behind and between the 
bull's shoulders. The matador keeps his 
elbows up and stiff, placing the darts 
over the horns of the bull as he charges. 
Great skill is required to execute this feat 
properly, and the matador who does a 
good job is applauded boisterously by the 
enthusiastic crowd. 

As soon as the banderillas have been 
placed, the matador again leaves the bull 
to his assistants and struts to the prcsi- 
dente's box. There, with the most cere- 
monious courtesy, he asks the official 
sanction to make the killing. The per- 
mission is signalled down, and the final 
act begins. This time, the matador uses 
a much smaller cape, under which the 
death sword is concealed. The bull is 
played in much the same manner as at the 
beginning of the fight, but now the mata- 
dor is watching for his opportunity to 
make the kill. "To coax the bull into 
exactly the proper position requires ex- 
treme patience, clever maneuvering, and 
almost unlimited experience. For a good 
stroke, the bull must be lunging straight 
ahead with his front legs evenly balanced. 
If one be ever so slightly ahead of the 
other, his body will twist when he begins 
to move, and the sword will not go 
home. Failure to take advantage of easy 
chances brings yells of derision from the 
important onlookers."" When his oppor- 
tunity arrives, the matador throws him- 
self over the bull's horns as he charges, 
and with a quick thrust plunges the 
sword between the bull's shoulders. If 
this maneuver is properly executed, the 
bull will die instantly. If not, the scene is 

'^P. Terry, Terry's Guide to Mexico, ci. 
'C. Stratton, "Bullfighting in Southern 
France," Travel, 36 (Dec, 1920), 7. 



[23] 



repeated. An excellent performance 
brings a shower of hats, flowers, ciga- 
rettes, and even top-coats from the wildly 
cheering crowd, and the matador will be 
awarded the bull's ear. If the bull has 
been dispatched with superlative skill, the 
matador may be awarded the bull's hoof. 
Few ever acquire this extraordinary 
honor. 

Just as in baseball styles of play varj', 
so the methods of bullfighting vary. 
There are, in fact, two very distinct 
schools of bulllighting, the merits of 
which one can hear bitterly argued in 
the market jjlace of almost any Spanish 
or Mexican town. One school, led by 
Juan liclmonte, was deve]o])ed in the 
little town of Ronda, nestled in the 
mountains of Northern .Spain. The other, 
whose greatest fighter was Gallita 
Joselito. came out of Sevilla. home of 
ninety percent of our modern bull- 
fighters. "For sheer skill it might have 
been difficult to decide between them. 
Belmonle displa\-ed the greater reckless- 
ness, Joselito the most cunning. Joselito 
moved about the ring with lightning 
rapidity; Relmonte was often station- 
ary."" Where Belmonte risked, Joselito 
calculated. Joselito appealed to the liead, 
Relmonte appealed to the heart. One 
.Spanish writer explains that during the 
World War, he could always find 
wliether a man was pro-German or pro- 
Ally. "If he liked Joselito, then he was 
for efficiency ; he was for autocracy, and 
a pro-German. If he liked Belmonte, then 
he was for imjiulse ; he was for liberty ; 
he "was pro-Ally."'* The technique of bull- 
fighting is so refined, and so intense is 
the preoccupation with it, that its more 
enthusiastic followers would resent our 
referring to bullfighting as a sport. 
Rather, they feel, it belongs among the 
fine arts. So, for instance, runs the 



opinion of Lestlie Charteris, who wrote 
a novel based on the life of Juan 
Belmonte: 

Juan Belmonte 1.5 bullfighting, in a way 
that you never could have said that Jack 
Dempscy was boxing, or Tildcn was tennis, 
or Babe Ruth was baseball. Bullfighting 
is not a sport and you can't compare it 
with one. Bullfijchting, whether you like it 
or not, is an art, like painting or music, and 
you can only judge it as an art. Its emo- 
tion is spiritual, and it touches depths which 
only can be compared with the depths that 
are touched in a man who knows and under- 
stands and loves music by a symphony 
orchestra under a great conductor.* 

The matador's profession, although 
dangerous, is lucrative and full of glory. 
If successful, he can earn any\vhere 
from $300,000 to $500,000 yearly.'" One 
fight often nets as much as $5,000, even 
after the salaries of the assistants have 
been paid. For his exorbitant fee, how- 
ever, the matador takes wholesale risks. 
Accidents are common, and some of the 
greatest bullfighters of all time met their 
deaths in the bull ring. Luis Freg, one 
of the better performers of today, carries 
the scars of seventy-two horn wounds 
and has been four times sacremento 
(given the last sacrament). In spite of 
these dangers, it is the dream of every 
young Spaniard and Mexican some day 
to become a famous matador, and chil- 
dren play corrida (bullfight) in the 
streets just as young Americans play 
baseball. 

The names of famous bullfighters 
throughout the long history of the sport 
are innumerable. Belmonte is generally 
considered to be the greatest of all time, 
with Joselita, Bombita, Larita, and 

'"Bullfighting as an .'\rt," Litcrarv Digest. 66 
(Julv 3, 1920), 44. 

'Ibid. 

"Iiian Belmonte, "The Making of a Bull- 
fighter," AtUmlu- Moiilhlv. 1.S9 (Feb.. 1937)^ 
129-148. 

'°P. Terry, Trrry's Guide lo Mexico, ex. 



24 



Palma following not far behind." Two 
women, even, have been known to par- 
ticipate in the bloody pastime. One was 
La Cordebesita, whose feats were hailed 
by the Spaniards as "astonishing and 
phenomenal." The other was Cochita 
Cintron, who toured the Latin-American 
countries successfully in 1938. Sefiorita 
Cintron is unusual in that her art com- 
bines two types of performance, that of 
the Portuguese, on horseback, and that 
of the Spanish, on foot. The only Ameri- 
can ever to become a first-rate matador 
is the Brooklyn-born Sydney Franklin. 
He has tried unsuccessfully for many 
years to introduce bullfighting to the 
United States. His failure is attributed 
to the fact that the American Society 
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals 
has forbidden any bloodshed, and the 
bullfight can hardly succeed without it. 

The bullfight should be regarded by 
outsiders like ourselves with sympathetic 
understanding. It is by no means an 
expression of barbarism or wanton 
cruelty, but an ancient and dignified 



sport — or art. For millions of people 
it provides necessary emotional release, 
and is at the same time a thing of beauty. 
Those who have seen hulltights and 
known what they were seeing regard 
them as a vital and interesting part of 
Spanish civilization. 

"Most bullfighters take the name of some 
animal, implement, or weapon, such as Bom- 
bita, little bomb; Cuchillo, knife; and so on. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Belmonte, Juan, "The Making of a Bull- 
fighter," Atlantic Monthly, 159 (Feb., 
1937), 129-148. 

"Bullfighting as an Art," Literary Digest, 66 
(July 3, 1920), 44. 

Eastman, Max, "Bull in the Afternoon," New 
Republic, 75 (June 7, 1933), 94-97. 

Madariaga, Salvador, "Why the Spaniards 
Like Bullfights," Living Age, 336 (May 1, 
1929), 177-181. 

Marvin, G., "Sportsmen from Malaga," 
Forum, 93 (March, 1935), 184-9. 

"Spanish Delirium Over a Brooklyn Bull- 
fighter," Literary Digest, 102 (July 27, 
1929), 40-44. 

Stratton, C., "Bullfighting in Southern 
France," Travel, 36 (Dec, 1920), 4-9. 

Terry, Philip, Terry's Guide to Mexico, New- 
York, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1935. 

Vinson, Curtis, "Beauty and the Bull," Col- 
liers, 105 (May 25, 1940), 20. 



Let's Win Back Latin -America 



Paul Youle 

Rhetoric II, Theme 7, 1940-1941 



nPHE "Achilles Heel" of the United 
* States is Latin-America. Most mili- 
tary experts agree that we can not be 
invaded from either the Atlantic or the 
Pacific Ocean if our rearmament pro- 
gram progresses nearly as fast as 
scheduled. If, however, a foreign power 
should establish a military base in Latin- 
America, parts of which are closer to 
Europe than to the United States, we 
might have a rather difficult time in pro- 
tecting ourselves, especially if Latin- 



America didn't sympathize with us or 
gave aid to our enemy or enemies. The 
very idea of an attack on the United 
States sounds fantastic, but in this day 
of unprecedented military conquest, we 
must be very careful before declaring 
anything incredible. Since defense of the 
United States is — rather should be — our 
first objective, we must begin at once to 
protect our most vulnerable position. 

Today, world conditions are ideal for 
our attempts to win Latin-America's 



[25] 



t 



friendship. When I say friendship. I do 
not mean the Nazi type of friendship — 
domination; we have tried that before. 
We must have a true friendship based on 
mutual trust and respect. With Japan, 
Germany, and Italy fighting desperately, 
the time is ripe for us to improve our 
reputation in the ej-es of the Latins. We 
must become not the bullying big brother 
but the friendly big brother ! We must 
have a "New Deal" in our relations with 
Latin- America. 

One of the main reasons for our fail- 
ure to cultivate friendship with the 
Latins is the clannish aloofness of the 
Americans in Latin-America. Most 
Americans in Buenos Aires are in- 
terested in the natives not as personali- 
ties — as human beings with problems as 
important as ours — but as sources of 
money for the Americans to exploit as 
rapidly as possible. In Montevideo and 
Rio de Janeiro there are a number of 
exclusive clubs where Americans spend 
all their spare time. They do not mingle 
with the people, but they attempt to set 
up a caste system with themselves as 
lords and masters. Obviously they do not 
consider the Latins equal to themselves. 
As long as this condition persists, there 
can be no close cooperation between the 
Americas. 

Our understanding of Latin-American 
problems has always been very poor. By 
reason of race and heritage, many of 
their concepts of laws and politics are 
very different from ours. We forget the 
reason, whenever they do anything that 
doesn't suit our fancy, and condemn 
them too hastily. We make little effort 
to understand their problems and difficul- 
ties. When Brazil, in 1937, made a 
change in its government, the United 
States was very un.sympathetic. As Sum- 
ner Welles put it, "A large portion of 
our people and our jiress, instead of 



waiting with tolerance and with friendly 
sympathy the moment when the Brazil- 
ian people had been enabled to deter- 
mine for themselves the proper solution 
of their own problem, undertook to 
determine for them how the problem 
should be solved and to a large degree 
indulged in vehement recriminations 
predicated upon false premises and falser 
conclusions." When Mexico ruled 
against our oil companies, she was not 
so much discriminating against America 
as simply protecting herself. Mexico's 
object was to secure a better standard 
of living for more of her people. Nev- 
ertheless, our press severely condemned 
Mexico, and was unwilling to under- 
stand or even to listen to her side of the 
question. 

Whatever prestige England had in 
Latin-America was dashed by her policy 
when she let Italy invade Ethiopia, when 
she threw Austria to the wolves, when 
she mangled the League of Nations. In 
Latin-America weakness is despised. 
Only bj' establishing a firm foreign policy 
can we assure them that we can be 
trusted in a crisis. Only when the Latins 
feel that we will never subject them to 
diplomatic double-crossing, can they trust 
us. 

Great strides forward in the under- 
standing of their problems have been 
made by Spanish clubs and inter-.Ameri- 
can clubs. It is easier to understand your 
neighbor's troubles if you can speak his 
language. When the Mexican basketball 
team played at Illinois, they were un- 
doubtedly pleased at their reception 
here by a group of students who spoke 
their own language. This kind of thing, 
as well as Pan-American conferences, is 
breaking down the barrier of language, 
custom, and background. 

Our attempts at trading with South j 
America have, until recently, presup- 



[26] 



posed free world trade. When Cordell 
Hull sponsored the first South-America- 
favored reciprocal trade treaties, he took 
the first step in the direction we are go- 
ing to have to take to combat German 
trade domination of Latin-America. The 
days of the free market are gone, and the 



sooner we realize this, the better. We 
are going to have to meet the German 
sell-at-a-loss trade program by subsidi- 
zation. It will be expensive, but the cost 
can be borne in the name of the National 
Defense Program with fair assurance 
that this will be for defense. 



The Problems of a Customer 

Richard A. Roberts 
Rhetoric II, Theme 6. 1940-1941 



THE DOOR OPENS. A class-worn 
student staggers into the coke-'n- 
smoke and wearily falls into a booth, the 
pangs of hunger and thirst gnawing at 
him simultaneously. It has been a strenu- 
ous day — two labs, a lecture, two quiz 
sections, and a P.E. class in clog danc- 
ing. So he has come to this place for 
food and rest. 

Waiters run hastily about, dodging in 
and out of tables, but they ignore him. 
Slowly, the hand of the clock moves on. 
Seven minutes pass, and no one comes 
near him. The minute hand reaches the 
ten-minute mark. The customer cusses. 

Suddenly the head waiter discovers 
the customer. Loudly he shouts, "Service 
in booth seven!" Waiters rush by from 
all directions, but still they take no heed. 
Once again the head waiter calls. There 
is no response. Finally, more by accident, 
perchance, than by intention, a waiter 
approaches. In his eagerness the cus- 
tomer fairly shouts his order. "Bring 

me two hamburgers, a glass of m " 

Plop ! A wet rag slaps down on the 
table ; the waiter swishes it over the 
table in three huge strokes, turns and 
walks away. The customer cusses. 

Three minutes pass. He returns. 
"May I have your order, sir?" The 



problem now is to make him listen to 
the order before he goes away again. 
"Bringmetwoha mbu rgersandaglassof- 
milk !" The waiter jots it in his pad. 

"I'm sorry, sir, but we're out of milk. 
I'll bring you buttermilk instead!" 

"But I don't like butterm " This 

answer does no good. The waiter has 
left. Buttermilk. L^gh ! The customer 
cusses. 

Seventeen and one-half minutes pass. 
The student feels somewhat faint, but 
determined to stick it out. The waiter re- 
turns. "The cook couldn't find the 
mustard, sir; so I told him it would be 
all right to use horseradish." Horse- 
radish ! and buttermilk ! The student is 
fairly burning with anger, but his 
hunger and thirst prevail over his 
temper. He begins to eat. Horseradish 
and buttermilk ! The customer cusses. 

As you see, the customer's life in these 
local coke-joints can be hell. But it is a 
valuable part of our higher education. 
By the time the average individual has 
attended college coke-joints for four 
years, he has become duly hardened to 
the hardships of public eating places. The 
local waiters, I am told, have a common 
motto: "Your mother waited on you till 
now. Don't expect me to do the same!" 



[27] 



I 



Senseless Art 



BUELL DWIGUT HUGGINS 
Rhetoric 11, Theme 8, 1940-1941 



SURREALISM has been in existence 
now for about a quarter of a century. 
During this time it has invaded several 
fields of endeavor — poetry and prose, 
plastic art and sculpture, and painting. 
By some it has been welcomed with out- 
stretched hands as the savior of the 
people ; by others it has been blamed 
as the destroyer of reason and talent. 

Surrealism had its beginning in the 
Old World, and is really the climax of 
a series of radical movements which we 
have imported. In 1908 a theory of art 
known as cubism was created. Its creator 
was Pablo Picasso, who believed in the 
theory of postimpressionism and thought 
that abstract form should be stressed, 
even at the expense of other pictorial 
elements. He based his art upon the use 
of intersecting cubes, cones, and other 
geometric solids. Then in 1916 Dadaism 
was born. Its parent was a Rumanian 
Jew, Tristan Tzara by name. The term 
Dada was selected at random from the 
dictionary and means, ordinarily, a child- 
ish variant of father.' Said the creator 
of Dadaism: "We want works straight- 
forward, strong, accurate, and forever 
not understood. Logic is a complica- 
tion."^ Dadaism is nothing more than 
simple distortion in art. but it is signifi- 
cant in that it was the immediate an- 
cestor of surrealism. Then, finally, came 
surrealism, with Andre Breton and Fran- 
cis Aragon, Frenchmen, publishing their 
so-called "Manifesto," in which they at- 
tempted to explain the new art they had 
initiated.^ Many public meetings were 
now held in Europe in favor of or in 
opposition to the new art. As the move- 
ment spread, as it crossed the ocean to 



America twelve years later, it was still 
like the ebb and flow of ocean waves: 
by some it was received with rapture, by 
others it was both' criticized. In 1936, 
however, as if to "explain all," Breton 
himself published a book entitled What 
Is Surrealism^ "What does it matter to 
me," he inquires, "whether trees are 
green whether a ball is cylindri- 
cal or round?" "The eye," he continues, 
"exists in the primitive state" and the 
"secret of surrealism lies in the fact that 
wc are persuaded that something is 
hidden." Surrealists are actually of this 
mind, that if a child is asked to draw a 
picture of a cow on a blackboard and 
the picture looks like an automobile, it 
is quite all right, since the child received 
that impression of a cow. In all its fields, 
surrealism employs the same principles, 
harking back alwa3-s to Sigmund Freud, 
founder of psychoanalysis.* The sub- 
conscious mind comes fully into play and 
lirives out all voluntary thoughts, all logic 
and reason, all coherence. 

Practisers of surrealistic art, with 
whom we have here to deal, are, among 
others, Salvador Dali, Joan Miro, Paul 
Klee. Jean Lurcat, Giorgio Qiirico, and 
Max Ernst. On page 28 of the April 3, 
1939, issue of Ncivsweek, are printed 
some examples of Dali's art. One of 
them is a painting of a dish with a tele- 
phone in it (receiver removed) and 

'Thomas J. Fitzmorris, "Mindless Nfarx- 
ism," The Catholic World, 150 (January,! 
1940), 420. 

'Charles \V. Ferguson, ".Art for Our Sake,"' 
llar/'crs Macjacitie. 175 (July, 1937), 218. 

'Thomas J. Fitzmorris, o/>. cit., 420-430. 

'Matthew losephson, "The Superrealists," 
The .Vrti' /?V/>i(/>/i,-. 69 (February 3, 1932), 
321-322. 



[2.S1 



beside it three grilled sardines. That is 
all. One might suppose that the tele- 
phone rang while the housewife was 
having lunch and that in her haste to 
answer it, she took the sardines with her. 
While she was at the telephone, some- 
one rang the doorbell. Going to answer 
the doorbell, she left both the sardines 
and the telephone in the dish. She never 
returned to them. So, if one liked, one 
might suppose. Dali, a small, dark, dart- 
ing Spaniard of thirty-six, had twenty- 
one paintings like this on exhibition at 
the Julien Levy Gallery in New York 
City last April. This was not the first 
time, however, that the surrealists had 
been in New York City with their paint- 
ings: they had exhibited in January, 
1932, and in the summer of 1937. After 
their show there in 1937, they made a 
tour of the entire United States, their 
paintings apparently captivating the im- 
agination of many people. Their entrance 
was like a circus come to town.^ 

Although Dali is considered by some 
critics as the world's most spectacular 
surrealistic artist, in the minds of others 
he is surpassed by Joan Miro. Miro, 
aged forty-seven, is also a Spaniard ; but, 
unlike Dali, he is primarily a folk- 
painter. His works are said to have a 
genuine "quality of spontaneity and free- 
dom."'' Another surrealistic painter is 
Jean Lurcat, a Frenchman, who delights 
in painting boats that have been sunk 
halfway below the waves.' Giorgio Chi- 
rico, an Italian, creates absolute chaos, 
representing in his paintings pieces of 
wood, bedsprings, hats, buckets, and 
shoes, all piled into a disordered heap."* 
Max Ernst likes to cut up an illustrated 
catalogue and then paste the pieces 
together. The result, of course, lacks 
symmetry, but symmetry is hated by sur- 
realists.^ There is also Tchelitchev, who 
makes a tennis player wave a racquet 



into the foreground of the picture, while 
the body lengthens for miles down a very 
long court. The picture reminds one of 
a skyscraper." 

During the last two or three years 
surrealism has been used in advertising. 
Its effectiveness for this purpose is quite 
apparent when one remembers the in- 
congruity and grotesqueness of surreal- 
istic paintings. They are certain to catch 
the eye. Large concerns like the Abbott 
Laboratories have recognized their worth 
and have employed surrealistic painters. 
Furs, watches, shoes, dresses, wines, per- 
fumes, and soaps have been advertised 
by surrealistic ingenuity. As fond as 
Americans are of change of design, it is 
not unlikely that surrealism will be used 
— in fact, it has been used to some extent 
— in styling such articles as hats, shoes, 
and furniture. Salvador Dali has already 
designed a sofa in the shape of a pair 
of lips. So far, however, surrealism has 
been used in advertising or in styling 
only by the larger concerns that sell to 
the luxury class." 

It is noteworthy that surrealism ap- 
peared in Europe during the World War, 
a product of the cultural unrest of that 
time. It came to America a decade ago 
during the depression. Important to re- 
member also is the fact that although it 
now operates only through the media of 
literature and art, it claims the political 
and social fields as fields of action.^- Sur- 
realists would adopt a Communistic form 

"Barry Byrne, "Surrealism Passes," The 
Commoirweal, 26 (July 2, 1937), 262-63. 

"James J. Sweeney, "Miro and Dali," The 
New Republic, 81 (February 6, 1935), 360. 

'Alex McGavick, "Weird Worlds," The 
Commonzveal, 27 (April 1, 1938), 630-31. 

'Ibid. 

"Ibid. 

"Ibid. 

"Frank Caspers, "Surrealism in Overalls," 
Scribner's Magadne, 104 (August, 1938), 17-21. 

"Thomas J. Fitzmorris, "Mindless ^^arx- 
ism," The Catholic World, ISO (January, 
1940), 420-430. 



;29] 



\ 



of government. The central principle of 
all their theory is destructive. They wish 
to break down all existing standards and 
values. The reason for their exaggerated 
simplicity is to provide an art- form 
simple enough for the proletariat to 
imitate. They are not interested in de- 
veloping geniuses or men of true talent. 
They would make every man an artist, 
but they would produce no Corot, no 
Stuart, no Whistler. In subject-matter 
and theme, moreover, they would pro- 
duce nothing beautiful. The world is 
mad. All is mystery and chaos. Why not 
paint it that way? 

Surrealistic art has not been widely 
popularized. It is the belief of some that 
if it had been, it would have died long 
ago. Surrealistic art is no art at all, but 
sheer nonsense. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Breton, Andre, IFhal Is Surrealism? London, 
Faber & Fabcr, Ltd., 1936. 

Byrne, Berry, "Surrealism Passes," The Com- 
monweal, 26 (July 2, 1937), 262-263. 



Campbell, Blendon Reed, "Surrealism, New 

School of Native .^rt," Literary Digest, 

118 (December 15, 1934), 19. 
C.\SFERS, Fr,\nk, "Surrealism in Overalls," 

Scribner's Maga=ine, 104 (.August, 1938), 

17-21. 

D.AViiisoN, Martha, "Subconscious Pictogra- 
phy, by Joan iliro," The Art News, 35 

(December 5, 1936), 11! 
Fercupon, Charles W., ".Art for Our Sake," 

Harper's Afagasine, 175 (July, 1937), 218- 

220. 
FiTZMORRis, Thomas J., "Mindless Marxism," 

The Catholic World, 150 (January, 1940). 

420-430. 
George, VValdemar, "New .Art in France and 

Germany," The Liz-ing Age, 334 (January 

1, 1928), 73-78. 
Harri.max, M. C, "Dream Walking," The 

Reader's Digest, 35 (October, 1939), 54-57. 
Josephson, Matthew, "The Superrcalists," 

The New Republic, 69 (February 3, 1932), 

321-322. 
Lane, J. W., "Graze for Craziness," The 

Catholic IVorld, 144 (December, 1936), 

306-309. 
McGavick, Alex, "Weird Worlds," The 

Commonweal, 27 (April 1, 1938), 630-631. 
Rosenfeld, Paul, "Conversation with a Sur- 

realiste," The Nation, 134 (February 24, 

1932), 236-237. 
Sweeney, James J., "Miro and Dali," The New 

Republic, 81 (February 6, 1935), 360. 
"Weird Dream World of Surrealism," News- 

iveek, 13 (April 3, 1939), 28. 



It's All in Knowing How 

Do you enjoy a football game? You probably do. You do if you understand the 
rules. If you have ever played yourself, you enjoy it even more. The more familiar 
you become with its intricacies the more intense your enjoyment of the game will 
become. To me, the nicest thing about football is the chrysanthemum I occasionally 
get the opportunity to wear. To me, football means cold feet and blue noses. To you, 
who probably understand it, it means thrills and excitement. You will stand to cheer 
because of a well-made play. You won't even realize that your nose is cold. I will 
stand to cheer because everyone else does and it means a good chance to warm myself 
by a little movement. 

You may not like horse racing. Perhaps you only see people sweltering at the 
. races in the summer time. You may picture these people winning and losing and all 
because they arc carried away by a vice called gambling. I love horse racing. I love 
it because I know the feel and the look and the smell of a horse. 

It's all the same with language. Know it, and you'll be able to do things with it — 
and get places with it. Understand it, and it will become beautiful, exciting, a living 
interest. — Anfta Bondy 



[iO] 



The Green Pastures by Marc Connelly 



Edward Holmgren 

Rhetoric I, Theme 10, 1940-1941 



IN THE preface to The Green Pastures 
Connelly tells us that his adaptation 
of Roark Bradford's stories is an attempt 
to present the living religion of thousands 
of Negroes in the deep South. "With 
terrific spiritual hunger and the greatest 
humility, these untutored blacks — most 
of whom cannot even read the book 
which is the treasure house of their 
religion — have adapted the contents of 
the Bible to the consistencies of their 
everyday lives. Unburdened by the dif- 
ferences of more educated theologians, 
they accept the Old Testament as a 
chronicle of wonders which happened to 
people like themselves in vague but 

actual places In Heaven, if one 

has been born in a district where fish 
fries are popular, the angels do have 
magnificent fish fries through an eternity 
somewhat resembling a series of earthly 
holidays. The Lord Jehovah will be the 
promised comforter, a just but compas- 
sionate patriarch, the summation of all 
the virtues His follower has observed in 
the human beings about him. The Lord 
may look like the Reverend Mr. Dubois, 
as our Sunday School teacher speculates 
in the play, or he may resemble another 
believer's own grandfather. In any event, 
His face will be familiar to the one who 
has come for his reward." 

In Green Pastures, Connelly has re- 
verted to a very old dramatic type, for 
dramatized Biblical narratives go back as 
far as the medieval beginnings of the 
English drama, when such plays, pre- 
sented by the craftsmen's guilds, were 
known as mystery plays. But Green 



Pastures differs from its prototype in 
important particulars. The gross anach- 
ronisms of the medieval mystery were 
of no importance to the medieval audi- 
ence, for historical inaccuracy went un- 
noticed. For that reason the mystery was 
accepted as a valid representation of the 
past, and everyone focused his interest 
upon character and story. Connelly, how- 
ever, has consciously recreated the past 
in terms of a simple people who have no 
more historical sense than medieval 
authors. The theme is not so much the 
Biblical narrative, but rather the mental 
processes of the imagined dramatist, in 
this instance the Southern Negro. Thus 
our interest becomes twofold: in the 
story itself and in the terms of its telling. 
The concept of a God who smokes 
ten-cent seegars and who must ask men 
tlieir names may be remote from our 
own ; but few people are able to spirit- 
ualize their God completely. And the 
God of Mr. Deshee is not at all remote 
from the God of Genesis, who went 
"walking in the garden in the cool of the 
day," who had to ask Adam, "Where art 
thou?", who made coats for Adam and 
Eve, who shut the door of the Ark after 
Noah, and who ate a dinner of veal with 
Abraham. It has long been said that man 
makes God in his own image, or better, 
in the image of the most noble man he 
can conceive. In such terms, the God of 
Green Pastures, who is a far nobler deity 
than the God of King David, is a credit 
to his creators. Even the language of 
Green Pastures is often closer in spirit 
to the language of the Bible than that 



[31] 



\ 



of most of our ecclesiastical writings. 
What is "Gangway for de Lawd God 
Jehovah" but an ajH American para- 
phrase of "Prepare ye the way of the 
Lord"? 

With a deep sense of these values 



Connelly approaches his subject with 
reverence. True, he sometimes treats it 
with humor, but he also treats it with 
tenderness and pathos and with a sense 
of the dignity of man and his aspirations 
which is present in all great literature. 



Rhet as Writ 

(Material written in Rhetoric I and II) 



All in all. the selling of beer and the 
hearing of uncullural music is, in my 
opinion a step to delowerate the Illini 
Building. If this idea of beer and "juke 
box" exist in the tavern, the real mean- 
ing of the word "Tavern" will have its 
full meaning, not a fiction one like it has 
today. 

1 and four other fellows decided to go 
to the Gem theatre on State street and 
see the passing beauties of clotliless 
women. 

Mr. Richard Wyatt, a successful 
breeder of Hereford cattle, informed me 
that he gained most of his knowledge of 
animals merely by watching his grand- 
father in the show-ring. 



Out in front were all kinds of photos 
of naked women either with their backs 
to us or laying on the ground. These 
photos, I believe, were just a come on to 
the people, as the pictures in front were 
pictures of beautiful women, not of the 
cronies that were inside. 

The purpose of the author is to give a 
good histerical description of the time, 
place, and type of characters in the story. 

Picking up a newspaper you hurridly 
scan through the pages and immediately 
your attention is attracted to a bright 
colored picture of a semi-nude female. 
You pause for a moment, take in her 
features at a glance and move on. 



.321 



Honorable Mention 



Richard Barnes — Will o' the Wisp 

George Raymond Clark — Time of His Life 

Edward Corno — Schubert and the Unfinished Symphony 

Robert Cote — Cryptography and War 

Robert Donovan — The Movies Move on 

Ray Gilbert — Cod Liver Oil 

Lewis Giles — The American Negro and the World War 

William Gillette — Hotter 'n Hell 

Eugene Henning — The World Today 

Jim Hosler — An Awful Night 

Duane Hufford — Learning by Doing at the University of Cincinnati 

Fred Ilseman — Isle of the Living Dead 

Robert Curtis Johnson — Latest Developments in Glass 

Madge Kipp — The American Gypsy 

Robert Lloyd — The Aftermath 

F. E. MacGregor — Chicago's North Clark Street 

Corrine Merse — Intellectual Religion 

John Ostrem — On Time 

Harlan Reusch — The Geological History of Northwestern Illinois 

M. M. Rieger— Aureolus Theophrastus Paracelsus 

Ernest Ritten house — The Development of the Combine 

Laurence Robinson — The Gourd Farm 

Charlotte Roe — Prejudices Existing in Bases for Acceptance into 

Medical School 
Rosemary Schubert — Hi Ya, Norma! 
Janice Silverberg — Rebirth of a Nation 
William Skelton — The Baton and the Score 
Lois Slyder — A Dispatch from Reilly's 
Carolyn Slyder— Mary Todd Lincoln 
Frances Wheeler — The Federal Theatre 
Helen Yates — Station WSA calling U.S.S. Constitution 
Blossom Zeidman — Meet Mildred 



fwE Green Caldron 

A Magazine of Freshman Writing 



Angelo Adams: Top Hat Grill 1 

Sheldon Leavitt : Two Three O'clocks on Monday 8 

Roger Bullard : Raising the "Genevieve" 10 

John M. Hunter: Is It Constitutional? 13 

Richard Shotliff: Eddy May IS 

Dail Bunch: Shooting an Oil Well 15 

Charles B. McVey : Crew-Cut—Phooey! 18 

George Coffaro : Eight Months on Oakley Boulevard 20 

Gene Voorhees : Saturday Night 22 

Sheldon Leavitt : The House on Green Street 24 

Lewis W. Giles: The American Negro and the World War ... 27 

Pearl E. Pasthoff : Richard Wright's "Native Son" 31 

George Clark: Still No Answer 32 

Ernest Rittenhouse : "The New Republic" 34 

Ethel McDonald: The Hula 36 

(Material written in Rhetoric I and II) : Rhet as Writ .... 40 



VOL. II, NO. I NOVEMBER, 1941 



UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 



JL HE Green Caldron is published four times a year by the 
Rhetoric Staff at the University of Illinois. Material is chosen 
from themes and examinations written by freshmen in the Uni- 
versity. Permission to publish is obtained for all full themes, 
including those published anonymously. Parts of themes, how- 
ever, are published at the discretion of the committee in charge. 

The committee in charge of this issue of The Green Caldron 
includes Miss Alberta Menzel, Miss Jeannette Ross, Miss 
Ruth Shames, Mr. Robert Geist, Mr. John Hunter, Mr. 
W. M. Lowry, and Mr. Charles Shattuck, Chairman. 

The Green Caldron is for sale at the Illini Union Bookstore, 
715 South Wright Street, Champaign, Illinois. 



THE GREEN CALDRON 

copyrighted 1941 
BY the university OF ILLINOIS 

Alt rights reseri'cd 
No part of this periodical may be repro- 
duced in any form without permission in 
writing from the publisher. 



I 



Top Hat Grill 

Angelo Adams 
Rhetoric II, Theme 11, 1940-1941 

WHAT THIS COUNTRY NEEDS IS A GOOD FIVE-CENT 
HAMBURGER." 
These are the words that sent the firm of Adams, Roehm, 
and Benson into a hamburger revolution that was designed to make Wimpy, 
Inc. tremble with fear ; Berlin forget sauerkraut ; London, tea and crumpets ; 
Coney Island, hot dogs ; and China, chop suey. 

Here's how the beginning of this international movement took shape. 
The place: the rear of my mother's grocery store, which had a door open- 
ing on the street. The time: November 15, 1937. The capital: forty-eight 
dollars and eight cents. The material: some old second-hand lumber, a 
discarded grill, and four gallons of paint, all donated by my father. 

With hammer, nails, and saw, we started working. Since the rear of the 
store was partitioned, we needed no extra walls. The counter was quickly 
erected — a product of hard work — not beautiful but serviceable. We shined 
the grill until our reflections were clearly visible in it. We purchased stools 
and screwed them into place. 

Top Hat Grill No. I was the name we chose for this great enterprise. 
A top hat and a cane were to be the trade mark ; the catch phrase, "Top 
hat quality — at straw hat prices." 

I was elected to do the painting. The walls were to be blue, the ceiling, 
cream, and the counter, black. Mr. Benson, the artist of the firm, was to 
make a six-by-eight foot sign for the outer wall, and numerous other signs 
for the interior. Mr. Roehm? He supervised. 

In spite of Mr. Roehm, Top Hat Grill No. I was soon ready for its 
formal opening. Programs were printed and distributed. We arranged 
with an ice cream company for ice-cream bars, which were to be given to 
our customers. We borrowed tuxedoes, rented top hats, gave the counter 
a hurried wiping, and swung open the doors for the expected onrush of 
customers. 

On that wonderful, never-to-be-forgotten day, our fondest dreams 
seemed to be completely realized. The customers came. Mr. Roehm, decked 
out in top hat and tails, met them at the door and directed them to their 
seats. (Our establishment had a grand total of eight stools.) I was the grill 
man, and Mr. Benson had the doubtful honor of being the waiter and dish- 
washer. At the end of the day, our cash receipts totaled thirty-eight dollars 
and twenty cents, a figure far beyond our fondest hopes. That night we 

[ 1 ] 



2 The Green Caldron 

stayed awake until daybreak planning Top Hat No. II. Poor, innocent, day- 
dreaming fools that we were ! 

(Jn the second day, which, too, was destined to be never forgotten, our 
fondest dreams were considerably dampened. In the morning, with broad 
smiles on our faces, we opened the door. That evening, dour and disgusted, 
we slammed it shut. The total "take" for the day had reached the tre- 
mendous sum of four dollars and ten cents. "It seems we'll have to give 
away free ice-cream bars everj'day to get any business," said Mr. Roehm, 
who had been reading magazines all day long. 

In spite of our best efforts, business grew steadily worse. Our ham- 
burgers were of the finest 'grade meat, and of very exceptional size. We 
advertised in the local paper. In despair, we dressed Mr. Benson in a 
tu.xedo and top hat, placed a sandwich sign on him, and paraded him on the 
main street. Even this did not improve business conditions. Why? What 
was the matter? 

As usual, when in trouble, I went to Dad for help. "My boy," he said, 
"the only help I can give you is some advice. The reason people are not 
patronizing 3'our place is that they are afraid j^ou are too young for such 
a great responsibility. People are funny that way. The}' will risk anj-thing 
else, but they never take chances with their stomachs. I'm advising you to 
close the store and never open it again." 

That night there was a board of directors' meeting. After considerable 
subtracting and very little adding, the board came to the conclusion that the 
firm was in debt twenty-two dollars and twelve cents. "I move that we 
borrow the money from Mr. Adams, Senior, pay our bills, and go out of 
business," said Mr. Roehm. This motion was seconded by Mr. Benson, and 
made unanimous by me. 

"What this countrj' needs is a good five-cent hamburger!" Maybe. But 
the firm of Adams, Roehm, and Benson was determined that night to allow 
somebody else the distinction of introducing it. 



Shortly after the disastrous failure of Top Hat No. I, the directors of 
the firm of Adams, Roehm. and Benson met again. Mr. Benson grunted, 
rose, hooked one thumb in his vest pocket, and pounded the table to attract 
attention. "Brace up, gentlemen! We're not going to die! Of course Top 
Hat No. I is all washed up, but that does not mean that the firm of Adams, 
Roehm, and Benson has to follow suit. I know tliat it is going to be a 
touijh job to start from the bottom again, but we can do it — we still have 
our health, our brains, and our youth. Come on. let's cheer up. Let's start 
our brain cells working. There must be some way to make our pile." 

From that moment on, of course, our nimble minds would never rest 



J 



October, 1941 3 

until we made that "pile," and we were constantly planning ways and means 
of achieving success. Our first project consisted of a new method of selling 
advertising matches, but we gave this up because it was "impractieable." 
Then came a series of "practicable" and "infallible" money-makers, includ- 
ing plans for a restaurant protective agency and the invention of a new type 
of mousetrap. Then, finally, a scheme to end all schemes. With our bare 
faces hanging out where everybody could see them, we actually made plans 
to collect one million dollars for the assassination of Adolf Hitler ! 

Unfortunately the scheme got out of hand. Parental authority was 
shocked; and it expressed itself, stormily and certainly, through most of an 
evening. 

That put an end to our day-drearning. The next morning we met in 
front of the school doors (Lake View High, Chicago). I looked at Benny 
(he no longer carried his thumb in his vest pocket) ; he looked at me; and 
Bud (Mr. Roehm) looked at a passing girl. Benny grinned; I laughed. 
Bud became hysterical. 

"Silly, wasn't it?" 

"Yeh, it sure was." 

"Oh, well, put all our ideas together, and I betcha it was the only one 
that would have benefited humanity." 

After this little episode, Benny, Bud, and Angelo settled down and led 
the dull but safe lives of average uninspired high school students. Time 
passed quickly, and by grace of long service and sympathetic teachers, we 
were finally handed our diplomas. Benny won a scholarship at the Art 
Institute ; Bud decided to become a politician ; and I, in spite • of my 
father's objections, decided to work for a year before I went to college. 

Nothing exciting or eventful happened to any of us during the next 
six or seven months. Let me proceed at once to the story of that day — 
January 17, 1940. I had just come home from work and had settled down 
in the easy chair to relax, when Bud burst into the house. He was so excited 
he almost choked to death trying to talk before he caught his breath. I 
should have known. I should have caught him by the seat of his pants and 
thrown him out of the house. Every time he gets excited, I get into trouble. 
"Ang .... Ang .... I've got .... wonderful news .... wonderful ! 
You know that store next to L.V. ? Well, it's for rent. Isn't that great?" 

I will never admit that I am stupid, but I'll be darned if I could get it. 
"Now take it easy. Buddy Boy," I said, "and try to calm 3'ourself. I've 
always known that you're a little nuts, but I never figured that I'd live to 
see .the day that you'd chuckle over other people's misfortunes. Now, what 
the heck is so wonderful? Are you happy because poor old Pop Jones lost 
his store — his livelihood?" 

"Ang, me boy, some day you'll be sorry for those insulting words. Here 



4 The Green Caldron 

I am. opportunity itself, knocking on your door, and what do you do? You 
try to chase me away. I will not be daunted. I am determined to make you 
a millionaire." 

"Buddy," I said, "you're drunk! If you're not, get out of here before I 
murder you ! I remember one other time you acted like this, and that time 
we wound up with Top Hat. That is not going to happen to me again. Now, 
go on home and sleep it off !" 

But there was no stopping him. "That was just kid stuff," he protested. 
"This time I really have a good idea. Listen, the rent on that store is only 
forty bucks a month, and you can get a five-year lease. It's a chance in a 
million — you'll never get another like it in a million years. Come on, grab 
a couple of bucks, and let's rush over there and give them a deposit before 
someone beats us to it. Hurry!" 

"Whoa, boy ! Take it easy, son. Let me get this straight. Are you sug- 
gesting that we go back into the hamburger business?" 

"Am I suggesting that we go back into the hamburger business! What in 
the name of heaven do you think I've been raving about for the last ten 
minutes? Wake up, boy. Opportunity knocks but once, and she is breaking 
your door down today. Don't pass up this chance. You'll never have 
another like it." 

I should have thrown him out. I didn't. "Okay, okay! Supposing that 
I do want to do it — just supposing, mind you, because I ver}- definitely do 
not — where do you think I'm going to get the money for it? You can't open 
up a place like that with forty-eight dollars and eight cents. It would cost 
at least iifteen hundred dollars. Do you think I print my own money?" 

"That's the least of our worries — ^you can borrow from your Dad." 

"Listen, pig head, the only money my Dad has is my college money. My 
folks have been saving for years to get that together, and if you think for 
one moment that I'm going to . . . ." 

"College? What do you want to go to college for? You take that money, 
and in a month we'll have Top Hat No. II open for business. And that'll 
only be the start. In another four months we'll be ready for Top Hat No. 
HI. Two more months and No. IV will be open. Then, well, we can start 
opening them two at a time. In no time at all, we'll have . . . ." 

"SHUT UP!" 

". . . . dozens .... hundreds of them. Just think, Ang! Just think! 
We'll be standing there looking up at a huge neon sign, and you'll throw- 
out your chest and proudly read it out loud— TOP HAT GRILL NO. 1000. 
You sure will be one proud and happy man. Why .... Why, I'll bet that 
the . . . ." 

"SHUT UP! It isn't going to do you any good. I'm not going to do it." 

". . . . President of the United States will be there to push the button 
that opens the door. And wouldn't that be something?" 



October, 1941 5 

"NO! NO! NO! NO! I will not do it!" 

The door banged open, and Benny rushed in. "Hey, Ang, have you 
heard the news? You know that place next door to . . . ." 

I threw a book at him. "NO! NO! NO! NO! I will not do it!" 



"You done it, Ang. You done it ! I knew you wouldn't fail us." 

The time: the night before the opening. The place: inside Top Hat No. 
II. The characters: President Angelo Adams, Honorary Presidents Roehm 
and Benson, and the financial backer — my Dad. 

Dad. Well, son, you know how I feel about this, but it's too late now to 
do anything about it, so we might as well forget it. 

President Adams. I know that you and Mother were planning a college 
education for me, Dad, and I'm sorry I've disappointed you. I just feel that 
I'm doing the right thing by not going. Don't worry about me. I'll really 
make this place pay big dividends. 

President Roehm. Sure, Mr. Adams, don't worry about a thing. In no 
time at all, we'll be riding around in Dusenbergs. 

Dad (laughs). Oh, I'm not worried. I know that you'll make good — 
perhaps that is what bothers me. If you failed, then, perhaps, Angelo 
might .... (sighs). Oh well, I'll tell you what, son. I'll not mention 
school to you again for six months. That will give you plenty of time to 
think it over. At the end of that period, I'll ask you once more. Which 
ever way you decide, I'll not bring up the subject again. Okay? 

President Adams. That's okay with me. Dad. 

Dad. That's fine! Well, son, I want to wish you. the best of luck, and 
may Top Hat No. II prove to be a gold mine. 



A gold mine? Well, not exactly, but it did prove to be the best thing I 
had ever found. Since I was an alumnus of the high school, the teachers 
were glad to help me in every way possible. Most of them ate their lunches 
in Top Hat No. II, and all of them were nice enough to recommend me to 
their students. Many of my former classmates were enrolled in the night 
school, so that I enjoyed a very good evening trade. To all this, we must 
add the natural advantages effected by the location, near the intersection of 
two busy streets. We were open twenty- four hours a day, and we were 
kept going practically continuously. 

Business was good, and the money kept rolling into the cash register in 
a steady stream. I was the sole owner of a beautiful and prosperous store. 
I was no longer treated as if I were a child; I was at least a real honest-to- 
goodness business man. I had everything I had ever hoped for, and I 



6 The Green Caldron 

should have been a very happy and contented young man. I was — for a 
couple of months. 

Then things started happening. First of all, I had a physical breakdown; 
then I lost my girl friend ; then my best friend became my worst enemy ; 
then — then — then I finally gave up. 

As I've said before, we were open twenty- four hours a day, and natur- 
ally someone had to be there at all times, and 1 was it. I could afford only 
one helper, Mr. Roehm. He started at six p. m. and stayed until three a. m. 
At three I relieved him of his duties and took over the "dawn patrol." I 
worked the clock half-way around once, and then, usually, worked until the 
night-school rush was over at eight p. m. — seventeen hours a day. Is it any 
wonder that, three months later, I was forced to take a week's vacation in 
the hospital? 

This would have been enough to teach anybody else a lesson, but it did 
not teach me. The day I was released from the hospital, I went back to 
work the full seventeen hours. Another three months and many more 
"things" were to pass before the unconquerable spirit of A. Adams was to 
be finally and completely downed. The months passed slowly, but the 
"things" happened one right after another. 

In my freshman year, I had met my one-and-only, and for four years we 
had been going steady. But after a couple of months of Top Hat No. II, she 
started dating other fellows. This was all done, of course, with the blessing 
of big-hearted me. "Sure, hone)%" I agreed, "'go out and have a good time. 
I'm too busy right now to take you out, but as soon as I get things straight- 
ened out, and I have a little more free time — " Well, that was the end of 
a beautiful romance. ". . . . and I've come to the conclusion that all you 
think of is your darling Top Hat. I refuse to play second fiddle to a ham- 
burger joint. Anyway, I have met somebody else. He is going to college 
and is going to be an engineer; at least he will never be a fat, dull, greasy 
restaurant owner, as you will probably turn out to be, and . . . ." 

More was to come — lots more. One afternoon, Steve, one of my best 
"friends," relieved me for a couple of hours so that I could go home. I 
hadn't gone five blocks before I realized that I had forgotten something. 
I turned around and went back. I rushed in the door. "Hyah, Steve, I 
....?" The cash drawer was wide open : Steve was shoving money into 
his pocket, and there were five torn sales slips lying on the counter. I 
invited him to take a short walk out to the alley, and — well, that was the end 
of a long friendship. 

This was a lot to happen to one man in just six short months, but I 
think I could have weathered even those terrible calamities, if it hadn't been 
for the picture. On the opening day, Benny had presented me with a draw- 
ing. It was entitled "Angelo Adams in 1950." I was standing at the back 



I 



October, 1941 7 

of a hamburger grill, trying hamburgers. On the wall there was a sign, 
"TOP HAT GRILL NO. 1000." I was dressed in a white shirt, and I 
had a white apron tied around my waist — a waist of about si.xty inches. 
Wow ! There I was, a short, stumpy figure, bulging all the way around. 
And the face — that was the masterpiece ! A big red nose. Under it a great 
big handlebar mustache, drooping over a huge cigar stuck in the side of a 
big-lipped mouth. Underneath all this, six chins rolled gently towards the 
shirt collar. 

When he gave me the picture, I thought it was very clever, and I hung 
it up on the wall. It was not until much later that the drawing began to bother 
me — not, in fact, until the night that I got that last letter from my girl 
friend. "A fat, dull, greasy restaurant owner," she said ; and that night 
I looked at the drawing, and I did not laugh this time. Would I actually 
look like that in ten years? I walked over to the scale and weighed myself. 
I had gained eleven pounds in two months. 

From that moment on, I became worse than a chorus girl. I weighed 
myself every two minutes, and I started dieting. No use — the pounds kept 
piling on. I would sit and stare at that damned picture, and then stare into 
a mirror. I let my hand slide down to my stomach — it was growing bigger 
and bigger. I fingered my chin — it was no longer one chin — the second had 
sprouted. "Just four more to go," I thought. "Dear God, isn't there any- 
thing I can do to save myself?" 

As usual, it w^as Dad who saved me. As usual, again, he came walking 
in when I needed him the most. I treated him and his companion to coffee 
and doughnuts. Dad rose from his seat and motioned me to follow him into 
the back room. "Well, son, the six months are up, and as I promised I'm 
going to ask you once more to go to college. How about it?" 

"How about it? My God, Dad, there is nothing I would rather do. But 
what am I going to do with this place?" 

He smiled happily. "Are you sure that you really want to go to 
college?" 

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" 

"Good ! That man that came with me is interested in buying this place." 
He slapped me on the back. "Okay, Mr. Business Man, go out there and 
jack up his price. Good luck, son !" 

I kissed him — hard, and I am not ashamed of myself! 



The other night, I had a dream. Mr. Harding— owner of the Harding 
restaurants — came to my room and oiifered to sell to me all of his restaurants 
for one dollar. I picked him up and threw him out of the window. "NO! 
NO ! NO ! NO ! NO ! I will not do it !" 



8 The Green Caldron 

Two Three O'clocks on Monday 

Sheldon Leavitt 
Rhetoric II, Theme 12. 1940-1941 

I DREAD THE BEGIXXIXG OF EACH NEW SEMESTER. I 
don't mind the school work that lies in store for me ; it is the process of 
enrollment that gets me down. Oh, things go smoothly enough it one 
has a regular program, and is among the first to register ; but not every one 
can have a regular program, and every one can't be among the first to 
register. That is where I come in. I'm one of those misfits who went to 
a junior college for a while and came here with all sorts of odd credits and 
peculiar deficiencies. I'm legally in the freshman class, yet most of my 
courses are sophomore ; the registrar wrote "junior" on my transcript. 
When registration comes around each semester, I'm in a sorry mess. In- 
variably, I have conflicts in my program. And anyone who has been to the 
dean's office to thrash such things out can understand what I mean when I 
say that enrollment gets me down. 

Last semester I must have waited in the dean's office for five hours on 
the first day of registration, and I didn't even get to see his secretary. When 
I complained about it to the fellow waiting next to me, he said I was lucky 
even to get in the office. 

"But I have two three o'clocks on Monday," I insisted. "I must see 
him." The fellow placidly took a sandwich out of his lunchbox. 'That's 
nothing," he said. "I have enrolled in C. E. 60 on Tuesdays." 

"Well?" I replied. 

"There is no C. E. 60 on Tuesdays," he remarked, simply, and bit away 
half of a chicken salad sandwich. I gave up hope of seeing the dean that 
day, and headed for the door. The room was so filled with students that I 
took three steps before I even touched the floor. 

The next morning I fared no better. The office was again stuffed beyond 
capacity — a full hour before the dean arrived. \Mien he came, he was 
forced to enter b\' a side door as movie celebrities do in order to avoid their 
over-amorous fans. I, coming at eight o'clock, couldn't get near the place. 
Two semesters ago, the crowds continued for a week, but last semester the 
attendance dropped to a believable figure in just three days. 

When I came on Thursday only a few dozen students were waiting. 
Some of them were seated on one long bench near the door; the rest stood 
in various awkward positions in a sort of line which began where the bench 
left off. I took my place at the end of that line. Every few minutes some 
happy individual would walk briskly out of the adjoining private office : the 
first in line would then take his place. Then the entire row of seated stu- 



October, 1941 9 

dents would rise, shift one unit to the left, then resume their sitting. The 
first person in the standing line then occupied the seat left vacant at the end 
of the bench. An hour of this process found me among the privileged 
sedentary. Eleven shifts later I entered the sacred inner office. 

I presented my conflicting program to the fatigued man behind the desk. 
He gave me half a dozen papers to fill out, then handed me a little blue card 
and directed me to one of his assistants. This gentleman took the six papers 
I had completed, filled in the little blue card with undecipherable markings, 
and bade me sign four canary-yellow cards, six emerald-green cards with 
purple diagonal stripes, three navy-blue cards with beige polka dots, and 
three beige cards with navy-blue polka dots. Then he gave me a salmon- 
colored card and told me to take it to the next booth. When I handed that 
card to the registration clerk there, she gave me an attractive two-tone 
maroon and chartreuse card in return. My program change was now com- 
pleted, she told me ; the maroon and chartreuse card was my receipt. 
"Next!" 

Stuffing the card into my shirt pocket, I waded back through the outer 
office. My face wore a broad smile of relief. The entire row of seated stu- 
dents arose, shifted one unit to the left, and then resumed their sitting. As 
I walked home I shuddered to think that this same thing would happen next 
time — the same waiting, the same writing, the same walking. You can com- 
plain about your lectures, about your examinations ; but I'd rather attend 
dozens of the driest lectures, or take hundreds of the toughest examinations, 
than go through one day of registration. 



Geology One 

For the first week I managed to comprehend a good portion of what the 
professor said about minerals. If he had discussed only minerals the rest of the 
semester I should have been greatly pleased. They were nice minerals. I began 
to feel an affection towards them. And there were so few to identify. But evi- 
dently the professor wasn't on such friendly terms with them as I was, for, 
without so much as a word of farewell, he suddenly took leave of minerals, and 
I found myself lost in a maze of igneous and sedimentary rocks, consequent and 
subsequent streams, glaciers, landslides, and other equally distasteful elements. 

— Marilyn Rosenthal 

A Knack for It 

The old barber was proud of the way he removed the large apron that was 
supposed to keep hair off my clothes and out of my neck. He would step to the 
right side of the chair, cross his left arm under my chin, and give the cloth a 
wide swing and a sharp snap, which always awoke the dog and two or three 
loafers. "Say, I've got that down pat, ain't I?" he would ask. "Sure have," 
agreed the loafers, for the sixteenth time that day. — Wilson Hall 



10 The Green Caldron 

Raising the Genevieve 

Roger Blllard 
Rhetoric II. Theme 11, 1940-1941 

PRESSURE POUNDED OX MY EARDRUMS AND AN ICY 
current of water swirled suddenly about my legs as I sank ankle- 
deep into the soft mud of the lake bottom. The homemade diving 
helmet, resting securely upon my shoulders, was now very light in compari- 
son to its weight on the surface. The monotonous and steady "whuff, whuflf" 
of the compressed air entering the helmet reminded me of the small two- 
cylinder hand pump and of my friends twenty feet above me on the surface. 
Darkness enveloped me ; I thought of the dazzling brilliance of the June 
sun shining on the smooth water above — of the world that I had departed 
from only a few minutes before. It was my first experience in diving, and 
I didn't know whether to enjoy it or not. 

To say that diving, especially in a homemade helmet, is an uncommon 
thrill is to put it mildly indeed. The diver is completely alone — there is 
no means of communication with other persons except the thin signal cord 
tied to his wrist. The water of a lake bottom is usually so dark and muddy 
that it is impossible for the diver to see more than six inches in front of his 
small glass window. Currents of cold water curl sinuously around his legs. 
Rocks and sunken logs trip him and bark his shins. And always there is 
the diver's dire fear that his air supply will fail. Iron nerves and a certain 
amount of braver}- are certainly needed before one can make his first dive. 

It was in the summer of 1939 that our little party of four rowed out to 
the middle of Lake Springfield and began practice. Lake Springfield, a 
body of water about twelve miles long and two miles wide, had the summer 
before been the scene of a catastrophe. The Genevieve, a tlashy motor boat 
belonging to a friend of mine, had struck a floating log and sunk, a jagged 
hole 3'awning from the underside of the bow. Jim, the owner of the boat, 
and George and Rupe and I began immediately to plan for her recovery. 
We first determined the depth of the water by dropping a rope over the 
side of the rowboat. We found it to be twenty feet deep — too deep for 
ordinary diving. After plotting the exact scene of the wreck by trees and 
cottages on the shore, we began plans for building a diving helmet. 

Having obtained several diving manuals from the librar)% we soon de- 
cided upon a pattern for our helmet and began construction in George's 
basement. The helmet was simple in appearance but required much hard 
and tedious work to make. It consisted mainly of the end section of an old 
twelve-inch boiler, with two inverted U's cut in the open side and padded in 
order to fit over the shoulders of the wearer. A hole about three by six 



October, 1941 \\ 

inches was cut in the front of the helmet, and an extra-thick piece of wind- 
shield glass was soldered into place there. Next a small hole was bored in 
the top, and an ordinary straight garden hose faucet, complete with valve, 
was welded securely into place. Lastly, two twenty-five pound weights 
from an exercising bar were bolted to each side of the helmet, to give it 
weight. When finished, the helmet weighed one hundred and fifty pounds, 
enough to keep an}- man on the bottom. 

We were at last ready to go after the Genevieve. It was difficult for 
us to wait the necessary few months until summer, so anxious were we to 
inaugurate our new creation. When at last the water was warm enough to 
permit swimming, we loaded our helmet, complete with fifty feet of garden 
hose and an over-sized tire pump, into a rowboat and proceeded to the spot 
that we had determined to be directly over the wreck. We anchored our 
two rovvboats securely by lowering two large cement anchors over the sides 
of the boats. By tying the sterns of the boats together, we formed a 
reasonably secure diving platform, one boat containing the pump and 
pumper, and the other the remaining "crew," who were to lower and raise 
the diver. We tossed a coin to see who would go down first. I won. 

Clad in swimming trunks and a pair of gym shoes, I entered the water 
and received the helmet upon my shoulders. Holding the sides of the helmet 
so that I would not drop out of it before reaching the bottom, I was 
lowered to a depth of five feet in order to see that the helmet and valves 
were functioning properly. The water rose to my armpits and stopped, as 
the pressure of the air in my helmet equalized the pressure of the water. 
There I dangled, with my feet treading aimlessly and the air bubbling lazily 
from under my armpits. The water at that depth was a murky yellow, and 
by tipping my head back I could faintly discern the outline of the two boats, 
like black clouds against an overcast sky. Realizing that I was all right, I 
gave two jerks on my signal cord ; immediately I felt myself being lowered. 
After what seemed an eternity, my feet sunk into the mud and I fell to my 
knees. I was on the bottom at last ! I jerked my cord three times, meaning 
that I was O.K. and on the bottom. The pressure here was much greater, 
and the water had risen in the helmet to my neck. The helmet was func- 
tioning properly, though, so I began looking, or rather feeling, for the 
Genevieve. Slightly bewildered by the strangeness of the environment, I 
began walking in a small circle, which was gradually supposed to become 
wider until I found the boat. Soon I was brought to a sudden halt by a 
pull on my helmet, and I realized that I had used up all my hose. One's 
conception of direction in utter darkness is very confused, and I had walked 
in a straight line and not in a circle as I had planned. I therefore altered 
my direction and began a sweeping arc — but no Genevieve. It seemed as if 
I had been down but a minute or two when I received four quick jerks on 
my cord, and felt myself being lifted from the bottom of the lake. We had 



12 The Green Caldron 

decided that each one of us would stay down only fifteen minutes, thus to 
avoid any possible ill effects from the pressure. My time was up, and I was 
being pulled to the surface. My first venture in diving was ending too soon. 

During that day three of us — George, Jim, and I — made two dives each 
before we finally found the Gencz-ieve. It had been washed fifty feet away 
by an underwater current. Kupe, who had a weak heart and felt that he 
shouldn't dive, stayed above and manned the pump. 

Early the next morning we again took up our position and began work. 
As it was my turn to go down, I jumped into the water, and after the helmet 
had been lowered onto my shoulders, I slid down the guide rope which Jim 
had fastened to the wreck the day before. Fastened to my belt was a chain 
wliich I was to attach to the bow of the Genevieve. I had become accus- 
tomed to diving now and had overcome some of the awkwardness of my 
first dive. It was only a matter of minutes before I had found the mooring 
ring on the bow of the boat and snapped the chain into place. Four pulls 
on the signal cord and I was on my way up. 

George went down next to fasten a chain to the stern. Up above, we 
were watching George's exhaust bubbles lazily breaking the surface of the 
placid water. Suddenly they stopped, and then suddenly they erupted — in 
one huge bubble! All was still. We knew that only one thing could have 
happened — the air had left George's helmet ! Anxiously we looked for signs 
of him. Seconds later two frantically waving hands broke the surface, and 
up came George, looking as if he had seen a ghost. We pulled him aboard 
and learned, between his gasps for breath, that he had leaned over too far in 
attaching the chain and his helmet had fallen off. Aside from a severe 
headache for a few hours, George suffered no ill effects. Needless to say 
he didn't dive again for the rest of that day. 

During its year's rest on the bottom of the lake, the Genevieve had 
become almost completely covered with mud and silt. Our next job, there- 
fore, was to dig the boat out. Armed with a spade, we took turns shoveling 
away the loose mud. This proved to be a very slow and tiring task, for 
working under pressure and in water slows one considerably. But finally 
after a day and a half of hard digging, we succeeded in making the boat 
ready for raising. The Geiiei-ieve was at last ready to be pulled ashore. 

After a day of rain and bad weather had delayed us, we again assumed 
our positions, and by tugging and pulling on the chains, finally raised the 
Geneviei'e to appro.xjmately half the distance from the bottom. One boat 
following the other, we rowed toward shore. About fifty feet from 
land the Genevieve touched the bottom, and we again pulled on the chains 
until we could make out the shape of the wreck about four feet beneath the 
surface. From here it was a simple task. We dragged the boat ashore, 
loaded it onto a truck, and took it home. 

Our job was done. We were a world richer in experience. 



October, 1941 13 

Is It Constitutional? 

John M. Hunter 
Rhetoric 11, Theme 7, 1940-1941 

IN 1935, THIS COUNTRY WITNESSED A GREAT BATTLE 
between the Supreme Court and the Chief Executive, President Roose- 
velt. The Court, dubbed' "the nine old men" by administration sympa- 
thizers, declared eight major acts "unconstitutional" and upheld onlv two. 
Whenever the President affixed his signature to an important bill, people 
asked: "Is it constitutional?" Today, now that the Court is "packed," 
we hear little talk of constitutionality. Although it is not now a matter of 
immediate importance as it was then, the expansion of the term constitu- 
tional is of considerable interest. 

Let me offer a word of warning. Far be it from me to be able to explain 
this term full}^ Students of politics have written volumes in attempts to 
do so. At best, I can offer only a few suggestions about the bases of con- 
stitutional interpretation. 

There is one school of thought, however small it may be, that advocates 
the determination of constitutionality according to the thoughts that guided 
the framers of the Constitution. That is, they feel that we should decide 
such matters by determining how Washington, Madison, Jefferson, and 
Hamilton would have reacted. Such a method is pure folly. Who among us, 
for example, is qualified to say what George Washington would have thought 
about social security legislation? Furthermore, which one of these men 
would we use as the basis for our decision? Thomas Jefferson said: 
"That government is best that governs least" ; Alexander Hamilton was a 
strict federalist, advocating a strong central government. Obviously, these 
two men would not agree on the solutions of our problems today any more 
than they agreed in 1800. Thus, it becomes apparent that we must find 
another standard or standards for determining constitutionality. 

One of these standards, until very recent years, was the exception 
rather than the rule. The American SA^stem is notorious for expanding the 
limits of constitutionality in times of emergency. For example, under the 
clause, "The President shall be Commander-in-Chief of the Army and 
Navy of the United States,"' Abraham Lincoln assumed powers that far 
exceeded any previous executive's powers. He asserted that because the 
nation was at war, as Commander-in-Chief he had the power to enforce 
any law which aided the prosecution of the war. During our participation 

'Article II, Section 2. 



14 The Green Caldron 

in the World War I, the people of the United States lived in a virtual 
dictatorship under the same clause. In 1933, shortly after his inauguration. 
President Roosevelt declared a national bank holiday. He probably would 
have had difficulty pointing to a specific clause in the Constitution granting 
him the power for such an act, but it was accepted by the people and the 
courts as an emergency measure. Perhaps the reason for the antagonism 
of the Court in 1935 was its fear that the "emergency" legislation would 
become permanent. 

Resides the compulsion of emergency, there are two definite clauses 
under which constitutionality has grown rapidly. The first of these is the 
so-called "elastic clause": "Congress shall have the power .... to make 
all laws which shall be necessary and proper for carrying into E.xecution 
the foregoing Powers, and all other Powers vested by this Constitution in 
the Government of the United States, or in any Officer or Department 
thereof."- Early in the history of constitutional law in this country the 
Supreme Court interpreted "necessary and proper" in a liberal sense. "Let 
the end be legitimate, let it be within the scope of the Constitution, and all 
means which are appropriate which are clearly adapted to that end, which 
are not prohibited but consist with the letter and spirit of the Constitution, 
are constitutional."^ Thus we see that by this interpretation, the federal 
government may assume a broad legislative program and still be within 
the limits of constitutionality. 

The clause which gives the Congress power "to regulate commerce with 
foreign nations and among the several states . . . ."* is another source of 
great potential power. The clause has been, simple as it may seem, the 
center of considerable controversy. Several years ago Congress passed a 
law forbidding the use of child labor in producing goods to be shipped 
across state lines. The true motive, of course, was to regulate child labor, 
not interstate commerce. The Supreme Court, however, declared the act 
unconstitutional on the grounds that its real purpose was the prohibition of 
child labor, a usurpation of the states' police powers. At the same time, the 
Mann Act (the white slave act) and the Lindbergh law were not molested 
by the courts. By using this clause as a basis, Congress has been able to 
expand its sphere of authority a great deal. 

A prominent lecturer in economics begins the first lecture of his course 
with the statement: "I hope you will be less sure of the solutions to our 
economic problems when you have finished this course than you are right 
now." I hope, too, that the reader will be less sure what constitutionality 
means when he has read this. Constitutionality is not a simple term, but a 
combination of circumstance, document, tradition, and opinion. 

'Article I, Section 8, Clause 18. 

•Chief Justice John Marshall, majority opinion. M.^RBIRY v. .MARYL.\ND. 

'Article I, Section 8, Clause 3. 



October, 1941 15 

Eddy May 

Richard Shotliff 
Rhetoric I, Theme 15, 1940-1941 

C'MON, EDDY!" THE CHEERING OF THE CROWD 
which was packed into Beloit College's little old Smith Gymna- 
sium grew louder and louder. I thought that at any moment the 
balcony rail might give way under the pressure of those seeking a better 
view ; but no one seemed to notice this — all eyes were fastened on Eddy 
May, Beloit's flashy sophomore, who was putting on a one-man stall. 

Eddy is a colored boy who twice made the Wisconsin all-state quintet 
while playing at Beloit high school. He starred not only in basketball, but 
also in football and in track, where his mark in the one hundred yard dash 
still stands as a Big Eight Conference record. In his high school basket- 
ball he stood out as a good "floor-general," a rugged guard on defense, 
and, above all, a brilliant ball-handler and "feeder" on offense. 

As a freshman at Beloit College, M.a.y was a member of both the foot- 
ball and basketball teams, but a pulled leg muscle kept him from competing 
in track. He v/as expected, because of his high school record and because 
of his part in freshman sports, to be a valuable man in varsity athletics. 
Football season came, and Eddy was no disappointment. Perhaps the 
climax of his season came when he scored the touchdown which beat the 
University of Chicago. This defeat was one of those which led the Maroons 
to give up football as an intercollegiate sport. As the curtain came down 
on the 1939 football season, Beloit's leading scorer was Eddy May. 

The basketball season approached. With only one letterman having 
graduated, Beloit was naturally optimistic over the coming season, but many 
of the crowd which collected in the scant audience-space of the gym for 
the season's opener did not come to see the returning lettermen; they came 
to see how Eddy May would look against varsity competition. The team 
trotted out onto the floor. May stood out from the rest, not only because 
of his brown skin, but also because of his superior build. 

He played a good, smooth game the first half, handling the ball well, 
keeping his man under control, and getting his share of defensive rebounds; 
but this was not what the crowd wanted. Soon after the second half started, 
Eddy cut loose his first flashy pass of the evening. After dribbling slowly 
across the court, beyond the free-throw circle, he stopped short suddenly 
and, without glancing in the direction of the basket, shot the ball with 
bullet-like speed to a teammate who scored on an easy "lay up" shot. 
This play brought the crowd to attention, and during the remainder of the 
game the crowd was entertained by several more flashy passes, always 
straight to their mark. 



16 The Green Caldron 

As the season progressed, Eddy gained confidence and quickly won a 
reputation as a "hocus-pocus" passer. He never looked at his target but 
seemed to rely on some sort of sixth sense to tell him where his teammate 
was and whether he was open. He began to pass the ball behind his back 
and to hook it over his shoulder. Thus, his opponents often had trouble not 
only in determining where the ball would go, but also in determining from 
where it would come. His flashiest play, however, was reserved for the 
"stall" near the end of the games in which Beloit held a slight lead. Then 
Eddy would dribble down in one corner, return to the back court, cross 
the court, go into the other corner, and back again, using his superior speed 
and clever dribbling to keep the ball from his opponents. Soon the entire 
team would be on his trail, leaving someone open under the basket. Eddy 
would spot this teammate, and Beloit would increase its lead by two points. 
Against a team of Big Ten calibre this stall would probably be broken up, 
but against the schools wliich Beloit played it was effective, and it always 
excited the spectators. 

Eddy's biggest weakness was that he was not a scoring threat. An oc- 
casional long shot or free throw accounted for his total of points. This year 
Beloit feels the loss of many of its best players through graduation, and 
has had a hard time getting started. But there has been one bright spot in 
its games. Eddy May has discovered how to break loose under the basket, 
how to play a scoring game. If his scoring continues to improve, he will 
probably develop into the best basketball player in Beloit College history. 



Shooting an Oil Well 

Dail Bunch 
Rhetoric I, Theme 9, 1940-1941 

IX THE AFTERNOON OF A DULL FEBRUARY DAY I STOOD 
with my uncle in the center of a level space of farm land in south- 
eastern Illinois. A heavy mist, hesitating on the line between fog and 
rain, subdued the landscape to a gray monotone, its only bright spot the 
ruddy flare of a natural-gas flame in a distant farm-yard. From a shadowy 
group of low buildings across a field the measured beat of a giant heart 
punctuated the stillness, its sound reproduced in diminished emphasis from 
])()ints farther and farther away through the dusk. Here and there in the 
fields about the common center, some near, some distant, stood a company 
of strange beings, their curious outlines magnified into threatening mysteries 
by the fog. A hundred yards before us rose a tall mast, flanked by a small 
shanty, a wheeled boiler, and an engine with a simplified steambox walking 



J 



October, 1941 \y 

beam. At the foot of the mast four men stood idly about watching another 
who seemed engaged in mysterious rites. The center of their interest and of 
ours was a new oil well. The well had been sunk until the "pay sand" was 
reached, and the busy little man was completing his preparations to 
"shoot" it. 

Oil occurs in the crevices of certain kinds of porous rock from three 
hundred to fifteen thousand feet below the surface. An oil well is a hole 
in the ground, a foot in diameter at the top, six inches at the bottom, tapping 
the rock containing the oil and affording an outlet through which the oil may 
flow, or, more usually, be pumped, to the surface. The well is drilled with a 
steel drill, measuring with its fittings thirty feet in length, and weighing 
from a ton to a ton and a half. This drill is continually lifted and dropped 
in the hole, the force of its impact pulverizing the rock into sand. At 
intervals the debris is removed by a sand pump, which is not a pump at all, 
but a tube with a valve at the bottom ; it is lowered into the hole and drawn 
out, bringing the sand with it. When the oil rock is reached, sometimes the 
pressure is sufficient to bring the oil to the surface with a rush and keep it 
flowing indefinitely. Generally, however, the oil either does not flow at all 
or flows only in small quantity. In either case, the well is "shot." By the ex- 
plosion of a charge of nitroglycerine at the bottom of the hole, the surround- 
ing rock is broken up and the flow of the oil is stimulated. 

The busy little man was the "shooter." He was engaged in lowering into 
the well two hundred quarts of "glycerine" contained in ten cylindrical 
shells. The premature explosion of only a small fraction of the thick yellow 
fluid which he was pouring so calmly into the shells would have sufficed to 
eliminate not only him but most of the surrounding apparatus. By mutual 
consent, then, my uncle and I viewed the proceedings from a remote point 
of vantage. My uncle had worked in the oil fields for twenty years ; I took 
his word for what was a safe distance. 

After a couple of hours of steady work the ten shells were safely in 
position and the well was filled for a couple of hundred feet above them 
with water to "tamp" the charge. The shooter, ready with his "jack squib" 
— a long slender shell supplied with a small charge of nitroglycerine, a 
fulminating cap, and a slow-burning fuse — lighted the fuse and started the 
squib on its downward course toward those two hundred quarts of explosive. 
Then even the shooter dropped his air of nonchalance. He joined us without 
delay. In a moment the heavy shock stirred the earth beneath us. There 
was a dull, muffled report. From the well, a jet of muddy fluid leaped a 
hundred feet in the air, was swept away by the wind, and fell in a scattered 
shower. 

Rapidly the jet died down, and the drillers went to work lining the well 
with iron piping and connecting it to a receiving tank. In a few hours, if 
it proved in any degree a flowing well, oil from it would be accumulating. 



jg The Green Caldron 

and the well would have begun to pay for its drilling. In another day its 
pump would be installed and an iron rod would lead three or four hundred 
yards to the low buildings across the field, connecting the "jack" of the 
pump with the gas engine there. The beat of the engine strokes revealed the 
heart of the system of wells of which this was number twenty-one. If 
the well produced gas in addition to oil, it would be piped to the engine, 
and the well would be pumped by its own power. 

Crew- Cut— Phooey ! 

Charles B. McVey 

Rhetoric II, Theme 13. 1940-1941 

Spring is here for sure. 
And the weather's gettin' hot. 
A fella should be happy. 
But jiminy — I'm not! 

And how can I be blue 
When spring is in the air? 
The fault is simply this— 
My head of crew-cut hair. 

A CREW-CUT (LET ME EXPLAIX TO THE UNEDUCATED) 
^k is nothing but an exaggerated haircut. It is not a complicated 
■ArjK. method of "hair do"— in fact, it is verj- simple. It is merely the 
result of getting too close to the barber. 

I don't know why I got a crew-cut. I guess it must be that I always 
like to have whatever is new and different. If I buy a suit, I'm always 
sure to pick the one with stripes. If I buy underwear, it's got to be check- 
ered. I'm just that way. But I went a step too far when I walked into that 
barber shop. 

I can't blame the barber, though, because I told him to do it. I even had 
to persuade him. I thought the barber would be glad at a chance to close 
his eyes and whack away for fifty cents, but he wasn't at all. I dropped into 
the chair and said, "Give me a crew-cut." 

"A what!" exclaimed the barber. 

"A crew-cut!" 

"Oh my! I wouldn't have it cut off if I were you. You'll regret it when 
it starts coming back in— stubborn as the dickens. Your hair is pretty too." 

My girl too had always told me that my hair was pretty. But no, I had 
made up my mind. 

I walked out of the shop with a light head and entered into an adjacent 
store to buv a candv bar. 



October, 1941 19 

"Hello, sonny. What can I do for you?" the clerk said. 

That rubbed my dandruff the wrong way. I thought that when I came 
to college I had become a man. 

I hurried out of the store and down the street in an attempt to make my 
math class on time. As I entered the door, one of the "bright boys" yelled 
out, "Well, will you look what we've got here! Hello, Curly." That was 
only the beginning. 

It happened that we were discussing symmetric figures that day, and the 
instructor said in explanation, "Your own body is ordinarily an example of 
symmetry, with the exception of the hair." 

"But McVey is perfectly symmetric!" my classmates said in unison. 

"Well, I'm talking about the average individual, not McVey." 

"Anyway," I thought, consoling myself, "I can brag about one thing — 
I'm symmetric with respect to the y-axis." 

I pulled through ni}' classes in fairly good shape, but the worst was yet to 
come. I made a terrible mistake — I went home over the week-end. No, my 
parents didn't mind, but the certain girl I went to call on certainly did. 
When I had written to her that I was coming, I somehow "forgot" to men- 
tion my crew-cut. I almost never wear a hat, but when I went to call on 
her this time, I decided I should wear one. A fellow in college ought to 
look dignified once in a while. 

Everything went well when she met me at the door. I won't repeat the 
conversation because it's rather sentimental, and to most people a matter of 
no importance. Then we went inside. 

"Take your hat off and stay a while. Honey," she said affectionately. 

"Don't you like my hat?" I said. 

"Yes, I like your hat, but if you won't take it off I guess I'll have to." 

If I had had any hair, my hat would have risen of its own accord, but 
it remained firmly on my head until she grasped it. 

I didn't wait — I stuffed my ears quickly. It came — and how it came! I 
won't repeat what she said then either. It wasn't sentimental at all. 

After I came back to the campus, I received a letter. "I don't see why 
you got that haircut," she said. "I loved your hair, but now that it's gone — 
well — what's left? 

"I went to a show )'esterday, and Barbara Stanwyck ran her hands 
through Henry Fonda's hair. How romantic to run my hands over a shaved 
head!" 

I am like Samson — my strength is in my hair. I lose my hair ; I lose my 
girl. So now I have two consolations. I am like Samson, and I am sym- 
metric with respect to the y-axis. 

Spring is here for sure, 
And the grass has surely ris'. 
I wish my hair would do the same; 
I hate it like it is. 



20 The Green Caldron 

Eight Months on Oakley Boulevard 

George Coffaro 
Rhetoric II, Thenve 11. 1940-1941 

WHEN WE FIRST MOVED TO OAKLEY BOULEVARD, WE 
were attracted by a large red and white billboard advertisement 
which called upon the people of the neighborhood to elect Tom 
Courtney "gang buster'" for the city of Chicago. The Hoover administra- 
tion was just drawing to a close, and though there was a great deal of ex- 
cited speculation lirewing with the coming of the presidential election, the 
people of our neighborhood seemed to be just as much concerned with the 
election of the man who pledged himself to rid Chicago of crime. 

In the course of time, we have learned that Oakley is not a boulevard at 
all. The sense of exclusiveness we generally associate with a boulevard is as 
insignificant to the underfed reliefers who live here as Emily Post's Blue 
Book of Social Usage is to a Chicago Surface Lines streetcar conductor. 

From where we live, I can scarcely hear the chimes of St. Charles, 
whose steeple casts a shadow, like the spire of a sun dial in the course of a 
day, over the expanse of the region about it. The majorit\' of the houses in 
the neighborhood are of red brick, and few lack the black iron picket fences 
which are so typical of many neighborhoods in Chicago. Wide concrete 
steps lead up to the second floor or descend to the cellar, which is the first 
floor. Cellars mean homes to a great number of people on Oakley Boule- 
vard. Furnished according to pattern, they are typically provided with a 
coal stove, a table, three or four repaired chairs, a shellacked cupboard, a 
bed, faded drapes here and there to partition the space into three rooms, 
and some worn curtains to cover the windows. Few rays of sunlight trickle 
into the bedimmed rooms. 

The majority of the people have flower boxes outside their windows, 
and many of them plant llovvers in the little patches of dirt in front of their 
houses. They get the seeds from their congressman, free. They are not too 
fussy about where they ]:)lant their flowers, or how many, or what kind ; as 
a result, the most original, if peculiar, designs are created when the flowers 
bloom. 

Almost everybody in the neighborhood has a nickname: "Doto," "Roro." 
"Sugie," "Jan," "Bloody Mike," and "Fat Mary." I have one too, "Punk." 
Roro and a younger brother are the two stepchildren of Fat Mary. The 
boy. Frankie, is frail and in some resjiects quite feminine, perhaps because 
he is made to do much of the housework. Roro does not live at home be- 
cause she objects to her stepmother's living with a man to whom she is not 
married. 

Bloody Mike is Fraiikie's grandfather. We called him Bloody Mike 



October, 1941 21 

because the word "bloody" seemed to be his favorite adjective. He speaks 
of the "bloody" gasman, the "bloody" dog, the "bloody" president, and the 
"bloody" priest. 

Jan lives next door with her brothers, Doto and Sugie. Roro lives here 
too, and sleeps with Jan. She is like a member of the family. Sometimes 
she irons clothes for people or minds their babies. She gets paid for this, 
of course, and brings the money home to Jan's father. Jan does not work, 
but occasionally she brings money home too. Nobody asks questions because 
the family needs the money, and Jan gets very stormy when any one asks 
questions. 

And Doto brings money home. When I was first told that he was a 
mechanic, I did not suspect. Indeed, not until I actually saw him drain the 
gasoline out of a yellow touring car did I realize that technically Doto is not 
a mechanic, but a car stripper. He was seventeen, but he kept company with 
a girl four years his senior. Her name was Harriet, and she was very 
masculine. 

I often invite him to attend a movie with me, but he seems reluctant to 
accept, perhaps because he feels he is not able to reciprocate. Doto has less 
contempt for me, I think, than for the rest of humanity. I first realized this 
when he returned some small change which he had taken from me without 
my knowing it. I knew that it was his policy never to return anything he 
had taken, and the fact that he had made an exception with me surprised 
me no little. 

When Jan graduated from high school, we were all proud of her because, 
besides the lawyer, she was the only one in the neighborhood who had 
accomplished this. She was filled with high hopes of obtaining a job, but 
she could never find one. She wanted very much to aid the family. But now 
people say things about her. They say that she neglects the housework and 
her brothers, and that she spends most of her time away from the house. 
Jan is the kind of girl who likes to read the better writers and the better 
magazines. She seems to dislike men in general, but she is occasionally seen 
with them. When she is alone she is quiet and meditative. She has high 
ideals ; yet people talk about her. 

We are taking leave of Oakley Boulevard tomorrow. We are moving to 
Karlov Avenue, a quieter and roomier residential district. There is a lawn 
in front of each house — and trees and shrubs and tulips. People mow their 
lawns, and here and there sprinklers turn, whisking out clear pellets of dew. 
Parks and swimming pools are within walking distance. The sun shines, 
and the air is clear. Squad cars are rarely seen. 

I like Oakley. I suppose our neighbors will hate to see us leave, but I 
am certain that none of them envies us. They know no other life than that 
on Oakley Boulevard, and perhaps no other people could live here and be as 
satisfied as they. Each man to his environment then, and let us not be con- 
cerned with cellars, and crowded alleys, and relief bills, and prostitution, and 



22 The Green Caldron 

car stripping. Tom Courtney will do away with crime. If this is the era 
when one man can accomplish so great a feat, we shall see the abolishment 
of class hatred, racial prejudice, class distinction : we shall see the abolish- 
ment of crime, the dissolution of Oakley Boulevard. 



Saturday Night 

Gene Voorhees 
Rhetoric I, Theme 9, 1940-1941 

IT IS LATE SATURDAY AFTERNOON. I HAVE JUST FIN- 
ished doing the evening chores, but it isn't dark yet. The twelve cows 
have been milked and turned out to pasture for the night, and the hogs 
have had their nightly five bushels of com. The chickens have been given 
their generous rations, and consumed them, and gone to bed. I have just 
finished pumping the stock-tank full of water. The routine is completed. 

Saturday afternoon alvvaj'S means doing the chores about an hour earlier. 
It means that I can take a bath in the washtub in the washhouse. A bath 
indicates that I'm probably going somewhere, and going somewhere on Sat- 
urday evening always means going to town. 

Immediately after supper, I am allowed to give the Model- A Ford a 
checking over. The water has nearly all drained out of the radiator, and 
occasionally a tire is flat. After all, much can happen to the old car during 
the seven da3-s that it has remained in the lean-to shed. 

With the dishes done and the grocery list removed from its usual place 
on the nail at one side of the kitchen cabinet, every one puts on his clean 
clothes, and we start to town in the Model-A. Pop and Mom sit in the 
front, and I sit alone behind them. Even though alone in the back seat, 
I am crowded and uncomfortable there, for taking up the largest portion 
of the seat is a crate of eggs, which must be guarded against excessive 
bumping. On the floor are two five-gallon cans of pure cream and a large 
blue crock of home-made butter. 

Our first stop is at Aunt Julia's house on the edge of town. We always 
leave her a pint of cream and a dozen eggs, and Mother usually stays there 
while we go on into town. Tonight and almost every other Saturday night 
that we stop in at Aunt Julia's, we find her sitting in a straight chair near 
the old-fashioned wall-telephone. She has the receiver up to her ear and is 
greedily listening for the party line gossip. 

"They just took Mrs. Gillenwater to the hospital," she tells us. "George 
Archdale's got a new baby boy. Charlie Parcel got sixty- four cents for his 
corn, and he said it wasn't very good. Andy Stone's goin' to have the 



October, 1941 23 

Stover family for dinner tomorrow." These bits of information slie offers 
us as she hangs up the receiver and rises to receive us. Mom takes oflf 
her coat and prepares to spend the evening, but I gently and unnoticeably 
tug on Dad's coat sleeve in an effort to get to the business district sooner. 

Dad drives the car to the back of the general store. Here we unload the 
produce that we brought to town and exchange it for the long list of items 
on the grocery list. 

Dad stays here at the general store to visit with some of the other 
farmers. He tells me to be back at the car at nine o'clock, gives me twenty- 
five cents for my haircut and fifteen cents for candv. 

The barber shop is crowded with people. The eight rickety chairs along 
the wall once belonged in somebody's kitchen suite. Now they are painted 
white and show signs of hard usage. The two barbers are kept busy cutting 
hair and adding comment to the rural conversation. 

The price of corn, the lack of rainfall, and Jim Giberson's new carload 
of white- faced cattle each receives its portion of the barbershop attention. 
After a seemingly long wait it is my turn to get into the barber's chair. A 
fevi' minutes of clipping greatly changes my appearance, for four weeks of 
growth has made my hair quite long. 

When I get out of the barber shop, I have a little less than an hour 
to spend as I please. I immediately head for the pool hall, to see some of 
the rest of the boys of my own age. This place is also crowded with people. 
Some of them are gathered around the small radio. They sit with chin in 
hand and listen and laugh at Uncle Ezra telling jokes on Lulu Belle at the 
WLS Barn Dance. A few of the older men are just resting after a long 
day's work, and some of them are watching the games of pool. Pool is 
most popular with teen-age boys, for this is about the only recreation they 
have which involves competition. I produce a dime from my allowance, 
give it to the owner of the pool hall, and start hunting for a suitable pool- 
cue just as if a worn tip or an ounce too much of weight would greatly 
hinder my poor game. I enjoy a half-hour of pool with some of the 
other boys of my age, and we talk about sports, 4-H work, and crops, 
while we play. 

When it is time for me to go back to the car, I spend my remaining 
nickel for a candy bar and say goodbye to my chums until next Saturday 
night. Dad drives, and I again fill most of the back seat — this time with 
groceries — and we start for Aunt Julia's and then for home. In our minds 
are the memories of a hard week of work, and an enjoyable Saturday 
night in town. 



My father looked mad enough to eat a blood relation, and I was the only 
real blood relation around at the moment. — Jack W. Warner 



24 The Green Caldron 

The House on Green Street 

Sheldon Leavitt 
Rhetoric It, Theme 8, 1940-1941 

''^'^ BETTER HURRY WITH MY WASHING IF I'M GOING TO 
I be on time for the show," Dan thought as he scrubbed behind his 
ears. "This is one girl I don't want to keep waiting. Da, da, hummm, 
hmm, blub, blub." With his eyes squinting to keep out the soap, he reached 
for the faucet and turned on the water. As he held his hand there ex- 
pectantly, three drops of water came; then nothing more. The soap was 
now filtering between his eyelids ; his eyes smarted. "Where in the hell's 
the water?" he cried out in desperation. 



Morry typed another word, then got up and paced across the room. 
"Aw, what's the use, I can't go on." 

"What's the matter?" his roommate asked. 

"It's the noise in this house! First the radio downstairs was playing, 
then the guys across the hall were talking, and now the radio is on again. 
This damn house carries noise like a sounding board!" 

It stands in what is now the middle of a busy town, but it is an old 
farmhouse still. Every day, hundreds of automobiles stream past it, but 
none of their modern fleetness or efficiency has affected the old frame house 
on Green Street. Its tall grey walls stand much the same as they stood 
seventy years ago, when the wounds of the Confederacy were still healing, 
when the University first advertised for students. A two-story porch goes 
half way around the house, a porch that has no place in the city. Even 
today, as one stands and looks at the building, he might still expect to see 
the farmer's wife come out and, leaning against the railing, call to her 
husband in the field to come home for supper. On a hot summer day, 
years ago, awnings might have been hung from the upper deck so that the 
farmer could come from the dust and sun to rest, to talk, and to sip cool 
apple cider in the shade. Or on warm evenings, the entire family might 
relax on the porch in hammocks and easy-chairs, and gaze at the surround- 
ing country-side and discuss the weather and crops. 

Originally the building must have been square in shape, but because of 
several additions it now follows the form of an L. It is about as tall as it 
is wide — taller than most of the new masonry residences around it. The 
roof does not slope, but is almost flat ; and the cornice is elaborately carved. 



October, 1941 25 

as one might expect of a well-to-do city home of the time. In fact, all of 
the building gives the impression of the weahh and pride of another gener- 
ation, a generation whose only means of displaying wealth was pride in their 
homes. Since then, people have lost interest in the old house. The walls 
are now unpainted, and the porch stairs need repair. Still, the house on 
Green Street stands straight and proud — the patriarch of the neighborhood. 

There are two front doors to the building, both leading from the porch ; 
but whichever door one chooses to enter, he is greeted by the same roomi- 
ness of the interior. The living room, for instance, is not only actually big, 
but a tall bay window and a high ceiling give an illusion of even greater 
size ; so that any amount or any arrangement of furniture looks scanty. A 
double sliding door separates the living room from the dining room, but 
these doors are always kept open so that the two rooms appear as one. 
This gives the combined rooms the semblance of a dining hall; and at a 
time in history when the social life of the family was centered in the home, 
that is probably the purpose for which they were used. Throughout the 
years there must have been chestnut roastings and corn poppings, song-fests 
and dances, and even bashful country courtships and joyous weddings here. 

In the old days, too, there were ever the chores to be done, and the 
kitchen reminds us of these. The floor there still shows evidences of the 
lift pump that drew water for the wooden sink, and a plaster-filled hole in 
the wall marks the former position of the wood-burning stove. But the 
many years have absorbed the kindling wood box along with the hand 
coffee-grinder and kerosene lamps. Still, when one looks at the room, or 
at the back door and steps, it takes only a little imagination to see a rural 
housewife working over the table, or tiredly descending the rear steps 
carrying feed to the chickens or a bucket to the cow barn. 

In the front hallway, the curved stair leading to the second floor has 
not been changed. It still has the same wide treads and stout mahogany 
newel post of seventy years ago. The entire second floor has been altered 
and partitioned for the accommodation of students, so that the original 
shape of the rooms has been largely hidden. But even the partitions, 
covered with Petty Girls, movie stars, and college pennants, cannot hide 
all of it. The disproportion of the rooms and windows, the inside shutters 
with louvred openings, and the wide flooring belittle all attempts at moderni- 
zation ; and the final impression is one of dignity and antiquity. 

But nowhere in the house is the full evidence of its sturdiness and age 
more visible than in the basement. As one passes through the maze of 
stone-walled rooms, dark and dank, he cannot help feeling as if he were 
traversing the vaulted cellars of some ancient monastery, or even the 
dungeon level of a medieval castle. The brick floor rises and falls in uneven 
ridges and depressions as though no care had been taken in laying it. The 
basement walls are made of large, irregularly laid field stones. These 



26 The Green Caldron 

walls are ponderous, over two feet thick at most places, and are not only 
used to support the building but also to subdivide the basement into rooms 
and passages. For ail this thickness, the building is much stronger and 
sturdier than necessary. Even the frame walls are twice as thick as those 
we build now. 

The ambitious young farmer that built this home must have had unusual 
foresight and faith in the land he owned to build so sturdy, so lasting a 
home. The owners have changed since, a town has grown around it, and 
a large university has built itself nearby; but this house still stands quietly 
in its own atmosphere of ruralism. 



Thoroughly disgusted, Dave sat down on the couch. He laid the broom 
and dust cloth on the floor. "Dam this place," he complained, "I could 
sweep it for weeks and it never would get cleaned. The dirt that's caught 
in the cracks between the flooring couldn't be blasted out with T. X. T. — 
tickling it with a broom won't do any good. And if the cracks weren't 
enough, they had to put all sorts of carvings in the wood work, just to make 
more place for the dust to hide in." 

I Go South 

I didn't eat much dinner, and when the time came to leave, I kissed Mother 
several times, but I didn't tell her a thing. As I walked down the front steps I 
had visions of myself returning in twenty years. By that time I would at least 
be a first mate on some clipper ship or be as famous as Frank Buck. 

When I arrived at the meeting place Bud was talking to several of our 
schoolmates, telling them about our journey. He had^four sandwiches wrapped 
in a red bandana handkerchief. I asked him how we would keep from getting 
hungry when we reached the South. He replied that nobody ever went hungry 
in Panama or Manila. The natives, he said, just pull fruit off the trees to eat. 
We took the south road out of town. — Jack W. Warner 

Small Town Barber 

Pop had been cutting my hair since the time I had to sit on his hard oak 
board and have my hair cut Buster Brown style to please Mother and two 
distantly related aunts, and he still thought he could cut first and then ask me 
how I wanted it. I always had to tell him three times that I didn't want him to 
use the clippers on the sides — once while I was crossing the floor to the chair, 
once while he was choking me with the neck strip and the large polka-dot 
najjkin. and once after he had started using the clippers. 

Before submitting myself to Pop's scissors, I always made a point of find- 
ing out how the baseball same was going. If things were bad for the Cards, 
things would go bad with the customer. I remember the day the Cards got beat 
in the last inning by a home run with two men on bases. Pop's wrath and in- 
dignation so vented themselves on my head that I had to go to the Junior Prom 
with a crew liair cut. — Wilson Hall 



October, 1941 27 

The American Negro and the 
World War 

Lewis W. Giles 
Rhetoric II, Theme S, 1940-1941 

DURING THE YEARS IMMEDIATELY PRECEDING THE 
World War, the Negro had reached an extremely low political and 
social status in America, and he was seeking to rise from this state 
of debasement. He wanted to gain recognition. He wanted to be acknowl- 
edged as a valuable and serviceable element in twentieth century civilization. 
The World War offered the chance which the Negro needed. It offered a 
test of his worth to his country.^ 

America's entrance into the war brought up the problem of whether 
the United States should conscript Negroes into the Army. Certain factions, 
especially among Southerners, were opposed to Negro conscription. Those 
who were accustomed to dominating the Negro through fear realized that 
they could not easily do this after the Negro had faced death at the battle- 
front. It was generally expected that the induction of the Negro into the 
Army would necessitate a complete change in racial relationships. Many 
whites feared that, if the Negro were treated as an equal in war time, logic 
would demand that he be treated as an equal in peace time. This necessity 
they wished to avoid. ^ 

The boom of industry caused by the war had raised a demand for 
labor — a demand so great that there weren't enough white men to fulfill it. 
Therefore, the employers sought Negro labor. Northern industrialists sent 
agents through the South to hire Negroes, drawing large numbers of them 
to the North. Thus was the South deprived of much of its cheap labor. 
To conscript the Negro was to put a further drain upon this source of cheap 
labor and to handicap the South considerably. 

Other ideas, besides the economic, were advanced. Some reactionaries 
urged the government not to conscript Negroes, on the grounds that Negroes 
constituted an inferior class which should not participate in this struggle of 
white men. Some doubted that the Negro would remain loyal to the country 
that had treated him unjustly. These objections were futile, however, for 
Negroes were drawn into the army in large numbers.^ 

The reactionaries did succeed, though, in restricting the Negro in service, 
for most of the Negro draftees were placed in Service of Supply regiments. 



'Kellv Miller, History of the World War for Human Rights, pp. 507-21. 
="Negro Conscription," New Republic, 12 (Oct. 20, 1917), pp. 317-18. 
'Carter G. Woodson, The Negro in Our History, p. 519. 



2S The Green Caldron 

At least three-fourths of the Negroes sent to France as soldiers were re- 
duced to common laborers. They were commanded largely by illiterate, 
prejudiced white men, the majority of whom were Southerners. They were 
all but enslaved, and they constantly received abusive language and injurious 
blows. And because they had no method of contact with the outside world 
they could not complain.* 

Even though the United States was drafting Negroes to fill the ranks of 
the Army, it at first made no provision for training Negroes as officers. The 
students and a few members of the faculty- at Howard University in Wash- 
ington, D. C, undertook to correct this deficiency, instituting a nation-wide 
campaign for a training camp to qualify Negroes as officers. They placed 
the issue before the Secretary of War, who referred it to General Pershing. 
The heroism displayed by Henry Johnson and Needham Roberts, members 
of the 15th New York Regiment, which was already fighting in France, 
probably influenced General Pershing's decision. These two men had won 
wide recognition, and had been cited for the Croix de Guerre for routing 
a German raiding party of about twenty men on May 15, 1917. In June, 
1917, the War Department created a training camp for educated Negroes at 
Des Moines, la.' 

Twelve hundred Negroes were accepted in the camp. At first the 
townspeople of Des Moines protested the presence of the Negroes, but after 
the opening of the camp, the deportment of the men was so commendable, 
the "officer and gentlemen" tradition of the Army was so splendidly upheld, 
that the camp no longer aroused any spirit of opposition. The men were of 
the highest type, nearly all having had college educations. All were splendid 
physical specimens, and several in the camp w^ere distinguished as "physi- 
cally perfect." In October, 1917, six hundred and seventy-five of these men 
were commissioned as captains and lieutenants in the Regular Army.*' 

The Negro officer, while in this country, generally received the full 
honor due him, but, in certain sections, he experienced difficulty. Major- 
General Ballou, a white man commanding the 22d Division, issued an order 
to the effect that the Negro officers and men should avoid any acts that 
would raise the "color question," even if the Negroes were within their 
legal rights. He cited the case of a colored sergeant who protested the dis- 
crimination he received in a theatre. Rallou admitted that the theatre was 
legally wrong, but he said that the sergeant was wrong because he protested. 
Intervention by the War Department prevented much of the worst dis- 
crimination while the troops were in the United States.' 

The Negro officers in France suffered greatly. Wherever they were sta- 
tioned, systematic efforts were made to replace them by bringing them 

'Ibid., p. 520. 

'Miller, of. ril., pp. 529-3.1. 

"'Training Negroes for Officers," Literary Digest, 55 (July 21, 1917), p. 50. 

'Miller, of. cit., pp. 537-38. 



October, 1941 29 

before efficiency boards to find excuse for their retirement or for their 
assignment to labor battalions. Colonel Hayword of the New York 15th 
Regiment retired a few of his Negro officers for inefficiency and secured 
the transfer of all the rest ; then, there being no more Negro officers avail- 
able, he replaced them all by whites.* 

Many Negro officers were unjustly charged v\i:h cowardice. In one 
notable instance, four Negro officers of the 368th Regiment followed their 
orders to advance and then to withdraw, in spite of the fact that they were 
without maps, grenades, and artillery support. Major Merrill, a white 
officer who was supposed to be leading them, was nowhere to be found 
during the engagement, and Major Elser, the battalion commander, having 
gone to the rear as soon as the firing became intense, was not near enough 
to the front to be communicated with. The high command had no intention 
of sending those troops over the top. Major Elser made charges of ineffi- 
ciency against the four Negro officers ; but after an investigation showed 
that they were not to be blamed, Newton Baker, the Secretary of War, 
exonerated them and commended them.^ 

Every attempt was made to separate the Negro soldier from the French 
people. General Erwin issued an order that Negroes should not associate 
with French women. To spread racial prejudice throughout France, the 
Americans issued certain Secret Information Concerning American Troops. 
In this pamphlet they warned the French that "Negroes were a menace of 
degeneracy which could be escaped onlj' by an impassable gulf between the 
two races." They pointed out that, though the Negro was a citizen of the 
United States, he was regarded as inferior. The French Army was advised 
to allow no intimacy between French and Negro officers, and not to eat with, 
shake hands with, nor talk to Negroes outside of the requirements of mili- 
tary service. The French Army was urged to restrain the French people 
from spoiling the Negroes, "as white Americans become incensed at any 
expression of intimacy between white women and black men."'° 

Even though elements in this country were working against him, the 
Negro soldier fought loyally and valiantly for his country. The verdict of 
the white men who trained and instructed the colored troops is that the 
American Negro makes as efficient and brave a soldier as any nation could 
demand." General Bell, the second-ranking general in the Army, had this 
to say to the colored "Bufifaloes" Regiment: "This is the best disciplined, 
best drilled, and best spirited regiment that has ever been under my 
command at this cantonment. I would lead you in battle against any army 
in the world with everv confidence of the outcome. I know you would 



'Woodson, op. cit., p. 523. 
"Ibid., p. 524. 
'"Ibid., pp. 528-30. 

""The American Negro as a Fighting Man," Review of Reziez.-s, 58 (Aug., 1918), 
pp. 210-11. 



30 The Green Caldron 

acquit yourselves with the same bravery and loyahy that has attracted the 
world to the Xegro Regiments in the Regular Army." All of the officers 
in the regiment were colored except the field and staff officers and the 
commanding officers of the Headquarters Company and the Supply Com- 
pany.'- The Negro soldiers were constantly praised by the unbiassed 
French. General Goyloet, a French General, was among those who com- 
plimented the American Negro troops." 

The 8th Illinois, a regiment officered throughout by Negroes, received 
more citations for bravery than any other American regiment in France. 
Twenty-two men received the American Distinguished Service Cross, and 
sixty-eight men received the French Croix de Guerre." 

The American whites must realize that the deeds done by the Negroes 
in the war were deeds of men. They must acknowledge that the Negroes 
who fought and died for America were valuable and loyal citizens. Despite 
the traducers and the reactionaries, the American Negro gained interna- 
tional recognition in the World War. He passed his test with flying colors. 

""The Buffaloes, A First Class Colored Fighting Regiment," Outlook, 19 (May 22, 
1918), pp. 144-7. 

"Woodson, o/". cit., p. 526. 
"Miller, ot<. cit., p. 706. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

"The American Negro as a Fighting Man," Revieiv of Rez-iews, 58 (Aug., 1918), 

pp. 210-211. 
"The Buffaloes, a First Class Colored Fighting Regiment," Outlook, 119 (May 22, 

1918), pp. 144-7. 
"Bush Germans Better Watch that Chocolate Front," Literarv Digest, 57 (June 15, 

1918), p. 43. 
Miller, Kelly, History of the World War for Human Rights, Washington, D. C, 

The .\ustin Jenkins Co. 1919. 
MoTOX, R. R., "The -American Negro and the World War," World's Work, 36 (May 

1918), pp. 74-7. 
■ "Negro Conscription," Nezv Republic, 12 (Oct. 20, 1917), pp. 317-18. 
"Training Negroes for Officers," Literary Digest, 55 (July 21, 1917), p. 50. 
"Where to Encamp the Negro Troops," Literary Digest, 55 (Sept. 29, 1917), pp. 14-15. 
W(K)iiso.\. Carter G., The Negro in Our History. Washington, D. C, The .\ssociated 

Publishers, Inc. 4th ed. 1924. 

First Lesson 

When I figured wc were up about ten thousand feet he said, "We're up about 
eleven hundred feet. You take her." I didn't know just where he wanted me to 
take her, but I grabbed hold of the stick and put my feet on the rudder controls. 
Nothing happened, and so I pulled back on the stick. The horizon suddenly 
dropped away below me — nothing but blue skj- ahead. Frantically I pushed the 
stick forward. The horizon came zooming up again, and past — nothing: but 
plowed fields ahead. Slowly I realized that gentleness got you further with the 
plane. That's one reason a plane is known as "she," I guess. I found that swing- 
ing the stick sideways made my wing tips meander all over the ground and sky. 
A combination of rudder and stick, I found, produced even more weird results. 
They got so weird once that the stick flew out of my hands. — L. H. Kornman 



October, 1941 31 

Richard Wright's Jsiative Son 

Pearl E. Pasthoff 
Rhetoric II, Theme 11, 1940-1941 

ELDOM HAS A NOVEL EVOKED SUCH A VARIETY OF 
interpretations as Native Son. I intend in this paper to indicate the 
main lines of the criticism of the novel rather than to evaluate the novel 
itself. All critics agree that the novel is powerful. Beyond this point diver- 
gent social philosophies give rise to divergent interpretations. The "bourgeois" 
critics ignore or attempt to talk down the social milieu which gave the novel 
birth. Some of them assert that Richard Wright's success is disproof of 
the novel's thesis that all avenues of opportunities are closed to the Negro 
youth. Others claim that the values depicted are American values in the 
best traditions of our democracy, and that to surrender these ideals to Com- 
munists is to surrender a good honest American cause. Democratic values 
are profaned, they suggest, if Communists are allowed to become the 
agents of their realization. Such criticism is obviously designed to soften 
the hammer blows which Wright strikes at the very foundations of the 
present American society. The nature of this bourgeois criticism and 
the line that it must take is conditioned by the critics' role as apologists 
for the present social order, for by the very nature of their position they 
cannot call for any drastic social changes. They must ignore the fifteen 
million American Negroes living under lynch rule. They must gloss over the 
gross denial of civil rights and economic opportunities which have been the 
Negroes' lot in the North as well as in the South. For to take cognizance 
of these facts would be to bring them to the position of the progressive 
critics who see in this novel a clarion call for social change. 

To the radical critics, Bigger Thomas expresses the helpless rage which 
consumes millions of young Negroes as they look upon an America where 
few but unskilled or menial jobs are open to them. Theirs is an America 
in which they are doomed to clean slops, to wash dirty clothes, to bow 
and scrape, to walk on the other side of the street. Theirs is an America 
where they are bombarded with all the insidious propaganda for war 
and yet in which they are either herded like pariahs into Jim Crow regi- 
ments or condemned to body service as servants to Navy officers. Schools, 
theatres, tables in restaurants, decent homes, health, life itself are denied 
to them. Complete freedom can come to the Negro only through a com- 
plete reshuffling of the economic relationships of our present society. Wright 
concludes that emancipation of the Negro and destruction of the system 
which breeds Bigger Thomas can come about only through the union of 
Negro and white workers. 



32 Tin- Grct'tt Caldron 

The objection is put forward that the book treats in a highly melo- 
dramatic fashion an incident which is not typical of normal Negro-white 
relationships. Hut if melodrama exists in the scenes Wright delineates for 
us, it is merely that which is seen when "the mirror is held up to nature." 
There is melodrama and a sense of unreality about the atmosphere which 
falls over a campus restaurant when a young Negro walks in for a coke. 
There is melodrama in the burning of young Charles Williams, twenty-two 
year old Negro, whose kerosene-doused body swung from a cypress tree 
in a Florida swamp. 

Native Son is a powerful instrument for e.xposure of the nation's 
greatest evil. It is more — it is an appeal to the hundreds of thousands who 
have read this book to put down that evil. 

"Listen to me," Richard Wright asks of them. "Listen to me " 



Still No Answer 

George Clark 
Rhetoric II, Theme 14, 1940-1941 



WHAT YOU REPORT 
]ilete picture of the sy; 
you see it? Don't yo 



REPORT IS ENOUGH TO MAKE A COM- 
>stem, but you seem not to see it. Don't 
y'ou see what you are showing?" asked 
Upton Sinclair of Lincoln StefTens after the famous muckraker had com- 
pleted his investigations of the political organization of America's largest 
cities. Steffens had just completed his The Shame of the Cities, in which 
he merely sets down the almost unbelievable facts of municipal corruption 
just as he saw them. He makes no attempt in this writing to answer the 
many questions which his investigations raised. The reason, however, was 
not that he didn't see