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Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books 
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UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 



APR 



1975 



jMl BUILDING use Of^V 
HOEC 6 199 




T-HECPsfEN 
CALDKON 




VOLUME 1 



November, 1931 



NUMBER 1 






THE GREEN CALDRON 



l^iov&mb&r 1931 



CONTENTS 

Veteris Vestigia Flammae — John F. Marshall 2 

Rationausm in Rhetoric Instruction — James Phelan ... 3 

A Recent Fad in Clothing — Jean Pater son 5 

A Little Germany in America — Elisabeth Bailey 6 

The Guest Towel — Marvin L. Coyne 7 

Memories of Home — Alfred C. F. Scherer 8 

The Great American University — Warren W. Krughoff . . 9 

Third Class Versus First Class — Miriam Bttchholz . . . H 

On Trees — Clarence Bernard Horowit:: 12 

How I Like to Spend Money — Douglas Cameron 14 

A Romanticist's Remedy for Boredom — Brita Berglund ... 14 

Houses I Have Lived In — Virginia Clara Rohlfing 16 

Motion Pictures, Limited — Nat Cohen 17 

How to Play Tennis — Jack E. Anderson 18 

My Favorite Antipathies — Anonymous 19 

Mrs. Sparrow — Sally Fulton 20 

Beneath the Seas — Andrew S. Draper 21 

The End of a Miserable Day — Helen Love Anderson ... 24 

Grandfather — Pauline Conard 26 

Trouble — Madeline Cord 27 

Intelligence Preferred — hiazel Waxier 31 



VOLUME I NUMBER 1 



I ! 77265 



c 



Veteris Vestigia Flammae 

John F. Marshall 

This poem was used by the writer as a conclusion to an essay dealing with 
the sort of experience of which the poem furnishes an example, Rhetoric II, 
1930-31. 

My dear, when this that we call love is dead, 

As in a box on which we've closed the lid. 

Then I'll recall a hundred things you said 

And countless gay and trivial things we did: 

The day we shopped for hats 

(The following day it poured), 

The books you liked or did not like. 

The play that shocked me thru and thru 

And left you merely bored. 

But there will come a day when I shall meet, 

Say on a bus or casually on some street, 

A woman vaguely like you 

And wonder — did your lips curve thus and so? 

And were your eyes a deeper or a lighter blue? 

And half ashamed confess — I do not know. 



Rationalism in Rhetoric Instruction 

James Phelan 
Long exposition, Tlienie 6, Rhetoric II, 1930-31. 



TT IS a seemingly obvious fact that a 
* cannon ball shot in Dubuque, Iowa, 
will not kill an ostrich on an Australian 
veldt. The cannon may make a glorious 
noise and the cannon ball may scare a 
herd of cows eight miles out of town, or 
knock a good-sized hole in some silo, but 
the ostrich will remain totally unper- 
turbed, its plumes waving in the soft 
Australian breeze, and its flow of gastric 
juice unimpaired by any premonition of 
danger. 

Of suchlike incongruity is the method 
of rhetoric instruction here. No sane 
person will deny that the art of writing 
as practiced by the freshmen here offers 
an excellent target for the faculty's guns 
— one wonders how a random shot in 
. any direction can fail to hit a cleft in- 
finitive or a muddled metaphor — but the 
instructors fire round and round, hitting 
nothing, not even knowing at what they 
are shooting, nor exactly what they 
would do about it if they did know. 

There are two things which work for 
good writing, inherent ability and urge, 
and ardent, meticulous practice. In deal- 
ing with the first, the instructors are, of 
course, helpless. Three out of every four 
freshmen do not like to write, are in- 
capable of anything except stiff, bun- 
gling, limping prose. They lack the liter- 
ary urge, the desire to read, the moving 
passion to write, to say unusual things in 
a startling manner. They may have their 
heads pounded for a year and finally 
learn, perhaps, to respect a complete in- 
finitive, but they will add no more to the 



world's literature than will the advertise- 
ment writers of the Daily Illini. 

Yet it is for this three- fourths that 
the rhetoric course is planned, where it 
is planned at all, and when the members 
of the remaining and superior one- fourth 
bellow out their dissatisfaction, they are 
politely told to go and get exempted, 
which is, crudely and honestly put, the 
faculty's way of saying "If you don't 
like it here, go to hell." It is the choice 
of insanity in the rhetoric kindergarten 
or death from thirst in the Sheol of liter- 
ature 10a or 10b. In either case the po- 
tential Conrad perishes and the cart of 
education rolls lumberingly on. 

The plan, considered from the view- 
point of cultivation of excellence, is fan- 
tastic. Why deprive the best in order 
to bludgeon the inferiors? There would 
be some measurable sense to it, perhaps, 
if the second-raters profited from the 
course. But the planning for their wel- 
fare ceases with the heaving out of those 
of the neophytes that show ability. Then 
indeed does the outlandishness of the 
plan of study blossom into fullness. The 
remaining freshmen are introduced to 
Literature as selected and capitalized by 
the local patriarchs of rhetoric ; to 
Mathew Arnold, to Paul Elmer More, 
to Sweetness and Light, to The Criter- 
ion. They are shoved into the field of 
sterilized and air-proof literature from 
which they take their involuntary and 
balking choice for book-reports. They 
make the acquaintance of Impromptu 
Themes, better known as literature at a 



dead run, and Outlines, or belles-lettres 
catalogued and indexed. On top of this 
fare is added such sauce as the teacher 
may fancy; interesting comments upon 
the museums of Germany if the in- 
structor be a former globe-trotter ; en- 
lightening facts on the bearing of the 
Latin clavis upon the English word, con- 
clave, if he be a philologist. Finally 
emerging from this ordeal comes the 
staggering freshman, drunk on the soda- 
water of More, astounded at the richness 
of the Malerakademie at Berlin, dazed 
with similarity between the Greek ij.rixo.vn 
and the Latin Machina, but still prone to 
setting forth his ideas in one-syllabled 
words. 

. Now common sense prompts one to 
hesitate at attempting to reform such an 
august assembly as the rhetoric stafif, and 
besides, it is a bit doubtful if anything 
short of carbon-monoxide could turn the 
task. And they are, after all, doing no 
great deal of harm. The material upon 
which they are allowed to work cannot 
be rendered any worse than it is ; the 
really talented pupils have skipped out, 
or if they remain, they are doing so for 
the entertainment and with the cogni- 
zance of the amusing fact that they can 
probably write as well as their in- 
structors. Improvement, when and if it 
comes, will provide for the division of 
the students into two classes, those who 
cannot write, who will never learn to 
write ; and those who have at least glim- 
mering possibilities. The first group will 
be trained on fundamentals, on the high- 
school principles, until they instinctively 
avoid writing "he don't" and ending 
sentences with prepositions. Beyond this 
the course will not go ; to these pupils 
Sweetness will mean only some Tri-Delt, 
and Light only something which is 
absent from Bradley's dance hall, while 
Sherman will remain a man who, during 



the Civil War, rode down to the sea. 

It will be upon the other group that 
the training will concentrate. For them 
there will be arduous practice and point- 
ed, purposeful criticism. No longer will 
they work one day and rest six; no 
longer will criticism by the instructors 
consist of writing PS4 and LD^ on the 
manuscript in red ink. The course will 
be founded upon recognition of the fact 
that it is to instruct not in Matthew 
Arnold's philosophy nor in ancient Greek 
history, but in good writing, and that it 
can do this only by demanding rigorous 
practice, and by offering authentic, quali- 
fied criticism. Such an exacting course 
will be, naturally, elective, but I think 
that it will attract those with ability, 
since they shall have learned by then that 
writing is a hard master, and they will 
come gladly. And at the same time it 
will frighten away the unqualified, the 
lazy, the merely pompous and wordy 
such as my classmate who speaks of the 
atheist Burbank as knowing and per- 
forming the will of God. 

It will cause the Utopians who shall 
found this course a moment or so of 
worry to dispose of the present rhetoric 
staff, and in view of aiding them I make 
a few suggestions. Some of the staff 
would undoubtedly make good Methodist 
ministers, and the more fluent could be- 
come dispensers of patent medicine. The 
less lovely females could be made into 
excellent missionaries, while the better 
blessed ones would be able to shift well 
enough for themselves in such profitable 
fields as the movies or the night-club 
business. Those who are left over after 
this weeding out could be shot, and no 
great harm would be done the world. 
Two or three could be saved for the 
museums. 

Meanwhile, the business of firing can- 
nons from Dubuque goes merrily on. 



— 4 — 



Likewise, the ostrich of unlovely prose 
remains peacefull}' within our midst. I 
herewith offer a short prayer that it die 



of senility, or fall unexpectedly into some 
deep chasm. It will not perish, needless 
to say, from gunfire. 




A Recent Fad in Clothing 

Jean Paterson 

An impromptu theme. Rhetoric I, 1931-32. 



npHE new Empress Eugenie hat has 
' caused almost as great a furor of 
public opinion as prohibition. Men all 
pretend they hate the new, tiny head- 
gear; yet they stare with fascinated gaze 
at each on-coming supporter of the 
mode, wondering credulously how the 
weaker sex defies so successfully the 
ancient laws of gravity. Older women 
have hailed the new style with joy in 
their hearts, for it is a return to the 
romantic mood of the Gay Nineties, 
although the style originated long before 
that. The men of the older generation 
protest violent dislike for the Eugenie, 
but a broad grin of pleased surprise 
greets the wearer when she looks par- 
ticularly feminine and appealing in her 
petite chapeau. The girls of today have 
supported the Empire period hat strong- 



ly and I believe the reason is, that one 
gets the same enjoyment out of putting 
on the new hats and gowns, with their 
old-fashioned lines and trimmings, as 
one gets out of browsing through the 
old trunks in grandmother's attic. It's 
the old fun of getting "dressed up." The 
modern youths express adverse opinions 
upon the subject of Empire hats, but 
when they were small, their ideal hero- 
ines were taken from picture books of 
fairy princesses, with long, golden hair, 
brocaded gowns and hats with plumes; 
so, although they will not admit it, down 
deep in their hearts they really like the 
silly, little hats even though they make 
fun of them. After all, there are very 
few people who really do not like the 
pert little reminder of the Empress 
Eugenie. 



■S — 



A Little Germany in America 

Elizabeth Bailey 
Theme 2, Rhetoric I, 1931-32. 



THE BAND of which I was a member 
had been hired to play for the amiual 
school picnic at St. Peter. I knew little 
about the place, but the way in which the 
other members of the band laughed and 
talked about "German sauerkraut" made 
me anxious to see just what kind of vil- 
lage St. Peter was. I knew that it was 
German, but until I had visited it I could 
not realize just how different it was from 
any other village that I had visited. 

Going to St. Peter we drove for miles 
through prosperous farmland. Although 
the farm houses were neat, there was 
nothing about them that suggested home 
or comfort. Most of them were painted 
spotless white, but frequently they had 
no window curtains, porches, or lawns. 
Many had the potato patch or the chick- 
en yard in front of the house. Every- 
thing was quiet around these houses, for 
the women and children had gone to the 
picnic, the one big event in their lives 
from year to year. In the fields the men 
were still working, for it was harvest 
time, but they would come to the picnic 
in the evening. 

Finally we arrived at St. Peter. Along 
one dusty street was located the town. 
It consisted of a general store, meagerly 
stocked, a few houses, and a blacksmith 
shop that had added a gasolene pump to 
meet modern need. At the end of the 
street stood the center of community life, 
a large white church and a two-room 
school house. The children were sent to 
the school for an elementary education 
and religious training. Except that the 



State demanded the teaching of some 
English the school spoke German. 

We were early, and so I sat down to 
watch the crowd passing me. Although it 
was the middle of June and extremely 
hot the little girls wore long-sleeved 
dresses, black shoes, and long black 
stockings. They acted more like women 
than like the happy carefree children 
that they should have been. Babies wore 
long, old-fashioned dresses, and many of 
them were already restless. The women 
did not seem to realize that their babies 
should have been at home. Unless the 
babies came the mothers could not, and 
the mothers wanted to come. My great- 
est shock came when I looked at the 
women. They wore black, and their hair 
was drawn tightly back from their faces. 
Even on this day of celebration they 
looked tired. I saw rather young women, 
who looked old and worn, carrying small 
babies in their arms. The men were rug- 
ged farmers, all of them smoking pipes, 
and one could tell that they liked plenty 
of beer. The boys were miniature men, 
tr3ang to develop a swagger and be as 
much like their fathers as possible. 

There was a program given by the 
school children, and we assembled on the 
band stand to play while they marched 
through dust and hot sun down the one 
street. They carried small American 
flags, and it was the first suggestion of 
America that I had felt. The children 
sang the old German songs with much 
gusto, very little tune, and always in a 
high, nasal soprano. Then the school 



master, a small dark German with a large 
mustache, led them in singing Columbia, 
the Gem of the Ocean. It was jerky and 
uncertain, but it was American, despite 
the German accent of its singers. 

We of the band laughed at the singing, 
but deep in my heart I felt a certain 
warmth for that attempt to be really 
American. It meant that some child 
would catch the vision of American 



ideals, and acquiring them he would help 
to raise the standards of his community 
above its narrowness. Each look into the 
face of some worn-out mother, slaving 
and struggling in a community where 
any other life was impossible, made me 
hope sincerely that the boys and girls, 
with their American flags and song, 
could make this little "Germany in 
America" disappear. 



The Guest Towel 

Marvin L. Coyne 
Informal essay, Rhetoric II (first semester) 1930-31. 



GUEST towels, like Eve's apple, 
should be seen but not touched. 
They are objects of art, and like the ex- 
pensive china they are seldom taken 
from the corner closet. One must gaze 
on them from a distance, hoping some 
day to be privileged to use them but 
knowing all the while the futility of this 
ecstatic desire. 

The guest towels are dainty affairs with 
fancy embroidery on the ends. We would 
trample on a beautiful flower rather 
than pluck one of them from the rack. 
It is not only the horror of soiling such 
gorgeous articles but fear of the conse- 
quences should we do so that keeps us 
from defiling them. I fear that their use 
would result in nothing less than a ner- 
vous break-down for mother. They have 
been her pride as long as I can remem- 
ber, and I believe that she always will 
think highly of them. 

When the precious articles are hung 
up, it means only one thing: guests for 
the evening. During the intermission 
between the placing of the sacred objects 



and the arrival of the guests, the or- 
dinary towels are allowed to remain on 
the hooks behind the bathroom door. By 
four-thirty, however, they vanish as if 
into space, and there is nothing left to 
do but look behind the radiator for the 
soiled turkish towel. This has probably 
been used to polish shoes, but it is soft 
and is not forbidden fruit. 

The guests arrive and naturally the 
first thing they do is to remove the dust 
of travel. First one retires to wash up 
and emerges shortly, cleansed and dry; 
then another follows suit and joins the 
rest, freshened and dry. I am the last 
one to enter the bathroom and behold! 
Everyone of the precious towels hangs 
as it was, unsoiled and untouched. On 
a solitary, uninviting hook hangs one 
exceedingly limp bath towel. There is 
no doubt as to the good-training of 
our guests. They know their visiting 
etiquette. 

As for the history of the guest towel, 
I know nothing. It may have started 



— 7 — 



when woman first learned to sew. The 
question of the moment is, When will it 
end? Sometimes I think I hear the be- 
ginning of a revolt against this thing, 
supposedly for guests. Sometimes I have 
felt that I myself would be the martyr to 
the cause and use the guest towel, never 
in someone else's home — for that would 
be an unpardonable sin — but in m}^ own 



home. I must be weak, because in spite 
of all my intentions I have failed. It 
will take a man of courage and vision, 
I believe, to rise and show others the 
way. What a historic day it will be when 
at last, driven by some unknown force, 
he will step and stamp on the guest towel 
which he has soiled and thrown to the 
floor! 



Memories of Home 

Alfred C. F. Scherer 
An impromptu theme, Rhetoric I, 1931-32. 



WHENEVER the chimes of the law 
building tower ring forth their 
melodies, my thoughts are carried four 
thousand miles from here into the city 
of Kiel, Germany. There I immediately 
see a tower similar to this one, and hear 
its chimes playing the very same melody. 
The memory makes me happy because I 
feel as if I were at home. 

Again when I go to the armor}' for 
military drill, and watch other boys 
march back and forth, I cannot help but 
visualize the scenes back home during the 
World War. I see large armies of boys 
marching to war. They do not seem to 
be any older than those at the armory. 
And when I participate in the drill, I am 
again back home with my school com- 
rades, for a regular military workout 
before school takes up. 



I go to German class daily, where the 
people once more talk nothing but Ger- 
man. Why should I not feel at home 
now ? I can converse with anyone in my 
mother tongue. The conversation is the 
same as one with a friend at home. I 
go to the library and get a German book 
just as if I got one from a library back 
home, written in the same language. 

When I stroll down the broadwalk, I 
see hundreds walking with me. Now and 
then I see a bicj'cle pass by. My mem- 
ories are at home, where students walk 
and ride bicycles also. The trees along 
the broadwalk make my memories more 
like home because they are so much like 
the linden trees. I have found a place 
like home at the University of Illinois. 



The Great American University 

Warren W. Krughoff 

IVritten in Rhetoric II, 1929-30, at the beginning of the semester, 
after the reading by the class of a series of essays dealing with 
educational ideas and ideals. 



SINCE I am the laziest man on earth, 
I intend, when I can get the necessary 
financial aid for the venture, to establish 
a lazy man's heaven, the Great American 
University. The University will be 
located in California — on the seacoast and 
near Los Angeles. The campus will con- 
sist mainly of boundless golf links and 
innumerable tennis courts and swimming 
pools. There will be dormitories enough 
to accommodate all students and a mag- 
nificent stadium finished in white marble. 
The predominating feature of the 
campus, however, will be the C. P. A. — 
which is not a glorified statue of the 
Great American Accountant, but the 
University building known as the Central 
Pavilion for Assembly. I will speak 
more about this later. 

The Faculty will be divided into three 
sections. The first section — the Depart- 
ment of Social Science — will consist 
mainly of ex-movie stars. (The Univer- 
sity will undoubtedly kill the moving- 
picture industry.) Their sole duty will 
be to attend the daily convocation held 
in the C. P. A. and to teach the students 
in the knowledge of their department. 

The department of second importance 
will be the Department of Physical 
Supremacy. The members of this depart- 
ment will be engaged in their profession 
mostly out of love for their work, as 
their salaries will be limited to possibly 
as little as ten times that of congressmen. 
Their duties will be to play the members 
of faculties of other universities in foot- 



ball, basketball, and the rest of the col- 
legiate sports. This faculty will be the 
Great American Athletic Team. The 
Professors of Baseball will play a 
Supreme Series each year with the win- 
ners of the World Series for a Champ- 
ionship of the Universe. To insure a 
good team in football, the members of 
the Ail-American Football Team will au- 
tomatically become the members of the 
Great American Football Team of the 
next season. 

There will also be a Department of 
Liberal Arts, Sciences, Law, Engineer- 
ing, and Similar Conveniences. This 
department, called simply the Depart- 
ment of L. A. S. L. E. S. C. by the 
undergraduates, will be located in New 
York City and will broadcast lectures 
to the University. These messages will 
also be free to the radio public, thus con- 
firming the title of Great American 
University. 

The prospective student of the Uni- 
versity will register by putting a certain 
number of Double Eagles in a slot. (I 
have not calculated the number of coins 
to charge for tuition. That is a minor 
detail. Three or four thousand should be 
more than enough.) The student, after 
he has finished the simple operation of 
inserting the coins, will turn a crank and 
receive a delightful surprise package. An 
envelope w'ill be delivered which will 
contain several cards. One will give his 
room number, another will give his class 
schedule, and the rest will be class at- 



tendance cards, addressed to his instruc- 
tors. He will write his name on a piece 
of paper, insert it in a second slot, turn 
a second crank, and receive a rubber 
stamp of his signature with which he 
will stamp each card. He will then put 
the cards addressed to his instructors in 
a mail box which will adjoin the registra- 
tion machine. 

There will be only two University 
regulations. One will be the rule that all 
students must be in bed not later than 
8 A. M. The other will be the law that 
any student caught with a textbook will 
be put on probation, and anybody found 
reading a book will be immediately ex- 
pelled. Eight o'clock will find the student 
sleeping peacefully. At his bedside are 
ranged a series of devices. The first is 
a cigarette lighter with cigarettes. Then 
there are rubber tubes marked "Water," 
"Lemonade," "Coca-Cola," "Malted 
Milk," "Ginger Ale," "Wine," "Beer," 
"Whiskey," "Pure Alcohol," "Plain 
Poison." Besides this there is a tele- 
phone on which he can order food, which 
will be delivered by a dumb waiter. 
Above him is an electrically correct 
clock ; this clock contains a tape perfor- 
ated to correspond to his schedule. At 
the proper time the clock wakes him up, 
and he tunes in on class. His weight 
on the bed completes an electrical circuit 
which lights an electric bulb opposite his 
name in the office of the New York 
instructor, showing that he is present. 
When the clock rings the end of the 
hour, he will go back to sleep. And so 
his day continues. At 6 P. M. the bed 
tips and rolls the student through a trap- 



door and down a chute into a shower in 
the room below. Here he will then dress 
and dine and later in the evening go to 
the C. P. A. The convocation here will be 
presided over by the Great American 
Dance Band, which will be composed of 
the world's greatest musicians as the 
Great American Team will be composed 
of the world's greatest athletes. The 
music will be broadcast, so that every 
radio in America will be a center of 
education. 

I regret to inform prospective custom- 
ers that there will be final examinations. 
A dictaphone will make records of the 
various lectures. The wise student will 
put these records in a large cabinet 
labelled "Notes," after having labelled 
them for quick reference, "Antennae of 
the Crocididae and other Prehistoric 
Beetles," or "Obsolete, Obsolescent, and 
Archaic Low German Verbs of the 
Fifteenth Century." When the instructor 
asks a question on an examination, the 
industrious student will then broadcast 
the proper record to his outwitted in- 
structor. The instructor, at the end of 
each semester, will put on each class card 
the two equal sides of an isosceles tri- 
angle, connect their mid-points by a 
straight line, and send it to its owner. At 
the end of the eighth semester, a cuckoo 
will jump out of the clock, bow three 
times, and put a beautifully engraved 
three- by five-inch diploma in the stu- 
dent's hand. A cycle in the life of the 
University will then have been com- 
pleted. The Director will then wind up 
the machinery and start over again. 



•10 — 



ing madly from one empty pleasure to 
another, but by quiet contemplation of 
common things very close to home. 
Money is not necessary, particularly, nor 
is the painfully trying chit-chat which 
people use to fill up any vacant moments 
during which they might otherwise be 
obliged to think. Nothing is necessary 
but a good pair of legs and a profound 
weariness of all artificial amusements. 

A good place to start would be at a 
tiny library in the Art Institute. Al- 
though this room houses somewhat tech- 
nical books essentially for students of 
painting, sculpture, architecture, and 
music, there is a choice collection of gen- 
eral literature which would interest a 
person of any taste. Among the shelves 
one can also find, here and there, de- 
lightfully unexpected biographies of 
artists and writers, just the books one 
has always had a yearning to read but 
has never quite managed to find time for, 
the particular volumes never seeming to 
be at hand at the right moment. One 
may pick up a life of Michael Angelo, 
perhaps, and sit down to read it between 
an earnest looking middle-aged man 
painstakingly copying music scores, and 
a snappy young woman reading articles 
on "Interior Decoration." This failing to 
suit the mood, one might dip into an 
account of gardening in the Renaissance 
period or find an inviting corner in which 
to pore over a ponderous copy of Gul- 
liver's Travels, profusely illustrated. 

When the warmth and silence have 
brought a drowsy, lazy feeling, an hour 
of George Dasch's exhilarating concert 
music nearby will revive a desire for a 
brisk walk down the Avenue. The sunny 
side of the street will lead past furniture 
displays tastefully arranged, a painted 
steamship model enticing the bored one 
to the cold, clean regions of Scandinavia, 
and a collection of stones pregnant with 



the history of Jerusalem, London, Paris, 
which have been set into the fagade of 
the Tribune Tower. A little farther north, 
abutting the walk, is an inconspicuous 
grilled entrance leading to a court mod- 
eled after the Italian manner. Here is an 
outdoor restaurant unparalled in Chicago 
for oiifering delight to a person "given 
to dainty indulgence in the pleasures of 
the table." It is aptly called Le Petit 
Gourmet. Nothing could be more com- 
pletely refreshing than a sudden transi- 
tion from the rudeness and discord of a 
busy thoroughfare to the quiet grace of 
an aloof world enhanced by gentle tink- 
ling of fountains, sweet smell of freshly 
washed terrace, and bright nodding of 
pleasant-faced waitresses. Here is relax- 
ation for an hour or two, in an atmos- 
phere washed with wet fern, blue sky, 
and sparkling water. 

On another day, when the mood of 
the weather has changed and wind and 
fog prevent idle basking in sunny courts, 
it is restful to walk down to the docks 
and lose oneself in the mist and the rain, 
the coal smoke, and the noise of fog- 
horns. On a huge grey rock, one is free 
to stare undisturbed at the grey lapping 
water, the silent grey gulls, and the slow, 
unearthly creeping of boats. At Belmont 
Harbor, small sailing vessels tug at the 
buoys and lean before the wind. As the 
fog continues to roll in, enveloping the 
shore in premature darkness, a caretaker 
rows out to light the lanterns. First only 
his small light is visible; then the prow 
appears and an oar dips out of the water. 
He makes an excellent subject for pencil 
sketch or etching. 

Lacking boats and harbors to carry 
away his imagination, the coddled city 
man might try the effect of a ride on the 
upper deck of a bus. This will be more 
enjoyable if he has a hearty companion 
who is not afraid of being wet by the 



•15- 



rain. Neither must he be too dignified 
to take a lively delight in the strong, 
steady pressure of the wind and to laugh 
at the insane jolting and the dazzling 
flash of street lamps which rush by 
within arm's reach. For most grown per- 
sons bus riding has become stale, but to 
me it has always seemed, especially on 
windy nights along the lake shore, an ex- 
cellent stimulus for sluggish imaginations. 
If our ironic "clifT-dweller" would al- 



low one to show him that simple joys 
are in the end the best remembered, I 
am sure he would give up his fallacious 
idea that the best entertainment is neces- 
sarily the most costly. He would de- 
velop an interest in the outdoors, which 
would have much more satisfactory ef- 
fects than long hours spent drinking un- 
wanted liquor and exchanging empty talk 
in smoky living rooms. 




Houses I Have Lived In 

Virginia Clara Rohlfing 
Written in the final examination in Rhetoric I, 1930-31. 



I HAVE always regretted the fact that 
I've never lived in the same house 
long enough to be able to say "See that 
big nick in the wood work. I did that 
with the carving knife once when we 
were playing 'Little Red-riding Hood', 
and I was the wood chopper," or "See 
that loose tile on the hearth. We used 
to hide things there when we were 
small." All my friends, or, to be more 
correct, my brother's friends could tell 
all sorts of stories about every scratch 
on the wall, and every dent in the floor. 
My family, however, never lived in the 
same house long enough to wear off 
much more than the newness. 

The first house I ever lived in isn't 
very clear in my mind. The only thing 
about it which I can remember is that 
it had a big porch all the way across the 
back, and a great big cellar. Saturday 



mornings my brother used to set me up 
on the tool bench while he swept the 
floor, and, if I didn't make any noise or 
bother him, he'd give me some walnuts 
when he was through. 

After that, we lived in a series of 
apartment houses. I had grown rather 
used to the cellar, and missed it greatly. 
My brother and I found solace, however, 
in riding in the dumb waiter. Dumb 
waiters were lots more fun than cellars, 
but after getting stuck between floors, 
we sort of lost interest in them. I think 
my mother didn't care for dumb waiters 
after that either, because just after my 
brother and I lost interest in them, she 
decided to move into a house with a 
yard. 

It was an awfully nice yard. It had a 
garden and everything. Once more An- 
drew, my brother, had a Saturday task 



■16 — 



to perform. He had to weed the garden. 
At first I used to help, but after a bit, 
he decided I was more of a hindrance 
than a help. After that I watched. 

By the time we moved again, Andrew 
was too big to enjoy entertaining a 
younger sister; therefore I was left on 
my own hook to find amusement for 
myself. I found it, but it didn't last very 
long. We had an enormous moose head 
over the fire place in the living room. It 
had huge horns (or do you call them 
antlers) and rather coarse fur. It was 
great fun to climb from a chair, to the 
top of a bookcase, to the neck of that 



moose head. Mj' mother didn't appre- 
ciate the enjoyment I got out of riding 
that, because after she discovered why 
m}^ "Here I am" came from up near 
the ceiling, she moved the bookcase. 

Since then, we have moved several 
times. As I grew older, the moves be- 
came fewer and further apart. I've lived 
in our present home for three years — 
but there aren't any dents or scars in the 
woodwork, or any walnuts in the cellar, 
or any loose bricks on the hearth. There 
isn't anything to associate anything with. 
It's home, though, and worth looking 
forward to seeing again in June. 



Motion Pictures, Limited 

Nat Cohen 
Theme 5, Rhetoric I. 1931-32. 



IT MAY be definitely stated that no in- 
stitution devoting itself to the enter- 
tainment of the American people has 
achieved such outstanding popularity 
during the last twenty-five years as the 
"movies," or "talkies" of more recent 
connotation. To countless types of men 
and women, young or old, from the shop- 
girl who would no more miss her favor- 
ite hero in his latest movie than forget 
to apply her lip-stick, to the self- 
sufficient Ph.D. who treats this form of 
entertainment with contempt (but rarely 
misses a show) — the movies are a fact as 
vital as tooth-paste, motoring, bargain 
matinees at the ten cent store, and Coco- 
Cola. 

Let me point out why the motion pic- 
ture has taken such a hold on the hearts 
and purses of such a wide variety of our 



fellow citizens. Let us consider first the 
shop-girl. From a humdrum existence 
dominated by a glowering floor walker, 
she is wafted into a world of romance 
where the floor walker is displaced by an 
east-side immigrant with a Spanish ac- 
cent and a name full of vowels. Next let 
us consider the shop girl's "sister under 
the skin," the wife of the second vice- 
president. This woman is a social 
climber, her goings and comings featured 
(magazine section preferred) in the Sun- 
day editions. She has "listened to her 
voice" most carefully in an effort to con- 
vey that "world weariness" which is 
never absent from the intonations of a 
certain Swedish "star." She drops her 
eye-lids and lifts her eye-brows — the Ro- 
tarians will convene in Los Angeles in 
1934. Let us proceed cautiously to the 



— 17 — 



Ph.D., the gentleman, the scholar, in 
whose presence one has a feeling of awe 
and reverence. He masks his penchant 
for the wistful sweetness of certain light- 
brained Hollywood-wiarfe ingenues by 
"going in" for the intellectual stimulus 
supposed to be occasionally afforded by 
the cinema. And lastly let us have a look 
at Young America. A thrill runs up and 
down their backs when the villain in the 
early "horse operetta" gnashes his pearly- 
white teeth and emits a vociferous: 
"Damn you, Jack Dalton," to the present 
soft-spoken, well-groomed gangster 
whose only reply is the rat-tat-tat of his 
ever ready machine gun. 

Taking these examples into considera- 
tion it is not very hard to understand 
just why our motion pictures are "lim- 
ited." The public will pa}' to see what it 
desires, and the producers in view of this 
fact must serve them. That is the reason 
why such puppets parade before us 
nightly — the pseudo-voiced Spaniard, the 
shallow- faced platinum-blonde, the 
drawling cow-puncher, the wistful in- 
genue and the glorified gangster. 

And now the remedy. If we could 



educate our public to the really fine 
values and teach them the beauty that 
is to be found in the higher types of the 
drama, there would develop an entirely 
new and vast field in the motion picture 
industry. The shop-girl, instead of going 
in raptures over our Spanish friend, 
would graduall}' be trained to the fine 
quality of acting represented by at least 
a dozen accomplished actors whose 
names are scarcely known, and yet who 
pass before them on the screen as often 
as the five-thousand-dollar-a-week vari- 
ety. The society woman would realize 
that it is rather in spite of her appear- 
ance than otherwise that the celebrated 
Scandinavian actress dominates every 
picture in which she appears. The Ph.D. 
would find himself at home after the 
ceaseless pursuit of tlie "will-o-the-wisp" 
of aesthetic pleasure, and with a blessing 
on his lips for at least every other movie 
that he flees to. And thrill-seeking 
youths would probably for once realize 
that gun-toting cow-punchers and gang- 
sters are not acting at all, but just acting 
up a bit. 



How to Play Tennis 

Jack E. Anderson 
Theme 4, Impromptu, Rhetoric I, 1931-32. 



T N the spring of each year men begin to 
* shed their hats, gloves, and overcoats. 
As the warm atmosphere continues to 
cast a spell about them, they shed their 
coats, vests, and ties, and go about with 
their shirtsleeves rolled to their highest. 
This sudden relief from such heavy en- 



cumbrances seems to arouse in all men a 
strong desire to evolve their masculine 
characteristics: they look for a way to 
exhibit their athletic abilities. 

Of course, there are games and games 
in which you can demonstrate your 
strength, poise, agility, and grace, but 



— 18- 



there is one game in which this seems to 
by true to the exclusion of all others; 
at least when you compare the different 
games as to the difficulty in learning to 
play them. The game is called Tennis. 
To best show how this is true, I shall 
give some general instructions for play- 
ing the game. 

The first equipment you should buy is 
a dozen tubes of Unguentine and Hazel 
Cream; this gives considerable relief in a 
bad case of sunburn. Then you should 
buy the largest size of dark-colored gog- 
gles you can find. This not only makes 
the surroundings look fascinating, but it 
lends a bit of determination to the coun- 
tenance. If you buy a pair of white flan- 
nels, do not buy the striped ones, be- 
cause they will look the same as a pair 
of plain ones when you have fallen down 
in them a few times. After that, if you 
think it necessary, you might buy a cheap 
tennis racket, a few balls, and possibly 
a net. 



The first and most important funda- 
mental in the actual playing of the game 
is to learn how to high- jump the net if 
you have one. It makes the leg muscles 
limber as well as being an aid in making 
the game more brief. Next, when your 
opponent delivers you a ball, try your 
hardest to hit it back towards the direc- 
tion from which it came, before it has 
bounced five times. You may find it hard, 
at first, to place the return within the 
courts, but a beginner is really not ex- 
pected to do any better than to keep it 
within the city limits. If you wish to win 
the game, all you have to do is to run 
and jump about, hit anything within 
sight, and indulge in vigorous exercise 
of any sort until your opponent's col- 
lapse, due to exhaustion. 

As a bit of specific advice, I might just 
say that you had better not try to play 
tennis until you're sure that you wouldn't 
like golf much better. 



My Favorite Antipathies 

Anonymous 
Theme 4, Impromptu, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



|\/T Y FAVORITE antipathies cover a 
■^ ' *■ fairly wide field, ranging from the 
mild distaste I feel for beets to the in- 
tense hatred I experience toward hypo- 
crites and "red tape." In between these 
points come spinach, carrots, liver, people 
who drive at a snail's pace in the middle 
of the road, officious people, and those 
obnoxious individuals who shove their 
way through a crowd, using razor-sharp 
elbows to assist them. In order to be 



truthful about this list, I am forced to 
include the study of sciences in it. I 
love flowers ; I think there is nothing 
more noble and inspiring than a century- 
old tree ; I think horses and dogs are as 
fine companions as anyone could want ; 
but nevertheless I detest botany, biology, 
and all the other scientific -ologies. I 
have known doctors I have both liked 
and admired, but I am unable to regard 
the science of medicine with anything 



■19- 



but repulsion. I know that I should ad- 
mire and revere the profession of medi- 
cine, but I simply cannot. 

I have a special aversion for people 
who mistreat fine things. To my mind 
Hell itself is too good for people who 
have no consideration for a high-strung 
thorough-bred horse ; who ruin the 
smooth, powerful engine of a fine car by 
not keeping enough oil and water in it ; 
who break the backs and turn down 
corners of the pages of good books — 
or of any kind of books, for that mat- 
ter — ; who scratch the glowing surface 
of exquisitely fine wood with rings or 
coat buttons ; who erect garish sign- 
boards along a road winding up a beauti- 



ful hill ; who break into a lovely scene 
on the stage with some raucous and in- 
appropriate comment: for all people who 
spoil lovely things and ruin the master- 
pieces of nature and of men, no punish- 
ment is too great. It seems to me that 
the crowning evil is to destroy lovely 
things, and that the next, is to create 
ugly ones. 

Most of my antipathies seem to be 
without rhyme or reason, but I have 
them, and the most I can do is to try 
to conceal my aversions, which is a most 
difficult task. However, for every an- 
tipathy I have several "likes," so that life 
is always more happy than angry. 



Mrs. Sparrow 

Sally Fulton 
Description, Rhetoric II, 1930-31. 



|\/IRS. SPARROW was never late. 
•^ ' *■ Exactly at half past eight she would 
creep softly into the house, get out her 
pail and brush, and begin her scrubbing. 
Mrs. Sparrow's apron always set my cal- 
endar aright. On Tuesdays it was of 
blue and white checks, but it had always 
changed to gray and white by Friday. 
So quietly did she slip into the house 
that often we would stumble over her 
in some corner after she had been scour- 
ing the cracks for half an hour. This 
kindly wash lady with her smooth gray 
hair was insignificant in size, but her 
diligence could be immediately noticed. 
She dragged the tattered red pillow 
about, firmly planted her knees on the 
dent in the middle, and carefully poked 
in every corner. Sometimes, on special 
occasions, her smile seemed to jump out 



at you, because — poor soul — two teeth 
exactly in front had been lost long 
before. 

When she had finally finished, Mrs. 
Sparrow would stand in the kitchen 
wiping her hands on the corner of her 
apron while I counted out the change. 
It was then that she would tell me about 
the new baby of her niece, who, by the 
way, "gives the best marcel waves in 
town." Then she would put on the dark 
blue coat and the old black hat and as 
noiselessly as she had come, close the 
back door behind her. As I watched the 
tiny bent figure patiently make its way 
down the icy walk, how frightened I used 
to be that the wind would suddenly sweep 
by and deposit Mrs. Sparrow on the top 
of the tall pine just down the street! 



-20- 



cA I 



Beneath the Seas 

Andrew S. Draper 
Long narrative, Rhetoric II, 1930-31. 



C\^ MY study desk at home there 
^^ stands an old ship's bell. It is of 
brass, dulled with years of exposure to 
the elements, and no amount of polishing 
can return to it its lost brilliance and 
luster. Engraved on the side in faint 
letters are the words, "S. S. Leiv Wal- 
lace. U. S. Tug. Launched — 1885." 
How I came into possession of that bell 
is a strange tale which seems discon- 
nected from the busy world of our 
everyday life. 

The tug, Lew Wallace, was launched, 
as the inscription on the bell indicates, 
in 1885. She was built for use on the 
Great Lakes, and was the last word in 
modernity of steam tugs. She was as- 
signed to the port of Portage Lake, 
Michigan, where she had the job of tow- 
ing the large lake schooners in and out 
of the harbor. She served her purpose 
well, and was as much beloved by the 
crews of the visiting lumber schooners as 
she was in the port, among the towns- 
people. 

Late in the afternoon of August 4, 
1893, the Lezu Wallace was lying at 
anchor near the harbor entrance when a 
large, loaded lumber schooner, the Our 
Son, gave the signal for a tow into the 
Big Lake, signaling also that it would 
be half an hour before she would be 
ready. The skipper of the Lew Wallace 
was very uneasy and worried about this 
job, and well he might be, for towering 
black clouds were creeping down from 
the north, and the barometer was falling 
fast. The Our Son was one of the 



largest schooners on the Lakes, and she 
was heavily loaded. Added to all this, 
the tug's boilers were foul, and the little 
boat was not at the time capable of her 
normal power. Caught in the storm with 
the schooner in tow, the Letv Wallace 
would be powerless. But the captain of 
the Our Son was insistent upon getting 
out of the harbor that evening, lest he 
be storm-bound the next day. When the 
signal came to the Lew Wallace, she slip- 
ped her cable and ran down to take the 
tow. By this time breaths of cold air 
were coming out of the north-west. The 
black clouds had blotted out the sunset; 
the storm was about to strike. The gal- 
lant little tug started out, nevertheless, 
black smoke pouring out of her funnel 
as fuel was heaped on her roaring fires 
below. Her safety valve screwed down, 
she was doing her utmost when the 
storm struck with a sudden, violent blast 
of wind, accompanied by thunder and 
lightning, and blinding sheets of rain. 
The tug's propeller beat the water; her 
hull vibrated, but she slowly lost head- 
way. Suddenl}', out of the night, came 
a blinding flash of light and a deafening 
crash where the tug had been. The Lew 
Wallace had blown up ; her boilers could 
not stand the strain. The Oxir Son im- 
mediately let go both anchors. They held, 
and she was safe. Meanwhile the Coast 
Guard had put out their boats and were 
searching the dark water for survivors. 
Of the seventeen men on the tug, the 
captain, the pilot, and two seamen were 
picked up alive. The rest were found 



-21 — 



dead the next day. Thirteen men had 
been killed, and the Lew Wallace lay 
peacefully in thirt3'-five feet of water, a 
total wreck. Her shattered boilers were 
later raised and placed on the shore, op- 
posite the spot where the hull la)', with 
a sign attached, reading, "Tug Lew Wal- 
lace. Burned, August 4, 1893. Thirteen 
men killed." 

Ever since my two friends, Scotty and 
Nick, and I had played on Portage Lake, 
we had been acquainted with the story of 
the Lew Wallace. We knew just where 
the wreck lay, for weren't the biggest 
black bass in the lake swimming around 
the old hulk? We had often spent our 
time, while fishing there, in imagining 
what was left of the little boat. On clear, 
calm mornings we could just make out 
the top of the wreck, about twenty or 
twenty-five feet below the surface. Last 
summer I brought a home-made diving 
helmet to Portage Lake. It was our 
chance really to see the old wreck, to 
walk on it, and take things oflf of it. 
Scotty and Nick were a little doubtful 
as to the success we would have, but 
they agreed to try it if I did so first, and 
came up alive. 

The diving helmet was one I had made 
from a five-gallon oil can. It had three 
celluloid windows, a valve in the top, 
for the hose, and an outlet valve in one 
side. It had twenty-seven pounds of lead 
in the top, and two bricks bolted onto the 
outside, one in front and one in back. 
Altogether the helmet weighed over 
forty pounds. It was painted green. A 
sixt3'-foot rubber hose and an auto-tire 
pi:mp served for the air supply. 

As we had not tried the helmet out, 
I decided that I would rather go down 
close to shore and walk out to the wreck. 
We dropped an anchor by the spot, and 
ran the line in to shore, along the bottom, 
so that I could find my way out. I was 



to go down from our big rowboat in 
about twelve feet of water. As I rested, 
up to my shoulders, in the water, I began 
to have misgivings. The sun felt nice 
and warm ; the water was dark and cold. 
Besides, the wreck was mysterious and 
suggestive of death. What if I were 
the fourteenth to die on the Lew Wal- 
lace? I banished such thoughts from 
my mind as Scotty prepared to lift 
the helmet over my head. When the hel- 
met was adjusted, and the pump working 
steadily, I let go of the boat. The light 
of the upper world closed over me ; I 
was in another world, the submarine 
world. The greenish light grew dimmer 
as I slow!}' sank to the bottom. All was 
silence e.xcept for pff, pff, pff, of the air 
coming through the hose, and the bub- 
bling from the outlet valve. At first my 
ears ached from the pressure, but I 
remedied that by reaching into the hel- 
met, holding my nose, and blowing. This 
forced air into my ear passages, equaliz- 
ing the pressure from the outside. 

The bottom was sandy, with a few 
water-logged sticks here and there. The 
guide line ran past my feet and out of 
sight down the gentle slope toward the 
wreck. Leaning far forward against the 
water, I followed it. The slope gradually 
became greater, and the bottom became 
more gravelly. As I walked down and 
down, the greenish light deepened and 
turned to blue. The water grew colder. 
At last I made out, in the dim light, a 
great black hulk h'ing parti}' on one side, 
in the quiet water. I touched it, it was 
slimy and moss-grown. The side rose 
above my head to a height of about 
twelve feet. I jumped up (it is easy to 
jump high in a diving helmet) and 
caught my arm over the top. Below, on 
the inside, was the tangled wreckage of 
what had once been the cabin and ma- 
chinery. I saw that it would be easier 



-22- 



Mother did it better than Aunt Susan. 
She didn't have a nice lacey handker- 
chief hke Mother did, and she was kind 
of messy about it, an^'way. 

After while they all got up and went 
out. They carried the box Grandfather 
had been in out and put it in a big truck 
with curtains on it. Everyone went away 
but Mrs. Crockett and me. I changed 
my dress but I didn't feel like playing. 
I just sat on the step and held Muffy. 



I guess Grandfather really must have 
gone to Heaven to be with Grandmother, 
like Uncle Jack said, because it's been 
a week now and he hasn't been back. I 
guess he's having a good time though. He 
told me once that Grandmother was the 
most wonderful woman he had ever 
known and that I looked like her. He 
left his watch, 'cause he knew I liked 
to play with it ; so I guess he intends to 
stay quite a while. 



Trouble 



Madeline Cord 
Long narrative. Rhetoric II, 1930-31 



iil ACK Marlowe, are you digging in 
J that flower bed again ? You had bet- 
ter stop it right away or father will be 
very angry when he comes home and sees 
his flowers all dug up. I never saw such a 
youngster in all my life. You are always 
doing something you shouldn't. Mark 
my words, young man, you are going to 
find a lot of trouble one of these days 
digging around as you do," whereupon 
Mrs. Marlowe went back into the pretty, 
little white bungalow with green shutters, 
which was surrounded by a beautiful 
lawn with huge shade trees and flowers 
of every description. 

Now, like most little boys. Jack was 
very curious. "Trouble? What does 
mother mean v^hen she speaks about find- 
ing a lot of trouble by digging around? 
What is trouble, an}'way? Is it good to 
eat ? Is it something to play with ? Well, 
I'll keep on digging, and maybe I can find 
out what it is." So Jack kept on digging. 



At first his little toy spade just scratched 
the surface of the rich, black soil of 
Daddy's flower bed. Then he dug faster 
and faster. In a little while the hole 
was really quite wide and deep. 

"Well, I haven't 'scovered any trouble 
yet, an' I'm kinda tired," Jack said to 
himself rather disgustedly. Then a very 
strange thing happened. As Jack was 
kneeling down, running his little fingers 
through the cool, black earth, he leaned 
too far forward, lost his balance, and fell 
into the hole. Instead of stopping at the 
bottom of the hole, he seemed to be going 
down farther and farther. Would he 
never come to the bottom? Down, down, 
down he went. How long it was before 
he stopped falling, he never really knew, 
but he was sure it was a very long time. 
Instead of landing with a terrible jolt 
and jar, he lit as softly as if he had been 
a feather floating to the ground. Jack 
lay very still for a few seconds. How 



— 27 — 



strange and beautiful everything was ! 
He was sitting on a soft bed of very 
thick moss (yes, he knew what moss was 
for Daddy had told him what it was just 
last week), which looked almost like the 
velvet in his Sunday trousers. All he 
could see around him was flowers, grass, 
trees, and moss. "Hm," thought Jack; 
"these flowers have got Daddy's beat a 
mile. I wonder where I am?" 

"You're in Flowerland, Jack," spoke 
a soft little voice in his left ear. Jack 
was startled at the sound of the tiny 
voice and turned around to see where it 
came from. There, resting on his left 
shoulder, stood a tiny figure, which, at 
first glance, might have been mistaken 
for a large blue and black butterfly. 
Maybe it was a butterfly, but it had a 
small sweet face and little hands and 
feet, anyway. 

Jack, recovering from his first aston- 
ishment, said, "Why, hello. Who are 
you?" 

The little figure smiled at him and re- 
plied, "I'm Fairy Darling. I know who 
you are, for I saw you digging in the 
flower bed this morning. You are Jack 
Marlowe, and you are looking for 
trouble. But listen to me, Jack, you had 
better stop looking for trouble and spend 
the rest of the day in Flowerland. You 
know anyone can find trouble if he wants 
to, but not everyone can enjoy Flower- 
land. I'll be glad to show you around, 
and there really are some very interest- 
ing things to see here." 

Jack eagerly accepted Fairy Darling's 
gracious invitation, and they started out. 
As Fairy Darling flew along in front of 
Jack, she told him she had a brother 
and sister and that they had some grand 
times playing together. Once in a while, 
however, they quarreled, and their 
mother had to settle the argument. Oc- 
casionally, one of them had to eat an 



extra helping of spinach for lunch and 
go to bed an hour early for punishment, 
if he were extremely naughty. She also 
told him that she used to have another 
little brother who was very mischievous. 
One day he disappeared and had never 
since been seen. As they wandered along 
the little fairy pointed out many of her 
favorite playgrounds. In one place there 
was a slide, a teeter-totter, and a swing. 
A little farther on there was a little 
swimming pool with all kinds of water 
plajihings in it — a toboggan slide, a 
water wheel, a raft, and a tiny rubber 
ball. The pool looked very much like 
mother's large roasting pan to Jack. And, 
oh yes, there was even a very tiny mini- 
ature golf course, too. Everything was, 
of course, built on a very small scale, but 
it had to be, for Fairy Darling was such 
a tiny being herself. 

In spite of Fairy Darling's advice 
about trouble, Jack was constantly on 
the lookout for it as they walked along. 
Of course he didn't mention it to his lit- 
tle friend, and she apparently thought he 
had forgotten all about it. He looked in 
the flowers, as they passed, to see if 
there was any trouble there. He also 
looked behind the trees to see if there 
was any trouble hiding there. Although 
he became rather discouraged, he kept 
his eyes wide open all the time, and noth- 
ing escaped his glance. After strolling 
around for a considerable length of time, 
Jack became tired, and sat down to rest 
under a large, shady tree, near a bed of 
beautiful tulips. Fairy Darling said, 
while he was resting, she would go and 
get something for him to eat and drink, 
for he was hungry and thirsty, too, now. 
She told him to stay right where he was 
and she would be back soon. 

Now, ever\-thing would have gone very 
peacefull}', and Jack would have had a 
very pleasant afternoon in Flowerland 



— 28 — 



if he had only been content to follow the 
directions of Fairy Darling. But, no, 
Jack was not that kind of a boy. He was 
restless, curious, and, sorry as I am to 
say it, selfish. As he sat there under the 
tree wondering how he happened to come 
to Flowerland and how he was going 
to get back home, his gaze wandered to 
the tulip bed. How unusually pretty the 
tulips were ! They were all colors — pink, 
green, purple, yellow, blue, and orange. 
In the middle of the bed an enormous 
red tulip towered above the others. It 
was undoubtedly the most gorgeous tulip 
Jack had ever seen. As he sat gazing at 
it as if he were fascinated, an uncon- 
trollable desire to pluck it and have it for 
his very own seized him. Without re- 
membering that he had no right to pick 
a flower that didn't belong to him, and 
forgetting everything but his eagerness 
to have the tulip, he jumped up quickly, 
rushed toward the tulip bed, waded 
through the tulips, breaking and stepping 
on those in his way, grasped the stem of 
the large, red tulip, and pulled. At first 
the flower did not budge. He pulled 
again, this time with all his might. 
The plant yielded, seeming to come up 
by the roots. Little did Jack know how 
near at hand his much-sought-for trouble 
was. At exactly the time the plant came 
out of the ground, there was a awful 
rumbling noise, and Flowerland was 
transformed into a land full of terrible 
little imps and elves. All the flowers had 
disappeared and thorny weeds stood in 
their place. Jack became very much 
frightened, and screamed, "Oh, what 
have I done? Where am I now?" 

At those words, a horrible looking 
little imp stepped forward with a scowl 
on his ugly face. Jack thought he looked 
exactly like a picture of a gnome in his 
picture book at home. Jack, shrinking 
back with fear as the little imp advanced. 



looked him over from the tip of his very 
pointed slippers, which turned up at the 
toes, to the top of his sharp little horns. 
The imp stopped a few steps in front of 
Jack, his feet apart, and his hands on his 
hips, saying, "Ah, ha ! young man, so you 
finally found what you were looking for 
— trouble. Now, are you satisfied? You 
are now in Troubleland." His little 
speech ended in a sneering laugh. Jack 
soon learned that the ugly, little imp was 
King Trouble. 

Jack began to whimper at these words. 
Then he cried harder and harder until 
his whole body shook with sobs. His 
crying, however, didn't soften the hearts 
of the little elves a bit. King Trouble 
ordered his fellow imps to seize Jack and 
put him in the dungeon. Jack saw it was 
useless to resist, for while the little elves 
were much smaller than Jack, there were 
hundreds of them. The imps grabbed 
him and pushed and pulled him to a 
large, dark, underground dungeon. They 
threw him on the cold, damp ground, 
and after each one had kicked and 
pinched him, they went out without a 
word and closed a heavy door of iron 
bars over the entrance. 

After the imps had gone out. Jack 
gradually stopped crying, and his eyes 
became accustomed to the darkness. 
Something ran across his legs. He looked 
down and saw a horrible, little, brown 
lizard run across the ground. As he con- 
tinued to stare, he noticed hundreds of 
similar little lizards. But that wasn't all. 
There were all kinds of other little 
creatures — tiny, green snakes, woolly, 
yellow caterpillars, creepy, white mice, 
long-legged spiders, and warty looking 
toads. Jack shuddered and grew weak 
at the sight of them. They all crept up 
as near him as they could. Some of them 
even crawled on him. Then, all of a 
sudden they began to talk. They jeered 



— 29- 



at him, and told him what a foolish boy 
he had been. He noticed that their voices 
sounded like little boys'. Finally, after 
much jabbering, he found out that they 
had all been little boys once and that 
they had been naughty and found them- 
selves in Troubleland. They had been 
put in the dungeon, and after a long time 
had been turned into little lizards, snakes, 
caterpillars, mice, spiders, and toads. 
They told him he would become one of 
them before long. He began crying when 
he thought that he would never see his 
mother and father again. Oh, if he ever 
got back home, which wasn't very likely, 
mother would never have to scold him 
any more. He would eat a whole dish 
of spinach for lunch, drink a whole 
gallon of milk, and go to bed at seven 
o'clock every night. As he sat thinking, 
he noticed one little toad over in the 
corner all by himself. He was holding 
one little foot off the ground. Jack went 
over, picked him up, and examined the 
leg. Jack thought it must be broken. 
Now Jack was very sj'mpathetic, and he 
wanted to help the little toad that was 
crippled. Mother always wrapped a band- 
age around his finger when it was hurt. 
Ma3'be if he would tie a bandage around 
the little toad's leg, it would get well. He 
took his handkerchief out of his pocket, 
tore it into strips, and tied it around the 
toad's leg. Just as he finished bandaging 
the leg, the dungeon became filled with 
smoke. When the smoke cleared. Jack 
saw, much to his surprise and joy, that 
he was back in Flowerland, and Fairy 
Darling and another little fairy were 
standing on his arm. Fairy Darling told 
him that the other little fair)' was the 
long-lost little brother who had been 
turned into a crippled toad in Flower- 
land one day when he was looking for 
trouble. Many little boys had come to 
Troubleland since her brother had been 



there, but none of them had ever before 
been kind to the poor crippled toad. Jack 
had broken a magic spell King Trouble 
had thrown over the dungeon by helping 
the little toad. So, in return for his kind- 
ness, the little toad, who was really a 
fairy, and Jack had been sent back to 
Flowerland. Fairy Darling was overjoyed 
at seeing her little brother again. After 
the first excitement was over. Fairy Dar- 
ling said she must do something for Jack. 
She told him he could have any wish he 
wanted and it would come true. There 
was one thing Jack wanted more than 
anything else — to be back home with 
Mother and Daddy. No sooner had he 
made the wish than a beautiful, tall, 
golden ladder appeared in front of him. 
Fairy Darling and her brother thanked 
him for the happiness he had brought 
them, and told him to climb the ladder, 
and he would eventuall}' reach home. As 
Jack stepped on the first rung of the 
ladder, he thanked Fairy Darling for all 
she had done for him and waved good- 
b3'e to both of the little fairies. He 
started climbing. Up, up, up he went. 
After climbing for a few minutes, his 
feet no longer touched the rungs of the 
ladder. He seemed to be floating in a 
cloud. Suddenly he stopped moving. The 
cloud disappeared, and he found himself 
sitting on the ground beside the hole in 
Daddy's flower bed. Oh, how thankful 
he was to be back home! He would 
never again look for trouble. He hurried 
and filled up that awful hole so he would 
not fall in again. Just as he had put the 
last bit of earth back in place, his mother 
came out on the back porch and called, 
"Jack, oh Jack, where are you?" 

"Here I am. Mother; I'm coming," 
Jack answered immediately. 

"Well, it's about time you got home, 
young man. Where have you been ? I've 
been calling you for the last half hour. 



•30- 



"Where have I been? Boy, you can't 
guess. I've been in Flowerland and 
Troubleland all afternoon," and Jack be- 
gan to relate his afternoon's adventure. 

"Stop that silly nonsense. Jack, and 
hurry and get cleaned up for dinner. 
Daddy will soon be home." Thus Mrs. 
Marlowe interrupted what she thought 
was just another of Jack's stories which 
his wild imagination often created. 

You can be sure that Jack never 
looked for trouble again, although he oc- 



casionally found it in spite of his 
excellent behavior. He never dug an- 
other hole in the flower garden, and a 
more obedient and unselfish boy could 
hardly be found. Although Jack at- 
tempted many times to tell his mother 
about the adventures of that memorable 
afternoon, it was all in vain — she never 
believed him. She frequently remarked 
to her husband that Jack's imagination 
"was running away with him." 




Intelligence Preferred 

Hazel Waxler 
Long narrative. Rhetoric II, first semester, 1930-31. 



ELOISE looked up from her French 
and across the table at her little 
blond room-mate. 

"I just don't know what is the matter, 
Bess." 

She was close to tears. Now what 
could make a pretty girl with black, curly 
hair tearful? 

"Why, honey, what do you mean? 
Matter with what? Come on and tell 
Bess." 

"Oh, well, you know. Bob just can't 
see me. I always doll up my prettiest 



for French class and smile at him 'till 
my face almost cracks, but he never 
even . . . ." 

Here the tears came spilling over. Bess 
was by Eloise's side and had her arm 
around her in a moment. 

"Aw, Eloise don't 3'ou cry about him. 
He's not worth it." 

"Bu-but I like him and anjnvay, it's 
not only him, it's all the fellows. They 
all treat me like poison. Why? I have 
cute clothes 'n everything, and if I do 
say it myself I'm not ugly, am I Bess?" 



-31- 



"Ugly!" indignantly. "Why, I should 
say not. You're the prettiest girl in the 
house, Eloise." 

"Oh, no. I didn't mean that! But, I 
mean, it isn't just my looks that's the 
trouble. I can't imagine . . . ." 

"Wait a minute," said Bess, "I have 
an idea. What do you make in French?" 

"Make?" Eloise looked bewildered. 
"You mean what grade do I make? 
Why, A of course. But what's that 
got " 

"Ah-ha, my pretty, I think I begin to 
see light. What does Bob make?" 

"Bob? Oh, I think he gets about a C. 
He's not so smart, you know, but . . . ." 

"Yes, I know. Now listen I think I've 
solved the mystery ! Who makes an A 
besides you?" 

"Why, I don't know. Let's see. Ralph 
Crosby, I guess, and .... well, I guess 
he's about the only other one. I don't 
like him very well. He always makes 
me feel so — oh, well, so ignorant or 
something." 

"Eloise! Don't you see! That's just 
the trouble with you. The poor boys get 
inferiority complexes every time they 
look at 3'ou. You're too brilliant!" 

"Oh, no," said Eloise. She was laugh- 
ing now, and one saw that the eyes were 
blue. 

"O, yes !" said Bess. "You just act 
dumb and see how they fall. It won't 
hurt anything to try it anyway, except 
your grade in French and who cares 
about that?" 

"I don't!" said Eloise. 

Next day Eloise was surprisingly lack- 
ing in knowledge of French. Her pro- 
nunciation was a thing to make a loyal 
Frenchman weep and it kept her in- 
structor in a constant state of astonished 
horror. She knew not the meanings of 
the words. She seemed to have lost all 
acquaintance with the language, and con- 



sidering that Eloise had spoken French 
for three years you can see that it was 
no easy thing to appear so stupid. She 
looked appealingly at the boys in the 
class every time she made a mistake and 
they all wanted to rise up and defend 
this poor, little thing who was darned 
good-looking, if she didn't know French. 
In fact, they all thought she needed some 
one to take care of her, help her with 
French and with her life problems. 

After class Eloise went up to the 
teacher and waited until all the boys had 
gone. A few stood around in hopes that 
she would walk with them, but finally 
turned reluctantly away as she stayed. 
As soon as they were all gone Eloise 
rushed out of the room and ran after 
the retreating Bob Stuart. She caught 
up with him out on the walk. 

"Oh, Bob." 

"What?" 

"Do you think you could help me with 
this French some night? I can't seem to 
get it at all." 

"Wh}' — let's see." He thought a mo- 
ment. "Are you going to be at home 
to-night?" 

"Yes ! Oh, it would be too wonderful 
of you to help me." 

"Well, I might come over for awhile. 
It's not so bad." (He meant the French.) 

He was confident, sure of himself 
beside this poor, helpless little woman. 
Bob al\va3'S thought of his girls as "little 
women." He looked handsome, with his 
wavy brown hair, beside the small Eloise. 
Eloise purposely looked as helpless as 
she could. 

That evening four fellows called her 
up, and Bob came over at 7:30. He and 
Eloise studied French and each other 
until ten o'clock. Whenever Bob would 
mispronounce something atrociously 
Eloise couldn't grin. She had to look at 
him with an "oh, you great, big, wonder- 



— 32 — 



ful man" expression and try to imitate 
him. However, Bob didn't suspect. By 
ten o'clock he was convinced that Eloise 
was hopelessly dumb in French and 
Eloise was convinced of the same thing 
about Bob, though it was far from her 
intention to say so. However, Bob 
thought that Eloise had a sufficient 
amount of intelligence, for she obviously 
appreciated him, and, as it is a well- 
known fact that nothing so arouses that 
feeling known as love in a young man 
as the belief that he is himself adored. 
Bob was fast becoming infatuated with 
Eloise. When he left he asked her for 
a date for the following Friday night. 
Of course, Eloise accepted. It was the 
only 1;hing she could do after he had 
helped her, but already she was becoming 
doubtful of her bargain. 

That week-end she went out every 
afternoon and night with the fellows she 
had liked best, but somehow, Eloise 
found, the anticipation of being with 
those boys was much more enjoyable 
than the fulfillment. They talked, of 
course, or rather they rattled. They 
made love to her in such a patented, 
matter-of-fact way that Eloise knew they 
had said it all before, many, many times. 
By Sunday she was so disgusted that 
she started studying French again. Mon- 
day she made her old A recitation. She 
decided that she was through with men. 
Tuesday, Ralph grinned at her as though 
he knew what she had been up to. She 
turned away from him, embarrassed. 
Ralph, the egotist, thought he was so 



much. She hated him. She hated men. 
She hated everything. She even hated 
the weather. It was gloomy out, she 
iioticed. It looked as if it were going to 
rain. Eloise wondered if the sky was 
crying when it rained. She wouldn't 
blame it if it did. She wanted to cry 
herself. 

After class Bob came up, smiling. 

"Going my way?" he asked. 

"Sorry, Bob. I just don't feel like 
talking to you to-day," she said coolly. 

"But, Eloise " 

Eloise had left him. She scurried off 
to the rest room and waited until she 
saw that he had left the building, then 
she poked slowly toward the door. She 
heard footsteps behind her, and, turning, 
saw Ralph. To her surprise, she felt a 
little embarrassed. 

"Going my way?" he smiled. For the 
first time Eloise noticed how nice his 
smile was. 

"Why — yes," said Eloise, and blushed 
slightly, which made her prettier than 
usual. 

"You seemed to be better in French 
to-day, more like your old self." He 
looked at her keenly, understandingly, 
Eloise thought guiltily. 

"Yes," said Eloise. 

"Uh — by the way, what are you doing 
Friday evening? May I come over?" 

"Why — yes," said Eloise, and sudden- 
ly the sun seemed to be shining, and she 
noticed that the day was quite beautiful 
after all. 




— 33 — 



T-HECKEEN 
CALDKON 




VOLUME 1 



January, 1932 



NUMBER 2 



-> > 



THE GREEN CALDRON 



January 1932 



CONTENTS 

Foreword 3 

Is This Adventure? — Charles Reeves 5 

Discourse on a Personal Matter — George Pratt 6 

We Diverse Humans — Alma McLaughlin 7 

A Financial Diary — H. C. Blankmeyer 8 

How TO Become a Successful Hitch-Hiker in Your 

Spare Time — Bob Garrard 9 

A Mid- Western Country Town — Florence I. Adams .... 13 

The Occident or the Orient ?— Fred Stanton 14 

The Fallibiuty of Conscience — James L. Rainey 16 

On Studying — H. A. Johnston 16 

The Fascination of Machinery — James C. Toiirek .... 18 

The Language of Bees — Marvin Carmack 19 

Dreams Are My Adventure — Arnold Greenbaum 20 

Writing as a Safety-valve for Emotion — Myron D. Green. . 21 

Sancho Panz.\ — Ernesto del Risco 22 

"Soup, Beautiful Soup!" — Yanita Grossman 23 

A Dissertation on Cheese — Nathan Levin 24 

Cod-Liver Oil — Mildred Henriot 26 

A Perfect Job — R. Webber 26 

Between Halves — Helen Russell 27 

A Character Sketch — Nettie Fine 28 

The Passing in the Night — James Phelan 30 



VOLUME I NUMBER 2 



^ 



7 



FOREWORD 

The Green Caldron was established by the EngHsh Department 
of the University of lUinois to serve as a means of bringing to the at- 
tention of freshman students freshman writings of merit. The papers 
pubHshed are for the most part chosen from the themes submitted by 
students in Rhetoric I-II. They are printed as they appear after the 
regular process of revision by those who wrote them. They are not 
presented as perfect themes. They in no fashion represent the opinions 
of the Committee on the Green Caldron. They are printed for what 
they are, the opinions of freshmen on the world as they find it, pic- 
tures of that world as it is re-created by the freshman imagination, 
the happy result of the cacoethes scribendi, or of the assignment for 
a particular day. Nevertheless each paper chosen has seemed to the 
Committee to illustrate at least one virtue in freshman work. 

The title selected for this magazine was submitted by Mr. Earl 
Swartzlander, of the class of 1934, during his freshman year. 

When the first issue of the Green Caldron went to press, the Com- 
mittee did not suspect that it included matter, very slightly changed, 
which had already appeared in published form. "The Guest Towel" 
was taken from Mr. Stanley M. Moffat's article in "The Lion's Mouth," 
in Harper's Magazine, September, 1927. "On Trees" was almost a 
reproduction of an essay in "The Driftway," in The Nation. "Veteris 
Vestigia Flammae" came from the Chicago Tribune. 

The seriousness of the ofifence of the plagiarists may be judged 
from a letter which we received from The Nation: 

"We have your letter telling us of the plagiarism from the Drift- 
way in your English Department magazine. We, ourselves, have been 
in the position of the editor of your paper when we were obliged to 
return sonnets of Shakespeare and Wordsworth, submitted as original 
poems by enterprising contributors. Since your Disciplinary Commit- 
tee has already taken up the matter, I think we may leave the punish- 
ment of the offender in your hands, although it would be helpful if, 
in your next issue, you could carry a brief statement that the article 
was taken in substance from The Nation. 

Sincerely yours, 

Dorothy Van Doren, 

Associate Editor." 



— 3- 



^7 



Is This Adventure? 

Charles Reeves 
Theme 8, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



Y\0 you ever feel that life is all too 
■*-^methodical with its restrictions and its 
formulated exactitude? Are there times 
v^fhen you long to leave it all behind for 
a while and lose yourself mentally and 
bodily in another world, the world of 
adventure? You have perhaps wished 
that you might, and then stifled your de- 
sire as unattainable, not knowing that 
adventure is just around the corner, 
waiting to receive those who are sym- 
pathetic and have eyes to see. You must 
not expect something for nothing. There 
are hardships and discomforts to enjoy; 
there is glamor and there is dirt. 

It is approaching midnight. Over in 
the railroad yard the switch engines are 
making up a train, their headlights flash- 
ing back and forth as they clash and 
clang from car to car .... Now she is 
assembled, an unbelievably long line of 
cars and an engine, long, low, and beau- 
tiful, her every line radiating power. 
She blows a short blast of her whistle 
and starts slowly down the rails, her 
headlight piercing the blackness ahead. 



She draws closer with gradually increas- 
ing cadence. Her engine passes, panting 
heavily. 

There ! don't you see it ? There's an 
empty box car. Climb in quickly now, 
for you must not be seen. Crouch back 
into the darkness of the car while you go 
faster and faster until the lights of the 
city are left behind. Sit in the doorway 
and watch fields, farms, villages, and 
woods as they dart by, clothed in a 
strange mantle which only the night can 
bring. The red flame of the firebox, re- 
flected in clouds of smoke rushing from 
the engine's stack, gives the atmosphere 
an indescribably strange touch. 

There is rhythm, there is romance, in 
the click of the rails. There is beauty 
all around you. You can see it, you can 
feel it. The wind blows in your face 
with the smell of the woods, the fields, 
and smoke. With a jerking, weaving 
motion you go on and on. There is 
rhythm, there is romance, in the click of • 
the rails. 




76/ 



Discourse on a Personal Matter 



George Pratt 
Descriptive Theme, Rhetoric II, 1931-32 



T looked into the mirror this morning 
•*• with razor held grimly over my lather- 
covered jaw. Shaving is a painful 
process. 

"Good morning!" smiled my reflection. 
"Did you sleep well last night?" 

"No!" I lowered the razor grouchily. 
"In the first place, I was worrying over 
writing a theme about you." 

"About me?" The image was mildly 
surprised. "That's queer. It's really the 
first time, isn't it? I mean that you've 
had me for a subject." Then after an 
amiable pause, "What are you going to 
say?" 

"Well," I replied, "I believe I shall 
begin by deploring the fact that your 
mouth is too large, your nose is too big, 
and your features are too coarse." 

The reflection sulked. 

"Overlooking the fallacy of your state- 
ment," it objected, "I think it is al- 
together too vague. Why don't you say 
out and out that I have brown hair and 
brown eyes and a complexion that is — 
oh, oddly ruddy on the lower sides of 
my face near the jawbone? That's a dis- 
tinctive point, by the way," it informed 
me proudly. The next moment, it was 
querying agitatedly, "Aren'.t you going to 
say anything about my hair? Or my 
eyes?" 

"Hair? Really, that's out, you know. 
Perhaps if you'd wash it oftener . . . ." 
I dipped the razor into the basin and 
watched a creamy isle of lather sail away 
on the water. "But," I resumed, study- 
ing the creature thoughtfully, "your ap- 



pearance on the whole would be pass- 
able, I suppose. You're almost six feet, 
aren't you?" 

The image nodded. 

"I should say you had rather a good 
build. — Nothing extraordinary," I 
hastily amended. 

"May I," said my mirrored self coldly, 
"offer a few suggestions? Allow me to 
call to your attention your many and 
varied eccentricities. First and foremost 
is your violent abuse of me. Do you 
realize that in the last couple of days, 
I have been in rapid succession Lionel 
Barrymore, George Arliss, and Frederic 
March? A short time ago I was Greta 
Garbo, and for a fortnight after you 
saw Susan Lenox, everytime I opened 
my mouth, I had a Swedish accent. If 
it would not inconvenience you too much, 
would you mind telling me who I am 
today? One likes to know, of course." 

"Don't be absurd," I objected, irritat- 
edly tilting my chin and beginning to 
shear off the lather beneath it. "This is 
to be a serious theme and I want none 
of your nonsense." 

All the same, I could not help feeling 
a little fatuous and uneasy. 

"I know," nodded the offender, sooth- 
ing me with elaborate concern," but you 
can't be one-sided about an affair like 
this. You must confess your weaknesses 
as well as your virtues. Perhaps your 
actions have been excusable because you 
intend to be an actor, but you are carry- 
ing the theatre too much into everyday 
life. You are letting a strong dramatic 



— 6 — 



7/ 



sense get the best of you. This dramatic 
sense makes you emotional, tempera- 
mental, and as a result, you are constant- 
ly overacting, wherever you may be. 
Your gestures are eloquent, your pos- 
tures are studied, your very traits are 
copied. The actor, they tell me, must 
hold the mirror up to nature. But that 
does not mean he should be absorbed in 
doing that at all times. You have taken 
the advice so seriously that you have 



almost obliterated your own personality ! 
What there is of you is merely a mass of 
reflected moods and actions zvhich belong 
to other people!" 

With submissive meekness, I packed 
the razor in its case. "You will see on 
the morrow, sir, a great improvement," 
I responded eloquently. 

"Is that you, or someone else?" re- 
minded the image. 



We Diverse Humans 



Alma McLaughlin 
Expository Theme, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



JUST recently, in the course of a 
friendly conversation, I asked a girl if 
she had read Ferdynand Goetel's From 
Day to Day. She told me that she had 
not read a single book in three years that 
was not required of her at school. 

Her answer worried me. I became so 
interested in the question of whether she 
was unique in her attitude or was just 
one of a group, that I appointed myself 
a sort of inquiring reporter, and went 
around asking questions of my friends 
and acquaintances in an endeavor to as- 
certain how many of them never in- 
dulged in purely leisure reading. 

The resulting number was truly amaz- 
ing. By this time I was imbued with a 
desire for more statistics. In the course 
of my investigations, I uncovered the 
peculiar fact that nearly all the non- 
readers were mathematics or science 
majors, which led to another interesting 
question: Does an absorbing interest in 
science or mathematics automatically 
preclude an interest in literature? I have 
become convinced that it does. It is 



really fascinating to question people who 
do not read for pleasure and to watch 
the inevitable interest in science or math- 
ematics manifest itself. You ask, "What 
do you want to do when you graduate? 
What are you interested in?" Watch 
their faces light up with eager interest 
as the replies come to you — "I want to 
be a botanist !" "I'm majoring in Math." 
"Some day I'm going to teach Chem- 
istry." Oh, it works — and it works both 
ways, too. Ask these same people about 
reading. Their faces have a dull, bored 
look as they reply: "Oh, I never read, 
except for book reports. I don't get any 
pleasure from reading." 

I am like a bewildered child before 
them. I want to take each of them by 
the hand and introduce him to my very 
good friends — d'Artagnan and Trilby 
and Becky Sharp — and all the others 
who have delighted me for a long while, 
and whose friendship never palls nor 
fails. I want to show them the worldly- 
wise and humorous satire in Vanity Fair. 
I want them to smile with Lewis Carroll 



— 7- 



and me at the subtleties in Alice in 
Wonderland (which, by the way, is 
much more than a child's book, and 
needs to be read three or four times to 
be appreciated). I want these people to 
feel the living, pulsing music that is Poe, 
and to feel the stark, despairing tragedy 
that permeates his poetry. I feel sorry 
for them because they are missing so 
much that makes my life a joy to me. 

However, I really do understand these 
persons in a way, because of this: just 



as they feel about literature — apathetic, 
uninterested, bored — so I feel about all 
mathematics and most sciences. So who 
am I to judge them? We just fail to see 
each other's points of view. 

After all, there are a great many people 
who comfortably travel the middle road 
— who read a little, and feel no active 
repugnance to sciences and higher math- 
ematics — and these make up the bulk of 
humanit}^ perhaps fortunately for the 
stabilitv of the world. 



A Financial Diary 

H. C. Blankmeyer 

Theme 5, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



/^NE of the most engrossing after- 
^^ noons I have ever enjoyed was spent 
in preparing an itemized e.xpense account 
in an attempt to explain a low bank bal- 
ance to my parents. As I considered 
each item in my expense book, I exper- 
ienced such a variety of emotions and so 
many past events came crowding before 
me that I became entranced with my 
reflections, and hours passed before I 
realized that my report was not yet well 
started. 

Time and again I have re-read diaries, 
both my own and those of others, but 
until I compared them with this simple 
little book, containing only items, 
charges, and dates, I did not appreciate 
how clearly the events returned to me, 
untrammeled as they were by the con- 
temporary observations, so profuse in 
most diaries. 

And so as I sat there, tilted back in 
my chair, oblivious of the gleaming 
stationery with its accusing blankness. 



every moment of my existence from 
January twenty-first until the present 
date was paraded before me to enjoy or 
regret, approve or censure. I saw the 
time when I first took up metal-work — 
bought my tools, and spent an engaging 
afternoon at the home of Mr. Snaith, a 
nationally famous amateur craftsman. I 
was reminded of the evening I started 
German at a local ecclesiastical college, 
and muttered "ah, bay, tsay" all the way 
home, much to the amusement of 
passers-by; of the day I secretly bought 
a target revolver, and spent considerable 
time and about one hundred and fifty 
per cent of my allowance on ammuni- 
tion ; of the time I rashly attacked my 
bank account for a vacation in Minnesota 
(and, oh, the hours that slipped away as 
I mused on the placidity of the northern 
lakes, and the hilarity of my vacation's 
termination in Chicago!); of a sudden 
death in the family, and its incumbent 
duties and worry. Then came the first 



"/} 



day in college, characterized by what 
seemed extravagant expenditures ; the 
evening my roommate and I saw the 
bottoms of two jugs of cider (and how 
we did repent at leisure!) ; and, finally, 
the evening my brother came through 
Urbana, when we had a glorious reunion, 
reminisced and prophesied, until the 
night had quite worn away and sleep 
nearly overtook us in our chairs. 

Yes, this expense account proved to 



be more than a mere record of assets 
and disbursements, more than a diary 
with evasive explanations and false 
observations ; it is in every sense a chron- 
icle of each day I have lived ; and, most 
interesting of all to me, it shows the 
transition from home to college life, the 
pleasures I now enjoy, and the manner 
in which my time is spent, with not too 
many items, I hope, in the red. 



How to Become a Successful Hitch-Hiker 
in Your Spare Time 



Bob Garrard 

Theme 10, Rhetoric II, 1930-31 



A hitch-hiker, according to the popular 
■^*- conception, is a human parasite that 
infests our highways, using his thumb 
instead of his feet for progression. There 
is also a current belief which places 
hitch-hikers in the same category with 
the most hardened and desperate crimin- 
als. But do not let public opinion deter 
you from your worthy ambition to 
become one of us. The public is always 
wrong anyway. The hitch-hiker is an 
artist — every inch an artist, especially 
the inches that go to make up his thumb. 
He has the most expressive thumb in the 
world; it casts a mystic spell over the 
unwar}' motorist, causing him to slam on 
the brakes in response to its pleading. 

Before proceeding any further it 
would be best for me to justify my claim 
as an authority. It is based entirely upon 
personal experiences as a hitch-hiker 
who has exercised his art in the North, 
East, and South of this country, and in 



Canada. Throughout all of my travels 
I constantly endeavored to develop my 
observational powers to that high degree 
of efficiency attained by that great 
traveler, Mr. Pickwick, in order that I 
should be able to diffuse and make pre- 
vail the fruit of my travels. But I was 
not content merely to observe and record 
facts ; my ambition soared higher. I 
wanted to put method in hitch-hiking ; 
I wanted to formulate fundamental 
tenets for the guidance of my future 
comrades in order that the world might 
say of me: "Methinks there's method in 
his madness," and I have succeeded, and 
now you can learn in an armchair for a 
trifling cost what I learned by hard and 
bitter experience. 

The novice must first learn how to 
stop a car. Your stoppage ability will 
depend upon where you station yourself, 
your appearance, and attitude. When 
choosing your take-off spot, keep in mind 



— 9 — 



the fact that fast-moving cars seldom 
stop; it is therefore necessary to pick a 
location where cars are apt to be moving 
slowly, such as at the edge of towns and 
on curves. It is even better to post your- 
self by traffic lights and stop streets — 
there you have an opportunity to es- 
tablish direct contact with the car oc- 
cupants. Always select a site from which 
you will be conspicuous to the oncoming 
cars, for as I mentioned earlier, the 
public are inclined to be antagonistic 
towards our sect and frankly suspicious 
of our intentions, but they are also an 
egotistical lot in that they believe they 
can make an accurate estimate of the 
hitch-hiker's character as they approach 
him. It is quite immaterial whether 
average Americans have this ability or 
not — the point is they think they have, so 
give them an opportunity to form their 
opinions as they approach. Gas stations 
are the ideal take-off points at night ; 
your chances of being picked up on the 
open road are very slim. In regard to 
hailing rides at night there is one very 
important rule: Don't lie dozi'ii in the 
road to stop a car. A friend of mine 
painfully discovered the inadvisability of 
this technique. Last summer we experi- 
enced the misfortune of being stranded 
late at night in the midst of a New 
Jersey scrub \nne district. The darkness 
was so black that it was actually visible ; 
near about us we could distinguish the 
grotesque, misshapen blotches of the 
gnarled and scrawny pines, the black 
sheep of the pine tree family, protruding 
through the wall of darkness. It was an 
utterly desolate place, but we were not 
alone, for hordes of mosquitoes greedily 
charged upon us, keeping us in constant, 
futile activity. The drivers of the inter- 
mittent cars seemed to be seized with an 
inane desire to test the pick-up ability 
of their automobiles when they saw us. 



Finally my friend, driven to desperation 
by our hungry hosts, sprawled out in the 
middle of the road, resolved to stop a 
car at any cost. He had just resumed 
his frenzied defense against his torment- 
ors when the headlights of an oncoming 
car topped the crest of a nearby hill. The 
occupants, a young couple who were 
attending to some unfinished business, 
failed to see the lifeless form in their 
way — a lifeless form which suddenly 
became animated when it realized the 
driver exhibited no signs of showing it 
the consideration due to lifeless forms 
lying in the middle of a road. After the 
car passed, my friend vehemently ex- 
pressed his opinions, but again lay down 
in the road. The next car stopped, but 
when the obstruction calmly got up and 
asked the annoyed motorist for a ride, 
he was so mad at being duped that he 
promptly drove off, leaving us watching 
his fading tail light through a swirl of 
sand. 

Your appearance and attitude are the 
chief factors considered by motorists 
when their foot is wavering between the 
accelerator and the brake. Clothes pro- 
duce a definite reaction, (consciously or 
unconsciously) upon your prospect. A 
dirty, slovenly, poorly-dressed person 
will be passed up by the majority of the 
traveling public, and, strange to say, so 
will the too well-dressed person. Sunday- 
go-to-meeting clothes are not in keeping 
with hitch-hiking; the motorist senses 
something out of place and becomes sus- 
picious, and suspicion means no ride. It 
is equally true that most people will pick 
up a school boy ; therefore try to create 
an atmosphere by your clothes. Be neat, 
but not foppishly dressed; a sweater 
with a school letter is a veritable lode- 
stone. The way in which you hail a car 
may mean the difference between a ride 
and exhaust fumes tickling your nose. 



10- 



v^ 



Your attitude should be controlled by 
the type of person you conceive your 
prospect to be. For travelling salesmen, 
polite but not violent gesticulations will 
produce the best results ; for elderly 
couples and women assume a woe- 
begone and despondent aspect ; but, if 
you decide the driver of an oncoming 
car is a farmer, violent gesticulations 
are recommended ; they arouse his 
curiosity. 

The successful hitch-hiker is not 
satisfied with merely getting a ride ; he 
is conscientious and endeavors to prove 
an interesting companion to his bene- 
factor. An initial complimentary remark 
about your patron's car should become 
a matter of habit when you are picked 
up, except when the car is in such a 
condition that a compliment would too 
plainly suggest irony. In that case the 
weather will prove a more diplomatic 
subject. If your host is not a taciturn 
chap (few of them are) he will assume 
the conversational responsibility and 
soon direct it towards those subjects in 
which he is interested. I have found that 
the various types of people, as groups, 
display extraordinarily parallel interests. 
Politics and crime are the universal 
favorites of traveling salesmen, a group 
which will furnish a large portion of 
your rides. If you will expend a few 
cents daily for a Hearst newspaper, or 
retrieve one from an ashcan, and read all 
the articles announced by scare head- 
lines, you will be able to cope with the 
conversational gymnastics of most travel- 
ing men. It is a universally accepted 
fact that women are curious, so be pre- 
pared to rattle oflf your life history when 
picked up by one. When you are riding 
with a farmer, it will be necessary to 
exhibit a sympathetic appreciation of the 
farmer's mistreatment. A knowledge of 
rural conditions in your own state and 



those through which you have passed will 
prove valuable. 

So far I have been concerned with the 
transportation problem, but there is 
another phase of hitch-hiking, an under- 
standing of which must be acquired 
through experience. It is a matter of 
knowing your way about, and of learning 
the tricks of the trade. It is too broad and 
detailed a subject to be exhausted here, 
but I have selected a few salient facts, 
mainly for the purpose of giving you an 
idea of the sort of information that will 
prove of value. There are quite a few 
laws which are inconvenient barriers to 
hitch-hiking, and a knowledge of these 
laws will aid you in avoiding trouble. 
In New York, Pennsylvania, New 
Jersey, and all of New England, it is 
against the law to hitch-hike, but this is 
no serious obstacle, providing you are 
careful where you hail cars and watch 
out for state police. In traveling through 
all of these states I was never interfered 
with except in one instance when I un- 
fortunately hailed two New Jersey high- 
way inspectors. They stopped all right, 
but not to play the good Samaritan ; 
instead they made me start walking and 
followed me in their car for about three 
miles. However, I think they sufifered 
more than I did, for I strolled along at 
a nice slow pace, and it's awfully mo- 
notonous riding in a car going two miles 
an hour. Many Eastern towns exhibit 
a fondness for their vagrancy laws, and 
unless you desire to give some local 
magistrate the immense satisfaction of 
sentencing a Westerner, you had better 
keep ten dollars on hand, as the posses- 
sion of ten dollars is understood to 
exclude one from the hobo ranks. When 
entering Canada, give the custom of- 
ficials a definite destination, because, they 
do not appreciate footloose American 
youths roaming over their highways. 



— 11- 



Realizing that many of your activities 
will be controlled by your financial 
status, and assuming it is usually rather 
rocky, as mine was, I offer a few sug- 
gestions which should prove of value to 
one who is not well supplied with money. 
Eating and sleeping are the greatest 
expenses of hitch-hiking. I have never 
been able to decrease the amount of 
money spent for food without experienc- 
ing a decided gnawing feeling midships, 
and so I close the subject at the begin- 
ning by suggesting a large budget for 
food. Sleeping, however, is a different 
matter, as the amount of money spent 
for sleeping quarters may be cut in half 
by a simple system that I have always 
used. When traveling I made it a prac- 
tice to sleep out one night and go to a 
hotel the next night. It is not always 
necessary to sleep out, for some towns 
have ver}^ comfortable jails — for ex- 
ample, Niagara and Albany, New York, 
Clarksburg, West Virginia, and Dayton, 
Ohio. The jail at Niagara is strongly 
recommended because the hotel prices 
there are scandalous, and it is impossible 
to sleep out in the park on account of 
the perpetual mist rising from the Falls. 
The jail is centrally located, the cells 
have swinging doors (wonderful things 
to play on), and the breakfasts are very 
decent. 

If you intend to enlarge your fixed 
capital by the abominable practice of 
bumming money, do not try it in large 
cities, for the citizens are calloused and 



uninterested in your plight, except in 
Atlantic City. The Boardwalk of 
Atlantic City is the best hunting ground 
in America, as my friend and I found 
out last summer. We had a room about 
a half mile from the Steel Pier, and at 
night as we walked along the Boardwalk 
towards the main district we always 
managed to borrow enough money for 
our evening's entertainment. Small 
towns are all right, but be careful to 
avoid the embarrassing position which 
my indiscretion thrust me into in Red 
House, West Virginia. Red House is a 
village nestling in between two peaks of 
the Blue Ridge; it is quite small, one 
street being sufficient to accommodate 
both the business and residential districts. 
I had just eaten dinner in the only cafe 
and was standing out in front when 
a benevolent-looking man approached, 
whom I asked, for no reason at all, for 
some money to get something to eat 
with. He was a magnanimous soul and 
suggested that he buy my dinner in the 
cafe. I remonstrated, but he was bent 
on doing his good turn a day, and 
dragged me into the cafe where he ex- 
plained to the waiter my pressing need 
of nourishment. The waiter, a sour fel- 
low, looked at me and asked, "What was 
the matter with the meal you just 
finished?" My benefactor and the waiter 
turned accusing eyes upon me, and I, 
well, I frantically fumbled in my pocket 
for a crumpled pack of Murads reserved 
for such situations. 




— 12 — 



A Mid- Western Country Town 

Florence I. Adams 
Expository Theme, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



pNTERPRISE must seem the most 
•'— ' uninteresting town in the United 
States to any tourist or chance visitor 
who might happen through there. But 
to me it is the "old home town" and, 
more important, it is where my parents 
grew up, and where my grandparents 
struggled with dangers and hardships, 
and hoped and dreamed for the future. 
It is the little town that sprang up in the 
wild prairie of central Michiana when 
the first railroad came through and there 
were enough settlers within a radius of 
thirty miles to establish a post office. 

It now has one thousand and three 
inhabitants — a typical Mid-Western 
country town — smug, narrow-minded, 
and ignorant of the world. The citizens 
are prosperous, retired farmers, and all 
they desire of their town is that it be a 
comfortable place to live in, with the 
post office and station to loaf in, and as 
few taxes as possible to pay. It is not 
progressive ; all the ambitious young 
people leave as soon as they are grad- 
uated from high school. 

The citizens are content in their small 
world; gossip, church, crops, and house- 
keeping are as wide a sphere to them as 
the whole world is to the cosmopolite. 
They are not at all aware that they know 
nothing about the world. There is a 
Woman's Club, a Parent-Teachers As- 
sociation, and a Mother's Club (purely 
social). Many of the citizens have been 
to Chicago and to the World's Fair. 
Miss Charity Fareweather, the music 
teacher, and one or two others belong 



to the Book-of-the-Month-Club, and 
subscribe to Harpers and the National 
Geographic. Mrs. Jonab Dobbins and 
her daughter, Clarabelle, once went to 
Boston for a two weeks' visit with rela- 
tives. Many of the people take motor 
trips to Turkey Run and Starved Rock 
Park, and even to Denver and Washing- 
ton, D. C. Some of the old Puritanical 
horror of dancing and card playing has 
been overcome. A Bridge Club has 
recently been organized among the more 
daring and modern in society. But Mrs. 
Prissard recently asked me in a half- 
whisper if I knew girls who really did 
smoke. 

There is one business street — only one 
side of the street — facing a neat boule- 
vard park. There are no chain stores ; 
everyone believes in supporting the 
native business men. There are a bank, 
two grocery stores, one butcher, one 
baker, one drugstore, two confection- 
aries, a pool room (the "den of vice"), 
one Ford dealer, one Chevrolet dealer, 
two garages, and four filling stations. 
There is one motion picture theatre 
which specializes in "Westerns" and 
shows the big pictures two years late. 
In the summertime there is a band con- 
cert in the city park every Wednesday 
evening. There is a weekly newspaper, 
the Enterprise Globe, consisting of two 
pages of "Locals" and syndicated short 
stories. 

Each of the four churches has barely 
sufficient membership to struggle along. 
The church music of the largest, the 



13 — 



Methodist, is supplied by a quartet of 
aged church members, who do not know 
the first thing about carrying a tune and 
hold a hymnal as they would an almanac. 
The congregation of this one foremost 
church is always divided in heated con- 
troversy over the minister ; when Con- 
ference time comes, the agitation is at 
a fever pitch, and the poor preacher is 
at the mercy of his malicious Christian 
flock. 

The homes are substantial frame 
houses with wide hospitable porches, and 
attractive big lawns. There is always a 
vegetable garden in the back, for garden- 
ing is one of the main summer interests. 
It all speaks eloquently of moderate 
prosperity, orderliness, and complacency. 
There are no rich people and no paupers. 
The only distinctions of class are 
honesty and a good family name. The 
hired help and the family eat at the same 
table and their children grow up to- 
gether. In sickness or in trouble neigh- 



borliness and charity ease the way for 
man}- an unfortunate soul. There are 
few scandals, and few accidents — the 
surface is seldom rippled — but when it 
is, the incident is a lifetime subject for 
conversation. 

After graduation from high school, 
most of the young people go to Millville 
University or the University of Mich- 
iana for a year or two and then come 
home to marry and settle down in the 
family business, or on the farm, while 
the old folks move into town to enjoy 
the fruits of their labor. The more 
ambitious start out for bigger things, by 
teaching school or selling vacuum clean- 
ers, and mam' of them achieve success. 
Enterprize boasts of no famous citizens, 
but her sons and daughters are to be 
found all over the world in various oc- 
cupations, and no one can say that the 
influence of this little town is not felt 
in the world. 



The Occident or the Orient? 



Fred Stanton 
Theme 8, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



T ET me take 3'ou to Syria, that land 
•*-^of j-esterday and today, of strange 
people and yet stranger customs. Here 
may be found the modern and the 
ancient, the cosmopolitan and the pro- 
vincial. It is a land of dreamy romance 
mingled with ytvy active industrialism, 
a land of great beauty yet possessing 
sordidness. 

For centuries the people have retained 
certain practices inherited from their 
forebears. However, they have also 



adopted some of the conventions of the 
contemporary ages. Although transpor- 
tation there has witnessed the supremacy 
of mechanical conveyances over animals, 
agriculture is still conducted in what we 
would call a primitive manner. A man 
may employ trucks to transport his prod- 
ucts to a market and at the same time 
cultivate those products by the slowest 
and most laborious processes. There may 
be, in a city, many of the innovations 
for managing all traffic problems; yet in 



■14- 



the fields around the town farmers are 
still plowing the soil with wooden imple- 
ments or reaping the harvest with a 
sickle wielded by hand. Such simplicity 
we cannot understand because we are 
modern in both our production and con- 
sumption, while they are up to date in 
their consumption only. 

While it is true that the country has 
adopted many of our Western methods, 
it may also be said that the people are 
loath to relinquish just as many of their 
customary methods. A short time ago I 
was walking along State Street, in Chi- 
cago, with a young man who had but 
recently returned from Beyrut, the 
nation's capitol. As we were jostled 
about in the crowd at one of the street 
intersections, he remarked with notice- 
able regret, "So I left that life over there 
to come back to this ! This maelstrom — 
this surging, crushing tide of humanity, 
bound they know not whither, but 
trampling one another in the mad 
attempt to get there." It is true. We 
Americans and most Europeans may 
hold the enviable positions in commerce 
and politics, but to the Orientals we 
must turn to learn how to live. While 
we may be existing, they are really liv- 
ing. It is small wonder, then, that they 
hesitate to accept very many of our 
ideas. 

After all, what have we to give them 
which is so much better than what they 
already possess? The sages who long 
ago planned the various rules for con- 
duct were surely wise to have instituted 
so many laws which are still applicable. 
Their heirs, in many cases, can handle 
a situation much more expediently with 
time-worn traditions than could we with 
our Western culture. What solution 



may we offer for the problem of unfaith- 
ful husbands or wives which is compar- 
able to the one in effect in certain parts 
of their country today? This solution of 
which I speak is practiced by the Druse 
tribe of northern Syria. The people 
claim the inheritance of the purest blood 
in the world. They accept no converts 
into the tribe nor do the}^ allow any of 
their number to marry outside their 
faith. Intermarriage, although contrary 
to the beliefs of biologists and physiolo- 
gists, is accepted and practiced. Their 
bodies are free of the social diseases 
common to the European countries. At 
the time a marriage ceremony is per- 
formed the girl gives as part of her 
dowry a jewel-studded dagger with 
which her husband ends her life should 
she prove unfaithful. Infidelity by the 
man is punished by the father or broth- 
ers of the wife, and since divorces are 
not recognized, death at their hands es- 
tablishes justice. Because they have sucli 
an effective weapon for combating di- 
vorces, they have no Reno nor Paris, no 
scandals nor alimony payments. 

There are many such drastic measures 
taken to prevent lawlessness. In Syria, 
where one may expect to find a little bit 
of everything, there is an apparent con- 
formity to God-given laws. This country 
is part of the Holy Land, and the people 
still conduct themselves in the manner 
their forefathers did in the days before 
Christ. Perhaps this accounts, in a meas- 
ure, for their backwardness. More likely, 
however, to be the cause of their stead- 
fast continuance in the ancient custom 
are the words of one of their prophets, 
"A house kept in order means a house 
that endures." 



■IS- 



The Fallibility of Conscience 

James L. Rainey 
Expository Theme, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



/CONSCIENCE, usually defined as the 
^^-^ "moral sense within a person that 
enables him to choose between right and 
wrong," is often thought of as a heaven- 
sent power, which gives people an un- 
erring solution for their problems. Cer- 
tain discrepancies in this theory make it 
plain that conscience is but another 
strand in the vast net of tradition, 
custom, and taboo that regulates our lives 
with astonishing thoroughness. 

Conscience is not unerring. Ideas of 
what is right and what is wrong change 
greatly over periods of time or in differ- 
ent sections of the world. For instance, 
in ancient Sparta infanticide was con- 
sidered to be necessary for the preser- 
vation of the state. Sickly children were 
weeded out, and the hardiness of the 
race suffered no set-backs. In the mind 
of the Spartan, therefore, infanticide 
was all right. His conscience refused to 
get excited over the matter at all. Now, 
however, our consciences rebel against 
infanticide quite as much as they do 
against any other form of murder. We 
even go so far as to balk at the segrega- 



tion or sterilization of idiots. Was the 
Spartan right, or are we right ? Certainly 
conscience cannot decide. 

Huckleberry Finn went against the 
dictates of his conscience when he as- 
sisted the runaway negro, Jim, in an 
attempt to gain freedom. In all Huck's 
previous life it had been dinned into his 
ears that slavery was a fundamental, 
indispensable institution, and that a 
helper of runaway slaves was second 
only in contemptibleness to a horse thief. 
The situation was quite different in the 
Northern States. There, the call of -con- 
science played no small part in getting 
tired farmers out of warm beds for the 
purpose of conveying a runaway slave 
ten miles more along the underground 
railroad. 

It seems that circumstances alter cases 
in the matter of conscience. Right to 
one person may be wrong to another. 
Conscience thus is shown to be our per- 
sonal opinion of right and wrong, based 
on our education, personal experiences, 
and prejudices. Conscience is a valuable 
but not an infallible guide. 



On Studying 

H. A. Johnston 
Rhetoric II, 1931-32 



OTUDYING is the favorite pastime of 
^a student at the University of Illinois. 
It is pursued at all times and under both 



favorable and unfavorable conditions. A 
student here is not so plagued by the 
necessity of studying as are the students 



— 16 — 



57 



in French and German universities. In 
foreign universities one finds no extra- 
curricular activities corresponding to our 
work on the Illio and Daily Illini and our 
organized sports ; therefore, since he has 
no excuse for not studying and prepar- 
ing his lessons, he must always present 
an intelligent and bold front to the in- 
structor, or professor, as he is called in 
less democratic countries than America. 

It is impossible for a student to study 
properly unless his surroundings are 
conducive to rest and recreation. He 
must be provided with a perfectly ap- 
pointed desk or writing-table that will 
be used only on rare and unusual occa- 
sions ; he must have a comfortable leather 
easy chair drawn up before a glowing 
open fire at which he can toast his toes ; 
he must have a softly shaded bridge 
lamp to provide for him a rosy illumina- 
tion — a glaring, practical light would not 
serve so well to put him to sleep; on a 
table at his elbow must be some popular 
books of light fiction and a plate of fruit 
or candy, for it is impossible to study 
if one cannot, at the same time, exercise 
the jaws, rolling them about in the pleas- 
ant motions of eating. Eating while one 
studies serves to give one that dull, 
sleepy, comfortable feeling which offers 
an excuse to allow one's book to slip to 
the floor while he gazes dreamily into the 
glowing fire, building romantic castles 
in Spain. 

The most propitious time for studying 
is immediately before an examination. 
If one studies consistently during the 
six weeks, he only forgets a major por- 
tion of what he learns, and it is neces- 
sary for him to re-learn all that material 
before an examination. Why, then, take 
the trouble to learn it more than once? 
The old adage which we used to recite 
at high school banquets is especially ap- 



plicable in this case: "The more you 
study the more you know ; the more you 
know the more you forget. The more 
you forget the less you know, so why 
study?" Why, indeed, should one study 
if he is going to forget all that he learns 
and is going to have to learn a vast mass 
of material over again at the end of the 
semester? Every student knows that if 
he writes a good examination at the end 
of the semester, thus giving the in- 
structor the impression that he has 
learned something from the course, he 
will get a good grade regardless of what 
his previous work has been. Why, then, 
slave every day when, by staying up all 
night before an examination, one can 
procure the same results with a mini- 
mum of effort? 

Studying is by far the easiest work 
that a university student has thrust upon 
him. It is far harder to find a fraternity 
brother of yours who has the solution of 
a certain problem on a particular page of 
a mathematics book completely worked 
out than it is to work the problem for 
yourself. But it is vastly less sociable to 
sit alone in your own room for an hour 
while you struggle with the mysteries of 
X and y than it is to stroll from room 
to room inquiring of each of the breth- 
ren if he is the one who holds the key 
to your success in mathematics. Then, 
too, your own solution is far more apt 
to be wrong than one on which has been 
expended all the mathematical genius in 
the house. 

My parting advice to all would-be 
scholars in this: Study only when you 
can find no good excuse for doing other- 
wise ; study when you have the proper 
surroundings ; study only before exam- 
inations; and never study when you can 
find someone who will do your work for 
you. 



— 17 — 



The Fascination of Machinery 

James C. Tourek 
Theme 8, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



TVyTACHINERY of any kind has 
•^ ' *■ always been a source of interest to 
me. Even in my younger days, when I 
recognized any mechanism as simply a 
medley of moving parts, I was fascin- 
ated by standing by and watching things 
"work." Anything mechanical attracted 
my attention. I would stand for minutes 
at a time just to watch the operation of 
a concrete-mixer; the actions of a steam 
shovel would delight me for hours at a 
time. Whenever I was fortunate enough 
to get close to a railroad train, the engine 
with all of its moving parts was the chief 
object of my admiration. Moreover, the 
engineer who knew how to operate all 
of that mass of intricate machinery had, 
in my opinion, one of the most desirable 
positions in the world. Even in my play, 
things of a mechanical nature seemed to 
take the lead among the sources of my 
pleasure. My favorite toys were those 
representing models of some real ma- 
chinery, or those having some moving 
parts with which I could tamper. Verily, 
I was a true son of this machine age. 

After I had gone to school for some 
time, I began to view machinery with a 
bit of understanding and not with just 
the observance of mere action and mov- 
ing parts. My education, especially in 
high school, had been one almost purely 
technical ; I had spent much of my time 
in drafting-rooms and in the various de- 
partments of shop-practice training. 
After several years of this sort of educa- 
tion, my love for things mechanical still 
remained; in fact, it was stronger than 



ever. It was no longer, however, a primi- 
tive instinct. That inborn desire was 
now being reinforced by the ability to 
recognize the true worth and meaning 
of machinery, the ability to see more 
than just the mere iron and steel that 
go to make up the machine. 

Well prepared with my high school 
education, I went out into the business 
world to seek an interesting job dealing 
with machiner}-. I found just what I 
wanted in the drafting-room of a cor- 
poration which manufactured printing- 
presses. There I would be close to things 
pertaining to my delight, machinery. And 
this was real machinery. If any object 
deserves to be called a machine, a modern 
printing-press is the object. It embodies 
practically all of the principles of me- 
chanics. It was there that I learned many 
things which taught me the true value 
of machinery. There I could see all the 
work of designing, that very careful 
work in which particular attention had 
to be paid to stress and strain, wear, and 
operation in conjunction with the rest of 
the machine. All of this was done with 
an astounding degree of exactness. Then 
I had the opportunity to go out into the 
shop and see the actual manufacture of 
the parts. There again, I saw a repetition 
of precision and exactness as expert 
workmen performed their work to pro- 
duce each piece, a perfect part to go into 
a perfect machine. 

After viewing all of these things, I 
have developed a real sense of apprecia- 
tion for machinery. A machine no 



— 18 — 



longer fascinates me just because of think of the expert shopman working 

itself. I think not only of the pre- with his very skilled hands. Then I 

cise and beautiful action, but of all think of both of them, working to- 

the exact work which made possible gether to produce that most perfect 

that beautiful action. I think of the harmony in iron and steel, the modern 

engineer, figuring and designing. I machine. 




The Language of Bees 

Marvin Carmack 
Theme 10, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



'"pHE senses of insects are of necessity 
*■ highly developed, since they must 
take the place of a guiding intellect. 
Certainly, of all insects, this statement 
is most true of bees. The marvelously 
delicate sense of smell that guides the 
worker bee to the most distant source of 
nectar ; the keen sight that enables her 
to return straight to her own hive ; the 
admirable sense of feeling with which 
she constructs her comb in the dark, 
pours honey in the cells, feeds the young, 
and recognizes her queen ; the acute taste 
which selects just the proper food and 
drink — these are the things that have 
piqued the interest of philosophers and 
scientists for centuries. Even after 
thousands of years of observation we 
cannot be sure that bees possess the 
senses — smell, sight, feeling, and taste — 
in the same way that men do, for they 
often exhibit seemingly inexplicable 



traits. The ideas we form of their per- 
ceptions, based on the faculties given to 
us, may be entirely incorrect. 

One of the senses which has no par- 
allel among men is the use of the anten- 
nae. In some subtle way these sensitive 
"feelers" recognize the presence of other 
bees or enemy insects ; they also seem 
to be a means of communication. Bees 
use the antennae especially at night 
when they are guarding their hives from 
invasion by moths. Though bees require 
much light to see, and become blind in 
moonlight, the sentinels have an effective 
means of protection. The slightest con- 
tact with the waving "feelers" serves to 
arouse the whole hive. The bees on 
guard during the night at the entrance 
often produce a light rustling sound ; 
when any strange insect touches their 
antennae, the sound assumes a different 
character, and several workers from the 



— 19- 



rv 



inside come out to drive ofif the invader. 
Certain responses of bees seem to in- 
dicate a sense of hearing also. If we 
tap on the alighting board of a hive, the 
bees immediately begin to vibrate their 
wings ; if we blow through a small hole 
in the hive, we hear some of them pro- 
ducing sharp and interrupted sounds 
with their wings, and there is a general 
movement toward the side where the 
air entered. Except for such instinctive 
signals and responses, however, bees are 
entirely unaffected by sounds, even of 
loud thunder or guns. Although they 



cannot hear in the ordinary sense, we can 
only conclude that they do communicate, 
and that certain signals produce fairly 
regular results. 

Such observations as these, recorded 
by unquestionable authorities, appear to 
prove that language exists among these 
insects. After all, there is nothing un- 
reasonable in the idea of language among 
beings so highly developed in instinct as 
bees, whose active lives and inter- 
dependency require communication to be 
properly continued. 



Dreams Are My Adventure 

Arnold Green baum 
Theme 10, Rhetorie I. 1931-32 



CHICAGO is not a true representative 
of the State of Illinois; and, likewise, 
the life I lead by day is no criterion of 
what I really am. The real adventure of 
my life occurs in my slumber ; my actions 
and emotions during waking hours serve 
only as fuel for my furnace of dreams. 
Convention has bound me to dress as 
others do, to conduct my life within a 
given set of rules, and to appear to be 
as unimaginative as a mathematics in- 
structor; but it can set no rules for me 
to dream by. 

Custom has put me in its mold and has 
stamped me as it has marked every other 
youth of today. I can read Spanish, I do 
not fear ax^ -|- bx -(- c = 0, I think 
cowardice is shameful, I swim and play 
baseball, I think money is the root of all 
evil, I believe feminine chastity is a vir- 
tue, I can quote Shakespeare, and I 
believe a boy's best friend is his mother. 



I live every day with very little variation 
from the preceding or the succeeding one 
— I do little more than work, walk, talk, 
and study. That is what convention has 
done to me. 

But as soon as I lie down on that 
magic carpet vulgarly called a bed, I no 
longer follow the pattern. My sense of 
right and wrong deserts me. I find my- 
self in unusual situations, and I solve my 
problems in odd fashion. There are fan- 
tastic dreams, virtuous dreams, and sen- 
suous orgies. My petty enemies of the 
day become monsters at night. I plot to 
ruin them, and usually succeed. Once a 
boy and I quarreled over a trifle, but that 
night I conceived such a hate for him 
that I afterwards avoided speaking to 
him, lest my aversion be shown and a 
serious fight result. At other times I 
have explored all this world, and others, 
too. I am sure I should find them just 



— 20- 



55 



as my dreams have pictured them. I 
have sung Cancionc of Verdi, and have 
had critics acclaim me immortal. I have 
jumped from a clifif to my death, and in 
my sleep have suffered all the agonies 
of such an entrance into eternity. I have 
had love affairs with every type of 
woman under the sun, and have married 
the worst. I have seen an exquisite rose- 
bud unfold and expose the features of 
a leering Chinaman who came at me with 
a poisoned arrow which he plunged into 
my heart. I have dined with the gods in 
Valhalla, talked with Thor, walked with 
Odin. I have been a coal miner trapped 
by a cave-in, and have been suffocated 



by deadly gas. I have been a motor man, 
and have driven a street car on trackless 
streets. I have asked the Mad Hatter the 
time of day, and have moved around the 
table with him, drinking tea. I have lived 
Hajj, the Beggar of Bagdad. I have 
dissected cadavers and have solved the 
mystery of life. Cortez and I have con- 
quered Mexico and have viewed the 
glory of the Aztecs. What haven't I 
done in my dreams? 

The world may regulate my actions 
and passions while it controls me, but 
its attempts to dominate my sleep and 
dreams, have been feeble. In slumber, I 
am supreme. 



Writing as a Safety- Valve for Emotion 



Myron D. Green 

Theme 13, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



TTOR innumerable years the art of 
*■ writing has been used as a sort of 
safety-valve for emotion. Of course it 
has not always been known as such, but 
this purpose has been served, neverthe- 
less. It has provided a safe outlet for 
powerful, excessive emotions that might 
have proved quite disastrous if they had 
been allowed to culminate in some other 
form of expression — physical violence, 
for instance. Writing has relieved 
mental tension due to an overabundance 
of some emotion — love, perchance, or 
hatred, or fear. At all times it has acted 
as a regulator for strong personal 
feelings. 

Lincoln is said to have once told a 
general of his, who was quite angry at 
a subordinate over some trivial matter, 
to write the fellow a letter in which he 



should give full vent to his wrath. He 
advised the ofificer not to post the letter 
for a few days, however. Later, when 
questioned by the general as to when the 
letter should be mailed, Lincoln replied, 
"Don't send it. Reread it, and destroy it ; 
but don't post it. It has served its pur- 
pose." The letter had indeed served a 
worthy purpose ! It had given expression 
to the general's pent ire, and, since it was 
destroyed, it prevented discord and ill- 
feeling between the soldier and the 
officer. 

Many of the greatest authors of all 
times have resorted to writing to express 
their excessive emotions. Authors, the 
same as painters, musicians, and others 
of so-called "artistic" temperament, are 
high-spirited and excitable. Because of 
this, they experience more emotions, and 



— 21 — 



r^ 



emotions of a higher degree, than or- 
dinary men do. It is usually while under 
the power of some strong feeling that 
most writers produce their best work. 
Shelley is famed for his exuberance (as 
displayed in "To a Skylark") ; Jonathan 
Swift is noted for his harshly critical 
turn of mind ; Longfellow for his ap- 
preciation of beautiful scenes of life ; 
Wordsworth for his appreciation of 
beautiful scenes of nature; and Poe for 
his ability to appall the reader with de- 
pressing description and narrative. The 
ability of each of these, and of all other 
successful writers, may be traced directly 
to some deep-set, uncontrollable emotion 
for which writing has provided an outlet 
— a safety-valve, as it were. 

We read in our daily newspapers, only 
to-day, of a sixteen year old youth killing 
a twelve year old girl and himself as the 
result of a "puppy-love-affair." The 
reporters describe the youth as "super- 



sensitive and over-emotional." The afifair 
seems ludicrous to us, but to that youth 
it was a grim reality. If his superabun- 
dant feelings only could have been di- 
verted into the channel of writing rather 
than the channel of physical violence, the 
regrettable event would, in all probability, 
never have taken place. 

All persons, even you and I, frequently 
hear something, see something, or learn 
something that rouses an uncontrollable, 
almost indescribable feeling within us. 
Our souls are stirred, — rocked, — yes, 
blasted to their very depths by some 
powerful emotion. It may be hatred, 
fear, or jealousy; it may be love, or a 
sense of beauty ;^but, good or bad, it 
overcomes us — carries us away. Then it 
is that we may ease the tenseness of our 
minds by writing down on paper what 
we feel within ourselves. Then it is that 
writing is truly a safety-valve for 
emotion. 



Sancho Panza 



Ernesto del Risco 
Book Refort, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



EVERYONE knows about Don 
Quijote, who read tales of giants and 
princesses and enchanted castles and 
wandering knights of great strength and 
courage until he determined to become a 
knight himself, and to accomplish great 
things, but we do not pay much attention 
to his faithful squire, Sancho Panza. 

To me, Sancho is as important as his 
master, and he is as well portrayed as 
Don Quijote himself. Both characters 
complement each other. Without San- 



cho, Cervantes' novel would be a series 
of fantastic adventures, which would, 
perhaps, amuse us, but it would not have 
the interest and appeal it has now. San- 
cho with his common sense and his tend- 
ency to see life and things as they really 
are, makes the book more human and 
more universal. 

Before becoming Don Quijote's squire, 
Sancho was a farmer. He was a good 
and honest man, but he was not very in- 
telligent, and Don Quijote did not have 



— 22- 



/ 



to argue very long to make him believe 
that he would become rich and famous, 
if he consented to serve him as a squire. 
He served his master, faithfully and loy- 
ally, and he never deserted him, although 
he realized, before long, that Don Quijote 
vi^as mad. 

Sancho Panza is more than a charac- 



ter or a tj'pe. He is the personification 
of common sense and realism in con- 
trast with madness and excessive ideal- 
ism, personified by Don Quijote. He, 
probabl}', is not so fascinating and exotic 
as his master, but he is more human and 
more likable than the "hidalgo" from 
La Mancha. 




"Soup, Beautiful Soup!" 

(L. Carroll) 

Yanita Grossman 
Theme 10, Rhetoric I. 1931-32 

"Of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
The saddest are these — 'Soup again !'" 



TT is the foreordained right of board- 
*■ ing-house landladies to inflict hash 
upon their weak-stomached guests. 
When the powers-that-be in the kitchens 
of campus houses assume that preroga- 
tive as their own and set before us left- 
overs "tastefully disguised," we can say 
nothing. But when the remains of three 
days of unsatisfactory food are mixed to- 
gether in a few gallons of heated water 
and set before us under the guise of 
soup — then all who have any respect for 
their internal organs and for soup as 



such, must rise and unite in protest. 

When we first came here to live, the 
meals, though not composed of expen- 
sive foods, were appetizingly prepared 
and pleasantly varied. Now that six 
weeks have passed into the limbo of 
things forgotten and we seem to be im- 
mutably rooted in our respective houses, 
the cooks are beginning to lapse into bad 
habits. Foremost of these is the lament- 
able practice of serving what can best 
be described as liquid hash. 



— 23- 



r^ 



Hamburger, in itself a pleasant dish, 
is greeted with groans. From sad ex- 
perience we have learned that it heralds 
spaghetti. The day after that we shall 
have beans for luncheon, and the follow- 
ing day the spaghetti with its hamburger 
remnants and the beans will appear in 
soup. Or again, we are served fresh 
celery for dinner. At the next meal it 
is creamed. Then in rapid succession 
corn, turnips, and peas make their 
debuts. The next day — soup. 

Personally, I hold no grudge against 
soup. It is an humble dish but one which 
can be raised to heights of great nobility 
by a cook who will make the most of his 
artistry. At Giro's, soup is a ceremony. 
Potagc Florentine, steaming in its silver 
tureen and smelling deliciously, is served 
with a reverent flourish by obsequious 
and snowy-bosomed beings, who bear it 
in with a great show of pomp. How it 
glints in the soft, rosy light, promising 
of richness as it is lovingly ladled from 
tureen into porcelain. Hot, crisply 
toasted rolls accompany the dish along 
with the fragrant little pats of butter, 
dewy from the nests of cracked ice in 
which they have been awaiting this 



moment, and adorned, each one, with a 
flower impressed cameo-fashion upon its 
pale yellow satin surface. 

But, oh ! Here we enter the "house" 
dining-room, a cheerful place usually, but 
now gloomily embellished with plates of 
soup, already cool and fast growing 
cooler. Great bowls of soda crackers and 
plates of squarely cut butter pats, not 
particularly good to look at, are set im- 
mediately in the center of the tables. We 
look with distaste at the soup, decide we 
really are not hungry, and pass on to 
the salad. 

Soup, forsooth ! Was it for such as 
this that valiant cooks poisoned their 
tasters in the attempt to discover out- 
landish and foreign but none the less 
savoury broths whereby to tickle the 
palates of their lords? Was it of such 
as this that the Mock Turtle voiced his 
deathless song? Then why do you sit 
thus, weakly dipping into the nauseous 
brew ? Up ! and with spoon for sword 
and bowl for buckler, storm the kitchen. 
Let not posterity turn up their noses, 
saying, "No wonder they were such a 
crumby lot. Did you ever see what they 
ate and dignified by the name of soup?" 



A Dissertation on Cheese 

(With apologies to Lamb) 



Nathan Levin 
Theme 8, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



T TAVE you ever wondered, as you en- 
* 'joyed one of the toothsome varieties 
of cheese, how it was discovered that 
milk would solidify when heated? For 
after all, all the fancy varieties of cheese 



have their initial and most important 
stage in the heating of milk to a certain 
point. I will not vouch for the truth of 
the following story but will leave its 
veracity to the discretion of the reader. 



-24 — 



^f 



It seems that many years ago in anci- 
ent Arabia, there lived a venerable old 
man by the name of Allah Fez who has 
cursed with the most shiftless and indo- 
lent son that ever vexed a fond father. 
While the father would be busily en- 
gaged in the management of his flocks 
and lands, Allah Fez, Jr., could always 
be found dozing in the shade of a palm 
tree. The only activity he displayed was 
in the devouring of his daily meals. But 
do not judge this youth too harshly. For 
it was he and no other that gave to an 
appreciative world that inseparable com- 
panion of rye bread, cheese. 

In recognition of the excellence of the 
goat's milk produced by his well-tended 
flock, Allah Fez secured the government 
contract for the garrison which was 
stationed in a near-by town. This served 
to keep him prosperously busy and 
affairs continued in their regular routine. 

But this condition was not destined to 
last. One day the faithful Moslem re- 
ceived notice that he should be especially 
careful in preserving the sweetness of 
the milk since the Commander in Chief 
of the Arabian army was to be the guest 
of honor. Allah Fez had to leave town 
that day for important personal reasons, 
so he looked around for someone to 
supervise this important transaction. 

Now the aforementioned son comes 
into the story. What was more natural 
than that the son and only heir of the 
family possessions should "step into his 
father's shoes." Allah Fez attended to 
all the details incidental to the comple- 
tion of his contract, leaving only the de- 
livery of the milk to his son. 

It would appear obvious that this 
simple task should have been carried out 
without mishap even by a person with 
Allah Fez, Jr.'s indifference. In fact all 



he had to do was to place the milk bags 
at the edge of the lake where they would 
be kept cool until the time came for their 
conveyance to the garrison. The young 
man, however, preferred to indulge in 
a refreshing nap until the last moment 
and thus unwittingly brought about one 
of the greatest discoveries of his day. 

I believe that all of us know enough 
chemistry to understand what changes 
went on in the milk left exposed to the 
rays of the blazing sun. In short, the 
milk changed to cheese. When our young 
hero loaded the bags on his camels he 
was too deep in his letharg\^ to notice 
that the bags did not emit their custo- 
mary gurgling as they were tossed on the 
animals. 

The result of his carelessness was im- 
mediate and drastic. The next day the 
boy's father was summoned before a 
court martial on the charge of breach 
of contract in not supplying any milk 
on the day before. The poor man, dazed 
and bewildered, seemed sure to lose his 
prestige, to say nothing of his lucrative 
contract. 

But he was rescued by an event that 
seems little short of miraculous. The 
prosecuting attorney was in full stride, 
denouncing the old man in violent terms. 
In the midst of his arguments he held 
aloft Exhibit 1, a goat skin bag, full, not 
of milk, but of some strange solid sub- 
stance. His Honor was attracted by the 
rather pleasant aroma of the fresh 
cheese and demanded a closer inspection 
of the article in question. He opened the 
bag ; he tasted ; and he was won. The 
surprised Allah Fez was congratulated 
as the inventor of a wonderful new food 
and was rewarded with an even more lu- 
crative contract for the new substance. 



— 25 — 



Cod-Liver Oil 



Mildred Henriot 
Theme 11, Rhetoric II, 1930-31 



npHE thought of taking a tablespoon- 
*■ ful of cod-Hver oil nauseates me. It 
takes ail my nerve to reach into the ice 
box and draw out that sickening oil. 
With very reluctant fingers I unscrew 
the top and turn my head from the fishy 
odor that issues forth. I pour the heavy 
yellow liquid in a spoon and brace my- 
self. The odor stifles me and my stomach 
tips and turns in my body. I close my 
eyes and literally ram the spoon into 



my mouth. It rolls as a ball to the end 
of my tongue and stops there. With a 
cringing and clenching of fists, I manage 
to send it on its way. After it is gone, 
the fish-like taste comes straight up my 
throat and settles at the starting place to 
plague me all day. The vileness of cod- 
liver oil combines all the slipperiness of 
oil and the evil fishy tastes of sickening 
oils. 



A Perfect Job 

R. Webber 
Theme 13, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



(~\^ cold mornings I cannot help think- 
^-^ ing of the time I spent as third mate 
on a small packet steamer carrying mail, 
small cargo, and passengers from Mar- 
tinique to San Fernando on the Orinoco 
River in the heart of Venezuela. The 
trip took us about ten days and the 
distance was about twelve hundred nau- 
tical miles. 

You might think this trip would get 
tiresome as we merely shuttled back and 
forth like a street car, but the ever 
changing delights of the tropics took 
away all monotony. The days sparkle 
with a brilliance found only on a tropical 
sea, and the nights are usually clear and 
cool. The stars hang so low you feel you 



can touch them with a marlin spike. 
The steamer slips past innumerable, 
tiny, palm-covered islands and coral 
reefs. We pass through the Boca del 
Sierpe and approach the mouth of the 
Orinoco. The waters change and become 
fresh and dirty colored. A more or less 
dense jungle lines the River. Farther 
back there are vast stretches of culti- 
vated land. Even so there are still 
stretches of river where we stay in the 
middle of the stream, for the Indians 
are unfriendly and no one wants a 
poisoned arrow in his back. 

At last we come to Ciudad Bolivar, 
made up of a few huts, a few Indians, 
many empty Standard Oil tins, and in- 



— 26- 



&/ 



numerable dogs. It is a town, however, 
and we are glad to see it. We leave some 
mail, a little cargo, and perhaps some- 
one bound for one of the plantations 
or an oil field in the Guiana highlands. 

The next day we continue on toward 
San Fernando. There, if one wants to 
go on, one must take a small boat as 
the water is too shallow for the steamer 
farther up the river. 

We stay here a few days and then 
make our way back to Martinique. Our 
boat does not make another trip for a 
week, so the whole crew goes to Van- 
jada where the Captain lives. We are 



used to the sights of the tropics but when 
we see this island even the most hard- 
ened fireman gasps with amazement. 
Words cannot describe the perfect sym- 
phony of color. It is like an emerald sur- 
rounded by varicolored stones. We go 
ashore and our friends vie with one 
another to see in whose house we will 
stay. 

A few days later we leave to make 
another trip to San Fernando. Every 
day is like a vacation. Do you wonder 
I find it hard to keep my mind on my 
lessons on a cold morning? 



Between Halves 



Helen Russell 
Theme 8, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



iij OOK at that drum major; would 
•^--'you! Isn't he just grand, and isn't 
that a nifty outfit with that great big 
black bear shako? My, but he's a big 
fellow, and he certainl}- handles himself 
and baton well." These comments hurled 
past my ears between halves of the 
Homecoming game. Each and everyone 
of them puiTed up my pride several 
notches, for that handsome, strutting 
drum major was my big brother ! 

While I was tensely watching the ma- 
neuverings of the band, I found myself 
substituting another picture for the one 
before me. In place of the towering 
drum major was a little boy brandishing 
a broomstick with a croquet-ball driven 
onto the end. It was not a band he was 
leading but a fat, bobbed-haired little 
girl in overalls fervently beating a tin 
pan with a wooden spoon. The present 



University of Illinois drum major was 
the little boy, and I was the small girl. 
What grand times we used to have pa- 
rading around the neighborhood and 
driving everyone crazy with our terrible 
din ! When other small boys had aspired 
to be train engineers or fire engine driv- 
ers, my brother had hoped to be drum 
major at Illinois. 

I forgot my reminiscences in my ex- 
citement as I watched him leading the 
band through its formations. The night 
before he had showed me the diagrams 
which outlined every little detail, and he 
explained how one small mistake on his 
part would ruin the entire formation. So 
as each maneuver was carried out per- 
fectly, I breathed more easily and the 
chills of apprehension changed to thrills. 
When the band wheeled into the revolv- 
ing Michigan shield, the intelligent-look- 



-27- 



iiig man sitting in front of me turned to 
his wife and I heard him remark, "I 
played in the band for four years, and 
the boys felt that the drum major was 
the quarterback of it. While on the field 
the entire band is his responsibility, and 
he has to give all the signals. If all the 
plans work smoothly, the drum major 
deserves a great deal of credit. That 
drum major out there sure knows his 
stufif." 

It was all that I could do to keep from 



leaning forward and shouting at him, 
"That's my brother!" 

After the gun ended the final quarter, 
the "world's greatest college band" as- 
sembled and marched off the field. As 
I eagerly stood on tiptoe to see the last 
proud wave of the drum major's orange 
plume and bright liash of his upraised 
silver baton, there was one loyal Illini 
who felt the afternoon's performance 
has been a real success. 




^J^^J ^^j^ -i^^ J, 




VV\\.\,V\V V 






I 



A Character Sketch 



Nettie Fine 
Theme 10, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



T TE looked like a faded print come to 
*^ ^ life, this old German with the tat- 
tered mustache. Autumn was his appro- 
priate background, for he blended per- 
fectly with a season about to die. Upon 
first acquaintance we had labeled him a 
negative personality with a touch of the 
eccentric. 

He was not negative, as we discovered 
later. One day we ventured into his rhu- 
barb garden, the greatest curiosity on the 
block. I shall never forget the picture 



he made when he found us there, after 
we had carried out our plans of destruc- 
tion. Have you seen a leaf touched with 
flame? How it curls and writhes into 
nothingness? He trembled and finally 
managed to say something bitter in his 
own tongue. And then with pathetic 
bravado in his voice, he shouted, "Get 
oud off heer !" His eyes were wild as 
we hurriedly backed out, and when I 
turned back, I saw him very slowly go 
into his house, like a man broken. 



-28 — 



UJ 



He was the neighborhood legend. 
Ahhough he had lived in the same house 
for over twenty years, no one seemed 
to know much about him. He kept him- 
self very aloof. 

His rhubarb patch was a delight to us, 
but to our parents it was the "eye sore" 
of the neighborhood. They talked 
vaguely of signing petitions. We learned 
that someone had once gone to bribe him 
so that he might give up his garden. It 
was history that for five nights after- 
wards, he slept in the garden, with an 
antiquated shotgun by his side. 

Finally we learned more about him, 
and solved the key to his mysterious 
hermitage. Twenty-five years previous 
he had come to our street, after unbe- 
lievable hardships in the old country. 
His wife had been murdered before his 
eyes, and his dearly prized home and 
garden were taken from him. With his 
three young sons, he had fled to America. 

The loss of his wife was irreparable, 
but the desire for a home and a garden, 
like the one he had once had, became 
an obsession with him. All that he had 
held dear in the old life had been taken 
from him, but in this new life a man 
was free. 

So he had begun to tend his rhubarb 
religiously, and to spend hours repairing 



a window pane, with reverence that was 
tender. He delighted in his children and 
was a good father to them. At last he 
had found happiness. 

But it was not to continue. People 
began to protest against his property, 
which to them was unsightly, and wanted 
to have it removed. It was at this time 
that he had gradually crept into his 
silent, brooding shell and remained. 
What had happened once, was happening 
again. Life was taking from him. But 
this time he would fight and win. His 
stubbornness held out longer than the 
anger and ridicule directed against him. 

That was long ago. His sons had 
grown to be ashamed of this little old 
man with the bony hands, and had left 
him. But his bitterness grew until doubt 
and suspicion were firmly fastened in 
his make-up. 

One day they found him sitting quietly 
in front of his fireplace, with his eyes 
closed, and the harsh lines erased from 
his face. 

The autumn was at an end. 

His sons ventured near, obese Ger- 
mans, flushed with prosperity. They 
buried him quickly and were never seen 
again. 

A few rhubarb plants refused to be 
destroyed and grew year after year. 




■29- 



The Passing in the Night 



James Phelan 
Long Narrative, Rhetoric II, 1930-31 

And therefore be not short-z'isiofied, and cry out against the 
gods, for in the end sorrow and happiness arc allotted in equal por- 
tions, measure for measure, grain for grain until the balance tips 
not an inch to either side. ... 

So think, if your lot be bitter, of the ivhole of the scheme, 
rather than of your luckless little part. For by such is a man sus- 
tained; the human comedy is forced on; the threads ticine and 
unravel, and the peak of htimor is unknoxvingly reached and passed, 
and over all sounds the rumbling laughter of the gods. 



■pOR a day and a half after the Maria 
■^ Louisa went down, Cleg hung to the 
floating barrel, tossed by an unmerciful 
sea, battered and hopeless and spent. But 
on the evening of the second day he 
came ashore on a little island, collapsed 
half on the beach and half in the sea, 
and slept until the return of the tide the 
next day. 

And he rose wearily and looked 
around him. He was somewhere on the 
South Pacific. He was alone, and for 
some unknown reason, he was alive. 
Providence had thrust up these few 
acres of land in the middle of miles of 
water, in order that one of its creatures 
might live for a few days more. So Cleg, 
not knowing that the island had no 
water, nor that its other shore was a few 
hundred feet across a hill of sand behind 
him, fell down upon his knees and 
thanked his God, and then slept again. 

Thirst wakened him the second time, 
and seeing the full moon in a tranquil 
sky, he judged that it was the second 
night after his being washed ashore. He 
stood awhile, conscious of the perfection 
of the tropic night, but then thirst re- 
turned, persistent, and he stumbled down 
the beach, searching for water. It was 



only when he rounded an outjutting of 
sand at the far end, and saw the oppo- 
site beach turn back upon itself at the 
end of a short stretch, and moonlight on 
limitless water beyond, that conscious 
fear first came over him. He turned, 
half-afraid, to the long hill of sand be- 
tween the two beaches. Unconsciously 
he shuddered; then slowly he criss- 
crossed the hill from beach to beach, and 
his hope dwindled as the remaining 
length of the dune diminished. There 
was no spring, no well, no pond on the 
island. A man has to have water to live, 
thought Cleg as he returned to the mid- 
dle of the beach, and there's no water 
here, so I shall die. Even after praying, 
I shall die. 

He lay down on the sloping side of 
the beach. Were it not for this thirst (he 
meditated), death would seem as unim- 
portant and as far awa}' as usual. The 
night was all colorless, black and silver; 
a huge moon, surrounded by its pale 
circle of radiance, shone in the empty 
sky. The sea was indigo, and spread 
boundlessly from the tiny beach outward, 
and the whole world was quiet, save for 
the measured and limited beating of 
Cleg's heart. 



-30- 



For a time he lay, studying the crisp, 
unordered shadows of the moon's volca- 
noes. How queer a way for me to die, 
he thought, unplanned, unexpectedly, 
with no doctors, no clean, white sheets, 
no bitter, useless pills to take every forty 
minutes. Think of all the tears which 
would gladly be shed over me, for I'm 
no seaman and I'm not worthy of a death 
like this. And this prodigious waste of 
opportunity! Here I am, passing from 
life the proper way, but I'm the wrong 
person; I'm robbing some Conrad hero 
of a precise and fatting ending for his ad- 
ventures. There's something wrong. 

Weighted down by the aching quiet he 
fell to thinking of his past life, and all 
the useless years paraded past him. Let 
me die quickly, he thought; let the 
months pass and the curious tide come 
up the beach at night to stir a heap of 
fleshless bones like a man laughing softly 
over an old jest. The last expiring 
vestige of the passion for life moved 
Cleg to his feet and he plodded once 
again around the isle, crying out to the 
sea, "This is my hand flung up in last 
farewell." He returned and lay down 
in the hollow his body had made before 
and beat the packed sand in frustration. 
The beach, the sea, the moon and sky 
were the same, unmoved, unchanged. 
Cleg fell into what he thought was his 
last sleep. 

He slept for a half hour, an hour, and 



then bolted suddenly out of sleep and ten 
feet down the beach. Somewhere out 
in the half-night before him a yacht's 
whistle had hooted, and now, when his 
vision cleared; Cleg saw the lights two 
miles off the shore, slowly drawing 
abreast him and passing, passing, passing. 
The sudden, passionate desire to live 
whimpered in him, and Cleg stood waist 
deep in the sea, shouting half -animal 
cries, tinged with a human, half-queru- 
lous quaver of hope, as the yacht went 
sedately by ... . 

But on the yacht two foolish young 
lovers clung to each other, watching the 
moon and the passing sea. The youth 
had been drinking a bit too much, which 
made him feel overly sentimental. 
"Madge," he said, "isn't that a desert 
island off there?" He disengaged his 
right hand and pointed. 

"I believe that it is, dearest." 

Now neither of them was really in- 
terested in this island, nor in anything 
much other than themselves, but the boy 
leaned down over the girl and said softly 
in her ear. "Angel girl, wouldn't it be 
glorious if just you and I were there to- 
gether, with no supplies, and only love 
to live on?" 

Over to the south the heat thunder 
spoke, rumbling like the laughter of the 
gods. 




— 31 — 



mtCKEEN 
CALDKON 




VOLUME I 



March 1932 



NUMBER 3 



V 



THE GREEN CALDRON 



March 1932 



CONTENTS 

Ox Being Shown Some Letters — Elizabeth Osborne .... 2 

Why I Dislike Dream-Tellers — James L. Raincy 3 

On Being .^n Elevator Boy — Richard Turner 3 

Dinner Is Served — Oifcn Reamer 5 

Reflections of a Dishwasher — Phyllis Gcrrard 7 

In and Out of a State Prison — Helen Russell 8 

Choosing .\ Vocation — Divight L. Emmcl 10 

A Call—//. R. McNeely H 

.\ Rhapsody in Green — Donan C. Kirlcy lo 

A Foreigner's Attitltde Toward America and 

Americans — /. Hazcn Fletcher 14 

Old Clothes — /. P. Jordan 15 

Taking Notes — George F. Fritzinger 17 

The Art of Goat Milking — Jack E. .Inderson 18 

Fireside Spectres — F. G. Fcltham 19 

Modeling — Ruth McClain 21 

Jose Pardo — Ernesto del Risco 22 

"The Rivet in Grandfather's Neck" — Nettie Fine 23 

ilY Own "Beaumont and Fletcher" — //. Dahlke 23 

The Swimming Hole — Helen U'esternian 25 

Crowding the Hero Bench — Evelyn Nelson 26 

My Playhouse — Velma A. Denny 27 

Reflections in the Coal Room — l^arvine Dover 29 

Incident at Sea — James Phelan 30 

PUBLISHED BY THE RHETORIC STAFF 

university of ILLINOIS 

URBANA 



VOLUME I NUMBER 3 



;? 



On Being Shown Some Letters 

Elizabeth Osborne 
Rhetoric I, 1931-32 

They wrote my mother that they saw me here: 

"She is so charming, gracious, well-poised, cool; 

Polite but never uncontrolled — a dear; 

A true aristocrat!" (and thus a fool) 

Compared me to "a pure-white fragrant flower," 

(Cut from its root) "calm in a florist's box." 

I toiled, in anguish, many a lonely hour, 

Before I put emotion under locks; 

I was not always calm. If I'd allowed 

Myself to grow as I was born to be, 

I'd live, a wandering tattered gypsy, proud 

.•\nd gay. The flower they'd have compared to nic 

Had been a ragged Indian paint-brush, lone. 

Wild, rough — a living flame when bird^ have flown. 



(s>y 



Why I Dislike Dream-Tellers 

James L. Rainey 
Theme 17, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



I can endure post-mortems of golf 
games. I can throw my mind into 
neutral and await the finish of an argu- 
ment on the relative merits of Greta 
Garbo and Ruth Chatterton. I can even 
stand by patiently while some bubbling 
humorist strives to recall how Alike 
answered when Pat asked, "What is the 
difference between an elephant and a 
piano?" But I cannot restrain myself 
when someone begins to talk about 
dreams. Before the chronic dreamers 
even wade through the circumstances 
which led up to their experience,! take my 
tongue in hand and lead it far, far away, 
where it can say nothing which might 
reflect on the good taste of its owner. 

In the first place, I think that most 
dreams, at least those which are interest- 
ing enough to tell in public, are fakes. 
Most of them are a bit too exciting, a 
trifle too well arranged, and far too fresh 
in the memories of their tellers to be 
genuine dreams. I concede that these 
habitual riders of the night-mare have 



very vivid imaginations. I admit that 
some of their dreams might make good 
short-story plots. I doubt seriously, how- 
ever, if they actually dream all that they 
say they do. 

The real reason for my dislike of 
dreams and dreamers is that I never have 
any dreams myself. I have tried every- 
thing from mince pie to toasted cheese 
sandwiches in attempts to stimulate my 
subconscious mind, but I have accom- 
plished nothing. When I go to sleep I 
drop into a bottomless well, where I can 
see nothing and hear nothing, and in 
which the passage of eight hours takes 
but a few minutes. When I fade out into 
slumber I can be blissfully sure that the 
clanging of the morning bell will not tear 
me away from an Indian fight on the 
western plains, rescue me from the 
bogey-man, or leave me stranded on a 
desert island. In short, sleep to me 
means utter forgetfulness, not the three- 
ring circus through which some people 
go every night. 



On Being an Elevator Boy 

Richard Turner 
Theme IT, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



IT is extremely important, so my rheto- 
ric instructor says, in choosing a topic 
for a theme to select a subject of which 
you have some knowledge. While I by 
no means consider myself an authority 



on elevator boys, I have been a "public 
servant" for quite a few years, being at 
one time or another a peanut vendor, a 
theatre usher, a porter, a house-boy, a 
bus boy, and an elevator boy. I served 



in the last capacity for seven months, 
my longest term of employment in any 
of the foregoing positions. Nevertheless, 
I believe seven months was enough for 
me to secure an adequate supply of in- 
formation to draw upon for this advice 
to those who aspire to become elevator 
boys. Abandon all such aspirations unless 
you have an attractive appearance and a 
winning smile ; unless you are an au- 
thority on baseball, politics, Al Capone, 
and the weather ; and unless you are able 
to control your emotions. 

The first item is a prerequisite, for no 
hotel manager will hire anyone who is 
dirty, poorly dressed, or liomel)'. You 
must have three different smiles: one, a 
sophisticated smirk for the traveling 
salesmen when they tell you their favor- 
ite story; another, a wide, unaffected 
grin, for the young ladies ; and finally, a 
warm welcoming smile for the general 
public. These facial expressions of 
amusement, affection, and welcome, 
should never be indulged in when you 
are in view of the manager or his assist- 
ants, or you will probably join the great 
army of tlie unemployed. The only ob- 
ject of any smile is to create a friendly 
feeling, which may result in a lucrative 
tip. An excellent rule is to smile at 
everybody, no matter what they appear 
to be, for appearances deceive. I remem- 
ber one day, while I was running my ele- 
vator up and down, a little old lady, very 
quaintly dressed, gave me fifty cents, 
which I, for once, was very loath to 
accept because it looked as if it were all 
the money she had. I found out later 
that she owned an immense amount of 
real estate, valued at about five hundred 
thousand dollars. No wonder she could 
pass out half-dollars so casually. 

When 3'ou have broken the ice with 
your smile, you must be ready to talk 
fluently on any desired subject. Business, 



baseball, and Chicago are suitable for 
ever3'one except old gentlemen, who dis- 
cuss lengthily their health, their rheuma- 
tism, and how hot or cold it was back in 
'89. Everyone, whether young or old, 
will have a different opinion about the 
weather. I have been, in rapid succession 
"rather warm," "hot," and "a little 
chilly," because a good elevator boy 
agrees entireW with the guests. It was 
very irritating to me last summer, when 
the mercury was hovering around one 
hundred degrees, to have someone re- 
mark that it was a little warm, when any 
fool would know that it was downright 
hot. Then just when I had convinced 
myself I was cool and comfortable, 
someone would very politely inform me 
that it was very sultrj', give me the tem- 
perature reading, and end by inquiring 
if I didn't find it rather warm working 
inside. Frequently, with great gravity, 
I would say I was quite cool, just to see 
the expression on my tormentor's face. 
Many, no doubt, thought that the heat 
had affected by mind. 

Utter agreement with the public is 
rather trying at times, but you must 
always keep your emotions under con- 
trol, bearing in mind the source of your 
extra dimes. I was never very successful 
at suppressing my emotions, and, at 
times, it was worth a possible quarter or 
fifty cents to say that the Cubs would 
beat the Cardinals to an ardent St. Louis 
fan. Naturalh' an elevator boy will re- 
ceive a few reprimands from those im- 
patient souls who think they are the only 
guests in the hotel. For any and all re- 
proofs, a set, strong silence is very effec- 
tive, and it is useless to argue, for that 
only increases the irritation of the com- 
plainant. Might I say to those who in- 
tend to be Mr. and Mrs. General Public, 
that an elevator boy is only human, and 
makes mistakes the same as you do, but 



// 



are you called down for your every 
fault ? 

The ultimate result of smiling, saying 
yes, and keeping your mouth shut, is, of 
course, a tip. An elevator boy will be 
your friend for life if you slip him a 
quarter or a half-dollar, or even offer 
him a stick of gum or a cigarette. .Such 
things as eating or smoking on the job 
are naturally not countenanced by the 
management, but that is easily circum- 
vented by one of experience. Very 



frequently I have eaten candy, peanuts, 
pop corn, and ice cream cones while on 
the elevator. My crowning achievement, 
however, was eating a large piece of de- 
licious cherry pie, originally intended for 
the manager, while I glided merrily up 
and down the shaft. 

To those who want to be amused, ir- 
ritated, disillusioned, and versed in the 
ways of the world, I say in conclusion, 
liecome an elevator boy. It is an experi- 
ence never to be forgotten. 




Dinner is Served 



Owen Reamer 
Theme 15, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



piCTURE almost any evening in the 
■I week. The minute hand of the clock 
has ticked around under its cracked glass 
to the five thirty-tive mark. Airs. Cres- 
ton, ruling genius of Gamma Gamma 
Fraternity's kitchen, bustles around the 
great range turning this fire on and that 
fire off. There is a sound of fumbling 
at the side door, and in comes her first 
helper. He is tall and skinny and wears 
a sheepskin. Beneath this outer garment 
is the inevitable sweater that causes 
much anguish to the other boys and Mrs. 
Creston. No matter how high the tem- 
perature, the sweater is not discarded. 
The very sight of the garment makes the 



folk in the kitchen hot. Now the other 
workers begin to pour in. First comes 
Johnny Spirano, a little Italian who is 
studying athletic coaching. Then Rosch 
appears. He has a mass of curly hair 
and a little mustache. Though perfectly 
fitted for his role as garc^on, he is plan- 
ning to be an engineer. Terry comes 
rushing in last and sheds overcoat, coat, 
and vest, with one deft jerk. He is a 
commercial student, the third member 
(with Rosch and Johnny) of a mighty 
triumvirate of seniors. Romen, the first 
to enter, is the sole representative of the 
freshman class. 

Quickly, as these minions appear, they 



— S- 



fall into their routine. Rosch and Johnny 
don little white monkey jackets, for they 
are the waiters. Terry and Romen have 
aprons, for they are, respectively, a pot 
boy and a dishwasher. Johnny sets the 
tables, an intricate business in which a 
swarm of knives, forks, and spoons, 
plates, and glasses, appear and settle 
magically into place. Rosch fills the 
sugar bowls and brings in water. He 
alone is intrusted with supplying the 
tables with bread, for he is the only one 
who can turn out such quantities of even 
slices in such a short space of time. 
While this preparation in the dining 
room is going on, Romen and Terry are 
busy in the kitchen. Romen carries out 
the piles of cans and rubbish that Mrs. 
Creston has heaped upon the sink. It 
its remarkable to see the accuracy he has 
attained in shifting his lanky form about 
in the narrow path he must tread to the 
door. Mrs. Creston, the icebox, and the 
table are dodged in one deft movement. 
Terry is creating a cloud of steam in the 
sink where he is mashing potatoes. All 
these activities have taken place in ap- 
proximately ten minutes, and it is only 
six o'clock. 

Final preparations now begin. Johnny 
and Rosch dish up cocktails or soup and 
dash around ringing first and second 
bells. Terry slaps down thirty plates or 
so in rows on the kitchen table. Romen 



drops a wisp of lettuce on a place and 
Mrs. Creston tops it with a cube of fruit 
gelatin. Terry has finished distributing 
plates and is following on Mrs. Creston's 
trail with a pot of mayonnaise. Six-ten 
and all the salads are in their places in 
the dining room, as placidly perfect as 
if they had been completed hours before. 
Si.x-ten, of course, is the signal that 
sends countless hungry brothers into the 
dining room with a scurry of feet and 
a rustle of chairs. Boards are placed, 
now, on the kitchen table to hold the 
steaming pots, and Terry rushes in from 
the pantry balancing a stack of plates 
precariously in front of him. The serv- 
ing line forms. A plate starts from the 
stack and receives vegetables from Terry, 
a scoop of potatoes from Romen, and a 
slice of meat from Mrs. Creston. At the 
end of the line Rosch receives the fin- 
ished product — truly a joy to behold — 
and, after distributing seven similar 
plates throughout his fingers and over 
his arms, he dashes majestically into the 
dining room. Johnny also serves, though 
he has not acquired the art of holding 
seven plates at one time. Rosch comes 
back shouting, "Eight to go !" These 
eight are soon waited on, and the kitchen 
force, sighing with relief, sits down to its 
own meal. Barring the dessert, dished, up 
by Mrs. Creston and taken in. by the 
bustling waiters, "Dinner is served !" 



'73 



Reflections of a Dishwasher 

Phyllis Gerrard 
Theme 17, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



< < T ERRY ! I've got some news for you 
J today!" came the same old story 
from Marge. After a full day of classes, 
I had come home hungry and tired. Din- 
ner was ended ; I glanced over the dining 
room. Surely fifteen people could not 
have left such a mess. In the midst of 
my reflections there came a second warn- 
ing from Marge, "Hurry Jerry! We've 
got some work to do." I gave one last 
long look at the other girls, who were 
happily departing for the parlor, and 
hurriedly began to clear the dirty dishes 
from the table. 

I am a naturally kind-hearted girl, but 
I enjoy the screams of the plates when 
I scrape their dirty faces. The milk bot- 
tle grins when the buttermilk refuses to 
slip without coaxing from his sides, and 
the stacks of white porcelain cups stick 
out their tongues with enjoyment at my 
sad predicament. Unnerved by all the 
evil forces about me, I dropped one of 
the best glasses, which said, "Oh, I am 
too tired to strive in this world," as he 
broke into a million pieces. "We're com- 
fortable. Don't move us," said a few 
lonely carrots which were left in a large 
dish ; therefore, I tucked them away in 
the back of the ice-box, undisturbed. 

I, for several reasons, prefer washing 
dishes to drjang them. For one, there is 
less danger of ending with fragments 
rather than whole pieces; however, the 
most important reason is that I am able 
to think. While drying dishes I talk and 
sing away all my time, but while washing 
them I am fascinated by the slipping and 
sliding of the plates and pans and the 



slopping of the soft soapy water. This 
makes me thoughtful rather than talka- 
tive. 

When it is my turn to wash, we do 
not set the pans in the sink, but put them 
on the marble top, from which we have a 
clear view of the street. We see how 
many people we can recognize each time 
the trolley passes by the house. Some- 
times our shiny dish pans attract some- 
one passing and he sees us at our tasks. 
Once a tiny chap playing beneath the 
window looked up and smiled when he 
saw the soapy water splashing, and I 
wondered where he lived and why he 
was so ragged. These thoughts were 
always scattered, for my partner was 
either asking questions or giving off her 
excess strength in bursts of unmelodious 
song. Then I am once more in the 
kitchen, my newly manicured nails again 
in the dish water. I come back to a world 
of reality, to a world of sinks with black 
pan prints, crumby floors that must be 
swept, tables with green, peeling oil cloth, 
crazy figured and worn linoleum, pans 
with hard crusty sides, and cold greasy 
dishwater. 

At last, the dish pans on their proper 
nails and the dish towels hanging neatly 
on their racks, we heave a sigh of relief 
and depart to join the rest who are danc- 
ing in the parlor. But alas ! Once in the 
dining room we are confronted by some 
forgotten dishes, their silly faces smiling, 
"You forgot us !" A dance indeed ! An- 
other tete-a-tete with the dish pan, and 
then quiet hours. 



-7- 



In and Out of a State Prison 



Helen Russell 
Theme 15, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



ONE of our neighboring states claims 
to have the world's largest and most 
efficient state prison, and after going 
through it with a group of friends, I 
do not doubt the statement. But it is 
still just a prison to me. 

This huge institution is about a mile 
outside the limits of a medium sized, in- 
dustrial city, located so that escaping 
convicts would have to go through the 
city or along a highway that leads di- 
rectly to a small town which is prac- 
tically a look-out station under the di- 
rection of the prison. The penitentiary 
as we approached it had the appearance 
of any modern well-kept institution. The 
lawn was mowed by men wearing black 
caps, who, I learned, were "Trusties" — 
convicts placed in trustworthy positions 
because of good behavior. We entered 
the main building and were conducted to 
a bare waiting room. I had ample time 
to study the other occupants before we 
were taken further. There was only one 
other party waiting for a so-called 
"sight-seeing" permit as we were. The 
rest of the people were immediate rela- 
tives of convicts — a young wife and 
child, a white-haired mother, a brother — 
all shabbily dressed and looking as if 
life had been very unkind to them. They 
made me uncomfortable by their rude 
and almost hostile stares which seemed 
to say, "What business have 3'ou, a law- 
abiding citizen, to come and view with 
unabashed curiosity the wretchedness of 
our friends?" I felt somewhat the same 
way. 



Our guide came and ushered us into 
a small iron-barred room, locking us in. 
We were carefully counted and searched 
and then conducted to a second room 
where we were counted and searched 
again. This procedure was repeated yet 
another time before we were allowed to 
go farther. We visited the library first. 
It looked like any public library with a 
large loan desk and a composition floor 
which made our footsteps almost inaudi- 
ble. The guide informed us that all 
prisoners were taught reading, writing, 
and elementary arithmetic. 

We passed on to the cell blocks. Here 
the convicts slept and stayed certain 
hours when they were not working in the 
factories. There were twenty-seven cell 
blocks in the entire prison, each one a 
huge, cement room with iron-barred win- 
dows. It contained five tiers, with fifty, 
six-by-eight cells in each tier. I stood 
in front of the cell block and looked from 
one end of the room to the other — cell 
after cell — in endless succession. I 
looked from the floor to the ceiling — 
cell upon cell upon cell — all exactly alike 
with a cot, a three-legged stool, a small 
mirror and locker. I was thankful that 
the men were not in their cells. I do not 
believe I could have stood it. 

We turned and went outdoors into 
the courtyard. I now discovered why it 
was not necessary to have a wall around 
the prison. All the buildings were adjoin- 
ing one another forming an imperfect 
circle. Only in one place was there a 
space of wall connecting two buildings, 



7S- 



and this was very high and pure white 
with a watch tower on top. We were 
fenced in completely. 

Our guide told us that as soon as the 
show was over, we would visit the 
theatre. In the meantime we went 
through the laundry which was entirely 
managed by convicts. Convicts were 
washing, mending, and ironing ; their 
clothing consisted wholly of blue shirts, 
dark blue overalls, and black socks. As 
we came out again into the sunlight, the 
prisoners were coming out of the theater. 
The}' were marching two by two in dead 
silence. The guide said that they were 
never allowed to speak except in their 
cells for one hour, and then they could 
not see to whom they were talking. I 
asked our guide if he or any of the 
guards were armed ; he said that none of 
them were. I asked him if there was any- 
thing to prevent the prisoners from mob- 
bing us. He assured me that they would 
not be likely to, because nothing would be 
gained by it. If the guards carried weap- 
ons they would be in constant danger, for 
the convicts would be eager to seize them 
and shoot their way to liberty. As the 
prisoners drew near, I could see that they 
were certainly a "tough looking crew." 
Many of them were young, and I believed 
the statistics stating that out of the 6800 
convicts in the prison, 2800 were between 
the ages of fifteen and twenty-two. As 
I looked at them again, I readily believed 
the statement that fortj'-five per cent 
were negroes. 

I was greatly relieved when they had 
all passed and we were in the theatre. It 
was a beautiful building, all hand-deco- 
rated by the prisoners themselves. One 
convict, we were told, had won a re- 
prieve because of his wonderful painting 
ability. The State kept him in its employ, 
and he is now making a comfortable liv- 
ing. The prisoners had made donations 



for a beautiful velvet stage curtain which 
was as lovely as most theatres have. 
Church services were held here on Sun- 
day, three services — Catholic, Protestant, 
and Christian Science. On Saturday 
afternoons, the guide informed us, a 
severely censored movie was shown, and 
sometimes during the week a special en- 
tertainment was given. 

The next building we visited contained 
a dining hall which we were privileged to 
view from a balcony overlooking it. 
Although it was only four o'clock, a large 
group was being fed. I had begun to feel 
pangs of hunger myself, but as I looked 
down upon that food, my appetite van- 
ished. There were five squares, and food 
was served on three sides of each square. 
The prisoner was handed a tin tray, a 
tin plate, and a tin cup as he entered the 
door. A certain number of men went to 
each square. Convicts in white aprons 
and white caps ladled out creamed 
salmon, fried potatoes, beets, and coffee 
from huge vats four feet deep and three 
feet in diameter. If there was not room 
on the plate for the beets, they were 
heaped on the tray itself. The convicts 
then passed on to long tables with 
benches. Every man had to eat every bit 
of food on his tray. He could not leave 
a morsel. If he cared for butter, he had 
to pay for it. I could look out the win- 
dow and see the long, long line of men 
waiting to eat. It all made me rather ill. 

When we left the dining hall, our 
guide pointed out to us a long, high build- 
ing with just cracks for windows. This, 
he told us, was the solitary confinement 
and quarantine building. In the two up- 
per stories, newly entered convicts were 
placed in small rooms furnished with 
only a cot. They were fed on bread and 
milk for a month, and at that time if they 
showed no sig^s of developing any dis- 
eases, they were discharged. In the three 



— 9 — 



lower stories, criminals were locked in 
rooms five by seven feet for misbehavior. 
They were strapped in a standing posi- 
tion to the door so that all they .could 
see was an iron wall. They were kept in 
this position for five hours, then allowed 
to sit for one hour, then strapped up 
again for five hours. This procedure 
lasted for two weeks, and, during the 
time, they were fed only bread and 
water, except for one full meal. It 
seemed to me that old-fashioned torture 
ships could not have been much worse 
than this. 

We walked down a corridor with 
glassed-in rooms on each side. We 



stopped before one room which was 
filled with boys. One of our party re- 
marked that the bo3'S looked like patients 
waiting to see a doctor. And the boys 
certainly did look sick! They had just 
been sentenced and were waiting to have 
their fingerprints taken. Most of them 
were 3'oung, and they were very pale at 
the thought that none of them could leave 
in less than three years ; that was the 
shortest term. 

Finally we emerged into the library 
and then proceeded through the three 
iron rooms and were counted again. I 
was glad to leave the place and to feel 
that no one could stop me from doing so. 






Choosing a Vocation 

DwiGHT L. Emmel 
Rhetoric I, 1929-30 



AS I am a person of modest ambition, 
who seeks merely the plums of life 
without insisting on melons, I have often 
thought of what vocation I should pur- 
sue. I have found what I believe to be 
the ideal career. It is a career more hon- 
orable than onerous, and, if not colos- 
sally lucrative, at least it enables one to 
put on a brave shirt-front before the 
world. 



I sa}' that I have found this perfect 
profession; actually I only gazed upon it 
from a respectful distance. Certainly I 
did not discover it in one of those voca- 
tional guidance books which tell "How to 
Succeed in One Thousand and One 
Ways," explaining the aureate possibili- 
ties and opportunities afforded by Plumb- 
ing, Piano-Tuning, and Breeding Baby 
Alligators in Your Spare Time. This 



10- 



// 



marvelous calling is on a higher plane, 
aloof from the multitude. Though suf- 
fused with limelight, it remains a mys- 
tery, rebuffing description. It first came 
to my notice last summer at a concert 
in Kimball Hall, an affair designated as 
a violin and piano recital but which 
proved to be much more than that. 

The first number was on the program 
as a violin solo. The violinist, a short, 
fat youngster, waddled upon the stage, 
carrying his instrument by the nape of 
the neck as though it were a cat in dis- 
favor. His accompanist, a lanky and lu- 
gubrious looking individual, arrived 
empty-handed and seated himself at the 
piano. But there was also a third indi- 
vidual — function unknown. I looked 
carefully to see if he had a bassoon or 
something, but all he was carr3'ing was 
a sheaf of music. Manifestly, from his 
important air and his smooth-shaven as- 
surance, he was a virtuoso of some 
species. He placed the music on the rack 
of the piano and after a moment of 
earnest conversation with the pianist 
took a seat at the right hand corner of 
the piano. 

Suddenly they were off in full sonata. 
The violin burbled and twittered, the 
pianist volleyed and thundered, and the 
third man looked on serenely. All at once 
this onlooker de-luxe was electrified into 
action. He sprang from his chair, reached 



forward, and seized a corner of the 
music from which the pianist was play- 
ing. Clutching the bent-up corner, he 
paused for a dramatic moment and then 
llung the page over and flattened it into 
submission. After achieving this master 
stroke, the musical overlord resumed his 
chair as casually as though nothing had 
happened. Throughout the program he 
continued this artistic proceeding. I 
wondered what he could be, and sud- 
denly in a flash the whole thing dawned 
on me. The man was a professional page- 
turner! What a delightful way of mak- 
ing a living! 

Then came a second flash (two in an 
evening was almost my record). Why 
could not I, too, be a page-turner? So 
I studied him to learn the secret of his 
success. I took in his technic with both 
eyes and left the hall determined to be 
the world's greatest page-turner. 

Some day, after years of practice, I 
shall appear on the concert stage and 
amaze and charm the onlookers with the 
ease and dispatch with which I flip over 
the sheets, as quick as lightning and as 
smooth as cream. I only hope I get my 
first concert engagement before all the 
good pianists have gone into radio broad- 
casting; because, if my artistry is to be 
fully appreciated, the audience must see 
me in action. 



A Call 



H. R. McNeely 
Theme 13, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



SINCE I have been old enough to 
whittle a point on a stick of wood 
and call it a boat, I have loved boats and 
the water. From the time I first carved 



a crude, pointed structure, through a 
few years ago when I constructed a 
model yacht, and even now, after build- 
ing a full-sized sailboat, the water and all 



— II- 



7l> 



stories pertaining to boats have fasci- 
nated me. 

I have lived in a city on the Illinois 
River all my life. I have always liked to 
hike along the shore and watch the boats. 
My worshipping eyes have seldom seen 
the vast bodies of water which make the 
Great Lakes and the oceans, but even the 
very limited amount of time that has 
been mine in which to enjoy these fasci- 
nating expanses has been enough to let 
me know that I am greatly attracted to 
that vast, restless, evermoving, boundless 
something that I am unable to name — 
that cannot be named. 

For a few years, motor boats held my 
interest. I constructed working models 
and drew plans for my ideal boat. I 
never liked a large vessel that required 
a crew; I much preferred a smaller type 
that I — and perhaps one other — would be 
able to handle. These vessels were always 
of a type capable of traveling great 
distances without stopping for supplies. 
Then, without warning, my desires swept 
aside all motor boats, and I caught my- 
self dreaming of a sailboat. A friend 
and I found ourselves in the same mood. 
We discovered some old plans of a sail- 
boat that had been built more than thirty 
years ago and which had been very suc- 
cessful. The cost, as we estimated it, 
was within our means : our ability we did 
not doubt. We started early last summer 
to build the craft. By the middle of the 
summer we had our "Lark" completed 
and had her launched. She was a small 
boat — about sixteen feet long and five 
and one-half feet abeam. She carried one 
sail, the mainsail. In this boat I put in 
practice all the knowledge of sailing that 
I had learned by reading and studying. 
Of course, we made mistakes in the con- 
struction and we continued to make them 
in the sailing, but we gradually learned 
and grew in experience. 



As a result of these experiences, my 
eagerness to learn more and to travel 
farther led me to read books which por- 
tray the experiences of men who have 
fulfilled similar ambitions. One of the 
best of these is a book written by Captain 
John Slocum while making a voyage 
around the globe on a small yawl which 
he constructed from a boat about forty 
years old. This feat was accomplished 
alone. He did not have a shipmate dur- 
ing any part of his voyage. While read- 
ing this wonderful book, I lived with him 
in his experiences as though I had been 
there with him. Even now I sit and 
dream of taut sails and flying white 
spray; of the long days and nights of 
steady winds and clear skies; of his visits 
to many uninhabited islands and strange 
people; of his struggles in the mightiest 
of gales in which immense vessels were 
wrecked, but from which he emerged, 
always with unshakeable trust and faith 
in his little yawl. 

Pictures, too, awaken my mental wan- 
dering. Every time I see a picture or a 
drawing of a small sailing vessel, I'm 
carried away, as if by the sight of it I 
could be swooped up by some hurricane 
and placed on this very sloop, yawl, or 
schooner. Pictures fill my room ; sketches 
fill my books, sketches which have car- 
ried me far away from a boring class on 
some fantastic voyage. 

What is it that makes me such a 
dreamer? Why do I dream of such a 
life? Was there, somewhere in my long 
line of ancestors, a stout old mariner 
whose love for the sea has lain dormant 
during these intervening years and has 
finally been reincarnated in me? What- 
ever the reason or cause may be, the fact 
remains that I am a genuine amateur 
sailor. Some day I will have a boat. 
Then will I spend my hours in the realm 
of Poseidon. 



— 12- 



/7 



A Rhapsody in Green 

DONAN C. KiRLEY 
Theme 17, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



1 suddenly awakened as if from a 
dream, but surely I couldn't have 
been dreaming, not even sleeping, for I 
found myself walking down the corri- 
dors of University Hall. I marvelled at 
the prevalent silence. Where was every- 
one ? What was the urge that had caused 
me to enter the building and now at- 
tracted me up the long flights of stairs? 
I climbed step after step till I found 
myself at the very top of the building, 
and directly in front of me was a huge 
green door. As I stood wondering why 
I had not seen it before, a low, mysteri- 
ous voice said, "Enter Freshman," and 
I did. 

The door swung open, disclosing a 
huge room, octangular in shape. All the 
woodwork was green; the thick velvety 
carpets, the satin drapes, the floor, the 
ceiling were green. Soft green lamps 
shed verdant rays from behind the drapes 
showing a line of straight-backed chairs 
around the wall of the room, the backs 
of which were mirrors reflecting emerald- 
tinted images of everj-thing in the room, 
even myself. Green, green, green every- 
where. It brought to my mind a story 
I had once read. The Mask of the Red 
Death. Was I going to die ? In the center 
of this chamber was a huge kettle, heated 
by a fire, and emitting a vapor, all of 
which were colored with the predomi- 
nant green. I stood agape, waiting to see 
what would happen next, hoping for the 
best. The same commanding voice bade 
me be seated. The kettle boiled furiously 
and I was blinded by the ensuing steam. 



When the air had cleared sufficiently, I 
found that all the chairs were occupied 
by masked figures, dressed entirely in 
green, even to the shoes. As I watched, 
a gong sounded and each of the ma- 
jestic figures rose in turn and filed by 
the melting-pot and deposited into it a 
bundle of themes, muttering only these 
strange symbols, M4, MM4, B3, and the 
hke. 

The fire glowed brighter, the vapor 
thickened, the hum of the seething mass 
in the kettledrum grew louder. It re- 
minded me of a tea kettle humming mer- 
rily on a hearth. I watched with inter- 
est as the figures returned to their chairs 
and were seated. Suddenly the whole 
aspect was changed: the cheerful hum of 
the boiler turned to a slight hiss, the 
vapors became multi-colored to break 
the monotony of the green. I could see 
smiles of satisfaction under the masks 
of my unknown companions. However 
the hissing slowly receded, the colors 
faded from the steam, and it in turn dis- 
appeared itself. My senses were dulled by 
my strange surroundings and I was a bit 
at a loss to understand the procedure I 
had just witnessed, but my head cleared 
when the voice said, "Freshman, go, look 
into the caldron, and tell me what you 
see." A bit nervous and hesitant but curi- 
ous, I peered over its edges and saw lying 
in the bottom, twenty-one themes. 

I reported this to my unknown, unseen 
interlocutor, who answered, "Know you, 
that by the magic just performed by my 
assistants, these themes are deemed the 



13- 



best of your class. Go you, and strive 
that yours might be one of these thus 
chosen. Take care, however, that it is 
not lost from the caldron in the purple 
vapor of the comma fault, the orange of 
the period fault, the poisonous vapors of 
spelling, or the others." I began to under- 
stand the ceremony, and the meaning of 
its different stages, and the voice con- 
tinued, "Avoid these if possible, but do 
not fear them for they are pardonable, 
but never let it be known that a theme 
of yours shall be lost through the cal- 
dron's hiss, the hiss at plagiarism. We, 
the Council of the Green, have spoken." 
At these words the kettle boiled vigor- 



ously, the voice ceased, vapor clouded my 
eyes, and once again I found myself in 
a familiar corridor in University Hall. I 
searched in vain for another glimpse of 
the green portal, and so after a fruitless 
search I wended my way home still won- 
dering if it had been only a dream. 

On arriving at home I penned this, 
which I swear is as definite an account 
of the matter as I am capable of giving. 
I have a suppressed desire that it will 
find its way to the Green Room. It may, 
perchance, give cause to some colored 
vapors, but I assure you the kettle shall 
but hum, and the hissing shall be but a 
memory to the Council. 




A Foreigner's Attitude Toward 
America and Americans 



J. Hazen Fletcher 
Theme 10, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



{believe that it was Robert Burns who, 
many, many years ago, said, "Oh, 
would the Lord the giftie gie us, to see 
ourselves as others see us, t'vvould from 
many a worry and blunder free us." Per- 
haps I have not quoted his words to the 
letter, but how true these words are. 



How often our American ears would 
fairly burn if we could but know what 
people of other lands really think of us 
and of the things we consider really 
great. 

I had the good fortune, a few years 
ago, of making a short vacation trip into 



14 — 



^1 



one of our foreign neighbor countries. 
And what a surprise I received ! For 
some twenty odd years I had been living 
in the blissful illusion that I was indeed 
fortunate to be a citizen of the great- 
est nation of the earth, living in 
the midst of the most wonderful people 
that civilization had ever produced. 
1 doubt that the thought had ever 
entered my head that there was even 
such a thing as street cars in any cities 
but our own, or any skyscraper, but those 
of our own wonderful metropolitan 
cities. I had supposed, of course, that 
there were no great universities in any 
land except the dear old U.S.A. Why, 
1 just imagined that anyone who was so 
unfortunate as to live in any other part 
of the globe got up in the morning and 
went to bed at night, lamenting the fact 
that he wasn't an American ! 

Just how tar this was from the actual 
truth soon came home to me forcibly 
when I crossed the border into another 
land. Imagine my surprise ! They did 
have street cars ! In fact, my guide very 
soon informed me that it was the greatest 
street car system in the world, far sur- 
passing that of American cities such as 
New York or Chicago. I was also shortly 
informed that the tall buildings I saw 
were much superior in construction and 
beauty to those in the United States. My 



guide also took me to see the greatest 
university in the world. He said that the 
American universities did not compare 
in any way with those located in his 
country. While he was on the subject of 
telling me just what he thought of Amer- 
ica, I learned from him that we had the 
poorest government in the world. I 
found also that all of the criminals lived 
in Chicago, Detroit, and other large 
American cities. The Americans were 
very haughty and "high hat" he let me 
know. In fact, by the time that I had 
concluded my visit, I had reached the 
conclusion that there was only one thing 
upon United States soil that he thought 
was of any value whatever. That was 
the good old American silver dollar, half 
dollar, quarter, dime, nickel, and penny. 
And even then, one old lady from whom 
I made a purchase proceeded to bite the 
dime that I had given to her. 

To sum it all up, we Americans are 
crooked, selfish, egotistical, and really to 
be pitied. At least, my guide and others 
with whom I came into contact did their 
best to let me know that that was just 
exactly what they thought of us. And 
all the time, there kept running through 
my mind. Oh, would the Lord the giftie 
gie you, to see yourselves as others see 
you! 



Old Clothes 

J. p. Jordan 
Final Examination, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 

SOME of the most cherished posses- reminder of the things which he used to 
sions of any man are his old clothes, do, and the only things that he can ever 
To him they are a symbol of freedom, a find when he needs them. They make 



15 — 



him braver, stronger, and more com- 
manding. Even his wife, who is usually 
"the boss," trembles and does whatever 
he commands when he first returns home 
from a fishing trip. 

The history of old clothes is very in- 
teresting. It is generally conceded that 
Adam and Eve were the discoverers of 
these valuable articles. When the famous 
couple were forced to leave the Garden 
of Eden, they needed more clothes im- 
mediately. So Adam, being a gentleman, 
obligingly killed two animals and had 
Eve make their clothes. But even furs 
wear out ; so Adam was kept busy all 
the time furnishing his family with 
clothes and other necessities. Meanwhile, 
all the furs that had been discarded for 
newer and more modern ones were 
heaped in a large pile. Adam, being part 
Scotch, hated to see all of these articles 
go to waste, and so he built a tent for 
his children to play in and also keep them 
nearer home. He noticed that the tent 
was much more comfortable than the 
cave, and after Eve had been convinced 
that it was cosy and was the "last word" 
in residences, the entire family moved 
into the new structure. 

Everything went along fine for years, 
but finally all the children left home, and 
Adam and Eve were all alone. Both were 
old, very weak, and unable to do any 
work. One day, Adam wanted Eve to 
go out and get him some wood, in order 
that he might carve a letter to his sons. 
But Eve was too weak ; so she cut a skin 
oflf the side of the tent, handed her hus- 
band a hot poker, and he was able to 



send his letter by the earliest caravan. 
Adam, although he was old, was very 
crafty, and he immediately patented the 
idea. He sent out men to buy up all the 
old clothes — "rags," the women called 
them — so he could sell them again as the 
newest thing in letter-writing. But this 
caused a shortage in materials for houses, 
and the people threatened Adam if he 
didn't find a way to keep the families 
together. Adam concentrated for a long 
time, and at the county fair he made the 
solution of the problem known. He said 
to the people, "If we use for letters what 
we did use for homes, why not use for 
homes what we did use for letters?" And 
so he discovered the wooden house, but 
you must remember that old clothes led 
to all of these and many other dis- 
coveries. 

The preparation, uses, and properties 
of old clothes must be merely mentioned. 
Old clothes are prepared by over-enthu- 
siastic boys, careless men, and modern 
women. The process is slow, and the 
only catalysts known which will speed 
up the reaction are barbed-wire fences, 
boards with nails, and cigarettes. Hard 
work is also a good agent, but it isn't 
used by the women. Old clothes have 
many different properties. They are usu- 
ally ill-fitting and have numerous patches 
and holes. They are used by men for 
doing enjoyable things, and by the 
women for doing detestable things. So 
when you name the most valuable dis- 
covery that has ever been made don't 
forget old clothes. 



— 16 — 



"6^ 



Taking Notes 

George F. Fritzinger 
Final Exaviiuation, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



TAKING notes is an art. You have to 
be a genius to take notes that are 
readable. You have to be a stenographer 
to take notes from a lecturer. You have 
to be a librarian to keep them after you 
get them. In fact, you have to be a little 
of everything to be an expert note-taker. 

To take notes in a lecture room that 
has no desks is indeed a problem. You 
can write on a book placed upon your 
knees if you are an acrobat or wish to 
become hunch-backed. Even in a room 
in which there are arm-desks you can 
hardly write, because the co-ed next to 
you insists that her coat must not get out 
of shape. A person who wishes to be- 
come a master of the art is wise if he or 
she will learn short-hand. If you know 
short-hand you can follow any lecturer, 
except perhaps Floyd Gibbons. Also, if 
your notes are in short-hand, your very 
dear friends will probably not be able to 
read them, and therefore you may find 
them when you need them. 

Note-taking in the library is an entirely 
different thing from taking notes in a lec- 
ture room. You have plenty of room. 



and sometimes have plenty of time. You 
can get a reference book, take it to a 
table, and work at your own pace. As 
soon as you get one note-card filled, a 
friend comes along and wants to share 
the book. You argue with him until he 
is content to take y^our notes and copy 
from them. When you get them back 
they are liable to be covered with ink 
blots or remainders of some candy bar. 

After you get the precious notes you 
will probably want to use them, if they 
are still readable. A small card file comes 
in handy if you know how to use one. 
You will probably have to buy one with a 
lock on it, or 3'ou could buy a small safe. 
When you want to use the notes to write 
a theme or to study for a quiz, be sure 
that you have the window closed, or you 
may spend the rest of the night sorting 
your notes. 

At the end of the semester, if the notes 
are in good condition, you can auction 
them off. If there are no bidders they 
can be made into confetti, or used as 
book-marks, souvenirs, or to start the 
fire. 




— 17- 



The Art of Goat Milking 



Jack E. Anderson 
Expository Theme, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



HAVING spent many years of my 
most adventurous life among the 
misty and mysterious realms of numer- 
ous mountain ranges, I have, as a result, 
broadened my knowledge of mountain 
life, and have advanced many of my 
theories which came as a consequence of 
my extensive research. It has not only 
given me a thorough understanding of 
the composition and decomposition of 
the various types of mountains, but it has 
rendered me competent in several chores 
of the rugged mountaineer. 

That which I have practiced most per- 
sistently is goat-milking. At frequent in- 
tervals during my explorations, it was 
necessar}' that I obtain food by other 
means than that of transporting it, be- 
cause it was impossible to carry extra 
provisions. It was then that I had in my 
company at least a half-dozen mountain 
goats to insure myself against starvation. 

I immediately got the impression that 
the goat was a very friendly animal, and 
a very desirable companion, but when it 
came to the problem of milking it, I soon 
learned that one must be as considerate 
as possible towards it, lest he be con- 
fronted with the task of learning how to 
climb trees. Since I have found this goat- 
milking to be a very tedious and perplex- 
ing process, it is best that those desiring 
to become adept goat-milkers adhere 
closely to the rules laid forth by one who 
is experienced. 

Beginners should practice with only 
the highest breed of mountain goat, be- 
cause this will require their making a 



journey into the mountains, and they 
should take advantage of every oppor- 
tunity to travel. The highest breed is de- 
sired, because the higher the breed, the 
higher they live in the mountains, and 
one should aim to travel up into space as 
well as out into it. When the actual milk- 
ing is begun, a radio will present itself to 
good advantage by keeping the goat in a 
good humor. Since a goat can not swat 
flies as easily as a cow can, someone 
should be present with a fly-swatter. If 
the goat objects to being swatted, every 
effort should be made to capture the flies 
before they find the goat. This is rather 
immaterial, however, because there are 
no flies in the mountains anyway. If, for 
some unknown reason, the goat should 
become angered, and turn upon his in- 
citer, no effort should be made by the 
latter to flee. Rather, he should very 
cheerfully allow the goat to butt him a 
few times, and in most instances the 
goat's rage will be subdued to such an 
extent, that he will lie down and go to 
sleep. Of course, if one is so charged by 
a goat that doesn't seem to be that kind 
of a goat, he might do well to climb the 
nearest tree, and if the goat happens to 
be the kind that can climb trees, one, by 
all means, should not climb the same tree 
the goat does. Of course, if the goat per- 
sists upon climbing the same tree as does 
the person whom he is pursuing, one 
should try to sing songs to the goat, or 
employ any similar means that will so 
move the animal's emotions that he will 
be in no mood to fight. As to the method 



18 — 



of obtaining and drinking the milk, it is 
practically identical to that in the case of 
the cow, only in the former instance, one 
does not have to sit upon a stool. 

One should not be discouraged if he 
fails to make a success of this venture, 
because he must remember that people 
are all born for the various professions. 



and in each case they make a name for 
themselves. So if one can not co-operate 
with the goat, he should just remember 
that if he will exchange a few harsh 
words with the goat before he abandons 
the idea entirely, in all probability, the 
goat will give him a name he will never 
forget. 




Fireside Spectres 

F. G. Feltham 

Theme 17, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



KEEPERS of all hours we are in this 
twentieth century. That is, those of 
us who see no merit in adhering to a 
stringent Franklinian code of action. And 
so, it is not surprising that we are to be 
found at this late hour. We have just 
arrived home from a tiring and intermin- 
able evening of bridge, or a dance and 
late dinner, or a tryst with a captivating 
inamorata from whom we did not wish 
to part. And we are tired, almost to re- 
gretting the hours wasted in social inter- 
course. Cold, too, for Winter is almost 
on, and though there is no snow mantling 
the ground, the air is biting, the walks 
and windowpanes are covered with frost, 
and the muddy puddles in the roadways 
are rimmed with ice. 

But our room is cosy. We take off our 
wraps, and hang them up or throw them 



down as we see fit, and walk over to the 
fireplace — for fireplaces are still extant 
— to warm our hands in the welcome, 
friendly blaze. It is restful to be alone, 
away from all disturbing noises — rau- 
cous voices or idle and trivial patterings. 
Outside all is still, with an unfathomable, 
formless silence that bursts in upon us 
like a concurrence of shrill, voiceless 
screams. Somewhere, we know not 
where, there is a something, we know not 
what, waiting for something to happen. 
A few gaunt elms, with bare limbs 
stretched beseechingly toward heaven, 
are visible through the frosted pane. A 
few, weak, meagre rays of silver are 
spared by a sickly moon. 

Within all is still, too, save for the 
logs in the grate as they spit and crackle 
in fierce defiance of their cremation, and 



19- 



an occasionally muffled thump as the 
house moves on its aching timbers. 

We are quite aware that we ought to 
be in bed. We will be there — after we 
have sat for a short while in reposeful 
contemplation before the open fire. The 
heat envelops and caresses our bodies. 
Slowly we become slaves to an age-old 
fascination, a fascination which stirs 
within us a tumult of emotions and 
arouses dim, atavistic desires for a soli- 
tude which, with a poignant sense of 
frustration, we know can never be wholly 
ours. We pay mute homage. We sink 
into a mental and physical suspension. 
It is not night; it is not morning; the 
time is indefinable. We are not in the 
present ; we are vaguely between the past 
and the future, thinking in terms of the 
past and in terms of the future — though 
held more by the past. Our flux of 
chaotic thought, of troubled illusion, is 
subject to no norm of mathematical pre- 
cision. We are alone in the world. We 
alone are animate. We are worlds in 
ourselves. The walls of the room close 
in and become our orbit. The lambent 
flames throw long, writhing fingers of 
evil on the cold and distant ceiling over 
us. The trembling shadows have no 
beauty, and are repellent, but they catch 
momentarily our glances. 

Phantoms of other days pass before us 
in quiet panorama. Yesterday is at our 
fingertips, at our beck and call. There 
is Jack ! There is Jim ! There is Margaret ! 
They have not changed. The years have 
taken no toll of them. Faint in the dis- 
torted light of retrospection they are yet 
as we knew them eons ago. We clasp 
hands. We renew old friendships ; re- 
live the old, careless hours when life, 
fraught with no disquieting significances, 
stretched meaningless and endless ahead 
of us; fight our fights over again; suffer 
the same defeats ; are moved by the same 



passions and fears that moved us as 
children. 

And now the imagery becomes almost 
grotesque, bizarre to the point of ab- 
surdity — though nothing seems absurd. 
Our semi-conscious thoughts impinge 
themselves upon our subconscious 
thoughts. Gradually our eyelids close 
down. Faintly, faintly on the heavy air 
comes the solemn, wavering ululation of 
a distant locomotive ; it blends into and 
becomes a part of our drowsiness. The 
flames leap and pulsate, advance and re- 
treat, against a nebulous background of 
hallucination. New eidolons subvert the 
old. History, mythology — characters 
from our literary forays — push back, dis- 
perse the palpable spectres we had 
dragged from their graves of years. Cen- 
turies and millenniums are traversed in a 
few, fleeting seconds. DeQuincy smiles 
in his opium dream. Voltaire leers sar- 
donically as he records the caprices of 
human nature. Nelson falls again to the 
slippery blood-soaked deck of the "Vic- 
tory" crying, in his supererogation, 
"Thank God I have done my duty!" Na- 
poleon gloomily relives his gloomy Wat- 
erloo, sees his shattered hopes tumble be- 
fore him in mocking ruins. Caesar ex- 
pires groaning, "Et tii Brutef" The tru- 
culent Achilles once more battles the des- 
perate Hector before the walls of Troy. 
And Orpheus again wanders from 
Hades, alone and disconsolate, sadly call- 
ing to his lost Eurydice. 

But the fire has smouldered low, and 
we are awakened by the cold, no longer 
warmed by our nocturnal visitants. Van- 
ished our dreams. Gone our feeling of 
suspension. We are no longer self-sufifi- 
cient universes: we are but pitiable, in- 
finitesimal parts of universes. Some- 
where a clock chimes its inevitable 
awakening tocsin. .Somewhere, we are 
assured, others are up and stirring. A 



-20- 



8^7 



faint auroral flush stirs the darkness. 
Away with illusions ! The daylight will 
not support them ! Back to realities — the 



so-called verities of life. The present 
with its practical and tangible figures 
looms up sharply, is once more with us. 



Modeling 

Ruth G. McClain 
Theme 15, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



BEAUTIFUL clothes, curving stairs, 
an artistically furnished salon, lovely 
girls walking, pirouetting gracefully be- 
fore well-groomed society women — such 
was the idea of modeling that motion- 
pictures and a vivid imagination had 
painted for me. Therefore my excite- 
ment knew no bounds when, because of 
the kindly recommendation of a friend 
who, I confess, had greatly exaggerated 
my experience and ability, I received a 
call from a well-known dress establish- 
ment to appear ready for work at ten 
o'clock the following morning. At last 
my dreams were to be realized: I was to 
sweep majestically down the curving 
stairs, the dress I wore the center of 
admiring eyes. So I practiced a sedate 
step before a full length mirror until far 
into the night. 

At a quarter to ten the next morning 
I approached, somewhat timidly, the 
"mecca" of my dreams. The outside of 
the building was, at best, discouraging, 
but summoning my courage I entered the 
somewhat dingy foyer, climbed innum- 
erable stairs, and arrived at the door, 
whose plate glass proclaimed, "Henri de 
Jardin: Distinctive Dinner Dresses." A 
hasty dab of powder, and I entered to 



find — not the "salon" of my dreams, but 
instead, a long, rather ugly room, car- 
peted in blue, with high, uncurtained 
windows across two sides, and racks of 
dresses everywhere. After a brief inter- 
view with M. de Jardin, wherein I lied 
bravely but, I fear, not very convincing- 
ly, I was ushered, by a sullen, colored 
maid, into an adjoining room. A dress, 
lovely in texture and design, was handed 
to me, and, as I slipped it over my head, 
my self-confidence returned. I again 
practiced m}' sedate step before the mir- 
ror, and, like a prima donna poised to 
greet her public, I emerged from the 
doorway and walked slowly, and, as I 
thought in the best "model" manner, 
across the room. 

Expecting to find approval and admi- 
ration written on my interviewer's face, 
I was deeply hurt to discover that he 
was smiling, not in admiration but in 
complete amusement. Worse, the smile 
turned into a grin, and then into a hearty 
laugh. I, somewhat dejected, stood still 
and then in sudden anger rushed from 
the room. But I was hired ! I was hired 
not because I could model but because 
the "buyers" were to arrive at any mo- 
ment; in the next few minutes I was 



— 21 — 



coached until I could walk naturally and 
briskly. Then, the "buyers" began to 
arrive in twos and threes — hard, calcu- 
lating men and women. They did not 
notice the model, but took in every de- 
tail of each dress. In the next hour I 
wore some twenty dresses, and before 



the day was over I had worn those same 
twenty dresses five or six times each. My 
head and bones ached; I no sooner ar- 
rived home than I fell asleep to dream 
of scintillating satin and rustling taffeta, 
only to awake to realities — namely, tired 
muscles and throbbing feet. 



Jose Pardo 

Ernesto del Risco 
Theme 10, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



JOSE PARDO was a queer man. He 
was bold, ironical, and shrewd. In- 
difference and forget fulness constituted 
the basis of his temperament. Nothing 
was important for him, and he would 
always forget everything. 

He had spent nearly all his money in 
his journeys through South America and 
Mexico, as a newspaper man in one town, 
as a merchant in another, here selling 
cattle, there selling wine. He was one 
of those men who accept everything 
without protesting, and who fail in 
life because of their indifference and 
inertia. 

He was a dreamer. It was enough for 
him to look at the running water, at a 
cloud or at a star, to forget the most im- 
portant plans of his life, and to leave his 
most important task undone. 



On a certain occasion he went to work 
in a large plantation in Argentine, and 
as Jose was rather good looking and had 
a pleasant personality, the owner of the 
plantation offered him his daughter's 
hand in marriage. Jose, who liked the 
free life at the plantation, accepted and 
was about to be married, when he began 
to get homesick for his little town in the 
mountains. 

As it was not his custom to give long 
explanations, one morning at daybreak 
he told the father of his fiancee that he 
was going to Buenos Aires to buy a wed- 
ding present. He mounted his horse, and 
when he reached the capital, he got on 
the train, and bidding farewell to the 
beautiful pampas and to the hospitable 
land of the "gauchos" he started on his 
way to Peru. 



— 22 — 



"The Rivet in Grandfather's Neck" 



Nettie Fine 
Impromptu — Assigned Title, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



HE was the leanest, lankiest grand- 
father I had ever seen. As he sat 
in his old arm-chair, or moodily slammed 
newspapers to the living room rug, he 
looked like an elongated question mark. 
A good many years before, he had 
come to live with us, and was a per- 
manent fixture as far back as I could 
remember. 

Grandfather's head drooped on a very 
lean neck, so that his body and head were 
riveted together by an outstanding 
Adam's apple. The venerable old man 
was very self-conscious about it, and al- 
ways vk^ore heavy scarfs to conceal this 
peculiarity. 

His head always bobbed in the fiercest 
way and his neck contracted when his 
word was doubted or his never dormant 
anger aroused. I shall not forget the 
time I argued with him, and mother cau- 
tiously murmured, "The Rivet ! Careful 
for the Rivet !" 

From that time on, the barometer to 



Granddaddy's emotion was his neck. We 
could see a storm brewing or a storm 
subsiding by looking closely. I think he 
realized this, for he would always tap 
his cane and order me away whenever I 
would stare, fascinated. 

If he was especially pleased, he wore 
the most bitter expression and swallowed 
very slowly, once, and twice. At times 
like this, the rivet in grandfather's neck 
almost fell out. 

There was the time Sister Sue married 
John. Granddaddy was very pleased, but 
hated to show it. He tried manfully to 
overcome those two "swallows," but was 
conquered by them. Laughingly, we 
gathered around him and watched the 
struggle. When he lost. Sue came over 
and kissed him. 

But the e.xpression on Grandfather's 
face was very bitter, and the rivet in 
Grandfather's neck very prominent, as 
he snatched his scarf and wrapped it 
around him. 



My Own B^awmont and, Fletcher 

H. Dahlke 

Impromptu theme — After reading Lamb's "Old China," 
Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



T TOW I did admire those German uni- 
■^ ' versity students who sauntered down 
the streets twirling a cane in their hands ! 
To me, although I was only eleven years 
old and a recent arrival from America 
to that quaint town of Jena, the canes 



possessed a magnetic influence. Often I 
would sneak up behind some students 
who were talking with one another and 
look at their sticks. Some were natural 
canes ; others were artificial ones, but all 
carved and polished in a most wonderful 



— 23 — 



ft) 



manner. In my imagination I often swag- 
gered down the street with a cane in my 
hand. One day as I passed a woodwork- 
er's shop, I saw a beautiful walking-stick 
hanging in the window. A ram's head 
was carved at the handle, beneath which 
were leaves of a vine curling around the 
cane and encircling the ram's head. Many 
mysterious and peculiar designs were 
carved on its length. Oh, it was a won- 
derful cane. Day after day I passed the 
shop and paused to admire it. Finally, I 
plucked up my courage, walked into the 
shop, and asked, "How much does the 
cane which is hanging in the window 
cost?" "Eight marks," answered the 
woodworker. I turned and walked out 
quickly ; as I closed the door, I heard the 
shop-keeper laugh. That laugh humiliated 
me. But — eight marks, and I had only 
two in my pocket. Looking at the cane, 
I made up my mind to have it. 

Upon my arrival home, I announced 
to my surprised mother that if she would 
increase my weekly allowance I would be 
a good boy, and that if she would 
increase my allowance still further I 
would do the household chores — things 
that were highly distasteful to me. How 
my brothers chuckled when they heard 
that I was going to be the model boy! 
Shades of Tantalus ! his tortures were 
mild when compared to the trials I went 
through. My brothers certainly had a 
well-developed plan to frustrate my at- 
tempts. The cane, however, was continu- 
ally before my eyes, and I endured their 
measly and petty pranks as any stolid 
Apache Indian would endure the tortures 
of his captors. Slowly my mone}' began 
to increase; now, I had four marks. If 
I was oflfered money to go to a show, I 



took it and then went for a walk. My 
mouth watered when I saw my brothers 
munch on candy bars. I held steadfast ; 
I wanted the cane. Absolutely no pleas- 
ure did I allow myself. For a stimulus in 
my efforts to gain the cane, I would look 
at it every day, and thus kept up my in- 
terest. Nobody knew what I was going 
to do with the money, and suspicions 
were being aroused in my mother. If 
I could only stave her, as well as my 
brothers, off, and then bring the cane 
to them, and show the prize which I 
had acquired ! 

Finally, having the eight marks, I 
rushed into the town to get the cane. I 
ran as fast as I could ; I tore down the 
narrow and crooked old streets ; I 
bumped into people ; and I barely escaped 
the passing automobiles as I whizzed 
across the streets. Around the next cor- 
ner was the shop. I whirled around, and, 
there, the cane was not hanging in the 
window anymore. A student stepped out 
of the shop with my cane — the cane that 
rightfully belonged to me. My whole 
world collapsed ; I had failed, and tears 
of disappointment rose in my eyes. The 
world was unjust. I firmly resolved to be 
an enemy of all university students. They 
were all alike; all they could do was to 
make little boys miserable, for that one 
who bought my cane had no right to do 
so. Instead of drinking my grief down 
as an adult would, I ate it down with 
candy. In a short time I tottered weakly 
homeward. In a semi-dazed condition, I 
heard my mother say as I opened the 
door and tumbled in, "Why Henry, what 
is the matter with you!" then, "Call the 
doctor. Quick!" 



-24 — 



^/ 



The Swimming Hole 

Helen Westerman 
Imj^roinfta Tlicnic — Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



BY no stretch of the imagination could 
my old place for swimming be called 
a pool — it was a hole and nothing more. 
In some wide bend of the creek in the 
woods we would find a place where our 
knees did not scrape bottom as we dog- 
paddled about ; this became our swim- 
ming-hole for that summer. Since then 
I have learned all the geological reasons 
for the water being deeper on the convex 
side of a stream meander, but at that 
time we were glad to find any hole deep 
enough to swim in. We would construct 
some sort of an insecure spring board on 
the bank or just swing out on some over- 
hanging willows and drop into the water. 
There was always a small sandy beach to 
play upon and old logs to use for canoes. 
The water was dirty and full of debris, 
especially after rains, but we seldom 
were kept from our daily plunge by any- 
thing as insignificant as the increased va- 
riety of ingredients in the water. 

One thing I shall alwa3's remember is 
the great variety of bathing costumes 
worn. The bathers ranged from the ages 
of four to sixteen and the costumes had 
a comparatively wide range of individu- 
ality. A few fortunate swimmers wore 
regular suits but these were usually the 
reward of learning to swim. Some came 
in old dresses, some in overalls, some in 



gymnasium bloomers, some in cut-out 
coveralls, and some even in union suits. 
It was comical to see someone floating 
along on the water with his clothes bal- 
looning above him like sails. 

Perhaps in reminiscence I magnify the 
fun we had, but I do not believe so. We 
splashed about on water wings and rub- 
ber tires and boards, and swallowed gal- 
lons of water and germs ; but we had the 
best times of our lives in that old swim- 
ming hole. We had to use persuasion 
and bribery on our mothers to take us 
there, but we managed to go at least once 
a day. 

As I look back, however, I see one 
dark spot on this memory — Aunt Jane. 
Aunt Jane (who could ask a more typi- 
cal name?) had a very queer idea of 
what constituted an afternoon's swim. 
She would take us to the creek, allow 
us to swim for ten minutes, scrub us 
with soap and a brush for fifteen min- 
utes, tell us to wash the soap ofif, and 
then insist upon going home. We seldom 
asked Aunt Jane to take us swimming. 

I would probably be very much 
shocked if any child of mine should want 
to swim in as dangerous and dirty a place 
as the old creek, for there were quick- 
sands and whirlpools, but I am glad that 
I once had the opportunity. 



■25 — 



Crowding the Hero Bench 

Evelyn Nelson 
Theme 14, Rhetoric II. 1929-30 



Iwas a sophomore in high school and 
had entered a beginning swimming 
class. I had always felt that some day I 
would meet death by drowning, and I 
was determined to overcome the fear 
that seemed to grip my soul when I came 
near a large body of water. The class 
had met for three weeks, and I began 
to feel proud because I was not afraid 
to walk in water up to my shoulders — 
yes, I was really brave ! The first funda- 
mentals of swimming had been given to 
us, and I had learned to float on my back. 

It was on the first Wednesday in Octo- 
ber — a day I will never forget — that the 
teacher announced that the advanced 
swimming class was holding a life saving 
test after school, and the teacher thought 
that probably one of the beginners would 
volunteer to act as the rescued person. 
"It would be so much better for the other 
girls if we really had a girl who couldn't 
swim," said the teacher. 

All was quiet, save for the lapping 
sound of the water against the side of 
the pool. We looked at each other ; we 
were all alike in one respect — cowards 
when it came to deep water. After a 
long pause a weak voice said, "I'll volun- 
teer." It was my voice ! I wondered what 
had prompted me to defy my fear for 
that moment. I shook as I looked toward 
the deep end of the pool — it was there 
that the life saving test would take place. 
My eyes shifted to the side — the mark- 
read fifteen — fifteen feet, horrors ! that 
was three times my height. I shivered 
and somehow I didn't enjoy my lesson in 



lloating that day as much as I had previ- 
ously. 

The geometry class seemed extremely 
short that day, and the class in English 
was even shorter. It was four o'clock ! 
Shucks, there was nothing to be afraid 
of — at least I wouldn't pretend to them 
that I was scared — besides they were all 
good swimmers. 

I dressed, or rather undressed, and 
went to the pool. There were five seniors 
taking the test. I had met the girls be- 
fore. The}- thought it was so nice of me 
to let them practice on me. Practice? I 
thought they knew everything about 
swimming and that this w'as a test, not a 
practice. 

The test began and the first girl tool< 
me across the length of the pool with 
her hands at my waist. The instructions 
were to lie perfectly still and I complied. 
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the 
fifteen foot mark, and a dull, sinking 
sensation came over me. I shut my eyes 
for a moment, and I imagined I knew 
just how Joan of Arc must have felt. 
The second trip started. The senior held 
me by the chin, and with a side stroke 
proceeded to cross the pool. It happened 
before I realized it — her hand slipped 
and she pushed my face into the water. 
I was terrorized ! My eyes caught the 
number fifteen ! It was deep ! She had 
let go ! My time had come ! I splashed 
madly about, waving my arms wildly. 
The girl dived under the w-ater and tried 
to bring me up from underneath. I made 
one grab for her neck and hung fast. She 



-26- 



7 :i 



tried to loosen my hold but it was frozen, 
and with a desperate kick she pried her- 
self loose and swam toward the edge. 
Someone was shouting, "Float, Evelyn, 
float!" Float? What was floating? Who 
was floating? Where had I heard the 
word "float" before ? Couldn't they see I 
was drowning? My eyes were full of 
water, my mouth was full of water, and 
my stomach was full of water too. Then 
I remembered that someone had told me 
that one never comes up after the third 
time. I had gone down twice, and I knew, 
I just knew they would let me drown. 
My eyes were hazy but I caught the sight 
of the teacher making a running dive for 



me. I wouldn't die after all — she was the 
teacher — I was going down for the third 
time. 

Someone was asking me how I felt. 
They were pumping what seemed to be 
gallons and gallons of water out of me, 
but I was sure it would take days. I 
thought of only two things — they had 
not let me drown, and I would never 
volunteer to play the hero act again. 

The next day the school paper came 
out with an article entitled, "Water in 
the swimming pool is lowered two inches 
as sophomore quenches thirst." No one 
knows, or ever will know, what I paid 
for such publicity. 




My Playhouse 

Velma a. Denny 
Theme 10, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



THERE are playhouses and play- 
houses. Some of them are of the 
finest wood and design, while others 
exist for the most part in the minds of 
their owners. The houses built from the 
imagination are sources of wonder to the 
parents who just cannot see the roofs 
and walls which their offspring abso- 
lutely know are there. Is it any wonder 
that parents start muttering that inevit- 



able "I wonder what this generation is 
coming to" behind the backs of their six- 
year-olds ? 

But my parents never had to stretch 
their imagination in looking at my play- 
house, for it was a barn! Yes, even if 
my middle name is Alice (a name which 
should only be applied to delicate, doll- 
loving little girls), I spent my happiest 
davs in our old red barn. I shall never 



-27- 



forget how thrilled I was as I whizzed 
down the best sliding board of all — the 
hay mound. I knew perfectly well that 
Dad would never have permitted me to 
do it if he had known. But that enchant- 
ing and peculiar ticklish feeling which 
came to me just before I finished my 
slide quite overcame my fear of Dad's 
anger ! 

The hay was also another enjoyment 
for me. The cows many times had 
sneaked into the barn when some one had 
forgotten to shut the door. They had 
started immense tunnels through the 
sides of the hay. This maze of tunnels 
became a mythical and romantic laby- 
rinth for me. How much courage it took 
to make myself crawl into that intense, 
smothering darkness ! I was always fas- 
cinated by those tunnels, and the sweat 
stood out on my forehead as I thought 
how awful it would be if that hay should 
cave in upon me ! But that Marco-Polo, 
just-conquered-the-world feeling which 
came to me as I crawled out quite repaid 
me for my fears. 



Then, too, how could I ever forget the 
oats granary! If you have never lain in 
a cool bed of oats and poured the trick- 
ling, slick grains between your bare toes, 
you cannot understand this enticing part 
of my playhouse. Why, I almost learned 
to swim in the granary! No one could 
have made me believe that that pile of 
grain was not the largest ocean in the 
world ! 

Then, I will confess my greatest thrill 
of all (and the most embarrassing one, 
too). I used to stand on our old, rusty 
corn planter, which was a glorious Ro- 
man chariot to me. With the f razzly, old 
buggy whip I would furiously beat the 
imagined horses. Then, in keeping with 
the chariot race atmosphere, the squawks 
of the chickens, frightened by my mad 
ravings, seemed to be the applause of the 
spectators in the arena ! 

So all of these things formed my child- 
hood playhouse. And, although you may 
not believe it, I have lived through it and 
I shall always say that I am glad that 
my playhouse was the old red barn. 




-28- 



Reflections in the Coal Room 



f^ 



]\Iarvine Dover 
Theme 17, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



BEING locked in the coal room, with 
nobody home, is not a laughable situ- 
ation. Even now, when that incident is 
brought up in my presence, I blush, hang 
my head sheepishh', and quickly change 
the subject. 

One Sunday, because my parents had 
left for the day, I had the duty of caring 
for the furnace. Although I had been 
down twice and had put in several shov- 
els of coal, at four o'clock the house 
seemed chill}'. Whenever I went to the 
basement I was frightened, and, since I 
was all alone, this time the trip was more 
distasteful than ever. I hastily unlocked 
the door, turned on the light, and started, 
with much reluctance, down the steps. 
When I reached the bottom one, I looked 
all around to be sure no one was hiding 
in the dark corners. When I was sure 
that I was alone, I ventured into the 
furnace room, grabbed the shovel, and 
in two seconds was in the coal room. A 
little path had been cut into the coal 
which had been put in just a week be- 
fore. I went to the end of this and 
started shoveling. Coal started rolling 
on both sides of me, and, before I re- 
alized what was happening, the door was 
securely blockaded by three or four tons 
of dirty, black coal ! 

Reflection is a mild word to describe 
the thoughts which raced through my 
mind as I realized the situation in which 
I had been placed. With much repug- 
nance I seated myself on a large lump of 
coal. I thought of all the pleasant things 
I could be doing — of the radio upstairs, 



of the mystery story which I had just 
started. Time dragged on. From four 
o'clock until six o'clock I sat on that coal 
pile and thought. I did not think frivo- 
lous thoughts; I thought out great plans 
by wliich I could get back to comfort and 
civilization again. However, every plan 
seemed to have a flaw in it. When I tried 
to crawl out by the window, I found that 
it had been boarded up for the winter. 
When I tried to dig myself out with the 
coal shovel, the coal only rolled back with 
more energv' than I could shovel it. I 
gave up. I would die there, and when 
my body was finally dug out, I would be 
praised as a martyr by everyone. With 
these morbid thoughts in mind, I began 
idly to pick up the coal and to throw it 
over my shoulder. After several minutes, 
I noticed that the coal was staying be- 
hind me; it did not roll back as before. 
With this theory in mind, I started to 
work. At six-thirty I had a small space 
cleared in front of the door. At seven 
o'clock I opened the door and actually 
ran upstairs. When I reached the stair- 
way to the second floor, I looked at my- 
self in the hall mirror. Shoveling coal 
with my bare hands had not improved 
my appearance. My hands and arms 
were black, my face was streaked with 
coal dust, and I even tasted coal for a 
Vv^eek ! 

After I had cleaned up, I sat down to 
think about my strange imprisonment. I 
realized at last the real reason why I had 
escaped. It was not by hurrying and 



-29- 



7^ 



frantically trying to shovel the coal out 
of the way. I had gained my freedom 
by slowly placing each piece of coal in a 
firm, stable position. Several times since 



then I have been inclined to be too hasty, 
but I always stop and remember that 
afternoon in the coal room before I do 
anything without thinking. 




Incident at Sea 



James Piielan 
Rhetoric II, 1930-31 



TWO seamen loitered aft on the 
schooner, talking. 
"Where you sailin' from, lad?" 
"Boston. First voyage off the coast." 
"Mmmm." The old man bit down 

upon his pipe reflectively, and was silent 

for a minute. "Thinkin* of stickin' to 

it? I mean for a trade, sort of?" 

"I dunno, sir. The sea seems to be a 

splendid thing, always alive and moving ; 

never a time when it's dull, like the land. 

And I have no ties. No home folks, I 

mean." 

The old sailor shifted his position to 

guard his pipe bowl from the quartering 

wind that flapped through the pennants. 

"It's the sea then for you, my boy, and 



no willing it on your part. I know. I 
stood in your shoes forty — no, forty-two 
years ago, almost to the month. At New 
Bedford it was, when whalers went out 
for four years, a year to Greenland and 
then around the Cape to the north Pa- 
cific with never a stop at home port. The 
whaler I shipped on is rotting on the bot- 
tom now, I guess, but here I am smelling 
the salt winds and heading down ag'inst 
the Gulf Stream again." 

The boy looked at him with a trace of 
questioning in his eyes. "You talk as 
though you might be regretting it, sir. 
I envy you." 

The man hemmed disparagingly in his 
throat, and made as if to speak, but re- 



— 30 — 



^? 



niaineci silent a while. Then after a 
pause he replied slowh-, "There's some- 
thin' in the sea that — challenges you. 
Devil sea, the old sailors call it, but you 
don't see it that wa}' now, of course. 
After forty )-ears, like me, you begin to 
feel that life comes down to just a pri- 
vate battle between you and the waters 
of the world, as the Bible calls it, with 
hands olT to everyone else. You go for 
days at a time on friendly speaking 
terms with each other, you whistlin' 
some tune under your breath, and the sea 
as calm as a valley pond, and then one 
night she begins growlin', and snakes a 
wet arm at you out of a heavin' storm. 
And always at night, when you're layin' 
in your bunk, you can hear the waters, 



tons of them, whisperin' within three 
feet of your head, luring you, like them 
women in foreign ports. But she's pati- 
ent, the sea is, like no woman, and '11 
wait thirt}' or forty years for you, and 
never complain. Long as I've beat her, 
I'm still watching myself during a dark 
night, when there's a wet deck under me. 
It's a hard life, son, and a cold, cold 
death." 

They stood silently looking over the 
rail, and the old man took his pipe from 
his mouth and pointed the stem down 
at the wake. He grinned. "Show your 

teeth, you old ; you won't get 

me." Then he knocked the coals from 
his pipe against the rail. They hissed as 
they fell into the sea. 




— 31 — 



T-HtCKtEN 
CALDKON 




VOLUME 1 



May 1932 



NUMBER 4 



rf 



THE GREEN CALDRON 



Ma-^ 1932 



CONTENTS 

The Forceful Mr. Pierce — Jerome Nelson 3 

On a Dog — Edward Dudsinski 4 

A Fourth of July — Mary Catharine Stoner S 

Harvest with a Combine — Robert D. Jones 6 

Violent Emotions — George A. Johnson 9 

Cause and Effect — Nettie Fine 10 

Why I Don't Like Cactus — Leila Nendell 11 

The End of the Narcissus — \V. S. Eisfelder 12 

To A Prospective Duck Hunter — G. C. Sharp 13 

Air Minded — Beeklcy J^Iiller 16 

The White Angel Jungle — Elden F. Miller 18 

The Popularity of Jazz — James L. Rainey 19 

A Consoling Crumb for Eve — James Phelan 20 

A Gener.\l Education for a 

Specific Career — Florence I. Adams 21 

Textbook: World — Owen Reamer 23 

Esperanto — M. A. McQuozan 25 

There Ought to Be a Law — Helen IVcstcrman 30 



published by the rhetoric staff 
university of illinois 

URBANA 



VOLUME I NUMBER 4 



/oo 



The Forceful Mr. Pierce 



/O/ 



Jerome Nelson 

Theme 13, Rhetoric 2, 1930-31 



<<\/UP, my boy, I ain't never had any 
*■ luck but bad luck." 

It was five minutes to five o'clock, and 
Mr. Pierce and I, lost to the sight of the 
foreman, lingered among the stock boxes 
which were filled with small steel cast- 
ings. He was terribly dirty. His shoes 
were heavy and worn over at the heels. 
His overalls, covered with a coating of 
machine oil and fine steel filings, pulled 
on his frail shoulders. The blue shirt 
that he wore was soaked with sour- 
smelling sweat, for the day had been 
beastly hot. As I hastily glanced at his 
face (I could hardly bear to look at it), 
I could think only of a chicken. The 
cords in his neck bulged out as he spoke, 
much as do the windpipes on the neck of 
a featherless hen. The day's growth of 
beard, clogged with sticky dirt, gave his 
face a ghastly look. His narrow, short 
chin, and his Hebrew nose brought out 
the hen appearance to perfection. And 
his small, wild, ignorant eyes searched 
me for pity, which I found it difficult to 
give. 

"I had a nice little farm near Elburn 
a few years ago," he continued in his 
chattering, squeaky voice. "The first year 
I got pneumonia, yuh know, and it took 
all of the year's harvest to pay the doc- 
tor." 

He clapped his toothless jaws together 
and stared at me, expecting sympathy. 
I did feel sorry for him, but one could 
see in a glance that he was always ill. 
In fact, I doubted whether he hatl had 
pneumonia. 



"And then the next year the big barn 
burnt down." 

"Didn't you have insurance?" I asked. 

"That's the funny thing, yuh know," 
he gasped. "The insurance ran out just 
a week before and there weren't any 
chance to git to town to renew it." 

I sighed a sympathetic "Oh," but well 
1 knew that if he had had a hundred 
ways of getting to town he wouldn't have 
had the policy renewed. 

"Yuh know when wheat went down 
last year so much, I couldn't keep goin' 
and had to git out," he added mournfully. 
"But did I go into bankruptcy? No! I 
didn't. Yuh know most men would 'ave 
done that to git out of paying their bills. 
I'm goin' to pay everyone of them back !" 

This sudden spark of life and determi- 
nation startled me, but it wasn't long 
before I could see that he was just talk- 
ing. That's all he could ever do. 

"If it wasn't for my wife, I don't 
think I could 'ave stood it," asserted the 
poor man with a jerk of his knobby head. 
"She's a good woman. Yuh know, she 
supported the family when I was lying 
useless on my back with rheumatism last 
winter." 

Poor woman ! I felt much sorrier for 
her than I did for him. Love is a queer 
thing if one could be firmly attached to 
such a helpless creature. The bell rang 
and I tore out to the time clock, leaving 
Mr. Pierce to fight his way alone 
through the rapidly increasing mob of 
tired workingmen. I would have been 
willing to wager money that he was the 
last to "punch out." 



— 3- 



/ u *<. 



On a Dog 

Edward Dudzinski 
Theme 3, Rhetoric 2, 1931-32 



iiy^Ah" came to me when I was just 
1 entering the glorious age of boy- 
hood. I remember him now — a roly-poly 
puppy he was, all feet and ears, and 
possessed of the most inquisitive nose I 
ever saw. I recall that first day clearly — 
how I fondled him and played with him 
all day long, and how, at bedtime, I 
loathed to bring him down stairs to his 
temporary home in the basement. There 
he whined and whimpered till I finally 
stole downstairs again, after all the house 
was dark, and brought him to bed with 
me. 

That was the beginning of the count- 
less joyful summer days which followed. 
"Pal" grew rapidly those first weeks, and 
his energ}' kept pace with his growth. 
The amount of mischief into which he 
could get in an hour was inconceivable. 
If he was not digging up the flower beds, 
he was pulling sheets off the clothes line. 
If he was not chewing a brand new shoe, 
he was upsetting flower pots. Stockings 
could never be found in pairs. He got 
into even" conceivable nook and corner 
with his inquisitive nose. He was ir- 
repressibly full of life. He even had the 
effrontery, one day, to bark imprudently 
at a grown dog four times his siz.e. But 
he prudenth- went no further than the 
barking stage. 

Rapidly, "Pal" grew to young dog- 
hood. We were now inseparable. Every- 
where I went, he was bound to follow 
me like the historic Mar3''s lamb. Roving 
through fields and wood became one of 
our favorite sports. Long hours we spent 
in spreading fields of green grass and 



fragrant flowers, or in cool, shaded 
woods where shafts of sunlight, striking 
through the dense green foliage of the 
trees, lent an air of enchantment to the 
surroundings. Often I sat and rested, 
but "Pal" was continuously on the move. 
He ran and barked and jumped every 
foot of the way. He chased unceasingly 
after butterflies. Once he pursued a bee 
and sniffed it curiously when it alighted 
on a flower. The next instant the inevit- 
able happened, and "Pal" bounded away 
yelping and shaking his head. Several 
yards away he sat down and energeti- 
cally pawed his nose. He chased no more 
"buzzing butterflies" that day. 

Thus we grew up together. But soon 
the J03'0us years of my boyhood were 
over and I turned to more serious pur- 
suits. I no longer had time to rove the 
countryside with "Pal." However, he was 
losing the friskiness of his 3'outh and 
was well content to abandon our early 
pleasures for hours of silent companion- 
ship while I studied. When I was ab- 
sorbed in my studies until late at night, 
"Pal" could always be found stretched 
out on the floor beside my chair. When 
I sat reading, he lay at my feet dozing. 

So time flew, as time has a habit of 
doing, and I was soon a student at Illi- 
nois. Needless to say, one of the things 
I missed most, during the first few 
weeks, was "Pal." And as distance makes 
frequent trips home inadvisable, I grew 
to miss him more and more. When I 
went home for Christmas vacation the 
first one to greet me was "Pal"' — an old 
and grizzled "Pal." The muscles that 



-4 — 



/OJ 



were once like steel strangely seemed to 
have lost their elasticity. The shaggy 
hide pierced by honorable scars of bat- 
tle was dull and lifeless. Good old 
"Pal!" 

When my all-too-short vacation was 
over, and I made preparations to leave, 
he followed me around on his stiffened 
legs. The last I saw of him he was gaz- 



ing at me mournfully out of sad, dulled 
eyes. 

The chimes slowly toll midnight. 
Somehow I feel strange and foreign to 
myself. All I can do is stare dully out 
into the silvery night. My room is quite 
dark and deathly still. On the table, at 
my elbow, lies a half-read letter. "Pal" 
is dead. 




A Fourth of July 

Mary Catharine Stoner 
Theme 14, Rhetoric 2, 1931-32 



WE looked forward to our annual 
Fourth-of-July party on Lake 
Michigan from one year to the ne.xt. But 
on one particular morning I awoke to 
learn that the rain fell in torrents, wind 
and sand blew every direction — our plans 
were smashed. . . . 

Climbing to the top of the dune which 
protected our cottage against the cruel 
winds from the lake, I saw a startling 
sight. The beach was lonely and empty 
save for one or two life-guards stationed 
here and there. The lake was one mass 
of silver — the wrong kind of silver. To 
me it looked like one continuous white 
cap. Once in awhile a great wave would 



leap up, forming an upper lip of some 
gigantic sea monster, and closing, would 
suck in white caps as its prey, again 
leaving the lake one mass of fury. The 
roar was deafening — the atmosphere ter- 
rifying. 

Suddenly I heard a siren scream and, 
turning quickly to my right, I saw a 
white streak shoot behind the dune which 
lay between me and another beach some 
few hundred feet away. My heart 
jumped to my mouth and a heavy lump 
settled in the pit of my stomach. What 
should I do? Stay here and be eaten 
with terror and curiosity or go there 
and see the results of a disaster, because 



— 5 — 



/OH 



I knew that was what it was — a disaster. 
Before I clearly decided I was running 
fast and excitedly to the scene. Running 
down the steep side of the dune I crossed 
the road leading to our beach, ran across 
front yards of other cottages and up the 
long sloping side of the other dune. My 
feet seemed to sink down and down in 
the sand as I frantically made my way 
upward. Would I ever reach the top ! 
Completely winded from the fast climb 
and from anticipation, I stumbled to the 
top and started down again. Already I 
saw a small group of men and women, 
and against the dark background of sky 
and water was the ambulance ! 

As I neared the group I saw three life- 
guards working madly and furiously with 
ropes ; no words seemed to be spoken : 
only time was being considered now. 
Spying my uncle I ran to him and 
clutched his arm. "Look out there," he 
shouted. 



What I saw so completely unstrung 
me that I felt faint. At first two — no, 
three — oh God — four of them! Can't we 
do anything — anything. Only a few feet 
out — so near — so far. Now the life- 
guards were motioning to the group. 
Each man seemed to know what to do. 
Horrified — terrified — I watched them 
walk into the lake to form a human 
chain. . . . 

After an hour of struggling one was 
saved. I left — I could stand no more. 
Frozen with terror and grief I walked 
home — stunned into silence by this 
tragedy. Three times later that day the 
screaming ambulance rushed to the beach 
to carrj' away another victim of the lake. 
What a form of celebration ! 

For three days I stayed away from the 
lake, for three days I suffered halluci- 
nations — always those four heads 
and eight hands, clutching, grasping, bob- 
bing. . . . 



Harvest with a Combine 



Robert D. Jones 
Theme 7, Rhetoric 2, 1931-32 



MOTHER is calling, "Six o'clock!" 
I hurry out of bed, wash, throw on 
my clothes, and snatch a hasty breakfast. 
It is a bright, warm July morning, still 
early enough for the trees to cast long 
shadows on the cool, shaded, dew-cov- 
ered grass ; an ideal morning. After 
breakfast, I still have time to romp with 
my dog before Pud comes, but as soon 
as Pud honks the horn on his little Whip- 
pet, I am in the car and we are off to 
the farm. Pud is the son of Mr. Kratz, 
tlie owner of the large farm. 



When we arrive at the farm, we find 
the activities at their height. The morn- 
ing chores have just been finished and 
most of the horses are harnessed. Al- 
ready two teams are hitched up and 
starting to the elevator with loads of 
grain that were left over from yester- 
day's work. One man is cleaning a bin. 
The women are busy preparing dinner. 
But Pud and I have no time to linger, 
and we stop at the farm house only to get 
a jug of drinking water. Again we 
board the little coupe and tear over the 



^^3- 



dusty lane into the field where the com- 
bines are. Here our duties begin at once. 

Two combines are used ; Pud works on 
one and I work on the other. The men 
have already started putting the ma- 
chines in order. The canvas conveyor 
must be replaced, bolts tightened, and 
parts oiled. I start fueling the engines. 
I get the gasoline from a tank wagon 
tliat we carry with us from field to field. 
The tractor takes about ten gallons of 
gas, five quarts of oil, and an unlimited 
quantity of water. The smaller station- 
ary engine on the combine is more con- 
servative in its desires ; yet it is harder 
to fuel because of its inaccessibility. 

Each machine has a crew of three — 
the driver, the combine tender, and the 
scooper. Upon the driver of the tractor 
lies the responsibility of keeping the com- 
bine moving and in position to cut the 
grain. The combine tender rides the 
combine, tends to the machinery, and 
guides the reaper. The scooper is a gen- 
eral handy man who may be called upon 
to do anything, but his main duty is to 
keep the grain from piling up under the 
spout. This necessitates scooping. On 
one combine the grain spout leads into an 
attached bin and when this is filled, the 
grain is run out into an empty box wag- 
on. However, I am working on an older 
machine, which is so constructed that an 
empty box wagon can be attached to the 
machine and the spout then leads to the 
wagon. I ride the wagon as it is pulled 
alongside the combine. And now that the 
morning dew has disappeared, we are 
ready to begin threshing. The engines 
are tuned up ; their humming fills the 
air. We're oflf! 

The newer machine swings out ma- 
jestically and starts cutting a twelve- 
foot gap into the large field of waving 
wheat. We follow close behind, putting 
a deeper dent into the field. I have taken 



my post in the attached wagon. It goes 
bumping along the rough ground, nearly 
shaking my insides out ; however, the rid- 
ing becomes smoother as the wagon fills. 
When the grain piles up so that it near- 
ly reaches the spout, I begin scooping it 
to the back of the wagon. Presently we 
get a load. While changing wagons, I 
close the spout to keep any grain from 
pouring out ; then the combine is pulled 
forward, leaving the unfastened filled 
wagon and making room for another 
empty. This is attached and we move out 
again. 

Getting the first load is a pleasure to 
me, falling into harness again and not as 
yet being bothered by the heat ; but after 
the first four or five rounds of the field, 
my job begins to be more like work. The 
constant jiggling of the wagon begins 
to make me feel a little shaken up. As 
the sun rises higher in the sky, the heat 
becomes more intense, and the dust 
becomes thicker ; yet the worst evil of 
labor does not appear — monotony. For 
each load means that we are getting 
more and more of the field done. It also 
means that we will have the company 
of one of the box drivers for a minute. 
As there are seven teams, I can not al- 
ways tell who will be the next person to 
take the load. Will it be Steve, Mr. 
Kratz's small son, with his old slow team 
— a team I used to drive four years ago ; 
or the "girl," the tenant's daughter, who 
had been in grade school with me — I al- 
ways help her hitch her team; or Ben, 
her husband, a young hired hand ; or Du- 
cey, an engineering student from Illinois ; 
or the "old man," a sixty-year-old Ger- 
man who had once owned his own farm ; 
or George Johnson, the comical young 
hand who always ran his team ; or will 
it be Ted, a quiet, good-looking lad who 
did not appear to be a full-time farm 
hand ? 



I am keeping a close watch on the 
sun now. It is getting near to noon. I 
have been hungry for hours. As we ap- 
proach the home corner, the one nearest 
the house, I notice that we have almost a 
full load, and as we reach the corner, 
we keep going straight. Ah ! This 
means dinner. 

The noon hour is a pleasant relief from 
the strain of the hot field. In the farm 
yard all hands find a comfortable spot 
in the shade, while awaiting their turn 
at the wash stand. I am covered with 
dirt, and I use three pans of water to 
get my hands and face clean — the cool, 
refreshing water is a luxury. Come to 
dinner! 

The food is plain but substantial. The 
men do not talk much for they are oc- 
cupied with their meat, potatoes, and 
beans. Everything is good, but I most 
thoroughly enjoyed the iced tea — a real 
treat for men from the harvest field. 

Having eaten, I feel better but I am 
reluctant to depart from the shade of the 
farm yard. During the short rest after 
dinner, our conversation turns to our 
work. We have hopes that we can fin- 
ish the wheat field todaj^, for it means 
that we will be through with wheat for 
the season. 

I am the first to leave the shade and 
start to the field, for I must refuel the 
engines. It is torture to go alone out in 
the hot sun, hoisting heavy cans of gas- 
oline, carrying greasy buckets of oil, and 
lifting the water containers. Here come 
the crews and the work is starting. I 
find that the heat and the bouncing of 



the wagon do not mix well with a hearty 
meal. I become slightly nauseated; thus, 
I am a good target of depression as 
things start going the wrong way. 

Within the next two hours the heat be- 
comes almost unbearable, the thermom- 
eter registering one hundred degrees. 
Everjlhing is going against me. The 
dirt, dust, and chaff fly into my mouth, 
eyes, and nose; I can hardly breathe; 
the gas fumes of the engines become suf- 
focating ; blisters appear on my hands ; 
the spout jumps the wagon bed, spilling 
grain on the ground ; I cut my hand trj'- 
ing to jerk the spout back in; I am 
almost overcome with thirst and fatigue ; 
will it never end? Then a breakdown. 
The climax is reached. 

The breakdown is really a blessing. 
While resting during the short time that 
the combine tender is making the re- 
pair, I am able to get control of myself. 
Then I am sent after some water. I now 
feel better speeding along in the little 
Whippet to a school house where I find 
some delicious water — so cool. On re- 
turning, I have a further change of oc- 
cupation — I get to drive the tractor for 
the first time in my life, a great achieve- 
ment for a town boy. 

Just as the sun is setting, both com- 
bines are working on the last strip in the 
field ; we finish it with bursts of shout- 
ing and whooping. The machines are 
prepared for the night and we are on 
our wa}^ home. As Pud and I pause at 
the farm house to get a drink, we hear 
the proud farmer speaking to his wife, 
"Well, Mandy, we finished the field." 



— 8- 



Violent Emotions 



/ ay 



George A. Johnson 
Theme 6, Rhetoric 2, 1931-32 



1CAN hardly decide whether the 
strongest emotions of my life were ex- 
perienced the night my favorite girl quit 
me, or whether I was more shaken the 
day the horse kicked me on the head. 
My feelings were really about the same 
after each incident, but I am not so re- 
luctant to tell about the blow from the 
horse. 

A few years ago, my brother and I 
were plowing corn one sweltering day. I 
was using a double shovel plow which 
requires only one horse for locomotive 
purposes. Old Prince was that horse. 
Prince was the laziest and dumbest horse 
I have ever seen — or maybe he was the 
smartest. He didn't even know that if he 
walked faster he would get to the shade 
quicker. Since I knew that simple fact, 
I was continually urging Prince on to 
greater speed, but my urgings were of no 
avail. The more I yelled at the horse 
the angrier I became, and the angrier I 
became the more I yelled. So one thing 
led to another until I felt like a toy bal- 
loon, with a pin scratching me. At this 
inopportune moment the grass and dirt 
clogged on the plow so as to make plow- 
ing impossible. I couldn't become any 
angrier ; so I tied down my safety valve, 
as it were, and started to clean the plow. 
To do this I had to hold up the plow 
beam with one hand, and with the other 
I scraped the dirt ofif with my knife. Of 
course the horse took this opportunity 
to thrash me thoroughh' with his tail, and 
a horse's tail feels like fire when used 
on a person's hot face. Now ordinarily 



I would have taken offense when Prince 
switched my face, but I was standing di- 
rectly behind him and well within range ; 
so I controlled my temper and cut off 
more dirt from the plow shares. I had 
taken so much provocation that my emo- 
tions began to subside like a reversible 
reaction in chemistry when an excess of 
one product is present. Then Prince 
added the last straw. In trying to back 
up and relieve the pressure on his trace 
chains, he stepped on the singletree of 
the plow which I was holding up with 
one hand. I was so angry that I couldn't 
speak, and I couldn't hit the horse with 
the plow because he was standing on it ; 
so I did the only possible thing — jabbed 
him with my knife. I got instant re- 
sponse. Prince raised both feet off the 
singletree and planted one or both of 
them firmly against my head. I promptly 
sat down on a cornstalk about ten feet 
away. My recollections of what hap- 
pened after that are rather vague, but 
I remember having an insane desire to 
tear the horse into little pieces ; then I 
was no longer hot and angry, but I was 
chilly and afraid. I went about in a semi- 
conscious condition the remainder of the 
afternoon, gradually getting back to 
normal. 

The lesson this experience taught me 
was never to allow myself to get angry 
on a hot ^ay, while working with a laz)^ 
horse. When the horse goes to sleep, I 
also take a nap, thereby saving my nerves 
and my head. 



— 9 — 



/ d^ 



Cause and Efiect 

Nettie Fine 
Theme 16, Rhetoric 1, 1931-32 



THE tempest of water and dustpans, 
brooms and mops, had raged wildly 
over the once peaceful plain of our 
house. But it had spent itself, destroyed 
by its own fury, and now the sun of 
cleanliness shone. 

Mother, a lock of hair over one eye, a 
smudge of dirt on her face, leaned tri- 
umphantly against the door of the liv- 
ing room. She looked very happy. After 
days of work and worry, the t^oors shone, 
the tables sparkled, the flowers smiled, 
and the kitchen clock laughed out loud. 
Our house was in a clear, clean 
dazzle. 

There was a certain place in the liv- 
ing room, directly in back of the sofa, 
between it and the wall, which I cher- 
ished very dearly. Here I fought Indians, 
rode the Western plains, and discovered 
America. It was the Mecca for my 
brother and me, the place where dreams 
came true. For days I hadn't been there, 
because of the housecleaning. 

In a very self-possessed manner, I 
smiled up at mother and calmly made for 
the living room. She became electrified 
with action: — seized me by the collar of 
my abbreviated dress and held me. 

"Young lady, that room is forbidden. 
Please remember that." 

I looked very much astonished, but she 



only smiled at me and told me "to run 
along, dear." 

I sat down on the back porch, nar- 
rowed my eyes and began to concentrate. 
Why wouldn't she let me in there? 
Mother didn't do things purposelessly. 
There were always reasons. There must 
be a reason for this new situation. It 
followed that there was something very 
enticing in the living room. My taste for 
adventure became whetted. I began to 
connive dashing entrances, secret tunnels, 
and wild escapes. 

But an easier way presented itself. 
Motlier left for the grocer's, and the 
liouse was alone, indefensible. Very leis- 
urely I went on a tour of the house. The 
kitchen, the dining room and the hall, 
passed in a glare of cleanliness, and then 
— the living room. I stopped. But life 
was too short for drawn-out decisions. 
1 opened the door and went in. 

Why, there was nothing changed. The 
piano stood silently in the corner. The 
books looked pleasantly disheveled, and 
then — . 

I ran wildly from the room, my heart 
beating madly. Hot, scalding teal's ran 
slowl_v down my face. How could one's 
own mother be so cruel! Panic had de- 
scended upon my small world. The sofa 
had been pushed back, pushed straight 
back against the wall. 



10- 



/ Of 



Why I Don't Like Cactus 

Leila Nendell 
Theme 15. Rhetoric 1. 1931-32 



AS far back as I can remember, my 
favorite antipathy has been cactus. 
To me, it is a squatty, repulsive, treach- 
erous plant, and despite the good it does 
mankind, I cannot conceal my dislike for 
it. I have lived in Texas most of my 
life and have seen large cactus, small cac- 
tus, tall cactus, short cactus, wide cactus, 
and narrow cactus. I know every habit it 
has and all its virtues. Still, I don't like 
cactus! 

I had been in Texas several years be- 
fore cactus came into my life. I had seen 
it and admired its orange-tinted, pear- 
shaped fruit, and its broad, green, ilat 
leaves, but had been advised not to pick 
it. I always follow good advice. But one 
day during a solitary stroll through the 
hills at home 1 decided to taste one of 
the prickly pears. I tore a branch off 
a mesquite tree, stuck it into a very 
tempting pear, and giving it a 3'ank, had 
the pear at my feet. I lifted it on the 
stick to my lips, and without inspecting 
it closely, sank my teeth into it. It sud- 
denly seemed as though a million little 
devils were piercing my lips and mouth 
with their pitchforks. As I then learned, 
these pears are not called "prickly pears" 
without reason, for they are covered with 
tiny spines. I tore the pear from my 
anguished lips and drew as many of the 
tiny spikes as I could from their tender 
resting place, then ran home to Mother. 

It was many days before I could eat 
with my usual heartiness. Needless to 
say, I avoided cactus as much as possible 
after that time. Alas, had I onlv known 



that that was just the first of my lessons 
about cactus and its treachery! 

Several months later a friend who 
owned a pony visited me. As she rode 
up to the door, all the boys and girls in 
the neighborhood flocked to see the pony 
and to admire it. Marge consented, 
rather hesitantly, to let us ride; so we 
led the pony to a small clearing in the 
sparse woods and gaily took our turns. 
When the fun was at its height, someone 
suggested that we play "Follow the 
Leader." We chose a leader and lined 
up, ready for the game. Our leader first 
jumped upon the pony and slid ofl: its 
back, landing safel_v on the ground. 
When m\' turn came, I lost courage and 
refused to follow, but the taunting of 
"the gang" was not to be ignored. There- 
fore, I daringly climbed upon the back of 
the patient pony, gathered all my cour- 
age, and began to slide. I was in a cold 
sweat and could almost feel those hoofs 
in my stomach. Just before I reached 
the ground, one of the boys, full of tlic 
irrepressible spirit of youth, excitedly 
yelled that the pony was going to kick 
me. I became terrified, pushed myself 
away from the pony, and kept going 
backwards until I reached the end of the 
clearing where a large colony of cacti 
awaited me. Thud! Ouch! I felt myself 
bombarded by thousands of large needle- 
like thorns and millions of tinv spines. 
I sat there speechless. Finally my brother 
gallantly came to the rescue and dragged 
me out — a metamorphosed porcupine. I 
looked at the pony, which was standing 
just as he was when I had begun my 



— 11 — 



//^ 



fateful slide. With e3'es closed, he was 
apparently dreaming of horse-heaven, all 
oblivious of my catastrophe. I managed 
to get home, and, with the help and sym- 
pathy of Mother, spent the rest of the 
week picking out cactus splinters. 

Since these events, I have eaten prickly 



pears — properly peeled — and have ad- 
mitted their edibility ; also I have found 
that cactus is absolutely harmless unless 
one sits in it, but I can never look upon 
one of those luxuriant children of the 
desert without shuddering and recalling 
my past unhappy relationship with it. 



The End of the Narcissus 



W. S. ElSFELDER 
Theme 14, Rhetoric 2, 1931-32 



IT was a warm, sultry afternoon, and 
the little breeze that blew around the 
ship was like the breath of the devil. The 
Narcissus, which was on the fourth day 
of its trip to the city of Callao, in Peru, 
to which place it was conveying a cargo 
of oil, had been built during the World 
War. Subsequently, it had passed from 
line to line until it had come into the 
hands of a small company which used 
the vessel for its tramp business. 

As the Narcissus moved through the 
placid waters, a spiral of smoke suddenly 
rose from the ship. A cry of fire was 
heard, and the ship that had been travel- 
ing along so sleepily, quickly became a 
scene of activity. The mate dashed to 
the captain's cabin and yelled into his 
ear, "Sir, the ship is on fire. It is in hold 
three!" 

The captain, followed by the mate, 
dashed up on to the deck, where all was 
confusion. His quick orders, "Batten 
down all holds. . . . Rig up the pumps 
.... Flood the forward holds," quickly 
restored order from out of the chaos. 

EverA'thing possible was done, but it 
was a losing fight, and the captain was 
forced to turn to the radio operator and 



say, "All right, son, the mate will give 
you our position ; — send out an S.O.S." 
While the operator was sending the mes- 
sage, the order, "Prepare to abandon 
ship," was given. 

Within five minutes the life boats were 
in their davits, the entire crew in their 
places, and the final command, "Abandon 
ship," was given. By this time the heat 
was intense, and the boats were quickly 
lowered and pulled away from the 
doomed ship. 

A dark cloud had enveloped the Nar- 
cissus, and ever}' few seconds flames, like 
fingers of the devil, were seen snaking 
through the thick smoke. Loud ex- 
plosions were heard, and slowly the ship 
settled into the water. Suddenly, the bow 
seemed to lift itself, plunge back, and 
bury itself beneath the waves, until only 
the flag on the stern remained above the 
surface of the water. A playful breeze 
filled the flag out, and then while this 
s}"mbol of our country was proudly wav- 
ing, it too disappeared. Only a cloud of 
dark smoke, hanging above the water 
like a lost soul, marked the spot where 
the once proud Narcissus had sunk. 



12 — 



/// 



To a Prospective Duck Hunter 

G. C. Sharp 

Theme 7, Rhelonc 1, 1931-32 



rxEAR JACK, 

■'-^ I suppose that by this time you 
have heard of my unfortunate accident 
last week. At any rate, I'm taking for 
granted that you liave ; and so instead of 
regaling you with the lucid details T shall 
proceed at once to my real purpose in 
writing to you at this time. To put it 
brief!}', I want to discuss, in a manner 
not-so-brief, the thing we had planned 
on — your first duck-hunt. 

First of all, the hunt is not to be called 
off on my account. 1 realize that in this 
short vacation lies my only chance of 
converting you to our ranks ; therefore I 
have prevailed upon our mutual friends, 
the Rice brothers, to act in my stead. 
They will conduct your coming initiation 
into the great brotherhood of wild-fowl- 
ers. Both the Rices were here yesterday 
and together we completed all the plans 
for the hunt. They will meet you at the 
station and you are to be their guest for 
the night. All these plans, f)f course, 
have been made without your approval, 
but we are counting on your promise not 
to fail us. And now, since I won't see 
you until after \-our return, I want to 
give you some information that should 
prove useful to 3'ou. 

To begin with, I suppose 3'OU will want 
to know just what to bring in the way 
of equipment. Perhaps it will be best if 
we consider first the matter of clothing. 
And here I want to caution you. Please 
do not attempt to array yourself in what 
the well-dressed man will wear afield this 
season. Remember that you are going 
hunting, not posing for a Vanity Fair 



illustration. The primary considerations 
are warmth and resistance to moisture. 
Bring your changes, a warm woolen shirt 
and sweater, and, of course, gloves and 
cap. The hunting coat and trousers 
should be of water-repellent brown duck, 
the coat with slicker interlining if pos- 
sible. Plenty of length}' woolen socks 
and hip-boots, if you have them, com- 
prise the other essentials of apparel. 
Food, bedding, and firewood are always 
on hand at the cottage; so you won't be 
concerned with those. 

I remember seeing in your collection of 
artillery a good old double gun. Perhaps 
I am prejudiced in favor of the double, 
but I advise you to bring it if you can, 
for it combines two very desirable 
features, namely, a full-choke barrel, 
with lots of reach for the "long ones," 
and one of modified choke for the closer 
shots which will comprise most of your 
shooting. And as to ammunition — bring 
plenty of it ; this is your first trip you 
know, and besides, the llight is ready to 
start any day now. You have heard the 
honking of geese the past few nights, 
haven't you? Well, that means but one 
thing, for the geese always precede the 
real flight of ducks. So regardless of 
success I predict plenty of shooting for 
you. If you choose a heavy load for 
your shooting, be sure to get it in a 
medium-shot size. Most hunters favor 
heavy shot for wild-fowl, but I consider 
this a mistake, for a heavy charge and 
increased velocity tend to scatter the pat- 
tern of the shot. This elTect can be 
counteracted bv an increased number of 



13- 



lu 



smaller shot. These, of course, are only 
suggestions which you are free to follow 
or ignore as you choose. Since this phase 
of shooting is new to you, you may profit 
to some extent by the things I have 
learned from experience. 

When you reach the cottage on Thurs- 
day, the shooting will be over for the 
day. In this localit}' ducks are rarely to be 
seen in any great numbers after the noon 
hour. There will be other things to fill 
your time, however — for instance cards 
or trapshooting — or if you like, )ou can 
take the boat for a pre-view of the blind 
with an eye to its possibilities. You will 
find it at the southern end of the second 
island this year, near the scene of your 
fishing triumph last summer. Remember 
how a narrow lane of water wanders be- 
tween the island and the mainland, re- 
joining the river at this point — so that 
the tip of the island wedges into the 
stream with water on three sides? The 
blind may not be readily apparent to 
your unpracticed ej'e, as we have utilized 
natural cover wherever possible in its 
construction. Tf, however, you row into 
the narrow inlet, you will perceive a 
natural indentation near an overhanging 
willow. If you beach the boat here you 
will see the path which leads to the blind 
itself. And here you will be in for some- 
thing of a surprise, for you will discover 
that the blind isn't at all in accord with 
your own conception of just what it 
should be. Instead of the opaque, air- 
tight structure of milady's-boudoir con- 
struction which you have expected, you 
will find onl}' a flimsy screen of slightly 
inter-woven twigs and reeds. You will 
say that the quarry can see through such 
a transparent device as easily as the 
hunter himself. Yes, but you must re- 
member that a brown hunting coat blends 
naturally with tlie blind in front and the 
background of reeds behind. Tlie blind 



serves exactly the same purpose as the 
screens of leaves and woven wire used 
in concealing batteries of artillery dur- 
ing the late war. In other words it is but 
a camouflage, designed to break the out- 
line rather than to conceal the figure. 
Thus it gives the hunter the advantage 
of being able to observe his game while 
he himself remains invisible, an integral 
part of the background. Of course the 
hunter must remain entirely motionless 
when game is in sight. It is import- 
ant to remember this as even the slightest 
movement is apt to betray the whole 
scheme. No cigarettes either — smoke is a 
danger signal to all wild creatures. Be 
careful, too, that the sun does not shine 
upon your up-turned face ; in this way 
light is reflected to the bird on high as if 
from a polished mirror. Ducks, as a rule, 
are low in the scale of mentality ; never 
forget, however, that your quarry is as 
wary as he is stupid. He is able to see 
much from his "bird's-eye-view" and is 
not disposed to trifling with possible 
danger. 

And now about the decoys. Probably 
about two dozen of them will be put to 
use, either more or less — never an even 
number. Tradition, or superstition per- 
haps, decrees that an odd number of de- 
coys shall always be used. This rule is 
never broken by the experienced. The 
lay-out of decoys is called the "stool." 
This term originated in the days when 
stools of live pigeons were used to decoy 
passenger pigeons to the snares of pro- 
fessional market-hunters: hence the 
present term, "stool-pigeon." Your stool 
will consist of both live decoys and arti- 
ficial ones of painted wood known as 
"blocks." The blocks are placed in a 
semicircle before the blind, each spaced 
a distance of about eighteen inches from 
its neighbor and fastened, by means of 
a swivel and short leader, to a common 



14- 



//J 



line, which floats beneath the surface of 
the water and is secured by means of a 
stake at each end. The "callers," or live 
deco_vs, are always i^laccd in the same 
manner, but inside the ring of blocks, to 
guard them from chance or stray shot. 
Other "blocks" are anchored outside this 
array to break the symmetry of the ar- 
rangement. The "blocks" are used 
merely to lend atmosphere, mucli like 
stage scenery ; the "callers" are the real 
heart of the scheme. They are the feath- 
ered sirens, trained to lure their wild 
brethern into fatal range of the guns. 
The "callers" are mostl}' hens chosen for 
their quality of voice ; the drakes are not 
gifted vocally — the deep, throaty sound 
made by them is audible only for short 
distances. The ability to utter incessantly- 
a soft, musical chatter is the thing most 
to be prized in live decoys. A loud, 
raucous note is apt to frighten rather 
than charm the prospective game. All of 
the decoys you will use have been care- 
fully trained to "sing out" in response to 
a low signal from the blind — to utter it 
y(ju make a sound that is on the border- 
line between a hiss and a soft whistle. 
Usually this signal is unnecessary how- 
ever, for the decoys invariably sight the 
high-flying wedge before the hunter. The 
older birds will call to anything that flies 
— even crows and blackbirds. The ex- 



perienced Iiunter learns to watch his de- 
coys rather than the heavens, for the 
caller always cocks one eye to the sky in 
the direction of the sighted bird. 

Just one more thing — I want to cau- 
tion you in regard to musk-rat runs. 
These little rodents have a most discon- 
certing habit — that of burrowing treach- 
erous tunnels beneath the spot where one 
may wish to set his foot. I have many a 
well-filled boot to lay at their door, and 
water feels uncommonly cold in Novem- 
ber weather. With this warning I think 
1 have tempered in advance one probable 
drain on your store of spontaneous 
words reserved for such accidents. 

I have given you much that I learned 
only by experience. Many things remain 
which you must learn for yourself in the 
same manner. Needless to say, you have 
countless thrills in store for you. You 
will encounter few moments the equal of 
the one when the first speeding V drops 
from the sky to bank and turn over the 
decoys in a swift flush of shining feathers 
and beating wings. This thrill is never 
to be forgotten ; once you have experi- 
enced it you will be as ardent a duck 
"crank" as I. 

Well, Jack, I have said far more than 
I intended to ; so I'll end now by wish- 
ing you all the luck in the world for your 
new venture. 




— IS- 



Air Minded 



Beekley Miller 
Theme 7, Rhetoric 2, 1931-32 



A FTER many weary days of constant 
^*- and scathing ridicule, I at last per- 
suaded an old friend to take an air trip 
with me. He was still somewhat hesitant 
as we made reservations on the evening 
plane for Chicago. His fear was gradu- 
ally dispelled, as I explained the adequate 
safety measures taken at every available 
opportunity b}' the transport company. 

Upon our arrival at the airport, my 
friend, who had visions of seeing just a 
corn field, commented upon the largeness 
and seeming completeness of the equip- 
ment. The facilities for parking cars and 
the orderly arrangement of cars already 
parked amazed him. He was unconsci- 
ously made to feel at home when the 
customary "red cap" took our bags and 
said, "Right this way, sir, the plane 
leaves in five minutes." Here was some- 
thing that caused him to feel a familiar 
warmth. Somehow red caps the world 
over make one feel at ease. 

While we were sitting in a luxuriously 
equipped passenger station waiting for 
the plane to be brought to the line, I 
explained the use of various markers and 
lights that were visible through the large 
plate glass window, which gave us a 
complete view of the field. I pointed out 
the red lights which mark the boundary 
of every airport, and are placed on all 
objects, such as radio towers, telegraph 
poles, hangars, and the like, which are in 
the vicinity of the field. My friend was 
now becoming very much interested, and 
called my attention to several batteries 
of lights. I told him that these were used 
for landing planes at night. 



The plane arrived, and the porter took 
our bags. We followed him out to the 
plane, the intervening space being pro- 
tected by a canopy which was much the 
same as those leading from the door to 
the curb of an exclusive night club or 
hotel. I called my friend's attention to 
the wire guards which surrounded the 
idling propellers, a safety measure that is 
taken to prevent passengers from being 
accidentally struck. 

We were assisted into the plane and 
to our seats by a steward. He fastened 
our safety belts, which are always used 
for the take-off and the landing. After 
so bravely embarking on this air expedi- 
tion, my friend was anxious to be off, 
and became somewhat impatient. 

I accounted for the delay by showing 
him the pilot and mechanic making a 
final check of the plane. This checking 
is part of a very rigid system of inspec- 
tion maintained by all the transport 
operators. A very detailed inspection 
card is thoroughly scrutinized by the 
pilot for omissions that may have been 
made in the servicing of the plane. 
When the pilot is convinced that the 
plane is in good order, he signs the re- 
port card. The ship and passengers are 
then in his care until he fills out a similar 
card at the other end of the line. 

The pilot and co-pilot came aboard, 
and were assured by the steward that 
the passengers were all ready. The pilots 
took their places and gave the signal for 
the blocks to be removed. An increasing 
roar was heard from the motors, and the 
plane taxied out to one of the long 



— 16 — 



//J- 



cement runways. Here we stopped and 
waited for the signal, to "take off," from 
the observation tower. This is always 
done to prevent a collision with other 
planes which might be landing. At this 
time, I also explained that taking off and 
landmg are always done in the wind. 
The signal was given, and there was a 
deafening roar as the three motors burst 
into their song of power. The plane 
moved forward, picking up speed, and 
we soon left the ground far below. My 
friend glanced nervously at the receding 
ground. In order to divert his mind from 
any unpleasant thoughts I began to ex- 
plain the use of the many instruments we 
could see. I began with the tachometer, 
which tells the pilot the number of revo- 
lutions his motor is making. Then there 
was an oil-pressure gage, an oil-tempera- 
ture gage, and a gasoline gage. These 
are all very valuable, for they help the 
pilot to determine the efficiency and ac- 
tions of his motors. I then told him of 
the instruments used for flying in thick 
weather. This group consists of a bank 
and turn indicator, which tells the pilot 
when his ship is banking and turning, and 
an inclinometer, which shows the rate 
of climb. The altimeter indicates the alti- 
tude of the plane. Perhaps the most in- 
teresting of them all is the artificial hori- 
zon. This instrument has a little plane on 
a movable disc. A line across the center 
of the disc shows our plane's relation to 
the horizon. The little plane is our plane, 
and if the instrument shows it above the 



line, we are climbing. If it is below the 
line, the pilot can tell at a glance that the 
plane is diving. There is always a com- 
pass on a plane to tell the direction of 
travel. Radio was the next topic for ex- 
planation. My friend was greatly sur- 
prised to know that the pilot was in con- 
stant communication with the ground, re- 
ceiving weather reports and data deemed 
necessary for the safety of the plane. 
He was also interested in the fact that 
he could call any of his business asso- 
ciates from the air. 

The next hour was spent in viewing 
the interesting and beautiful panorama 
that lay beneath us. Just below us a 
lonely house could be seen among the 
hills, and further along the sun glistened 
on a winding river, dazzling the eye with 
a million sparkling facets. 

It was dark as we approached the field 
in Chicago, guided b}' the homing beacon. 
The pilot had to circle the field before 
landing. The ground below us was illu- 
minated — a weird but strangely magnifi- 
cent sight. The siren sounded from be- 
low, indicating that all was clear. The 
pilot snapped out the lights in the cabin 
after telling us that we must fasten our 
safety belts. We slipped from the dark- 
ness into the haze of light. There was a 
gentle shock, and we were safely landed 
on the ground. Once again we found 
ourselves under a canopy, as we were 
helped out of the plane and into a wait- 
ing cab. This is another victory for the 
air — another passenger has been won. 



dlMI^^ 



t • ♦ 




— 17- 



I /I' 



The White Angel Jungle 

Elden F. Miller 
Theme 3, Rhetoric 2, 1931-32 



SAN FRANCISCO is a strange, ad- 
venturous town to many people living 
east of the Mississippi. And though it 
may be flooded with tourists, and altered 
by modern city life, some features of San 
Francisco will probably never change. 
One such feature is the White Angel 
Jungle. 

In the midst of the business district, 
and only a few blocks from the huge 
San Francisco Bay, is the White Angel 
Jungle. Around and about its half-block 
of vacant lots are great piles of rusty 
anchor chains from sailing vessels that 
will sail no more. In the middle of this 
square of chains is a structure with out- 
lines somewhat resembling those of a 
ship. Nearby are open kettles, with food 
boiling, tended by men who have seen 
better days. Close at hand are tables and 
benches where men — hoboes, we call 
them — sit and eat and drink. Some write 
letters, and some just sit and think, while 
the air is vibrant with tug- boat whistles, 
traffic whistles, factory whistles. A place 
where homeless men can rest, "boil up," 
and get something to eat — such is the 
White Angel Jungle. 

If a man is out of work and needs a 
haircut, or if he has some cuts and 



bruises, and if he is in San Francisco, 
he goes to the White Angel Jungle. What 
lie gets there costs him nothing. The 
food and service are supplied by the city 
council and various stores and factories. 

Such a "Jungle" could well be adopted 
by other towns and cities throughout the 
country. When a man has a place to 
sleep and something to eat, he is not 
likely to turn to crime, even though he 
is a vagrant. Too many municipalities 
put such men in jail, sometimes only over 
night and sometimes for ninety days, be- 
lieving that they are menaces to the com- 
munity. They do become menaces when 
they know they will have to sleep in 
damp cells and be treated like animals. 
It is only natural that they will steal and 
rob to avoid such treatment — any human 
being would. 

And so, in their common-sense method 
of dealing with vagrants, the people of 
San Francisco have unconsciously set up 
an institution whose like can be found in 
no other city. They have set up a "sight" 
which Middle-Westeners treat as a Cali- 
fornia idea and yet which they them- 
selves could apply with profit in Illinois, 
Iowa, and every other state in the union! 




•18- 



^/?f 



The Popularity of Jazz 

James L. Rainey 
Theme 13, Rhetoric 1, 1931-32 



FOR some time it has been customary 
for writers and lecturers to express 
alarm over the popularity of jazz. 
Whether jazz represents a definite con- 
tribution to music, or whether it is any 
worse than the wishy-washy ballads so 
popular twenty or thirty years ago are 
points of contention among these self- 
appointed guardians of the public mind. 
But they agree on one thing, that the 
average American likes jazz and cares 
very little for classical music. 

No less than seven or eight million 
writers have reached the conclusion that 
the reason for this state of affairs is the 
chronic inability of the American to ap- 
preciate worth-while things. A few mil- 
lion more have decided that the only 
reason jazz is so popular is that it hap- 
pens to be used as dance music. Another 
group maintains that we can learn to ap- 
preciate good music just as we can learn 
to appreciate good books, and that we 
do not like the classics because we are 
too lazy to go through the tedious process 
of becoming familiar with them. This 
last explanation is by far the most 
reasonable. Indications of its truth are 
not hard to find. 

As an example let us take one of the 
latest popular songs. Any one will do, 
since the}' are all very much alike. In 
order to gain its popularity, this song had 
to have a simple, catchy tune, one that 
evervbodv could whistle more or less ac- 



curately after hearing the tune once or 
twice. Now if we should empanel a jury 
of typical Americans and ask for their 
verdict on this song, we should undoubt- 
edly fmd that most of them think that it 
is a very good piece of music. We should 
find that most of them tune in regularly 
on Tuesda}', Thursday, and Saturdaj' 
nights to hear So-and-So's orchestra play 
snatches of it between long stretches of 
flamboyant advertising. Now let us ask 
the jury another question. Let us find 
out their opinion on the words of this 
song. Again the verdict will be unani- 
mous. The jury will rise in its wrath and 
consign to everlasting flames the poor 
person who would even think of writing 
such an asinine lyric. All this would 
seem to indicate that there is a tremen- 
dous gap between the artistry of the tune 
and of the words. There is, however, no 
reason for believing that there is any 
difference at all in the relative merits of 
the two. The tune of the song is just as 
bad from a musical standpoint as the 
words are from the standpoint of good 
literature. 

The real difference lies in the ability 
we have for appreciating literature and 
music. Everyone has read enough good 
poetry to realize how poorly written are 
the lyrics of modern songs. Familiarity 
with really good music could produce the 
same result in regard to the tunes. 



19- 



//^ 



A Consoling Crumb for Eve 

James Phelan 

Theme 1, Rhetoric 2, 1930-31 



HER sleek, black hair is drawn sharpU' 
back from her forehead, accentuating 
the pale ivory of her skin. Her eight- 
inch eyes are half hidden by drooping 
eyelashes and her eyebrows slant a bit 
upward, to give her a slightly feline ap- 
pearance. Her ten-inch nose is narrow 
and patrician ; her scarlet, foot-wide 
mouth hints at a smile that reveals the 
tempting fullness of her lower lip. And 
such is the advertisement for Old Luck 
cigarettes — Smother than any satin. 

The picture will change, tomorrow or 
ne.xt week, but not the motif. Tiie feline 
may give way to a rose and yellow lily 
of Scandinavia, or a vivacious red-head 
from Hollywood, but she shall retire se- 
cure in the knowledge that her successor 
is a female. The ten commandments of 
the publicity men are expressed in one 
word, femininity, followed by a heavy 
exclamation mark, and surely damned is 
he who even thinks of transgressing this 
mono-decalogue. Does the manufacturer 
wish to advertise a cold remedy, woolen 
socks, steam shovels, luxuriant transpor- 
tation by bus to Kansas City? Then he 



shall have a wide billboard or a half- 
page spread, and the very center of it 
shall be a female, with shapely legs — - 
pardon, limbs to yoic — diaphanous cloth- 
ing, and a smile that would bring St. 
Simeon scrambling down his stone pillar 
like a fire chief down a brass pole. Such 
is the dictum of those who cry in the 
modern commercial wilderness, and the 
heads of the merchant tycoons bow be- 
fore it. 

There is irony in this. Man is, indeed, 
lord of forest and cave, more recently 
of fairway and apartment! All day he 
labors with his power, sending wheat up 
three-eighths of a cent, amalgamating 
Combined Copper and Independent Steel, 
deciding that the new Wittset eight shall 
have grey leather seats instead of wine- 
red plush. A pretty picture and a mighty 
creature. And yet, turn where he may, 
to the right and left, ahead, behind, 
above, on the wide billboards of the city 
is enthroned woman, aloof and superior. 
There she perches regally, like Cleopatra 
on her barge, and her smile is touched 
with the acid of contempt. 




LOV 

LAUNDDY 



— 20 — 



A General Education for a Specific Career 



Florence I. Adams 
Theme 7, Rhetoric 2, 1931-32 



r 



IT was no thrill for me to play the scale 
and simple exercises for my music 
teacher when I was a child practising 
my piano lessons. My one thought was 
ti) get it over with. Yet, much as I dis- 
liked my lessons, I was ahva^'s singing — 
just as any carefree child sings at play. 
It flattered me to be asked to sing at a 
Children's Day program, or at the Friday 
afternoon program in the primary 
school, (I was especially good at "Teddy 
l^.ear Has His Lair Under Johnnie's 
Rocking Chair"). As I grew older I en- 
joyed singing more and more and my 
amateur performances became a matter 
of course. Still I never thought of study- 
ing music seriously. In fact, I did not 
think of studying anything. 

It was not until my Aunt Flo came to 
live in our town that my voice was dis- 
covered. Aunt Flo had sung in opera ; 
so when she said that my voice was 
worth developing a new world was 
opened to me. I saw myself as a concert 
soloist and as a prima donna in the roles 
of Carmen and Marguerite. I worked 
hard with Aunt Flo as my teacher, and I 
thought myself well on the way to suc- 
cess when I got the leading roles in high 
school operettas and won medals in music 
contests. 

The time came for me to decide upon 
a college. The few years of musical 
training I had had merely strengthened 
my determination to have a musical ca- 
reer. My family was not fully convinced 
that my ambitions were not just dreams, 
or that my hopes were warranted. Aunt 
Flo, however, still had faith in my voice, 
and I realized that any kind of success 



meant earnest hard work. 1 did not mind 
spending years in preparation; so I set 
about deciding where I should study. 

The names of both the New England 
Conservatory and Cincinnati Conserva- 
tory of Music attracted me, for these two 
were generally considered the best music 
schools in the United States. Both names 
were magical to me — I was sure that 
after a few years study in either school 
I would be no less a luminary than Jenny 
Find herself. I finally decided to go to 
Cincinnati Conservatory, partly because 
Aunt Flo had gone there, and partly be- 
cause it was not far from home. Aunt 
Flo told me of the exercises, the prac- 
tising, and the concerts that made up the 
life of a music student there. I was more 
enthusiastic than ever. 

The Conservatory also offered courses 
in elective subjects, principally foreign 
languages, history, and English. This 
was an advantage, because such courses 
as these are necessary to anyone and yet 
one would not have to waste four years 
in a liberal arts school to get the same 
knowledge. I am not one of the few 
persons who strive to gain every atom 
of knowledge that comes their way. I 
see no reason for wasting my energy and 
time on anything in which I am not in- 
terested, and getting rather mediocre 
grades in them, when I might just as well 
be getting good grades in the work I en- 
joy doing. It seemed to me that the only 
way to make definite headway into a 
career was to get started on it and not 
to dawdle about in half a dozen fields. 

I had decided all this for myself. Then 
I met some opposition. My family was 



-21 



130 



unusually sympathetic toward a career, 
but they had ideas of their own as to the 
best course for me to follow. Their first 
point was that I was too young to start 
specializing — that I lacked the cultural 
background necessary to a well-rounded 
personality, and that specialization with- 
out a general preparation would be nar- 
rowing to my view-point and to my de- 
velopment as a person. My mother feared 
for my health under the rigorous curricu- 
lum of the Conservatory. She also 
thought I needed more preparation in 
music before I went there. I would have 
been further advanced if I had mastered 
the hated piano lessons, but still I was 
confident that my zest would make up 
for an}' inadequate preparation, once I 
reached the Conservatory. 

My family brought up still another ob- 
jection — what if my grand career was a 
failure and I had no training but music? 
With a general education, they said, I 
would have something to fall back on 
if I did not attain the expected success 
in my career. My spirits were dampened, 
but I had to admit that my voice might 
not carry me to the triumphs I expected 
so confidently. Then my health might 
fail — a thousand things might happen. 
It would be unfortunate, in such a case, 
if I knew nothing but music — while, if 
I were prepared to teach school or to 
write advertising copy, I need not worry 
about starving. 

In the end the matter was practically 
decided for me. The business depression 
came along. I realized that it would en- 
tail great sacrifice on the part of my 
family for me to go to Cincinnati. I 
knew that my father would have sacri- 
ficed a great deal for me to go anyway, 
had I insisted, but that was more than I 
could ask, and if I were so ambitious 
now — surely a year or two would not 



keep me from having mj' career. I made 
a right about face and decided to come 
to the University of Illinois. So it was 
not my argument nor the opposing argu- 
ment that won. Circumstances decided 
my education for a few years, but not 
forever, because I still intend to carry 
on the postponed schedule. 

It was disappointing at first, but I tried 
my best to be convinced of all the argu- 
ments on the side of a general education. 
I have tried to be enthusiastic over the 
great wealth of knowledge I shall have 
when I finish with history, biology, and 
English literature. I have tried to believe 
that these courses and others will make 
a charming, cultured woman of me. But 
with little success, for too many other 
people are doing the same thing and I 
find none of them cultured or well-edu- 
cated. I have worked toward the musi- 
cal education I hope to have later. I 
have signed up for as much work in lan- 
guages and dramatics as possible, for 
these subjects are necessary to my future 
career. 

I have spent almost a year now in 
a liberal arts course, and I do not feel 
that I have gained much. I have done 
moderately well as to grades, I have had 
a passably good time, but I am not seri- 
ously interested in the courses I am 
taking — and consequently I do not feel 
that I am receiving as much benefit from 
them as possible. Perhaps they are basic 
for more interesting work to come — I 
hope so. Certainly I could not earn a liv- 
ing with what I have learned so far. I 
have lost what progress I had made in 
music as I have had no time to keep it 
up. For this reason I cannot help feel- 
ing that every year that I spend in this 
liberal arts course sets me back just that 
much in mv real education — music. 



— 22 — 



Textbook: World 



Owen Reamer 

Tlwmc 3, Rhetoric 2, 1931-32 



THE two most important gates of 
man's brain are sight and hearing. 
Through these two portals enter most of 
his sensations. If he is born with a modi- 
cum of intelligence, and early learns to 
keep those doors open, he will probably 
leave the world with no small amount of 
wisdom. Man, when young (not being 
blessed with easy adaptability to environ- 
ment as are the animals) experiences 
many bumps, physical and otherwise, 
while he is becoming orientated in his 
immediate scheme of things. 

The years from four to twelve are, to 
my mind, eight of the most important 
ones in a child's life. During that time 
it is decided whether he is to be ignorant 
or intelligent ; normal and average or ab- 
normal and moody; physically fit or a 
health problem ; one who would be bene- 
fited and individualized by a college edu- 
cation or turned out as just another stere- 
otyped citizen. These qualities depend a 
,s,'reat deal on the environment a child is 
reared in. He is born with an intelli- 
gence, but those who rear him must see 
tliat that intelligence is developed. 

I spent these important years in a small 
town with few children in mv immediate 
vicinity. I was thrown on my own in- 
\ention for amusement. My mother was 
( and is) overfond of me, but even she 
could not spend the long days amusing 
me. It was indeed fortunate that our 
jiousc was in a large yard with many 
l)uildings — a woodshed, a chicken house, 
a washshed. an old empty stable, and a 
garage with wonderful tools. These 
buildings were interesting and were store- 
houses of interesting knowledge, only 



waiting for tiny inquisitive minds to re- 
lease it. 

The chicken house taught me elements 
of zoology: chickens have peculiar organs 
that enable them to sleep on a small 
rod without falling off ; hens lay eggs 
which, if left alone under the mother's 
care, hatch into miniature copies of the 
older bird. The washshed, rebuilt by my 
father from the wreck of a larger barn, 
taught me what fruits manual training, 
patience, and frugality give. In the 
garage, which was both machine and car- 
penter shop combined, I watched my 
father and learned the use of tools. He 
never allowed me to tamper with his 
more expensive implements but he de- 
lighted in having me ask him questions. 
The woodshed intrigued me. In the fall 
I helped to fill it with the fresh-cut wood. 
We filled it till only interesting gaps and 
spaces high up near the peaked roof 
were left. These woody retreats were to 
me as haymows are to a farmer boy. 
There I built myself rustic thrones with 
arms and back and footrest from the 
rude half -logs. Often I enticed play- 
mates to sit there and talk with me. They 
stayed a little while, but I am afraid they 
did not appreciate the dim solitude, 
pierced only by the dust-laden shafts of 
sunlight. I think I obtained my first 
liking for argumentative discussion 
through these infant bull sessions. 

So m}' small town days passed and I 
learned many things. No one believed 
then or believes now that I had any dif- 
ferent ideas from the rest of the children. 
As I was often alone and confined in- 
doors by bad weather, I learned to read 



-23 — 



/;?^ 



very quickly. In second grade I read 
books that others scarcely touched till 
fourth. In some strange manner this 
endless reading left me with the desire to 
find, in real life, the things I read about. 
I stayed near my elders and asked 
them countless questions. If they silenced 
me as they very often did, I remained 
near them and silently watched. There 
were so many things I wanted to know, 
and, even with my questionings, I could 
find few answers. Even with my eyes and 
ears open I began to realize how crassly 
ignorant one man is. When I asked my 
brother a question and he evaded, I 
thought he was teasing. Even my father 
failed me on some inquiries. So it goes. 
Those to whom I look for aid in my in- 
experience are frequently as ignorant as 
I. I realized that I should never know as 



much as I wanted to, but I kept my in- 
quisitiveness through my teens. Everyday 
brings new information on life or its in- 
teresting sidelines. Sometimes I find 
these facts by personal endeavor ; again, 
if I keep my eyes and ears open, I hear 
little details by accident — encouragement 
from the Muses, one might say. 

It has been interesting and has con- 
tributed immensely to my personal en- 
joyment of life, this finding of answers 
to my juvenile questions as I grew up. 
I should advise all people who train chil- 
dren to teach their charges to read. Then 
send them out into the world and tell 
them to look for the answers to the ques- 
tions that will undoubtedly arise in their 
minds. With such personal observation 
and examination of life, life is bound to 
}-ield up a portion of her endless wisdom. 




— 24- 



/^y 



Esperanto 

M. A. McQuowN 
Theme 7, Rhetoric 2, 1931-32 



"VJINETY-NINE out of a hundred 
^ ^ average Americans will look at you 
in astonishment. Esperanto? What is 
Esperanto? Perhaps the hundredth per- 
son might answer somewhat in this fash- 
ion. "Oh, it's just some hare-brained 
scheme for a universal language which 
was discussed in the magazines some 
twenty or twenty-five years ago. It's 
probably dead by this time. I haven't 
heard an}-thing about it for twenty years. 
Besides, it's impossible anyway." And 
he would dismiss the subject with a wave 
of his hand, and turn back to his work. 
It is with the one person in a thou- 
sand, however, that we shall concern 
ourselves. That person, upon hearing 
of Esperanto and upon learning that it 
is an international language, will let his 
natural curiosity get the best of him, and 
will go to an encyclopedia. It will en- 
lighten him somewhat like this: Es- 
peranto, destined to be an international 
auxiliary language, was invented by a 
Russian, Dr. L. L. Zamenhof, and was 
published in 1887. It has spread more 
or less rapidly since that time and is 
unique in the history of international 
languages in having aroused much con- 
troversy, and in having been put to prac- 
tical use on a large scale. It meets all 
the requirements generally agreed to be 
necessary in an international language. It 
is simple — it is said that it can be learned 
thoroughly in about one-fifth the time 
necessary to gain a fair acquaintance 
with a national language — it is euphon- 
ious, it is flexible, it is logical, it is reg- 
ular, it is phonetic, and it has met the 
test of practice. It has developed a style 



in its literature, and it is capable of ex- 
pressing the most delicate shades of 
meaning. It has a large literature, there 
being about 6000 volumes in the library 
of the Universal Esperanto Association 
in Geneva, Switzerland. 

Having consulted the encyclopedia, 
this person would become more inter- 
ested, would write to one of the ad- 
dresses given in the notes at the end of 
the article, would purchase an Esperanto 
grammar, and would set about learning 
the language. In a short time he would 
find that he could write letters easily in 
the language, and he would then sub- 
scribe to the national Esperanto maga- 
zine. In this magazine he would find 
addresses of Esperantists all over the 
world, to whom he could write. He 
would commence a correspondence with 
some of these people ; and an old friend, 
meeting him some time later, would be 
very much surprised at the cosmopolitan 
outlook on the world which he had de- 
veloped, at his excellent knowledge of 
geography and conditions in many coun- 
tries, at the sudden interest which he had 
acquired in the life of the Japanese at 
home, for example, and at the intimate 
knowledge which he had concerning it. 



In the little town of Bialystok, in the 
province of Grodno, in what is now Po- 
land, but in what was then the domain 
of the Czar, on the morning of the fif- 
teenth of December, in the year 1859, 
there was born to Mark and Rosalie 
Zamenhof a son, their first son. This son 
they christened Ludwik Lazar. The in- 



■25- 



habitants of the town of Bialystok were 
a mixed lot. In one quarter of the town 
Hved the Russians, in another the Poles, 
in another the Germans, and in still 
another — by far the poorest quarter — 
the Jews. It was in this quarter of 
Rialystok that Ludwik Lazar Zamenhof 
was born. His father was a teacher of 
geography and modern languages in the 
schools of Bialystok. His mother was 
the daughter of a Hebrew merchant. 

The atmosphere of the town in which 
Zamenhof was born greatly influenced 
his character and his development in 
later life. In his own words: " . . . . 
I was educated to be an idealist ; I was 
taught that all men were brothers, while, 
all the time, everything around me made 
me feel that 7ncn did not exist; there 
only existed Russians, Poles, Germans, 
Jews, and so on. This state of affairs 
was a continual torment to my young 
mind — though many, perhaps, will smile 
at such 'grief for the world' in a child. 
And as it then seemed to me that 'grown- 
up people' were all-powerful, I used to 
say to myself that when I grew up I 
would certainly abolish the evil." The 
hatred which existed between the peoples 
of his birthplace greatly afifected the 
sensitive mind of the young Jew. He 
witnessed the terrible pogroms, those 
interracial butcheries in which Russians 
massacred Jews. He witnessed the up- 
risings of the Poles and Latvians in their 
efforts to shake off the iron hand of the 
Russian Czar. He observed the terrible 
effects of perfidious Russian propa- 
ganda in pitting the Poles against the 
Latvians, and against the Jews who had 
been driven out of Russia and had settled 
in Poland. And the great barrier be- 
tween these peoples was that of lan- 
guage. They did not understand each 
other. In the words of that greatest of 
Esperanto writers, Edmond Privat: 



"What do these people know about each 
other? That they (the others) too have 
a heart, know joy and sorrow, love home 
and wife and children? Such a thought 
never occurs to them. There exist only 
Jews, Russians, Poles, Germans — not 
human beings, only races." 

During Zamenhof's youth in Bialystok 
he learned Polish and Russian. His 
father taught him German and French 
while he was yet a mere boy. Zamenhof 
had a talent for learning languages and 
always lead his classes in the "Gym- 
nasium." In the "Gymnasium" Zamen- 
hof studied Latin and Greek — as every 
one did — for the full nine-year course. 
During all this time his mind was oc- 
cupied by the problem of an international 
language. He had become convinced 
that no national language could possibly 
become the international language by the 
example of the hatred of the Poles for 
the Russian language, by the obvious 
fact that, if a national language were 
chosen as the international language, the 
nation so honored would inevitably re- 
ceive such a prestige and such an influ- 
ence over the other nations of the world 
that these other nations would never 
consent to it. National pride and na- 
tional jealousies are too great an obstacle 
to overcome. He was convinced that an 
international language must be a neutral 
language, must not be anyone's property, 
must moreover be an auxiliary language, 
a "second language for all," and must 
not encroach upon the rights of the na- 
tional tongues. So he came to the con- 
clusion that the international must be an 
artificial language, since Latin (because 
of its enormous difficulty) and national 
languages were ruled out. 

When, in the fifth class of the "Gym- 
nasium," he began to study English, the 
simplicity of its grammar impressed him 
so much that a plan began to form in his 



■26- 



/ - 



mind. The grammar which he had al- 
ready' tentatively prepared was based on 
the enormously complex grammars of 
Latin and Greek. He began to reaHze 
tliat the complexity of the grammars of 
national languages was not a necessary 
tiling, and that thoughts could be ex- 
pressed just as accurately by a much 
simpler one, and the grammar which he 
was preparing soon melted down to a 
few pages. However, his great vocabu- 
laries still worried him. One day he 
happened to notice that the signs over the 
shops of the town had certain termina- 
tions, as we in America might notice the 
signs "Bakery," "Grocer}-," and "Laun- 
dry." These terminations had a definite 
meaning. So he conceived the idea of 
using prefixes and suffixes to express the 
relationships of words derived from one 
another. For instance, he decided upon 
the suffix "-in" to express femininity. 
Thus "patro" means "father," and 
"patrino" means "mother." By the use 
of these suffixes and prefixes he soon 
boiled down his gigantic vocabularies to 
a few thousand "roots." By learning 
twenty or thirt}' suffixes and these few 
thousand root words one has without 
further effort a vocabulary of many 
thousands of words. By 1878 he had 
completed the first form of what we 
know today as "Esperanto." 

.Soon afterward, Zamenhof was forced 
to put the new language aside for a time 
and go to Moscow to study medicine. 
However, during his years in Moscow 
his mind was continually occupied by the 
problem. When he returned and estab- 
lished himself in business in Warsaw, 
he began work again on the language. 
Many of the things which he had 
thought excellent in theory he was 
forced to throw overboard in practice. 
He worked on the language for five 
years, continually perfecting and testing 



it. He taught himself to think in it. He 
translated the most difficult pieces of 
literature into it. Finally, on the four- 
teenth of July, 1887, he gave his work 
to the printer. He describes his feelings 
thus: "I was very excited before this 
thing; I felt that I stood before a Rubi- 
con, and that from the day when my 
first brochure appeared, I no longer 
would be able to go back ; I knew what 
fate would attend a doctor, who depends 
upon the public, if this public sees in him 
a theorist who occupies himself with 
'other matters' ; I felt that I was placing 
upon the table my whole future peace of 
mind and my whole existence together 
with that of my family; but I was not 
able to forsake the idea, which had en- 
tered into my body and my soul, and — 
I crossed the Rubicon." 

II 

A lengthy discussion of the history of 
the Esperanto movement would be here 
out of place. It will suffice that I men- 
tion the outstanding events which have 
occurred in the intervening years since 
that day in 1887 when Esperanto was 
given to the world. The movement pro- 
gressed at first slowly, as was natural, 
spread from Russia to Sweden to France 
to Germany and then to England. It 
appeared in England about the beginning 
of the present centur}-. In 1905 an event 
occurred which proved the use of Es- 
peranto in practice. 

From the seventh to the twelfth of 
August, 1905, there was held at 
Boulogne-sur-Mer in France the first 
Universal Esperanto Congress. There 
were 688 people from twenty different 
countries present. Many of these people 
had never heard Esperanto spoken be- 
fore; many of them had learned it only 
a few months before, expressly for the 
purpose of coming to the Congress. The 



-27- 



final test was about to be put to the lan- 
guage. People speaking different lan- 
guages were to gather together at a con- 
gress and attempt to do business with 
one another through the medium of the 
international language, Esperanto. Again 
I must quote Edmond Privat to give an 
accurate picture of what occurred there: 
(The delegates to the Congress were 
gathered in the town theatre.) "An ex- 
cited tremor went through the crowd as 
they waited. Suddenly there sounded 
the music of the hymn 'La Espero': 
En la mondon venis nova sento, 
Tra la mondo iras forta volco . . . 

"At the same time we all arose — there 
upon the stage, with the presiding officers 
of the congress, entered the beloved 
'Majstro.' Short, timid, touched to the 
heart, with a very broad forehead, round 
eye-glasses, a little beard somewhat grey. 
Everything was already flying or waving 
in the air, hands, caps, handkerchiefs, in 
a half-hour salute. When he arose after 
the greeting of the officers of the town, 
the acclaim thundered out again. Piut 
already he had begun to speak. The 
noise stopped. Everyone sat down again. 
Through silence sounded his words: .... 

"Thus spoke Zamenhof. In his hands 
the paper trembled. He felt a powerful 
emotion. Could he read on? Neverthe- 
less something pushed him on. Although 
unaccustomed to public speaking, his 
voice grew and became loud . . . . " 
And everyone of them understood him! 
During the five days that followed all 
manner of business was carried on, 
everjlhing in Esperanto. Many sceptics 
had had doubts about pronunciation. 
What happened at the Congress quite 
dispelled them. An Esperanto transla- 
tion of a play by Moliere was presented 
by people of several different nationali- 
ties. They had had no practice before 
the Congress opened. Yet the perform- 



ance went off without a hitch. No dif- 
ference in pronunciation was perceptible. 
A play by Shakespeare, however, pre- 
sented in English by a cast consisting of 
a German, a Frenchman, a Spaniard, an 
Italian, a Russian, a Swede, and a Japa- 
nese could not help but be a ludicrous 
failure! Since that time, twenty-three 
Universal Esperanto Congresses have 
taken place, the largest in Nuremberg in 
Germany in 1923, at which 4963 from 
43 nations were present. 

In 1907, the Universal Esperanto As- 
sociation was founded. This association 
was formed to administer the purely 
practical side of the Esperanto move- 
ment. It uses Esperanto as a means, not 
as an end. It publishes the monthly re- 
view, "Esperanto," which is sent to its ten 
thousand members in some eighty coun- 
tries of the world. It has at the present 
time about 2000 "delegates," in seventy 
countries, whose duty is to help travelers 
in foreign countries. It has a tourist 
bureau which gladly gives assistance in 
planning itineraries. Through its help 
international associations of the blind, 
of railway men, of young people, of 
lawyers, of Catholics, of merchants, of 
Christians, of doctors, of motorists, of 
tourists, of teachers, of musicians, of 
policemen, of telegraphers, of postmen, 
of scientists, of Boy Scouts, of stenog- 
raphers, and of theologians have been 
formed. It plans and conducts the an- 
nual international congresses. The asso- 
ciation states its purposes thus: 

To disseminate the use of the inter- 
national auxiliary language Esperanto. 

To facilitate all kinds of relations, moral 
and material, between human beings, with- 
out difFerentiatin;? because of race, nation- 
ality, religion or language. 

To create international services which 
may be used by all men, whose intellectual 
or material interests aim at something be- 
yond the boundaries of their racial or 
lingual territory. 



■28- 



To build up among: its members a strong: 
bond of solidarity and to develop among 
them an understanding of foreign peoples. 

In 1917 Zamenhof died. In 1922 the 
League of Nations issued a lengthy re- 
port of the status of Esperanto in the 
world at that time but failed to pass the 
following resolution by a small margin: 

The League of Nations recommends that 
the teaching of Esperanto be made general 
in the public schools of the whole world as 
a practical and popular means of inter- 
national intercourse in no way calculated 
to prejudice the age-long prestige of civil- 
ized national languages. 

Also in 1922 nearly one hundred of the 
world's leading educators, from 28 coun- 
tries, met in Geneva at the invitation of 
the League of Nations, and passed the 
resolution reading in part: 

We find that Esperanto is entirely ade- 
quate for practical use as an international 
language for all purposes, and that, more- 
over, it possesses remarkable qualities as an 
educational instrument. We cordially 
recommend you to encourage the teaching 
of Esperanto, not only because of its utility 
in commerce, science, and other interna- 
tional activities, but also because of its 
value as a stimulus to friendly relationship 
between the peoples of the world. Es- 
peranto should be made a part of the edu- 
cational program of every civilized country. 

In 1925 Esperatito was made a "clear" 
language by the International Tele- 
graphic Union, so that one may now 
send telegrams in it. With the advent 
of radio the need for an international 
language has become more acute and the 
International Union of Wireless Tele- 
phony has recommended that radio sta- 



tions broadcast in Esperanto for fifteen 
minutes each week and announce the 
name of the station daily in Esperanto. 
Most of the larger stations in Europe 
now do this. 

Regarding the number of Esperantists 
in the world, little can be said definitely, 
because of the impossibility of collecting 
complete statistics. In 1928 an attempt 
was made. It appeared that there were 
126,508 Esperantists in over 100 lands 
actively engaged in the movement. Of 
course, these are only a small part of 
those who know and use the language 
but belong to no organization. The 
"New York Times" stated last year that 
the number of Esperantists in the world, 
at a low estimate, was five millions, and 
this number is rapidly increasing. 



The subject which I have been discus- 
sing is of immediate and practical im- 
portance, and I hope that the subject 
matter of this paper shall have awakened 
some little interest in the mind of the 
reader which will lead him to further 
investigation; so that, perhaps, another 
of those people will have found himself 
— another of those people whose minds 
are capable of going beyond their im- 
mediate surroundings, and capable of 
visualizing that time when in truth "the 
walls between the peoples shall have been 
destroyed" and mutual understanding 
and peaceful relations shall prevail on the 
earth. 




— 29 — 



There Ought to be a Law 



Helen Westerman 
Theme 3, Rhetoric 2, 1931-32 



THERE is a certain set of people in 
this present age that insists upon 
making wild estimates of the state of this 
world in — say, fifty years from now. 
Certain of their conclusions regarding 
the development of machinery I will 
grant, but they have some fantastical 
ideas which certainly have no scientific 
foundation. I have in mind the idea, 
which some one advanced, that in the 
future food will be concentrated entirely 
into talilet form and eaten as tablets only. 
To me a day is naturally divided into 
three distinct parts by breakfast, lunch, 
and dinner. Suddenly to take away these 
divisions would leave the day in such 
an unsettled state that it would be diffi- 
cult to systematize one's work. Xo longer 
could one plan to do so much work be- 
fore lunch and llie rest before dinner. 
The mere swallowing of a brown, a 
white, and a green tablet for a full 
course meal should not necessitate 
any break of routine. Twelve o'clock 
noon would no longer have the signifi- 
cance which it now has — no more noon 
whistles would shriek. The monoton}' 
of a day would be unbearable with no 
breakfast to hurry to, no lunch to invite 
bridge players to, and no dinner to dress 
for and enjoy under soft candle light. 
The anticipation of a meal may keep a 
person in a happy frame of mind for 
several hours, but there is nothing exhil- 
arating about a couple of tasteless tablets 



which can be swallowed in three seconds 
with no pleasant sensations. The memory 
of a happy and pleasant meal may last 
for any length of time. In literature 
some of the most famous incidents occur 
at banquets or in banquet halls. Heroes 
are honored with feasts of prodigious 
proportions, but it would be a farce to 
hand a pink tablet to a visiting ambassa- 
dor and then ask him to make a speech. 
And beside this we have the practical 
side of the question, which is probably 
more serious. Future homes would have 
no pantries, no kitchens, no dining rooms. 
Tliere would be no need for canning fac- 
tories, grocery stores, restaurants, vege- 
table markets. (And incidentally, what 
would become of the college home eco- 
nomics student?) These sweeping 
changes in all phases of life are too stu- 
pendous to investigate and too startling 
to attempt grasping. 

I believe it to be cruel and heartless to 
spread such an idea among the people 
and there should be a law against it. But, 
because there might be some truth in the 
prophecy, I have started on a campaign 
of "food appreciation." From now on I 
intend to eat whatever and whenever I 
please, so that I can tell my grandchil- 
dren all the joys of chocolate cream pie, 
chicken fried in butter, waffles, and fruit 
salad, while they sit at my knee crunch- 
ing concentrated vitamins in dusty 
tablets. 



■30 — 



/^ 



#rtt» 







I '' 



T-HtCKtEN 

CALDKON 



A Magazine of Freshman Writing 




November 
1932 



Vol.2 
No. 1 



CONTENTS 

"IMPROVED" PROPERTY 1 

Margaret Henderson 

THE ILLIDGIAC MOOD 1 

John H. Schacht 

"SOMEWHERE IN KANSAS" 3 

Ruth McClain 

THE WORLD I LEFT BEHIND ME . . . 4 
Juan Baniqued 

MY PHILOSOPHY OF WORK S 

Feme Fetters 

THE ICE WAGON 6 

C. R. Gairing 

£TUDE 7 

F. C. Arthur 

THE ISLE OF THE DEAD 10 

Charles Gibian 

HIDDEN TREASURE 11 

G. D. Weisiger 

THE BRASS PIG 13 

G. W. James 

ON THE LOSS OF A ROOM IS 

R. F. Fisher 

OUR ARABIAN NIGHTS IS 

H. C. Blankmeyer 

COLLEGE CAPERS 17 

Louis Plambeck, Jr. 

THE VALUE OF PESSIMISM 18 

V. G. Meadors 

THE ROMANCE OF OUR TRAINS ... 19 

Mary V. Cady 

A CHANGE OF HEART 20 

William E. Rapp 

ANTON 21 

Elinor Davis 

THE HOSPITAL 23 

Stewart Wright 

DANGER ENOUGH FOR A DAY . . . . 2S 
William Judy 



PUBLISHED BY THE RHETORIC STAFF, UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS, URBANA 



"Improved" Property 



Margaret Henderson 
Theme 4, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



ACROSS the street from our house 
stands a very new and modem apart- 
ment building. It is a very nice apart- 
ment building, as apartment buildings go. 
It has all the most recent improvements 
in the lighting, heating, and refrigeration 
systems, and the exterior is of the finest 
quality red brick. People are constantly 
hurrying in and out of its doors. 

There was once a very old orchard 
across the street from our house. Its 
inhabitants were ancient and gnarled ap- 
ple trees, bent from many years of fruit- 
bearing. In the spring the whole orchard 
was filled with the pink and white blos- 
soms, which sent their spicy fragrance 
over the neighborhood. In the fall the ap- 
ples hung heavy — red, yellow, and green. 
Guarding this quiet old place from the 
rest of the busy community, was a 
weatherbeaten old rail fence. Inside its 
protective pales, at each corner, was an 



immense lilac bush, and the perfume of 
the flowers mingled with that of the 
apple-blossoms. Each bloom-laden bush 
stood like a huge sentinel. Two tumble- 
down old red barns leaned and rested in 
the center of the orchard. Neither was 
very large, and by climbing one of the 
trees and then jumping, we were able to 
get upon the roof of one of them. As 
often as we were allowed, we ate our 
lunch perched precariously on the roof 
top, high among the branches of the 
trees. 

There is one very forlorn and desolate 
lilac bush standing beside the apartment 
building. In the space which was left for 
a back yard, there is still a lonely old 
apple tree, which very bravely bears a 
few yellow apples each year. 

The propert)' upon which the building 
stands is listed as "improved." 



The Illidgiac Mood 

John H. Schacht 
Theme 16. Rhetoric II. 1931-32 



1HAVE seen political candidates con- 
gratulated upon winning an election, 
and I have seen airplane pilots received 
after crossing the Atlantic, and both poli- 
ticians and pilots seemed proud of them- 
selves, but I have yet to see anyone look 
quite so haught}- as a youth in a light 
gray suit whom I once saw at a formal 



dance. He was outwardly the most com- 
plete, perfect, and absolute example of 
pride and aloofness that one could wish 
to see ; yet I know well that he was the 
most embarrassed lad on the dance floor. 
He was a perfect example of the Illidgiac 
mood. 

What is the Illidgiac mood? It is the 



nz 



state of emotions that Frank Illidge, of 
Huxley's Point Counter Point, found 
himself in at Lord Edward's reception, 
when he came down the stairs to con- 
front a crowd of unfamiliar, utterly 
foreign, and therefore utterly hateful 
faces. So, though he felt completely out 
of place, he elevated his chin, squared his 
shoulders, and advanced, looking like 
Napoleon at Augsburg, and feeling like 
Napoleon at Waterloo. 

Have you ever seen a boy the first time 
he goes to a roadhouse? He carefully 
avoids the couples wrestling on the front 
porch, opens the door, sees everyone hi- 
larious and tipsy, and internally wilts. 
But he, like Illidge, and like the boy at 
the formal, draws himself up to his full 
height and looks about him with a cyni- 
cally amused smile and an air of disdain. 

Or have you ever seen a batter in a 
baseball game, facing a pitcher who is too 
good for him? The batter, feeling empty 
inside, lolls about with a bored look, care- 
lessl}^ handling his bat. Then he stands 
like a wooden Indian, while the pitcher 
throws three strikes, gives the umpire a 
withering look, and retires. 

Now, this air of assumed superiority 
has, I suppose, causes both mental and 
physical. Fear, of course, is responsible 
for the whole thing. The boy at the 
dance, the batter, and the boy at the road- 
house, are afraid. Rut what really terri- 
fies them is the fear that the}' may appear 
afraid. So their vanity suggests to them 
that they put on their easy, right-at-home 
pose. This would be quite successful if 
they were all George Arlisses, but un- 
fortunately their nervous system wins a 
decision over their will-power ; they 
tighten up, and act like pieces of statuary 
mystically endowed with locomotion. 

I suppose there is no real preventive 
for this mental complex, since people are 
almost certain to slip up sometime and 



come to formal affairs in light suits ; bat- 
ters are sure to encounter pitchers that 
are too good for them; and, if youths 
insist on going to roadhouses, there must 
be a first time for all of them. But, since 
this mood is due to fear, and so perhaps 
to an inferiority complex, it seems to me 
that if a man would approach these situa- 
tions in the proper frame of mind, he 
could carry them off very well. 

I should suggest taking the bull by the 
horns. Frank Illidge skidded on the 
stairs, and had to clutch the bannister to 
preserve his balance. His slip made him 
more nervous than ever. Now, the proper 
thing for him would have been, I think, 
to straddle the bannister and slide down 
into the assembly with a loud shout. His 
arrival would then have put the party on 
a good, homelike basis, and he would un- 
doubtedly have felt more at ease. 

The batter should give the umpire and 
pitcher a good talking-to before he bats ; 
thus he could relieve his nervous tension 
and feel a good deal better even if he 
subsequently was called out on strikes. 
And I am sure the boy at the roadhouse 
would look less like an automaton and 
feel less like a hollow shell if, upon en- 
tering the dance hall, he should turn a 
few handsprings and upset a table or 
two. 

These remedies, though violent, might 
be more effective than ridiculous (though 
not much more so), but they would never 
be employed, for the Illidgiac mood is 
too deeply seated. As well try to reason 
the fear of darkness out of a child as to 
drive the fear of the unfamiliar out of a 
man — at least when he feels he is being 
scrutinized by a hostile crowd. So men 
will go on assuming their pose of hauteur 
to hide their embarrassment, and silently 
praying that, unlike Illidge, they will not 
topple on the stairs. 



-2 — 



"Somewhere in Kansas" 



Ruth McClain 
Theme 15, Rhetoric II, 1931-32 



IT was gone ! I ran madly down the 
track, the ice cream cone that had 
caused the disaster still clutched tightly 
in my hand, but to no avail. The illumi- 
nated sign on the last coach — "Pacific 
Coast Limited"^ — faded into the distance, 
and, still panting, I turned and walked 
slowly back to the town. I was dressed in 
pajamas, covered only by a light coat, 
just as I had been when the train paused 
at the little town of Pekong (somewhere 
in Kansas) and, seized with a sudden 
longing for ice cream, I had snatched my 
purse and headed for the enticing sign, 
just back of the station, "Ice Cream Em- 
porium." There I was, all alone in an 
imknown town with a very few dollars 
in my purse (the rest had been safely 
stowed for the night in the very bottom 
of my suitcase). I walked with great 
dignity into the ancient depot, and, de- 
spite the curious gaze of an old man 
hunched in a corner of the rickety bench, 
I advanced toward the amazed telegraph 
operator and explained my predicament. 

"Well, ma'am," he answered, slowly 
scratching his forehead and eyeing my 
attire with evident disfavor, "I just don't 
know what to say. The next train won't 
be in until four this morning, but you're 
welcome to sit right here and wait." 

I thanked him effusively and wrote out 
a telegram to the porter of my coach ; it 



read, "Sam, Coach Carolina, Pacific 
Coast Limited. Please put all luggage of 
mine off and check at Denver. There's a 
dollar for you at the telegraph office. 
Lower number 9." Then I settled back on 
the uncomfortable bench (vacated kindly 
and hurriedly by the old gentleman) for 
a long, long wait. The town was so quiet 
I could hear mice scratching in the walls, 
the click of the telegraph instrument, and 
the drone of voices as the operator con- 
versed with someone just outside the 
door. I finished the cone with something 
of satisfaction (a just punishment for 
the miscreant) and somehow dropped off 
to sleep, to dream of rumbling trains and 
huge mounds of ice cream. I was 
awakened by a rough grasp on my shoul- 
der, and I blinked up at the queer pic- 
ture of the highly respectable operator, 
standing before me, very red of face, and 
holding a faded red gingham dress in his 
hand. He offered it sheepishly with the 
announcement: 

"Here, ma'am, the Mrs. said you were 
to have this. She won't need it, of course 
it might be big — but — no, I don't want 
any money for it — here, take it, ma'am." 

I took it, and boarded the four o'clock 
train, dressed in a much too large and 
long gingham dress and a short coat, 
carrying a neatly tied newspaper bundle 
under my arm. 



-3 — 



/>y 



The World I Left Behind Me 

Juan Baniqued 
Theme 4, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



DURING my very early childhood the 
advantages of being grown up were 
quite strongly impressed upon my mind. 
Perhaps washing dishes would not now 
be such a detestable task, if in those 
earlier years it could have been accom- 
plished without the aid of a chair. How 
I envied my mother because she could 
see at once both sides of the table when 
she set it. Had the time that I spent 
wishing I were older, been spent learning 
to whistle, I should now be the world's 
champion whistler. Of course, when I 
got what I wanted, it was no longer de- 
sirable. By the time I was fourteen I was 
quite willing never to grow older. 

The truly happy years that I have left 
behind me, from the time I was four until 
I was seven, were spent on a farm. No 
cloud dimmed, or even remotely threat- 
ened, the succession of bright, happy 
days. No thought of tomorrow ever 
troubled my sleep. Heaven and earth 
were mine, though my earth was a very 
small one. Then, the earth was bounded 
by the dim blue horizon where the world 
ended, where people fell oflF if they were 
not careful. Not even death could darken 
the future, for heaven was very near. 
The trees reached the sky, and their 
leaves whispered things about the glories 
thev saw. The stars were candles lighted 



by angels so that little children need not 
be afraid of the dark. All these things 
I believed before I went to school. 

On my seventh birthday, my carefree 
life was traded in on an education. Never 
since have I been free. The burden of 
learning was not the delightful task it 
was supposed to be. For a carpet of 
crackling leaves and soft grass, they gave 
me a hard, dark floor. For hills and 
mountains, blue sky and bright sun, thev 
gave me dull walls and an unchanging 
ceiling. For the companionship of broth- 
ers and sisters, they gave me books, pen- 
cils, and papers. Thus I gave up the earth 
and all that was on it for the question- 
able benefits of the schoolroom. Like 
fading pictures, shadowed with soft light 
and accompanied by far away music, re- 
turn the scenes of my happy home. 
What grown up pleasures compare with 
chasing calves through a meadow of red 
clover, or swimming in a silvery stream? 
Is it any pleasure to know that the bird 
you thought was an eagle soaring against 
heavy clouds was only a chicken hawk 
flying through the same stuff that comes 
from the spout of a teakettle? Then it 
was m3'sterious ; now it is a common- 
place. These pleasures I had to give up 
for alwavs. 




— 4 — 



My Philosophy of Work 

Ferne Fetters 
Theme 15, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



"'TTVERY man is as lazy as he dares 
■L-' to be" is an oft-quoted maxim. Per- 
haps the reason that all people do not 
reveal the same amount of laziness is the 
varying degree of sensitiveness in their 
consciences. Personally, I believe that 
those people who work merely for work's 
sake are, indeed, scarce ; but the fact that 
many others do work despite their nega- 
tive inclinations, suggests their motiva- 
tion by some inner or outer force. 

By a powerful will, many people man- 
age to overcome their antipathy for work 
and to escape the designation of laziness. 
These individuals, fearing adverse pub- 
lic opinion or dreading poverty, try to 
conceal their deficiencies of ambition by 
a seeming desire for labor. They are im- 
pelled by the inner force of their char- 
acter. Others, not having so delicate a 
pride, are indifferent to society's attitude 
toward them. Only through the driving 
power of an employer or superior who 
happens to be attracted to them are these 
dilatory human beings made to function 
actively in life. These latter persons are 
urged on by an outer force — by the force 
of another one's character. 

People have not only different incen- 
tives for working, as I have shown, but 
also different attitudes toward their 
work. Why is one manual worker dull, 
slovenly, and sullen, while another one, 
performing the same task, is interested, 
diligent, and cordial? The gulf between 
these two individuals lies, in all proba- 
bility, in their opposite ideas of labor. 
The one thinks that he is being imposed 
upon by society and that he never gets a 



"break" in life, whereas the other is de- 
lighted that he has a position and that 
he can honestly earn his bread. In the 
correct philosophy toward work centers 
the nucleus of personal happiness. 

Educated people have a better chance 
for understanding the need for work and 
for studying the benefits the individual 
receives from it. But the day laborer, 
with his total ignorance of philosophies, 
may bitterly deplore his state and make 
himself perfectly miserable and inefficient 
by groping helplessly in the dark for an 
answer to his problem. Far happier is 
the workman who, luckily, does not ques- 
tion the deeper principles of life, but 
who, without bothering his head about 
unexplainable conditions, enjoys the shal- 
lower pleasures meagerly meted out to 
him. 

Not only manual laborers but even stu- 
dents should develop some tvpe of phi- 
losophy adequate for their happiness. 
What sort of philosophy a person de- 
velops to meet his demands matters not, 
for individual needs vary. I do maintain, 
however, that each college student should 
have his own private attitude toward 
work. 

For my own part, I think the best phi- 
losophy that I ever heard was expressed 
by a lecturer to whom I recently listened. 
After talking of our present economic 
disorganization and the difficulties con- 
fronting ever3fone, he spoke a few words 
that I have treasured ever since. Refer- 
ring to the familiar biblical story of 
Jesus, and Mary and Martha, sisters of 
Lazarus, the speaker said, "Most of us 



— 5- 



? ¥ 



are sons of Martha — not of Mary. The 
great majority of us cannot sit and idly 
worship as Mary did, but we must per- 
form, as Martha did, the actual, unde- 
lightful tasks of life." 

So whenever my work begins to as- 
sume a formidable aspect, whenever, on 



the same day, a combination of three or 
four themes, reports, and hour examina- 
tions faces me, I square my shoulders and 
console my self-pitying body that I must 
expect such a lot, since I, too, am only 
a "daughter of Martha." 



The Ice Wagon 

C. R. Gairing 
Theme 12, Rhetoric II, 1931-32 



THE blazing sun had forced us to take 
refuge in the cool shade of a chestnut 
tree. Here we were playing mumbly-peg 
when we first heard the creaking clatter 
of the ice wagon, accompanied by the 
regular plodding of the horses' hoofs on 
the dirt road. A loud "whoa-a-a" ended 
our game. We hastened toward the 
familiar yellow wagon, as the shaggy, 
unkempt horses came to a stop, and the 
leather-vested iceman descended from 
his high seat behind the horses. We 
watched him jerk the ice tongs from their 
hook on the side of the seat, and fol- 
lowed him to the rear of the huge plank 
box. The ice pick clicked on one large 
transparent cube, and the glistening chips 
fell onto the wet, dirty planking which 
floored the wagon. The cube suddenly 
broke, and half of it slithered tlirough the 
chips. The iceman seized this piece with 
the tongs and, with a grunt, hoisted it to 
his shoulder. 



As soon as he started across the street, 
we scrambled over the high hind wheels, 
or mounted the single step at the rear, 
into the wagon. We scooped up the cold 
chips from the floor ; one boy even looked 
under the heavy wet canvas which 
shielded the other cubes from the hot 
sun's rays, in search of larger pieces. 
How cool these wet crystals were inside 
our mouths ! Despite the dirt from the 
bottom of the wagon, they were refresh- 
ing on so hot a day. 

The clink of the ice tongs warned us 
of the iceman's approach. We clambered 
down to the ground and watched him 
mount into the seat via the axle and iron- 
shod rim of the front wheel. A few clucks 
from the driver, and the wagon creaked 
off. Munching our ice chips, with the 
melting ice running down our arms to 
our elbows, we stood watching the 
clumsy, lumbering vehicle slowly creak 
and clatter away. 





f^'^^ 



— 6- 



r 

Etude 



F. C. Arthur 

Theme 7, Rhetoric II, 1931-32 



THE Missoula river is a lost river. It 
treads heavily and restlessly through 
a countryside that has lost an old 
serenity. Unheeding, the stream moves 
past pattern-like corn fields. It is faced 
by cliffs, and turns aside grimly, un- 
willingly, morbidly. The sun stands in 
its old place and smiles at the water. The 
water is an angry child ; it frowns darkly. 
It is a lost child; it frowns wearily. No 
sparkling riffles dimple its glum face, 
only soughing winds, noiseless swells. 
Lookout Rock still stands stiff and grand. 
But the grandeur is the grandeur of an 
exiled prince. Shabby are its surround- 
ings ; mean is its following. No eagles 
bank above its barren majesty. The songs 
of small birds pierce the stillness of the 
ravines no more. A toothpaste poster 
leers uneasily at a cigarette lithograph. 
Angered, repelled, the river twists and 
strains to escape. Off it goes on a tan- 
gent. 

Such is the river that runs througli 
Nordlac. It was a river of silver; it is a 
river of lead. The time was when stately 
white columns were mirrored in its shin- 
ing and peaceful breadth. There stand 
those columns, those mansions, high 
upon the south bluff. They are sedate. 
They are respectable. Their owners col- 
lect antiques. Their owners are respect- 
able. Their (jwners are the progeny of 
the restless men who came on the flood- 
ing river to build a new settlement. 

New settlements used to be good busi- 
ness propositions. The people who came 
down the river had nothing to divert 
their attention from the task of building 



towns, fortunes, and respectability. 
Country stores, country lawyers, and 
country doctors all flourished. The next 
generation was still imbued with the 
priceless spur of ambition. Clay was un- 
earthed ; silica was found. Enterprising 
men, with the aid of their fathers' money 
and position, built up factories, hired 
labor, and turned out bricks and glass. 
Nordlac was industrialized. A germ had 
crept in. Years before, England had be- 
come industrialized. The country and 
the people were metamorphosed by the 
Industrial Revolution. What reason was 
there for a little Middle Western town 
to follow England's footsteps? It was 
mockery ; it was imitation. Men with 
vision, men of respectability, were be- 
hind the move. Men with fat cigars, fat 
bank accounts, and houses on the bluff 
were the leaders of the glorious move- 
ment. They became rich. They wanted 
to become richer. 

No longer did they depend on the 
honest trade of honest farmers for their 
income. They looked for labor, cheap 
labor ; for markets, good markets. The 
labor came. Dissatisfied farmers, slovenly 
vagabonds, and ignorant foreigners made 
up the incoming troop. They had heard 
of high wages. They worked long hours. 
Across tlie river from the tall houses the)' 
threw together their hovels. Down on the 
muddy flat where the unlovely brick plant 
sprawled they put up their shacks of 
broken tile and brick. They brought 
squalor to Nordlac. They brought their 
brothels and their saloons. The highly 
respectable gentlemen who resided on the 



— 7 — 



south blufif shot a cold, calculating glance 
at the situation and put in a stock of 
shoddy clothes and moldy groceries. 
Business was good. People were build- 
ing in Chicago. Bricks and glass were in 
constant demand. The men who stuffed 
the bricks and blew the glass were free 
with their hard-earned wages. Nordlac 
prospered. 

When Nordlac prospered Nordlacians 
became conscious of their position. The 
wives of the bluff-dwellers looked over 
the way and turned up their noses at the 
sight of red-faced women and numbers 
of dirty little children. The women from 
the big white houses suddenly felt the 
power of their money. They bought 
clothes; they took on fads. This was 
natural. They were children playing with 
their pretty new toys. If one urchin has 
more marbles than the next brat, he im- 
mediately considers himself a superior 
being. He has an urge to become lesss 
patronizing, less friendly. He goes off 
to play by himself until he is met by 
another boy who has more marbles than 
he. My ladies of the older families of 
Nordlac began to be sharply aware of 
their superiority. Of course they were 
superior. They had distinction, culture, 
and understanding. Their husbands were 
not in the habit of dragging themselves 
home drunk and exhausted. ... Of 
course they drank, but they drank as 
gentlemen drink. They were not too par- 
ticular where they chose their standards 
of gentlemanly conduct. 

Birds of a feather flock together. The 
elegant women formed clubs. For a long 
time they had demure and dignified study 
clubs. Erudite matrons racked their 
brains for distinctive and original mot- 
toes and names. Thus sprang into exist- 
ence such organizations as Non Pro 
Nobis or Not for Ourselves. Wild and 
wonderful subjects were studied. Books 



were read, were frowned upon, and were 
discussed in whispers. Some bright mem- 
ber of the more sporty set of men came 
back from the East with his head stuffed 
with plans of fairways, bunkers, and 
greens. Fashionable Nordlac rushed to 
join the Country Club. A few of the 
younger members of the study clubs 
heard reports on the popularity of Mah 
Jong. With little hesitation they set out 
to play Mah Jong, much to the detriment 
of their study clubs and their studies. 
Poor old Non Pro Nobis was on its last 
legs. In a year or two everyone who was 
anyone was playing bridge for so much 
a point. 

Last year the women who still col- 
lected antiques, and still tried to uphold 
an ideal of culture, had the brilliant idea 
of having a real symphony concert in the 
spacious auditorium of Nordlac's costly 
new high school. Civic pride and self- 
importance could only benefit from such 
a move. Accordingly, the Minneapolis 
Orchestra was given a contract to play a 
concert in Nordlac. Everyone felt it his 
duty as a member of the intelligentsia to 
drive to the auditorium and sit waiting 
for the overture with a great deal of 
crackling of programs and not a little 
impatience. Verrbrughen took his place 
on the rostrum, and the orchestra gave 
voice to Beethoven's Egmont. After polite 
and decorous applause, the audience 
settled back in their seats to listen to 
Tschaikowsky's Fifth Symphony. Here 
and there was a person who was unable 
to keep from yawning ever so slightly. 
They toyed with their watches or scru- 
tinized their programs while the musi- 
cians bent to their labor of love. All the 
somberness, all the majesty and tragedy 
of the river that was flowing past the 
hall was echoed and re-echoed by the 
pulsations of the orchestra. Shimmering 
strings, strident brasses, reeds, and the 



— 8 — 



mellow harp sang together in a vast and 
sorrowful lamentation. Colors, nuances, 
and shadings trembled over the racks of 
the orchestra. Beauty and peace united 
in the brighter and more cheerful major 
of the finale. A sermon had been 
preached; the musicians had given their 
souls. While the crowd filed out amidst 
an orderly hum, the violinists, the clari- 
netists, and the rest packed up to go to 
an unlovely hotel and but a poor night's 
rest. 

What of the people who worked in the 
factories? W' ere they at the concert ? Of 
course not. They did not possess that 
marvelous appreciation of the higher 
things of life which was so admirably 
shown by the insipid listeners at the con- 
cert. They, poor people, stayed at home 
and had a capital evening listening to 
their super radios. They could not afford 
to go to a real concert. The people on the 
south bluff had been careful to keep the 
concert on what they considered the cor- 
rect basis. Wonderful things can be done 



with music. Music is beauty, music is 
idealism, music is profound sj'mpathy. 
The people of the factories were and are 
denied the solace of music. No one so 
much as thinks about a community ■ in 
which graceful thoughts and a love of 
beauty are the guides of the citizens. Oh 
no ! Everyone is too busy talking about 
the glass factory. Five hundred more men 
were laid off to-day. There is no future 
but one of misery for those who must 
earn their bread in the factory. The 
people over there on the south bluff can- 
not do much about the situation. There 
is no market for glass. They must close 
down and save money. They shrug their 
shoulders and drive to the club for din- 
ner in their new Packards. The glass in- 
dustry seems to be a trifle overdeveloped. 
It is fortunate that they have their in- 
heritances, is it not ? 

The river is sullen to-day. Sewage and 
more sewage has been dumped in it. It 
mutters softly as it moves slowly past the 
lower brick plant. 




— 9 — 



The Isle of the Dead 



Charles Gibian 
Theme 3, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



THERE is no more gruesome and less 
colorful painting than the one called 
the Isle of the Dead. It so completel}- ex- 
presses one man's impression of a land 
of death that it is considered the finest 
of art. In it one sees in the midst of a 
motionless expanse of water an island, 
the entrance to which is a cold, grey stone 
gate, more grotesque in shape than any- 
thing ever seen by man in the living 
world. Towering trees of imaginative 
proportions guard in a stately, silent 
fashion this realm of departed souls. 
There is no variety here, no night and 
day, no time, no petty cares or ambitions ; 
it is a state of being rather than a scene, 
and words cannot express its greatness 
in being so. 

I have known this picture as long as 
I can remember and, more recently, have 
loved and respected it deeply. It has a 
strange capacity for taking one out of a 
small world of reality into a larger, more 
fascinating one of imagination, and I 
used to gaze at it in leisure moments, 
drift, and imagine. I came to know it as 
a means of escape and, consequently, be- 
came more and more attached to it as 
time went on. It was not until my fif- 
teenth year, however, that I discovered 
the real depths of its greatness. 

I was sitting in my room one night 
during a brief vacation from school, 
brooding with all the profound serious- 
ness of one just launched upon a high 
school career, when a voice from a radio 
in the next room announced the presen- 
tation of a symphony by RachmaninofT — 
Isle of the Dead. I immediately began to 



wonder if this music could possibly bear 
any relationship to that somber painting 
on my wall. While waiting for the piece 
to commence, I meditated upon the fact 
that I had never been able to grasp the 
full significance of certain music which 
I knew was beautiful. Painting, sculp- 
ture, architecture — I could appreciate 
them because I could understand in a 
measure what the artist was driving at, 
but most of the best music rebounded 
from my sensibilities like hail from a 
roof. But then the symphony began. At 
that very moment the cloud of incompre- 
hensibility began to lift, and I felt myself 
taken into the confidence of another great 
artist. Not all of a sudden did this 
awakening take place, but gently as the 
music progressed and as I gazed at my 
picture. 

Into the world of imagination I began 
to sink until the objects about my room 
no longer seemed to be there. I was in a 
boat, gliding silently through the motion- 
less pool of water into the mist. Slowly 
the island took form in the distance, as 
a new strain entered into the music. Now 
I could see the tall trees, more imposing 
than I had ever imagined them before, 
now the great massive gate, now the 
rocks on the shore, and all the time I was 
conscious of the crescendos and dimin- 
uendos in the music, and of an emotional 
rise and fall within myself corresponding 
to each of them ; each progression de- 
picted a new doubt, an anixety, an im- 
pulse, each strain told of a new fear as 
I sat there in the boat and wondered at 
the strangeness of it all. Gradually the 



■10- 



r I 



music progressed towards its climax, and 
just as gradually, I approached the mys- 
terious island. With each minute an in- 
born fear of death rose higher and higher 
witliin me. All material things back there 
in the living world seemed small now — 
petty wants, achievements, ambitions ; 
nothing was important now but to live, 
and as the mighty gates swung open, and 
the music reached its climax, my soul 
fairlj' shrieked in despair. 



The music ended there. I looked 
around the room and then again at the 
picture ; it seemed far away, but that 
mighty sjTnphony was still beating in my 
ears. A few days later, as I was prepar- 
ing to return to school, I stole another 
glance at the painting on my wall. I knew 
then that I would always love it for what 
it taught me during that holida}'. 



Hidden Treasure 



G. D. Weisiger 
Theme 18, Rhetoric II, 1931-32 



XT EAR New Haven, Connecticut, a 
-^ ^ range of foot-hills comes down to 
Long Island Sound, leaving a ragged line 
of cliffs overhanging the beach. On and 
around these hills and on the beach of 
Long Island Sound my brother and I, 
with four of the neighbor boys, used to 
play a game which we called Pirate. 
Treasure in the form of ordinary red 
bricks and three or four row boats, which 
we were permitted to use, was all the 
equipment needed to make such a game 
unusually attractive to small boys be- 
tween the ages of ten and fourteen. I 
have no doubt that the game is played 
by the boys there now just as it was 
played by us nine years ago and as it 
had been played for years before that. 

Our little gang of six boys was not, 
however, in full possession of the beach, 
the hills, and the little body of sheltered 
water which we called the Swamp. This 
swamp was in realitj' a broad river 
mouth, protected by a projection of land 
from Long Island Sound, and shallow 
enough to be safe for boys to play in. All 
of this plaj- ground w^e shared with an- 



other gang of boys of about our own 
age. These two gangs continually waged 
war for the complete possession of the 
Swamp. Although it was large enough 
for all of us, it served at the same time 
for something over which to fight. The 
other gang also had boats, belonging to 
the father of one of the boys, and in 
those boats they used to meet us half 
way in the swamp and fight pitched bat- 
tles with us. A ducking was not unusual 
for one or all of us, but was in no way 
dangerous. The .Swamp was in only two 
or three places more than three feet deep, 
and those places we avoided by agree- 
ment. Sometimes we would hide a "treas- 
ure" nearby, and then challenge the other 
gang to go and find it. Very often we 
would have some neutral person hide the 
treasure and then each of our gangs 
would try to be the first to find it. Some 
of those hunts would last for several 
days before the treasure was finally 
discovered. 

In any sea-coast town there is always 
to be found some old fisherman who de- 



— 11 



I^X 



lights in telling tales of the sea to any 
boys who are willing to listen ; and most 
boys are only too glad to listen when 
some old "salt" starts to unwind a tale. 
This little town on Long Island Sound 
was no exception. Sam Long was the 
oldest and had had the most experience 
of any of the fishermen who daily 
fished from the pier. His favorite story 
had to do with real treasure, which had 
been buried somewhere (he didn't know 
the exact spot) within a few hundred 
yards of the very pier from which he 
fished. About two hundred years or more 
ago an old sea captain, commanding a 
merchant ship for a New York City com- 
pany, had disobeyed his orders and had 
engaged in a little piracy on the high 
seas. Not wanting to be caught with the 
treasure on board when he landed in 
New York, he had brought it ashore and 
buried it among the rocks somewhere 
within sight of the place where we were 
hearing the story. No sooner had he re- 
turned to his ship from hiding the treas- 
ure, however, than a storm blew up and 
carried his ship against some rocks, 
where it and all but one boy of the crew 
perished. The story, according to the old 
fisherman, had been preserved by the 
cabin boy, the only one of the crew to 
survive. Not having gone ashore with 
the captain to hide the treasure, the cabin 
boy was unable to locate it, though he 
searched the wreck of the ship years later 
and examined every inch of the beach for 
as much as a mile in each direction. Sam 
Long swore that his stor}' was in every 
respect true, and others said the same 
thing ; so our two gangs were firmly con- 
vinced that there was real buried treas- 
ure within our reach. We naturally set 
out to find it. This treasure was the sub- 
ject of all of our discussions, and a large 
part of our spare time was spent in hunt- 
ing for clews that might lead to our find- 
ing the hiding place of the treasure. 



One da}' when our enthusiasm was 
unusually high, one of our boys ran up to 
us and showed us a piece of paper which 
he declared was a map of the surround- 
ing countr}', and which he was sure 
would lead us to the hidden treasure. 

It was an old, dirty piece of paper 
which we concluded to be parchment, 
though I doubt now if it was. A crude 
map which was certainly a map of that 
very vicinity in which we lived and with 
which we were familiar, had been traced 
on the paper. At a point about a mile up 
Oyster Creek there was a cross on the 
map. This, naturally, we thought was 
the hiding place of the treasure. Luckily 
the gang to which I belonged had pos- 
session of the map ; so the other gang 
was not in on this new adventure. We 
kept our plans to ourselves, and it wasn't 
until our adventure was all over that the 
other gang heard of it. The next Satur- 
day morning we set out, with shovels 
and a pick, for the place designated by 
the cross on the map. There we found 
a small cave, formed by a large over- 
hanging rock, but no amount of digging 
and searching would reveal the treasure. 

The next morning we found old Sam 
Long at his usual place on the pier. We 
showed him our map and told him what 
we had done. He seemed unusually 
pleased and offered to help us out with a 
few suggestions. Sam said that it was 
not probable that the treasure was at that 
particular place. "Pirates," he said, 
"never made things that easy." That was 
a place where we would no doubt find 
another clew. And, sure enough, a few 
days later we found another piece of 
paper in an old bottle which was tucked 
away in an old hollow tree. But it was 
just plain paper, a little dirty, with no 
marks on it at all. 

Again we went to Sam for help. "Try 
a little heat," he advised. We took the 
paper to the home of one of the boys 



— 12 — 



and put it into the kitchen oven. When 
it came out, it was covered with brown 
markings. A few minutes more in the 
oven and a map appeared pkiinly on the 
paper. This map directed us to another 
spot, this time on the beach, to which we 
went with as little dela}' as possible. 
There, after several hours of searching, 
we found a large tlat boulder on which 
had been carved with a sharp tool the 
name, "Devil's Point." 

As none of us had heard of Devil's 
Point, we went again to Sam for help. 
Devil's Point turned out to be a large 
pile of stones some distance out in the 
Sound. At high tide it was completely 
surrounded b}- water, but during low tide 
it was connected with the beach by a 
sand-bar. As we had often played there, 
the place was not unfamiliar to us ; so 
as soon as the tide went out, we, with our 
pick and our shovels, went to Devil's 
Point and started to dig. Each evening 
after school for several days we dug tip 
the sand around the rocks, but there was 
no treasure. The only fruit of our labors 
was a short piece of iron pipe, stopped 
up with sand and mud at each end. We 
threw that pipe into the hole where we 



had found it and left in disgust, de- 
termined to give up the hunt. We were 
sure that the treasure had been found 
long ago, or that it had never existed in 
the first place, and we were not going to 
waste our time trying to find something 
which was not to be found. 

About a week later we ran onto Sam 
Long on the street. He asked us how we 
were getting along with our treasure 
hunt, and seemed to be sorry that we had 
given it up. We told him that all we had 
found at Devil's Point had been an old 
piece of iron pipe. We said that we 
doubted if there had ever been a treasure 
there. Sam seemed anxious for us to 
go on with our quest, and asked us if 
we didn't think that that iron pipe might 
contain a clew to the treasure. This 
thought had never occurred to us before ; 
so we decided to dig it up again and see 
what it amounted to. 

We found the pipe and pushed out the 
ends. It contained another paper which 
was a note signed b}' Sam Long. It ex- 
plained what the treasure was and how to 
get it. The treasure was an all day fish- 
ing trip to Long Island in Sam Long's 
motor boat. 



The Brass Pig 

G. W. James 

Theme 4, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



IN the city of Shanghai, brass is omni- 
present. Since it has no close com- 
petitors in cost and is susceptible to the 
dies and cutting tools of the native metal 
worker, it replaces, for many purposes, 
other metals which westerners would 



consider more suitable. In such surround- 
ings the brass pig, sitting on a counter in 
a certain place of business, is but a 
brazen figure. P>ut the seeing eye per- 
ceives that beneath the metallic hide of 
this obese animal there rests a spiritual 



13- 



y^ 



portion of its being. The close observer 
must come eventually to realize that the 
oriental craftsman of whose hands this 
astute swine is a product must have 
granted it an inheritance of Chinese" 
guile. 

This animal's shrewdness is directed 
not against the people who gave him ex- 
istence but at the stupid occidentals who, 
after making a purchase and finding 
themselves with a handful of coppers, are 
at loss to know what to do with them. 
These barbarians in their opulence feel 
that a half-pound of coins which will not 
buy even one good cigar is not worth 
carrying; so they seek a graceful means 
of disposing of them. This means is 
always provided by the Brass Pig, who 
invariably reposes nearby beneath a neat 
sign reading: YOUR PENNIES HERE 
FOR THE LEPERS. This sign is usu- 
ally greeted with a smile by the "foreign 
devil," who cheerfully and gratefully in- 
serts his coppers in the slot on the pig's 
back. 

The tingling sound of coins falling into 
his cavernous stomach seems to affect the 
animal for he stirs ever so slightly, like 
a fat man in his sleep. Then his compla- 
cent smile returns and he settles back 



with his eye on the cash register and his 
ears alert for its bell. This is no ordi- 
nary barnyard animal. This is a pig who 
has accepted Confucius' ancient teaching 
of service to the people. He knows that 
there are no small coins in big money, 
and that change from purchases made 
with paper money will always include 
some coppers which will be too heavy a 
load for the Caucasian's pocket, and that 
the clerk will not accept them for return 
to the cash register. He knows also that 
they will not be carried outside to be 
thrown to the street urchins, for such an 
action would create for the thrower a 
juvenile escort which would follow him 
many blocks in the hope of other such 
displays of generosity. 

Thus, our inanimate but wily image of 
the despicable porker knows that his in- 
terior, though frequently emptied and the 
contents sent on their mission of mercy, 
will not long remain empty. For the 
heavy coppers, so annoying to the for- 
eigner, will fall with an incessant series 
of clinks into his rotund body to help 
relieve in some measure the suffering of 
the thousands of lepers who walk the 
streets of the great citv. 




— 14- 



On the Loss of a Room 



R. F. Fisher 
ThetiK 4, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



I WAS just fourteen years old and so 
mean that I couldn't get into the Boy 
Scouts. Naturally I had known most of 
the tragedies of boyhood. My dog had 
been run over and killed, my pet rabbit 
had escaped and had been eaten by a dog, 
and all the rest. I always cried for an 
hour or so and then forgot as something 
else began to interest me. Then came the 
big tragedy. It broke my heart so com- 
pletely I still feel tears come to my eyes 
when I think of it. A seemingly trivial 
thing, it meant more to me than an3^hing 
— more than death in the famil}' pos- 
sibly could. 

At the time of the tragedy we were 
living in a small house in a college town. 
The building faced east and the east 
room upstairs extended the full width 
of it. This room had been allotted to me, 
and I was certainly proud of it. I de- 
cided to make it a t}T)ical college room. 
I covered the walls with pennants and 



put a study table in one corner. On this 
table stood a bottle of red ink, as well 
as my few text books. That bottle of ink 
was a great joy to me as it symbolized 
all that pertained to college. All of my 
belongings were in the room. I had the 
feeling that I was going away to school 
and living away from home. It was truly 
a room of my dreams. 

One day on coming home from school 
I found Mother moving all my things 
into another room. She had rented "my 
room" to an old family friend geing to 
school at the university. I was broken 
hearted, and for weeks afterwards I 
would sneak in while the friend was out, 
to picture my old room as it used to be. 
Soon afterwards we moved to another 
city, and I was glad to go. I hated the 
house after losing that room. 

It is said that boys are not sentimental, 
but I disagree. The loss of that room 
still remains the greatest in my life. 



Our Arabian Nights 

H. C. Blankmeyer 
Theme 6, Rhetoric II, 1931-32 



SINCE ten-thirty Scheherazade's spirit 
had pervaded the entire house. It 
was at that intermediate hour of the 
evening that Wally had slipped into my 
room for a conference on analytics, in- 
cidentally cramming his stubby briar full 
of my dwindling reserve of choice to- 
bacco. I pushed aside the bound pamph- 



let of interrogations graced by the title 
"Laboratory Exercises" and turned an 
attentive ear to this welcome interrup- 
tion. Between rapid pufifs of smoke, 
Wally outlined his opinion of college pro- 
fessors as slave drivers, in no uncertain 
terms. As I joined in enthusiastically 
with colorful illustrations, J. Quinlan 



— 15 — 



y^ 



Macmurray shuffled in, his carmine shp- 
pers rusthng over the worn fibre rug, and 
deposited his Scientific German Reader, 
closed, on top of Wally's neglected ge- 
ometry book. He flipped the ash of his 
cigarette carefully into my dog's water 
pan and remarked abruptly that seven 
hours spent in school, ten in study, and 
two at meals totalled nineteen, leaving 
five hours a day for sleep, diversion, ex- 
ercise, and letter-writing. "A program," 
he concluded bitterly, "that approaches 
monotony after the first few weeks of 
applying it." 

"Well," I rejoined, "Why are you in 
school?" Instantly I regretted my inad- 
vertent question, but too late to be of any 
avail. The "session" was on and study- 
ing was unquestionably dropped from the 
evening's program, for we had all begun 
a discussion familiar to every under- 
graduate: Why am I attending college? 
This is a popular subject among us stu- 
dents because it affords innumerable op- 
portunities to switch the conversation to 
one's own interests. We disposed of the 
actual question perfunctorily and has- 
tened on to the cold-blooded task of as- 
signing economic values to our individual 
courses. Science, mathematics, and the 
modern languages were rated highly, 
while rhetoric and history were con- 
demned to unanimous disapproval. We 
engineers could find but few real values 
in the latter courses with regard to our as- 
pired vocations. Hence, we began to dis- 



cuss the School of Liberal Arts, its pur- 
pose, and its enrollment. Why was So- 
and-So in this school, and what could he 
possibly get out of it? The forum was 
now in full swing and progressed rapidly 
as the topics shifted to success, friend- 
ship, love, and philosophy. By two 
o'clock we were all yawning, and though 
still mentally alert, we adjourned the ses- 
sion and sought our beds. 

A wasted evening, you say? We must 
acquiesce when we consider how little 
studying was accomplished for the mor- 
row, but on the other hand, was there 
nothing meritorious about our evening's 
conversation? Decidedly, yes. These 
rambling, informal chats are to us what 
the coffee-houses were to Elizabethan 
England, or famous salons to aristocratic 
France. We have no tutors to confirm 
or refute our conclusions; so we turn to 
each other for advice. We balance each 
view with the other and arrive at some 
definite conclusion upon the subject 
under discussion. We summon up un- 
developed ideas that have long lain in 
dormant obscurity within our minds, 
merely because we have had no stimulus 
to crystalize them. Above all, we are be- 
coming educated, for what does it matter 
whether we can recite verbatim Prout's 
hypothesis of matter if we have formed 
in the course of these few "wasted" 
hours the nucleus of our philosophy of 
life? 




-16- 



College Capers 

Louis Plambeck, Jr. 
Theme 11, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



THE widely circulated impression 
among outsiders that university life 
is one "rah-rah" time after another is at 
last beginning to lose a few of its fol- 
lowers, but those who still believe that 
college capers are the rule rather than 
the exception are still numerous enough 
to merit a little special attention. It may 
be said in defense of these people that 
they are not entirely to blame for the im- 
pressions they have received as a result 
of the notoriety given to college esca- 
pades in recent years. 

The general public's impression of uni- 
versity students and their way of living 
has undoubtedly arisen from a number 
of causes. The first and probably most 
important of these is that there really is 
a basis in fact for some of the ideas. 
The saying, "Where there is smoke there 
must be fire," is very true in this case. 
The mere fact, however, that a very 
small amount of fire may cause a great 
deal of smoke has not been considered 
fullv in this particular instance. For this 
reason a mere smolder at a university 
gets as much attention as if it were a 
raging conflagration. People are often 
apt to believe the unusual thing is the 
usual thing if they read or hear enough 
about unusual things. In reading any 
newspaper it is wise to consider that a 
goodly portion of news is news merely 
because it is unusual or extraordinary. 
In this connection it is easy to under- 
stand why such a happening as breaking 
a few hundred street lamps is going to 
get more publicity than the fact that 



eight thousand students faithfully studied 
their lessons for the next day. 

The alumni have a great deal to do 
with the credence given to some of the 
tales which emanate from college towns. 
The old "grads" are always more ready 
to tell of the time when they crashed a 
theater or derailed a trolley car than they 
are to tell of the times when they strug- 
gled against sleep to prepare for a quiz 
or to write a theme. It is the omission 
of such minor details as these which helps 
to throw a cloak of mild piracy or in- 
sanity around the otherwise serious busi- 
ness of getting an education. 

In reality the amount of horseplay that 
takes place is almost negligible when 
compared with the actual work that is 
done. In a university such as Illinois a 
student must do a certain amount of 
work in order to stay in school. If the 
students actualh' did everything that 
some people think they do, most of them 
would not have time to do any studying. 
It is unfortunate that so many future 
Illinois students who are visitors during 
the high school press convention and dur- 
ing Interscholastic week get the impres- 
sion that Illinois is one big play-ground, 
no matter how much they are told to the 
contrary. No one in particular is to blame 
for creating these impressions, which I 
think arise from the natural desire to 
make the guests welcome and to cater to 
their every wish. I believe that it is a 
fact that many freshmen who have 
visited the university before are greatly 
shocked when they find that they most 
certainly are expected to work. 



• 17 — 



y3 



The Value of Pessimism 

V. G. Meadors 
Theme 6, Rhetoric I. 1931-22 



PESSIMISM is usually defined as the 
tendency to look on the dark side of 
life. A common fallacy derived from this 
definition is that pessimism is always 
coupled with an attitude of cynicism and 
hopelessness. A pessimist, to most people, 
is a person who seeks out the bad points 
of what has gone before and takes it for 
granted that the same mistakes will oc- 
cur again. When spoken of in this strict 
sense, pessimism certainly has no value 
other than a detrimental one. 

My idea of true pessimism, however, is 
somewhat different from the above. To 
me, an attitude of pessimism is almost 
siiTion}Tnous with one of resolution. A 
pessimist is one who can see former mis- 
takes (either his or others) and resolve 
to correct them, even if he has but slight 
faith in his ability to do so. An optimist 
usually rests secure in his belief that he is 
better than the average. As a result, he 
makes little effort for improvement, and, 
since he does not advance, it is axiomatic 
that he degenerates. The optimist is often 
disappointed, the pessimist rarely. 

For instance, let us suppose that I am 
required to hand in an algebra paper. If 
I am an optimist, I assume that my prob- 
lems are correct and hand them in, per- 
haps without checking them. If I do this, 
there will probably be several obvious 



errors among the problems. Moreover, 
when the instructor confronts me with 
my mistakes, I take the attitude that they 
were exceptional and will not occur 
again. This is the optimist's greatest mis- 
take. The most obvious errors will occur 
again and again unless care is taken to 
prevent them. 

If I am a pessimist, however, I will 
check my problems before hand. In ad- 
dition, when the instructor points out my 
mistakes, I will take precautions to pre- 
vent their recurrence. I realize my 
weak points and know that what I have 
done once I can do again. Therefore I, 
as a pessimist, have an advantage over 
the optimist. 

From this example it maj' be seen that 
the value of pessimism lies in the tinge 
of optimism which should underlie it. 
This seeming paradox may be explained 
in this way. The deep, dyed-in-the-wool 
pessimism that sees bad in everything 
without attempting to correct the evil is 
valueless. Instead of the pessimism that 
discourages, I advocate the pessimism 
that encourages its possessor to caution. 
Such pessimism may almost be identified 
with conservatism. Pessimism, in this 
sense, acts as a governor for every phase 
of life, and as such I believe it to be in- 
valuable. 




^18 — 



I y 



The Romance of Our Trains 



Mary V. Cady 
Theme 3, Impromptu, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



WE had just moved to Arkansas and 
were looking at houses — that is, 
Mother and Father were. I was too small 
to have my opinion count. We were 
standing on the front porch of a house 
on the side of a hill. The view to the 
south was all one could hope for — wide 
valleys and low hills, gorgeous in their 
autumn coloring. Mother and Father 
were undecided about the house. It 
wasn't very modern and many repairs 
would have to be made. Then out in the 
distance, far, far down the valley a curl 
of smoke appeared, and we heard the 
faint distant whistle of a train. We 
looked closer. There, far out in the 
valley came a miniature train, creeping 
across the level plain below. But a 
moment more and then it curved out of 
sight behind a low hill. We watched and 
waited, hoping it would reappear. Sure 
enough, there it came, much closer. Out 
from behind the nearest hill it came, 
curving around its foot and racing across 
the valley only to disappear forever be- 
hind the next hill. There was no doubt 
now whether or not this house should be 
ours. All through my childhood one of 
my most vivid memories is of the times 
when I would be awakened at night by 
the sound of one of those fairy trains and 
would dash to the window to see it oflf 
in the distance, a gossamer thread of 
light, getting farther away, growing 
smaller and smaller, appearing and dis- 



appearing until it finally faded to a speck 
and then was gone. 

Who knows what loads those trains 
were carrying? Princes of industry there 
were, and paupers riding the rails; little 
old ladies sitting in their chairs placidly 
waiting for whatever fate had to bestow 
upon them, and young girls going to the 
big city to seek their fortune. And the 
letters that were carried in the mail car ! 
Letters of blackmail, of love and hate; 
letters of dear ones who were soon to 
be together again; letters from a boy in 
the great city to his mother back home; 
letters that were to go all around the 
world and back again. 

Whenever I see a train rushing by in 
the night, it makes me want to go, to get 
away from the drab, ordinary, everyday 
existence. I want to go where there are 
bright lights, and then where there are 
cool shadows with a blue sky overhead. 
I dream of wandering where there are 
icy blue lakes with towering snow-cap- 
ped mountains, and again where there 
are low plains with the grain undulating 
in the everlasting wind. Some day I in- 
tend to see these things. Who knows, 
maybe when Mother and Father bought 
that little house down there on the side 
of the hill, they saw the visions that a 
winding train would put into their little 
girl's head, and they would have it that 
way. 




— 19 — 



A Change of Heart 



William E. Rapp 
Theme 2, Rhetoric II, 1931-32 



1 WALKED down to Urbana today — to 
see a show. I set out alone — to the 
"Bucket," the only moviehouse in town. 
As I journeyed up Illinois Street, I re- 
called the times when my friends and I, 
not yet out of grade school, considered 
seeing Tom Mix, in a thrilling "West- 
ern," the event of a lifetime. On our way, 
we would imagine ourselves the heroes 
of the hour — that we were the riders of 
a winged horse, in pursuit of a dirty vil- 
lain, to rescue the fair damsel. As we 
neared the theater, our pace quickened. 
At the door we gladly paid our nickels 
and then rushed down the aisle, in a wild 
scramble for a front seat. Five till two, 
and restless hands began staccato clap- 
ping, as if to hurry the operator! 

On the screen flashed "International 
News." Again we clapped — violently. 
We whistled, laughed, and shouted, but 
no less than others in the audience. Gee, 
we wished the advertisements would 
come to a conclusion. At last, the feature ! 

In silent awe, we sat as Tom, our hero, 
came riding gallantly out of the Bar X 
ranch in search of Dan McGuire, killer 
of men. A quick gasp — a shot whistled 
b}' Tom's ear warning him of the villain's 
presence. Now we rode with Tom as he 
raced over hills and through canyons to 
seek vengeance. We helped Tom throw 
his lasso — we yelled to him when he was 

in danger ! And now, the climax ! 

Tom, after an exciting battle on the edge 
of a high cliff, conquered and returned, 
the conquering hero, to the heroine's 
waiting — eager — outstretched arms 



Today, as I approached the glaring 
postboards above the theater, I thought 

1 shall be that youngster again. Once 

more I shall go back to the land of make- 
believe. I shall worship anew the cowboy 
a real hero ! 

I got in line to pay for admission. 
Reaching in my pocket for a nickel, I 
suddenly realized that I must pay a dime 
more — the penalty for growing older and 
for a foot of added height. Eagerly, full 
of anticipation, I pushed and shoved in 

line anxious as I was to gain a 

seat in the front row ! 

Five till two and, sitting upright on the 
edge of my seat, I began to clap. No one 
else, it seemed, felt the urge to join me. 
My nearer neighbors cast glances of pity 
in my direction. It was .too bad I could 
not read the clock ! My clapping, steadily 
weakening, gradually ceased. A trifle 
disappointed, I sank lower into my seat, 
not quite sure that the half darkness con- 
cealed my flaming face. 

I continued to sulk until the lights 
were out, indicating that the show had 
commenced. When "Pathe News" flashed 
on the screen, I ventured a whistle. The 
boys in my row gaped in amazement ; 
then they became angry. What manner 
of person is this, they thought, who 
whistles in a theater? 

When finally the feature appeared, I 
decided to make one last attempt. I 
stamped my feet in an even rhythm ; 
I pounded them heavily on the wooden 
floor. Achieving no accompaniment, I 
glanced hastily in the direction of my 



— 20- 



comrades. To my surprise, the seats were 
empty-. My disdainful neighbors had left. 
In the aisle, an usher was looking coldly 
in my direction ; evidently demonstrations 
such as these were not to be tolerated 
at this moviehouse. 

Today, unlike the hero of seven years 
ago, Tom talked to me. In a booming, 
eloquent voice, he swore by all that's holy 
that he would get Dan McGuire, killer 
of men! Tom, the idol of my youthful 
imagination, had changed ; he rode his 

horse limply as if he were tired 

of riding after villains. He didn't ride 



nearly so fast either. Instead of fighting 
on the edge of a high cliff as in the early 
days, Tom generously disposed of his 
victim by throwing him down a well. 
And there, not twenty yards from the 
battle-ground, sat the heroine in a nice, 
new shiny roadster, ready to whisk Tom 
away ! 

I got up and left. My illusions were 
shattered, my dreams destroyed. I had 
grown up. The care- free schoolboy left, 
a literal-minded, disillusioned sophisti- 
cate. 




Anton 



Elinor Davis 

Theme 18, Rhetoric II, 1931-32 



ANTON did not want to lose his ticket. 
He had felt for its wilted reassur- 
ance only five minutes before, but once 
again he took the withered old billfold 
from the back of his colorless pants and 
felt fearfully around for it. A cracked 
forefinger touched it, and he held it close 
to his face to read once again that it was 
really "good for one passenger, leaving 
Chicago not later than 10:30, Sunday, 



July 4, 1931," before he stuffed it further 
into the cavernous depths of his purse. 

The train would leave now in fifteen 
minutes ; he had better get on so that he 
would be sure not to miss it. There was 
no hurry, really, he told himself — nobody- 
else seemed in a hurr}' to "catch" it. But 
somehow he could not force himself to 
wait quietly outside as the others did ; 



-21 ~ 



he felt safer inside the great monster, so 
strangely quiet as it sat there. 

It was very hot in the day-coach. His 
nondescript coat he had suffered till noon, 
but now it was folded across his arm. 
He thought as he unloaded his bundles 
and laid his coat carefully on top of 
them, that he would walk to the fountain 
and drink out of one of those little paper 
cups instead of the tin, collapsible one 
he had brought. His wife was probably 
bent over the kitchen table "making up" 
tomorrow's bread, dipping water from 
the bucket at her side. He took the 
splashing cup to his seat and opened the 
almost empty paper bag that his wife had 
filled with sandwiches for him to eat on 
his excursion. He opened the dirty, 
crumpled edges and eyed the remaining 
food hungrily : he would eat only one ; 
he would save the rest for the children — 
they loved sandwiches and didn't get 
them often. He wondered while he 
washed down his bites with the flat water 
how it would seem to eat in the "diner" 
and have the food served to him by one 
of those "niggers" with the white coats. 

He put his head on the back of the 
seat and longed for his old iron bed at 
home with the steady, quiet noise of the 
frogs and the deathly stillness of the lo- 
custs, instead of this din of raucous 
voices from the smoke-laden air, and the 
incessant grind of the wheels on the rails. 
This was still Chicago ! 

The conductor's rough voice woke him 
with a start. It was late, after midnight, 
maybe. The train seemed to be going 
even faster as it slowed down: ".St. Elmo 
— next stop. St. Elmo!" He stood on 
the platform and watched the cars whiz 
by — Chicago ! 

His crunching footsteps dropped into 
the stillness of the empty streets. His 
house appeared, flat-roofed and shapeless 
behind the lilac bushes. He opened the 
unlocked door and set everything just in- 



side and sank into a chair. Well, he had 
always wanted to see Chicago, and the 
excursion was cheap. But there had been 
so many people, and they had brushed by 
and never had spoken nor smiled. He 
turned not at all at his wife's entrance. 

"Well, Anton, did you have a good 
time in Chicago?" 

"Yes, but oh, Margaret — I'm glad 

to be home!" 

"After just a day? What all did vou 
do?" 

"Well, I got there at almost noon, and 
sat down and ate my lunch. Those sand- 
wiches were good!" 

"Why you haven't ate hardly any." 

"Well, the children you know, they 

like sandwiches." 

"Aren't you pret'near starved? Come 
on, I'll build a little fire and fry you an 

egg the hens laid real good today. 

What all did you see?" 

"Oh, just a lot of people. None of 
'em would ever talk to you or anything. 
One man got real cross. I asked him 
what Chicago was going to do with their 
crime. He was a setting alongside of me 
there on the bench. One man, though, 
was selling pencils and things. He didn't 
have any legs and sat on the floor. He 
was real friendly. He said his wife was 
going to have a baby. I felt kinda sorry 
for him. He didn't know where he was 
going to get his next bite to eat. I give 
him one of the sandwiches. Then I had 
twenty cents left an' I give him that too. 
I sorta wanted to git the kids some pea- 
nuts with that, but I guess he needed it 
pretty bad. They had awful big peanuts 
there, though. I bought you a little some- 
thing it ain't much. They had stores 

in there, too. They had everything. God, 
it was big." 

"It? What was big?" 

"Oh, the station. I just stayed in there. 
Plenty to see right in there, I tell you. I 
might of got lost and missed my train." 



-22- 



The Hospital 

Stewart Wright 
Theme 15, Rhetoric II, 1931-32 



THERE were puddles of mud on the 
brick pavement of the alley at the side 
of the hospital. The puddles were so 
spaced that a wary pedestrian of experi- 
ence could avoid splashes from the busy 
truck traffic. A red haired youth clad 
in a greasy cap, purple worsted suit, blue 
denim shirt open at the collar, and brown 
tennis shoes, sat on a fire hydrant at the 
entrance to the alley and appraised the 
spurts and starts of the pedestrians that 
emerged. The human units in this strag- 
gling parade were members of the hos- 
pital staff coming from the pay-olf win- 
dow. It was Saturday noon, and they 
were hurrying away to spend their 
money. Red, from his seat on the hy- 
drant, was looking for employees walk- 
ing off the job. Hopefully he surveyed 
them all. Nurses, dietitians, dishwash- 
ers, chefs, elevator girls, window wash- 
ers, scrubwomen, student nurses, bus 
boys — all seemed to be leaving with the 
determination to be back at midnight. 
But finally a short, round man dodged 
onto the sidewalk from behind a bakery 
truck. He carried a roll of work clothes 
under his arm, and in his eyes was the 
light of liberty. It was dull, and it was 
alcoholic, but it was there. Red was off 
the hydrant and walking in step beside 
him. 

"How's for a job. Shorty?" Red's 
thumb jerked toward the hospital. 

" 'Sistant Engineer's open. See Mr. 
Duval." And Shorty went on up the side- 
walk. 

The doorman at the allev entrance for 



hospital employees gave Red a disgusted 
look and terse directions for finding Mr. 
Duval: "Three flights down, and holler 
for Jake." 

As he started down the third flight 
of concrete steps. Red had the impres- 
sion of entering, literally and figuratively, 
the lower regions. Up the stairway re- 
verberated the crashing of the contac- 
tors on the elevator machines. Elevator 
motors growled in starting, whined at 
high pitch, then ground to a stop. Water 
gurgled through pipes. As Red descended 
the stairs, a steel scoop grated across 
concrete somewhere, lumps of coal rat- 
tled onto the floor, and suddenly a lurid 
glare threw Red's profile onto the wall 
at his side. At the far end of the base- 
ment a fat Beelzebub in dirty white duck 
pants and a red flannel undershirt stoked 
the everlasting fires in a locomotive-type 
boiler for heating the hospital. 

Red hurried carefully along a narrow 
walk-way between the line of crashing, 
arcing, elevator machines and a row of 
whirring centrifugal pumps toward Beel- 
zebub. 

"You Jake?" 

" 'F you think you can do hospital 
work, take that Plumber's Friend up to 
the eighth floor and unplug their toilet. 
Nurse'U show you." 

Red's mouth closed on the question he 
was just forming about pay. He picked 
up the implement pointed out by Jake, 
laid his purple coat on a dusty bench 
strewn with pipe fittings in wild disorder, 
and departed for the eighth floor. While 



-23- 



f/ 



he was gone, Beelzebub visited the 
kitchen two floors above, on some mys- 
terious mission. 

"Nurse oughta know betternta throw 
dressings down there" — Red was trying 
to get Jake to talk when he got back with 
his short stick with the cone of rubber 
attached to the end. 

Replied Jake, "Dishwasher's sink drain 
stopped up. Second floor above. Tape's 
under the bench." 

Red pawed for a while under the bench 
upon which he had previously laid his 
coat. Finally, under the pile of short 
lengths of pipe, scraps of rubber gasket, 
and old valves, he found the "tape" — a 
steel ribbon about an inch wide, a six- 
teenth of an inch thick, and perhaps 
thirty feet long, with one end bent 
around to form a small hook. With this 
coiled up over his shoulder he mounted 
the two flights of stairs specified b}' Jake, 
wandered through the vegetable cook's 
kitchen and the salad room, until he 
finall}- emerged into the cubbyhole dedi- 
cated to the dishwasher's art. 

A tall, thin, tubercular-looking man in 
a uniform that had once been white and 
a red rubber apron stood at the dish- 
washer's sink. He took dirty glassware 
and crockery from trays shoved at him 
through an arched opening in the wall 
at his left and placed it in a woven-wire 
basket he mysteriously produced from 
under a shelf below the arched opening. 
Then he would lift the wire basket into 
a wooden cradle arranged on trunnion 
bearings so it could be rocked to and fro 
in the sink, which was filled with enough 
soapy water to submerge the dishes while 
they were being rocked. After he had 
rocked the dishes a while, he would let 
the water out of the sink and scald the 
dishes with hot water from a hose. The 



drain was flowing so slowly as to hold 
up the work. The final operation was to 
lift the basket out of the cradle and place 
it on a drain-board to the right. Then 
a bus boy would come and take the dishes 
out of the basket and carry them away 
on a tray. Red watched the dishwasher 
and wished he could get his job. 

Finally the tubercular-looking man 
pointed under the sink and said, "Under 
there. Take the plug outta that tee." 

Red knelt down under the sink. He 
was not kneeling on the real floor, but 
upon a false floor of wooden slats raised 
an inch or so, made necessary by the 
amount of water splashed around during 
the operation of scalding the dishes. 
There seemed to be a few roaches crawl- 
ing under the slats. As the dishwasher 
shifted his weight in rocking his cradle 
to and fro, water oozed from the seams 
of his shoes. The dishwasher did not 
wear socks. Red unscrewed the plug 
from the tee with his fingers and in- 
serted the hooked end of the steel tape. 
It shoved easily for a few feet, and then 
struck some obstruction. By shoving 
vigorously against the obstruction, pull- 
ing the tape back, and then shoving 
again. Red finally opened the pipe. The 
smell was not pleasant. When he pulled 
the tape back out, the hooked end 
brought with it a human ear. Something 
inside Red's abdomen flopped over and 
kicked. 

A few minutes later Red was saying to 
Jake, "You can get your tape up there 
under the dishwasher's sink. I'm goin' 
back to my old job diggin' graves in 
the Bronx Jewish Cemetery." 

As Red ■w-ent up the stairs, pulling on 
the purple coat, Jake mused, "If they 
don't eat up that ear gag, they ain't fit for 
hospital work." 



— 24- 



Danger Enough lor a Day 

William Judy 
Theme IS, Rhetoric II, 1931-32 



I SAT gazing idly into the muddy 
waters of the river. I looked at the 
sky — a mass of greyish black clouds 
which threatened more rain. It was a 
miserable day, and I was having a miser- 
able time. I asked myself why I had 
come sixty miles with an automobile- 
load of dull girl scouts who constantly 
gushed silly anticipations of the coming 
week's camp. 

That morning my mother had been 
asked to take some of the girls to the 
camp, and I had decided to go along. 
It had rained nearly all the way in an 
incessant, dreary downpour which had 
ceased only a few minutes before our 
trip ended. We had come to a kind of 
park or unimpressive summer resort 
known as Mackinaw Dells. The girls 
were to spend the day here, and in the 
evening go on to their camp, which was 
in readiness for them. 

Upon reaching the park I had deserted 
the girls to attach myself to an older boy. 
Clarence S , who had also accom- 
panied his mother on the trip. We were 
a pair of rather disgruntled males in an 
atmosphere of feminine gaiety. We had 
taken ourselves off to the rain-swollen 
river which, with its clay banks and swift 
current, looked like an overgrown dredge 
ditch instead of a natural stream. 

"Gosh, there's nothing to do here," I 
said to Clarence, merely to sum up every- 
thing we had found wrong with our sur- 
roundings. 

"Not a darn thing!" he immediately 
agreed. "Can't swim in that swift cur- 
rent. Say, I bet the fish would bite after 



that rain. Wish I had brought a line 
along." 

As I absently chewed on a couple of 
blades of grass and regarded him, I felt 
he was not entirely dissatisfied with our 
situation, for I saw him cast frequent 
glances at one or two of the older girls 
of the party. I was a little angry at him 
for giving them such attention. It was 
beneath the dignity of "men" like us to 
make any show of frivolity at a time like 
this, I decided. I would have vehemently 
denied that I would think differently 
about such matters when I became as old 
as Clarence. 

In an attempt to draw his attention 
back to me, I pointed my finger upstream 
and said: "Pretty high railroad bridge, 
isn't it? How'd you like to dive off 
that?" 

"Not very well. Say, I bet it's over 
seventy-five feet high." And he scruti- 
nized it closely. "Look at those embank- 
ments on both sides. Boy, they're 'way 
above the river!" 

It was an unusual bridge for that part 
of the country — a prairie region with 
few elevations. The structure, of sturdy 
blackened timbers, supported a single 
track which curved out of sight behind a 
wooded knoll at either end of the bridge. 
The embankments Clarence had noticed 
rose abruptly from the low river bank. 

We discussed the bridge at length and 
conjectured much as to its elevation and 
dimensions. When there was nothing 
left to say about it, we walked over the 
parts of the park we had not yet ex- 
amined. A solitary, though rather large 



-25- 



/f^ 



dance pavilion, a concession stand which 
was tightly boarded up, some children's 
swings and slides, and the remains of 
other playground apparatus were about 
all the park contained. It was truly a 
dull place, and I expected to make a dull 
day of it. As I soon found out, however, 
there was a supreme thrill awaiting us. 

Our tour of inspection concluded, we 
strolled lazily back to the bottom of the 
embankment at the east end of the 
bridge. There was something in that 
span high over head that called to the 
spirit of adventure in us. I looked at 
Clarence, and he looked at me. Before 
I could speak, he literally took the words 
out of my mouth: 

"Let's go up there." 

My prompt "All right" was hardly 
spoken before he was leading the way up 
the twisting cinder path. Clutching at 
the tall grass and digging our shoes into 
the cinders, we finally scrambled up to 
the road-bed. a breathless pair of adven- 
ture-seekers. 

While recovering our breath we sur- 
ve3'ed the landscape below us. The river 
wound between banks wooded with elms 
and hickory trees, which waved brooms 
of green leaves at the dusty-looking sky. 
We could see the whole park below us on 
our right. The girl scouts in their grey- 
green uniforms appeared as so many 
grasshoppers. 

A vague apprehension stole in on my 
utter pleasure in the adventure. T said 
with concern to Clarence: 

"I don't suppose there's any trains 
anyways near here now, are there?" 

"No: guess not, on Sunday," he re- 
plied, as if he knew no more about it 
than I did. "You know how dinky this 
railroad is." 

I knew it was "dinky," and I had often 
ridiculed it in my boyish scorn of any- 
thing small. But I did not particularly 



enjoy the thought of meeting any kind 
of locomotive. 

"What d'ya say, let's cross over to the 
other side," Clarence challenged me. 

For a minute or two I objected to such 
a rash proposal, but finally I agreed to 
go. Timidly I followed my brave friend 
out on the ties. He walked surely, seem- 
ing to pay no attention to his steps, while 
I moved my short legs cautiously and 
looked at every spot I was about to set 
foot upon. Several times I turned my 
eyes down on the river, which boiled and 
eddied between the supports of the 
bridge. Its waters looked treacherous 
and dreadful. 

As I went on, however, I became less 
afraid. Gradually I became accustomed 
to walking on the ties. It was fortunate 
that I did, considering what occurred in 
the next few minutes. 

We two high-spirited explorers stood 
several minutes at the end of our cross- 
ing, discussing the perils and thrills of 
the trip. Scornfully we read a sign 
which insisted there .should be "Abso- 
lutely no trespassing" on the bridge. 
What did railroad officials who put up 
such signs know of thrills! 

We found if we descended the em- 
bankment we were then on, we would 
have to walk almost half a mile to re- 
cross the river on an automobile bridge. 
Clarence and I soon decided to take what 
seemed to be the easiest way to get back 
into the park — that of returning the way 
we had come. Therefore we turned our 
steps back to the bridge. Walking slowly 
there, high above the rest of the world, 
I gloried in the adventure. 

Suddenly Clarence stopped and turned 
his head with a start. 

"What was that?" he asked me, a note 
of fear in his voice. 

I had heard nothing ; so all I could say 
was "What?" 



— 26- 



I 5 



"It sounded like a train — there it is 
again." 

I heard a faint whistling sound come 
from around the curve at the end of the 
bridge towards which we were walking. 
Its source was so far away that it was 
difficult to describe it as a definite sound. 
We were sure, however, we heard borne 
on the wind an eerie ivhceoo. 

"It's a train," I shouted, while my 
heart began to pound. "VVhat'll we do? 
Which waj' shall we go? Oh, gosh!" 

Clarence made a quick decision. He 
said: "Come on; we're closer to that 
end." And he pointed to the embank- 
ment we had reached after our crossing a 
few minutes ago. "Run," he entreated; 
"come on and run!" 

And I ran. Clarence's long legs en- 
abled him to draw farther and farther 
away from me. I became short of 
breath, but I forced myself on. I again 
saw the water below me : it was ten 
times as treacherous as it had been 
before. 

Thoughts crowded one another in my 
brain. How close was the train? What 
if I should put my foot a half -inch too 
far the next time I brought it down on a 
tie? I should be trapped between the 
rails, and crushed like an insect. What 
if I should try a leap into the river? 
Why, it was only a little brook hundreds 
of feet, no, a thousand feet below ! 

Clarence reached the end of the trestle 
and began to slide down the embankment. 

"Step on it !" he called back to me. 

Did he mean this as a warning that the 
train was in sight now ? I dared not look 
behind me for fear of making a misstep. 
My legs ached from the strain of running 
so fast yet with such care. My breath 
came in irregular gasps. Perspiration 
streamed down my face, although the air 
was cool. 

At last I neared tlie end of the bridge. 



I could see the "No trespassing" sign 
again. If I only had obeyed it! If I 
escaped the iron monster which was after 
me, I would never do such a thing again, 
I told myself. A few more agonizing 
steps, and I was tumbling down the 
grassy side of the embankment. No 
grass had ever looked so green as that, 
and the air had never been so good to 
breathe. 

We rested until our breathing was al- 
most normal and our hearts had slowed 
down considerably. As we started to- 
ward the distant hard-road bridge, the 
train roared above our heads, its whistle 
shrieking. "Shriek, ahead!" I thought, 
but, nevertheless, I shuddered. It was a 
fast freight, and the weight of it sent 
tremors along the ground underfoot. 

Clarence and I exchanged glances and 
tried to make a joke of asking one 
another how we should like to be up there 
with the train. It was a weak attempt 
at humor. 

We said very little as we returned to 
the park by the circuitous route. The 
terror of our experience was still very 
real to us. Clarence was rather pale, and 
I needed no mirror to show myself I was 
even paler. 

But when we returned to our party, we 
assumed an air of bravado which cer- 
tainly did not reflect our true feelings. 
Neither the girls nor our mothers knew 
anything of the adventure until we re- 
lated it to them, a short time after we re- 
turned. Our mothers scolded us, but 
they were very glad we were there to be 
scolded. My mother recalled that a num- 
ber of people had been killed on this 
bridge in doing the same foolish stunt we 
had done. It had been an attraction for 
the foolhardy even when she was a girl. 

Clarence and I naturally tried to make 
the danger we had faced seem as small as 
possible in our first stories of the adven- 



-27 — 



b'? 



ture. But we could not deny to ourselves 
that we had had the fright of our young 
lives. 

I derived some satisfaction from the 
utter lack of interest the girls showed in 
Clarence's daring. He did not try to im- 
press it upon them, and they were too 
absorbed in talking of their camp to 



evaluate — or rather over-evaluate — it for 
themselves. 

This event happened six years ago this 
summer, but sometimes I still see the 
scenes of it in my mind. I have 
awakened in the middle of the night, not 
from a dream but from sound sleep, to 
remember how I felt on that bridge, 
running from that pursuing train. 




— 28 — 



,1 



T-HECKfEN 
CALDKON 



A Magazine of Freshman Writing 




January 
1933 



Vol.2 
No. 2 



CONTENTS 

ON THE DISADVANTAGES OF BEING 

TWO PEOPLE 1 

Anne Brittin 

A GIRL'S DAD ON "DAD'S DAY" .... 2 

Kirker Smith 
■WHAT EVERY WOMAN KNOWS" ... 4 

Elinor Lourie 

WHY WORK? 4 

Dick Childs 

COUNTRY FAIR BALLYHOO 6 

Myron Wormley 

ON PERSONAL CHARM 7 

Julia Mildred Lake 

CHILDREN AND THE GANGSTER MOVIE 8 

Katherine Stiegemeyer 
THE BLACK PIRATE OF THE AIR ... 10 

Donald Melville 

FOG IN THE DEPOT 11 

Bruce Deobler 

MACHINE SHOP 12 

Robert Weber 

THE MILL 13 

S. J. Ewald 

ON RETURNING 13 

Clara Dayton 

THE LANE OF FORGOTTEN MEN ... 14 
Sydney W. Tauber 

THE PAPAYA IS 

G. W. James 

THE BAKED POTATO 16 

Mildred Fisher 
DISINTERESTED COURTESY 17 

John W. Waldo 
THE FURY OF THE ELEMENTS .... 19 

William F. Ekstrom 
I'LL MEET YOU AT THE HOUSE ... 23 

F. C. Arthur 
"TIME WILL TELL" 26 

John DeWolfe 

ONE OF OUR FINEST 28 

J. H. Schacht 



PUBUSHED BY THE RHETORIC STAFF, UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS, URBANA 



On the Disadvantages of Being Two People 



Anne Brittin 
Theme 5, Rhetoric H, 1932-33 



IN THESE days of psychoanalysis 
everyone is entitled to have at least 
one complex. It may be nothing more 
than a yearning to greet Grandma Per- 
kins by gently tapping her on the head 
with an axe instead of politely saying 
"Good morning" as usual. In common 
with the rest of humanity I, too, have 
such hidden depths in my nature. In 
fact, I am in the precarious position of 
being not one person but two. 

I think my ancestors had something to 
do with my peculiar state of being. I 
come of a line of hard-working, thrifty, 
ambitious people. However, even they 
had a skeleton in their closet. That took 
the form of one of my respected great- 
grandfathers, who was anything but a 
skeleton in appearance. Whereas the rest 
of the famil}'' worked from sun-up to 
sun-down — and enjoyed doing so — he 
found life so strenuous that he rested 
from sun-up to sun-down — also enjoying 
the process very, very much. So far my 
family history sounds like an affair of 
mutual enjoyment, but, indeed, it was 
not. Great-grandfather's laziness shocked 
his relatives, while their smug industri- 
ousness irritated him. And I am an un- 
happy combination of that ancestor of 
mine and the more t}-pical members of 
the family! 

The two persons who I am have quite 
different ambitions for my future, and 
both watch me zealously to see that I 
follow them. But. as yet, I have worked 
out no plan whereby I can satisfy the two 
sides of my nature at once. One person 
— the serious one — has ambitions of my 



becoming a scientist. She attempts to 
crowd forty-eight hours of work into a 
t went}'- four hour da)'. She makes me 
study when I want to sleep and attempt 
to do more reading than I can ever ac- 
complish. The musty air of a laboratory, 
compounded of the biting odor of acids, 
the scorched smell of cotton, and the 
glue-like odor of media, is the breath of 
life to her. In her eyes a wire basket 
full of clean, shining test tubes is more 
beautiful than a sunset. 

But how different is the other person 
who I am ! Her dearest ambition is to 
own a Pacihc island, where she can lie 
on the beach and dreamily listen to the 
roll of the surf. To make the scene per- 
fect, on one side must be half a dozen 
decorative natives "plunking" on their 
ukeleles and on the other side a stack of 
detective stories and movie magazines. 
And in her heart must be the delicious 
peace of the knowledge that she need not 
lift a finger unless she wants to. 

Being two people would be endurable, 
if they only had some set rules as to 
when each one should make her respec- 
tive appearance. I can go along being in- 
tensely industrious for several weeks, 
studying as I should, reading elevating 
books, remembering to brush my teeth, 
and even keeping up my diary. Then 
sooner or later there comes a period of 
three or four days when I go into a state 
of stagnation. Instead of studying for 
an especially formidable test I go to see 
Greta Garbo's latest film ; instead of 
reading d'Herelle I read .S. S. Van Dine, 
and Benchley. Neither the frowns of my 



— 1 — 



professors nor the rapidly mounting pile 
of neglected work can rouse me from the 
coma into which I have fallen. Nothing 
can, until I wake up one morning and 
find my serious nature back again. 

I shall probably grow old, becoming 
more and more a credit to my ancestors 
who have preceded me (if the serious 



person in me has her way). But one day 
I shall wake up to find the wind in the 
south and the sky all blue and white, a 
sea of billowy clouds. Then I shall put 
aside my serious business and start out 
to find if there is a golden road to Sam- 
arkand and if the South Seas are as 
beautiful and deep as eternity. 



A Girl's Dad on "Dad's Day" 

KiRKER Smith 
Theme 9, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



WHAT a relief! Dad has just gone 
home, and the most bewildering 
and trying day of my life is behind me. 
It is strange, but although a dad at home 
is delightful, a dad in a girls' dormitory 
is an unfathomable mystery. I had so 
eagerly anticipated his visit, drawing 
glorious mental pictures of the perfect 
fatherly gentleman, dignified, self-pos- 
sessed, and 3'et jolly and friendly enough 
to make everyone feel at ease. 

Even an amusing incident I had 
watched while awaiting his arrival in the 
morning had failed to cast any shadows 
of doubt on my anticipations. A large 
family car had pulled up across the street 
and an excited girl dashed out of the hall 
and over to it to greet her visiting folks. 
Her robust, heavy-set father, ensconced 
behind the steering wheel for protection 
from an overly-exuberant daughter, 
grimly surveyed her meeting with the 
rest of the family. When his turn came, 
he gave her an afifectionate, although 
somewhat sheepish peck on the forehead 
and then hastily settled back into his 



former rigidit)'. When the others got out 
of the car, he remained stubbornly in 
his place, unaffected by the earnest pleas 
of his daughter to come inside. After 
the\' had gone, he parked the car with 
great precision, taking ten minutes to do 
what would ordinarily take him two, but- 
toned his overcoat, set his shoulders 
squarely, and left the car, his last refuge 
from a house full of critical women. 
Then, assuming an air of pompous ease, 
lie walked slowly up and down the street, 
like a professor stud3'ing the architecture 
of Main Residence Hall. 

However, my confidence was so great 
that I actually pitied this girl for having 
such a shy father, who was obviousi}' 
going to be something of a problem ; 
whereas my father, with his natural so- 
ciableness, would enter into the spirit of 
the occasion and soon have everyone 
around him in the best of humor. Alas 
for the bliss of ignorance ! When my 
dad arrived, he was like a stranger in a 
foreign country. Inside the house (and 
I had no small trouble getting him there, 



2- 



either) he was obviously consumed with 
self -consciousness and limited his con- 
versation to a few abrupt remarks. I 
wondered if that gruff, silent man could 
really be my dad, the jovial, talkative 
fellow I knew at home, who added 
liumor and life to any conversation with 
his own engaging personality. He seemed 
lost and unable to cope with the situation. 
Stranded thus among so many chattering 
w^omen in a place whose very nature was 
new to him, he had built a little wall of 
silence around himself for sheer defense 
against this strange noisy mob. The few 
other men in the room were similarly 
afflicted ; and there sat the heroes of the 
day, stiff, silent, and so surrounded by 
girls that they could not even talk busi- 
ness w'ith one another. It was hopeless ! 
And my dad was as bad as any of them. 
Occasionally, as though suddenly re- 
membering that this was "Dad's Day" 
and he was the most important character 
in the gathering, he roused himself from 
this silent state long enough to express an 
opinion of his own or add his comments 



to tlie conversation. Then the eyes of all 
the girls turned toward him (at last — a 
dad who would talk!) and immediately 
his old fears and self-consciousness re- 
turned and he was once again morose 
and non-committal. 

This agony continued through(jut the 
day, but at dinner a change took place. 
The speeches generally attendant on 
"Dad's Day" banquets are almost inevit- 
ably trite and boring; but they, together 
with the cheerful, friendl}' atmosphere 
which pervades a room on such occa- 
sions, served to lighten the feelings of 
my dad and loose his tongue a little. By 
the end of the dinner, when the house- 
mother, the toast mistress, the old 
"grads," and several other lesser lights 
had separately stressed the importance 
and generosity of the dads, mine had be- 
come his old self again and warmed to 
the task of entertaining these girls who 
were not the knowing, mystifying beings 
he had thought them, but merely ordi- 
nary, understandable mortals like his 
own daughters. 




"What Every Woman Knows" 



Elinor Lourie 
Theme 16, Rhetoric I, 1931-32 



" A WEE DROP of Scotch" quite per- 
■^*- fectly describes "What Every 
Woman Knows." It is by a Scotchman, 
the scene is laid in Scotland, the charac- 
ters are Scotch, and the play contains 
that canniness and dry humor which are 
special attributes of the Scotch. 

The main character, James Wylie, is 
what is generally termed a self-made 
man. He considers himself such, and so 
does the general public. Only Maggie, 
his wife, knows the falsity of this belief, 
and she, like the daisies, won't tell ! It 
is true he has courage, perseverance, and 
real merit, but he lacks the dash and 
originality which only Maggie can sup- 
ply. But so subtly does she suggest ideas 
to him that he really believes them to be 
of his own creation. It is only when, in 
liis ignorance, lie attempts to dispense 



with Maggie's aid that he realizes how 
invaluable she has been ; she was so un- 
obtrusive a background to set off his 
character that she was not noticed until, 
suddenly, the background was no more. 
But even when he realized that she was 
essential to his success and happiness, 
and asked her to return to him — even 
then he did not fully appreciate her true 
worth, and she, like most women, loved 
him the more for his stupidity. 

The play was very entertaining. It 
was brief, light, and witty, as all of Bar- 
rie's plays are. The characters were 
genuine and so were the situations, yet, 
with just enough difference to make them 
a trifle more interesting and amusing 
than everyday life. The play may be 
summed up in the one word — charming. 



Why Work? 

Dick Childs 

Thcnic 10, Rhetoric II, 1932-33 

Certainly it is from slavery n'C derive the conccl>lion that industry, even 
thoiigli it be l^iirl'oseless industry, is a I'irtne in itself. — H. G. Wells 



JOHN SMITH is a credit to his com- 
munity — he is always busy. He is a 
rather feeble-minded fool engaged in 
making a fake patent medicine, but he 
works very hard and seems to have had 
enough initiative to acquire a moderate 
sum of money to his credit at the local 
bank. His neighbor's wife is a splendid 



woman — she has taught her child well 
that Satan finds mischief for idle hands. 
The child firmly believes that as long as 
he works diligently he will go to heaven 
no matter what else he does or doesn't 
do. 

What good is work for work's sake? 
Don't misunderstand me. I'm not advo- 



eating a general and complete strike. 
There is no disputing that labor is vital 
to any manner of success. What I object 
to is the contemporary worship of pur- 
poseless industry. 

We are all told that genius is ninety- 
nine per cent perspiration and one per 
cent inspiration. Great captains of in- 
dustry are held up to us as models to 
idolize. Everywhere we go we see and 
hear stories of men who have "made 
good" because of their ability to work. 
Recently our newspapers have been 
tilled with news of one such model. 
He was one of the most talked about and 
respected men in the world of finance, 
chiefly because of his ability to organize 
and his tireless energ}' in applying his 
plans. Now he is an exile and one of the 
most hated men among all classes of 
people. 

When some one sits and day-dreams, 
people immediately charge him with lazi- 
ness, and, without knowing or caring 
about the purpose of his thoughts, they 
condemn him as a good-for-nothing. To 
them idleness is the cardinal sin. They 
can forgive any variety of faults if the 
defendant is an industrious man. 

.Surely it must be from some such 
source as enslaved ancestors that we have 
created that false standard. And it must 
be from some narrow-minded people that 
it has become such a criterion of worth. 
As a source from which good may be 
derived, work is noble, but it is not a 
virtue in itself. At its worst it may be- 
come a vice. 

The man who straightens the already 
straight sideboard will never create a 
masterpiece. Neither has a masterpiece 
ever sprung from the artist who stands 
before his easel with the determination 
to do his day's work even though he lacks 
an idea. True, every worthwhile objec- 
tive will require more or less hard labor, 



hut lirsl there must come the prepara- 
tion in the form of joy or hope or 
dreams. This vital fact is one which the 
advocate of constant labor ignores. 

If one is to defend the dreamer, he 
must first acknowledge the fundamental 
need for the worker. Dreams alone have 
never built a bridge or written a book. 
Always there must be the one to apply 
the thoughts and inspirations of the 
dreamer, and perhaps it is from this 
truth that we have come to think of work 
as an objective. But let us not forget that 
because work is a necessity, dreaming is 
not therefore an evil. 

L^ndoubtedly ancient civilizations were 
built upon slavery. There could have 
been no Parthenon if there had been no 
slaves, no pyramids without forced labor. 
Today we are faced with a new problem. 
The machine age has done away to a 
great extent with the need for blind 
obedience ; and with it, it has done away 
with the old ideal of the "busy man." In 
the complicated system of our present 
manner of living there is danger of fol- 
lowing the horrible example of the robots 
in the play, "R. U. R.," in which, because 
they have no impulse save to work, they 
become monsters. The idea is overdrawn 
perhaps, but it is essentially true that if 
we neglect the purpose of work and em- 
phasize it as a virtue, we are apt to be- 
come blind to the better things of life. 

Surely, one of the results of the future 
dependence on machinery will be shorter 
working hours and more leisure. What 
will be done with this spare time? More 
work? Will a man be branded as lazy 
because he does not spend this leisure in 
frantically earning more mone_y? No, in 
the future there will be no fetish named 
industr)-. 

Perhaps, instead, John Smith will lose 
his glamour, and the Jack Robinson who 
occasionally slips away from his ledgers 



— 5 — 



Uf 



to indulge in fishing or in loafing in a 
cabin with a book will not be considered 
an undesirable citizen. Perhaps even the 
college student who now and then forgets 
an algebra assignment to argue with his 



roommate on his favorite author will be 

accorded a certain amount of leniency. 

"What is this life if, full of care, 
We have no time to stand and stare !"* 



*Davics, W. H.; '"Leisure." 



Country Fair Ballyhoo 

Myron Wormley 
Theme U, Rhetoric 1, 1932-33 



1HAVE an almost passionate aversion 
to country fairs, due perhaps to the 
circumstances under which I was com- 
pelled to attend them in the days of my 
childhood. For one thing, I never liked 
picnic diimers. To country fair enthu- 
siasts there is only one way to eat at a 
fair — a la lunch basket. My imagination 
is unusually active during such a meal ; 
and after 1 have watched the flies buzz 
around the food, my appetite wanes. 1 
abhor sitting on the ground while eating, 
and dread the task of straining vainh' 
to reach the choice morsel I desire. With- 
out fail 1 spill milk or water during the 
course of the meal. Finally, I do not 
like potato salad, and as yet 1 have not 
been to a picnic dinner where that dish 
was not in evidence. 

Then there ahva3S is the daughter of 
some neighbor who must be entertained ; 
and I am usualh* the unfortunate one 
chosen for this unwelcome task. This of 
course means entertainment ; but enter- 
tainment costs money. And what enter- 
tainment ! Merry-go-rounds and swings 
have never failed to have a harmful 
effect upon my digestive systein. and if 
I attempt to carry on this sort of dizzy 



frivolity I soon suffer acute discomfort. 
Accordingly, as the second best thing, I 
must walk around the "midway" with the 
girl and act like a moron in order to be 
in the general spirit of the fair. The re- 
sult of this procedure is that I run all 
over the place acting like a rabbit with 
"time on his hands.'' 

Then there is the stock to see. Nor- 
mally I do not mind stating my opinions 
about hogs, but when I am in such a dis- 
turbed mental state as a country fair 
produces, I can find nothing more dis- 
gusting than the sight of animals. The 
steaming and the protesting of the hogs 
combined with the stall-kicking and the 
everlasting tail-switching that one en- 
counters in the dairy barns are bad for 
one's disposition. Furious stallions in- 
censed by their captivity are the last 
straw. 

To climax the day. the custom is to go 
to the grandstand (if one may properly 
call it by that name) and watch the 
various horse, mule, and chariot races, 
amid the blare of two or three high 
school bands. This is b}- far the most 
boring feature of the day's program. 
There are only two things to do: watch 



— 6- 



the proceedings or go to sleep. The latter 
is not considered quite the thing to do 
when one is in the company of a young 
lady, and the former is an exceedingly 
difficult task. Another undesirable thing 
about the grandstand is the hardness of 
the seats. After spending a few hours 



seated upon one I become ill at ease and 
feel as though T might (\y to pieces. 

Thus a day spent at a country fair is 
a day worse than wasted. Nothing is ac- 
complished, nothing enjoyed, and mental, 
physical, and tinancial discomfort must 
be endured. 



-^e 







On Personal Charm 



Julia Mildred Lake 
Theme 11, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



DO YOU smoke, drink, philosophize, 
eat crackers in bed, or have blind 
dates? If you do, do you do so in a 
charming manner ? Personal charm — 
most people call it personality — depends 
on how one does the commonplace things 
of life. If a man can converse cleverly or 
smile in a winning way, he possesses a 
form of personal charm. However, 
taking personal charm as a whole, the old 
maxim, "Be yourself," is the true key to 
the secret. 

Remember the old story of the cow 
who wanted to be like a dog? When the 
dog jumped into his master's lap, he was 
petted and fondled affectionately. The 



poor old cow saw all this and thought to 
herself, "That dog has all the luck. 
Maybe if I jumped into master's lap, he'd 
rub my ears too." So one day when the 
master was idling in the orchard with 
his pipe between his teeth, the cow 
thought "Hooray! Here's my chance!" 
.So gaily she gamboled over to the un- 
suspecting man and cast herself into his 
arms. Of course, you know just what 
happened to the cow. The poor thing had 
no personal charm, whereas the dog had. 
Why? The dog was itself — it acted 
naturally. Who ever heard of a dog 
mooing? It's equally ridiculous to think 
of a cow jumping into a man's lap. 



That is the trouble with so man}- un- 
interesting people — they try so hard to 
do that for which they are unfitted both 
physically and mental!}'. They aren't 
natural : therefore they don't have char- 
acter. Why should the daughter of a 
brick-layer try to act like a debutante? 
She has neither the background nor the 
money. How much more charming she 
would really be if she were herself. Not 
that she sliould not try to better herself 
in as many ways as possible ! She should 
do that. But being a hypocrite is not 
bettering one's personalit}-. 



Many writers have tried to analyse per- 
sonality. The}- cannot — it is practically 
indefinable. It is made up of many small 
units all combining to make the whole. 
If personality were thoroughly under- 
stood, there would be many less undesir- 
able people in the world, and people 
would have more affection for their fel- 
low men. If one is natural, if he doesn't 
assume a perverted outlook on life or 
doesn't try to fool himself, he is one of 
those fortunate individuals who have per- 
sonal charm — and a great deal of it. 



Children and the Gangster Movie 



Katherine Stiegemeyer 
Theme 4, Rhetoric II, 1932-33 



"I'LL PUT YOU on the spot," came 
* floating clearly up to me as I sat by 
the window vainly trying to concentrate. 
A childish voice and an equally child-like 
figure had broken in on my conciousness. 
Two small boys were fighting a heated 
battle by the side of our house. The 
opponents were sturdy, well-matched, 
and furious over some small-boy ques- 
tion. The older boy broke loose from his 
enemy's clutch and again shouted, "If 
you hit me once more, I'll bump you off ! 
I'll kill you !" He did not wait for a re- 
newed onslaught, but. picking up a large 
stone, threw it with all his might at the 
less aggressive boy. The stone struck the 
boy on his temple, knocking him uncon- 
scious. While the injured boy was cared 
for by his mother. I took it upon myself 
to reprimand the older boy. To my dis- 



may he was not the least crestfallen, but 
declared, "James Cagney woulda shot 
'im." 

At that moment I crystallized a thought 
which had been running through my mind 
for many days as I had watched my 
small neighbors play "gangster." The 
play of children has always been shaped 
to a certain extent by the stage. Play 
habits change with each successive gener- 
ation. Aly father played "train-robber" 
and "western outlaw," while my mother 
adored Bernhardt and Geraldine Farrar. 
Now adolescent boys are bootleggers and 
gangsters in spare moments, and girls 
copy the glamorous movie queens. The 
most casual observer will admit a differ- 
ence in these types. The robber was . 
always a bad man. and the western out- 
law was always killed ; the modern gang- 



stei" is a hero, a trampled idol, wlio is ap- 
parently line in almost every respect. 
There is nothint,' of cowardice in his 
make-up ; his deeds are m<jtivated hy 
noble bravery, not desperation. 

Much has been written concerning the 
effect of movie-going on the child — 
nuuh that is unauthentic. In the Septem- 
ber and October issue of a popular maga- 
zine, reports of an investigation, under 
the direction of Ur. Samuel Renshaw, 
Professor of E.xperimental Ps_vchology 
at Ohio State University, were published, 
lie says, "The difficulty in so far as 
movies are concerned is that children do 
not look behind the grease paint. To 
them the monsters created by wax and 
putty are personal perils. Death is final- 
ity." Yet when lawlessness is made the 
essence of manly bravery, even the so- 
lemnity of utter oblivion fails to leave an 
imprint on the most impressionable child. 

The first discovery made by Mr. Ren- 
shaw is that after seeing a thriller, Johnny 
tosses in bed. His restlessness is not 



limited to the (jne night following, but 
e.xtends for three or four nights more. 
1 le tosses during the early hours of his 
rest period, which are the most valuable. 
In large tlieatres trained nurses are 
hired in case a hyper-emotional person in 
the audience succumbs to excessive ex- 
citement. On being asked if children are 
actually terrified, these nurses replied in 
the affirmative. Dr. Frederick Peterson, 
the noted neurologist, believes that scenes 
of horror on the screen ma\- be definitely, 
even permanently, injurious. He main- 
tains that many boys and girls are sub- 
jected to virtual nerve shellshock. Ques- 
tioning public school children has shown 
that during a picture many children 
scream, bite their fingernails, wring their 
garments, and indicate overstimulation in 
many other ways. At home they are 
afraid to go to bed and dread being alone. 
All this supports Dr. Peterson's belief 
that movies overstimulate the nervous 
system and cause neuroses which may 
continue in adult years. 




-9 — 



/^? 



The Black Pirate of the Air 



Donald Melville 
Theme 4, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



OUT of the tall trees that edged the 
woods a shadow ghded softly and 
swiftly, and after volplaning close to the 
ground finally settled with a rush of air 
and a glinting of ebony-black feathers. 
This huge bird of inky complexion was 
nothing more than a crow — a bird com- 
mon to all parts of America, from the 
snow-blanketed forests of the North to 
the broad pampas of the South. 

His reputation is as dark as the color 
that nature gave him. He is the lawful 
prey of every hunter, for he is known to 
plunder the nests of our songsters, and 
he is a problem to the farmer. A large 
part of a crow's menu consists of corn 
seed. The freshly planted cornfield holds 
a royal feast for the hungry crow, and 
a fairly large flock of them will consume 
a surprising amount of corn : that is, un- 
less the farmer's son is patrolling the vi- 
cinit}' with a shotgun, and then there is 
not a crow to he seen. 

It seems to me that crows have a sixth 
sense about guns. Walk into the woods 
with nothing more than a woodenstick in 
vour hands, and you may observe the ac- 
tions of the crows at your pleasure. But 
steal through the woods w^ith a gun in 
your hands, and the only indication that 
there are crows in that district will be 
a faint caw from the neighboring hill or 
valley. So if you wish to learn for your- 
self the interesting habits of these birds, 
approach them unarmed, yet with steal- 
thy foot. 

The crow usually builds an ungainly 
bunch of thick twigs for a nest, high up in 
a pine tree, and in this are laid from two 



to four large eggs, pale green, splashed 
liberally with brown. Both parents defend 
their home against all comers. When the 
scrawny, naked little crows arrive, the 
old crows are busy from morning till 
night feeding them, for a young crow will 
eat all he can and still caw for more. 

A crow has a reputation for wisdom, 
and after studying its habits for 
months, 1 have decided that the wisdom 
of these birds is surpassed by that of no 
other creatures of the woods. The old 
crow will imitate perfectly the weak caw 
of its young in order to lure the hunter 
from the neighborhood of the nest. 
Almost all traps set for the black vandals 
are studiously avoided, and the hunter 
who conceals himself in a spot where 
crows congregate will find them verj- 
scarce. The length and number of caws 
have different meanings for members of 
the tribe. By their raucous calls the crows 
can spread an alarm or gather their clan 
with great speed. 

The greatest enemy of the crows is the_ 
hawk. As the crows prey on smaller 
birds, so do the hawks prey on the young 
crows. When a hawk flies near the crows' 
nesting-place, he is attacked on all sides 
by the war-like birds, each one, in turn, 
making a swoop at him. Sometimes the 
hawk is wounded ; sometimes a careless 
crow comes within reach of those terrible 
claws and pays the penalty for his care- 
lessness. However, most of these skirm- 
ishes end witli no serious casualties, for 
the crow realizes the inferiority of his 
fighting equipment to that of the hawk. 



— 10- 



There is one good thing that can be 
said of the crow, however, and that is 
the great service he does in eating all 
kinds of harmful insects. Insects are his 
staple food, and in ridding the fields of 



them he does the farmer a great service, 
so great a service, in fact, that it is a 
question whether it outweighs the dam- 
age resulting from his grain-eating pro- 
pensities. 




Fog in the Depot 

Bruce Deobler 
Theme 9, Rhetoric 1, 1932-33 



IT HAS always seemed to me that a 
busy depot is the center of much ro- 
mance and adventure. The reunion of 
friends, the arrival and departure of busi- 
ness envoys, the power and force of the 
man-made monsters, the skill and cour- 
age of train crews, and the curiosity 
about the destinations and purposes of 
the travelers, all serve to spread an au- 
reate influence of romance over the scene. 
These impressions, liowever, may be mul- 
tiplied and varied if you will take the 
trouble to visit a depot on an evening 
when a veil of fog has descended over 
the cit\'. 

For some reason, the swirling curtains 
of vapor stimulate the perceptive powers 
of the human mind, causing it to seek 
significance in every eccentricity dis- 
played by the people around the observer. 



He sees a bare-headed, trench-coated 
youth make a rush to hand letters to the 
departing train's baggageman and won- 
der's not if but ivhy they are important. 
A stout individual's attempt to shield his 
throat from the dampness by turning his 
collar closer around his neck and face is 
interpreted as an effort to preserve an 
incognito. The observer involuntarily ex- 
tends sympathy to the glum- faced 
woman who is probably worried over 
nothing more serious than the difficulty 
of finding a good taxi. The group de- 
scending from the parlor car wear a 
misty look of gentility and superiority. 
In the electrically lighted fog, beautiful 
faces become exotic, and plain faces 
become beautiful. It is odd that none of 
these wanderings of the mind occur in 
normal weather. 



11- 



170 



Clearly, the fog does something to the 
human mind. The crowd, the train, and 
the lights are all a part of every man's 
life, but the fog is strange and mysteri- 
ous because man cannot in any way con- 



trol it. Ancient men feared this phe- 
nomenon, and a vestige of this fear lin- 
gers in modern minds. It is this fear, or 
lack of understanding, that stimulates the 
mind of the observer. 



Machine Shop 

Robert Weber 
Theme 13, Rhetoric II, 1932-33 



WHKN one enters the shop, the whir 
and hum of the many machines is at 
first confusing. There is an atmosphere 
of brazen importance that tolerates no 
quiet meditation or thought, but insists 
upon action and noise. Overhead, rods 
and wheels rotate at rapid, regular in- 
tervals, giving out a monotonous clang 
and clack that makes one's head throb. 
The finishing and polishing machines give 
forth a high-pitched tone that is at first 
irritating in its piercing quality. Vari- 
ous parts of each machine move back and 
forth, clanking loudly as they do their 
work. A machine for drilling threads 
into pipes groans as the cold steel presses 
against the pipe. The pipe, in turn, sends 
back a shrill tone of protest as the metal 
is grooved out of its sides. A drilling 
machine, with greedy haste, eats out a 
hole in a large steel plate. The room re- 
sounds again and again while the tumult 
rises and falls. A bell rings. Gradually 
the noise dies down. There is a last lin- 
gering shufile of hurrying feet, and then 
all is quiet. 



The machine shop assumes a charac- 
ter so opposite to that which has just 
been witnessed that one shudders from 
the shock of the change. The noise and 
clatter of life have gone, and only the 
stillness reigns. Overhead, the rods and 
wheels have ceased to move. The finish- 
ing and polishing machines are awesome 
in their silence. The driving shafts have 
slopped so suddenly that they are left 
standing half way to the end of their run. 
The drilling machine has lost its greed 
and seems to be meditating on the work 
of the day. Faint sounds coming from the 
street seem quite remote. The light in 
the room becomes steadily dimmer. The 
machines seem to be sleeping. It is a 
peaceful sleep, but sad in the gloom of 
the dark walls and floor. There is no 
color to indicate the animation of the 
recent life. A coldness settles on the 
room, and chills the blood in one's veins. 
At last, darkness comes, and all is 
screened by the blackness of night. 



•12 — 



.A 



The Mill 



S. J. EWALD 
Theme 10, Rhetoric II, 1932-^3 



IT IS OLD, very old, that mill with its 
moss-covered water wheel. A century 
or more its wheels turned, turned, turned, 
grinding the grain of the country folk 
from miles around. The miller and his 
sons toiled from dawn to dark and went 
to their humble home at night in ghost- 
like dustiness. But the miller is gone, and 
his sons and their sons, and all of the 
millers. 

Now, the wheels go round no more, the 
castings are gone to rust, the great mill- 
stones have fallen from their sockets. 
Cobwebs glut the feed chute and fill the 
space about the beams above with filmy 
grayness. Bright rays of light stream 
through the sagging clapboard roof and 
lose themselves in dusty corners. Every- 
where is dust ; thick, heavy, gray dust 
that rises in dense clouds as I walk across 
the creaking floor. The fioor, which once 
bore up the heavy millstones and loads of 
grain, now groans and gives beneath m}- 
weight. In the cracks of the worn oak sill 
of the door, stand slim, sear stalks of 
wheat rustling in the breeze. They have 



been there, seeding and reseeding them- 
selves since last the mill was run. 

Suddenly a wild, inhuman shriek comes 
through a small, warped window. Across 
a rolling field of stubble a train of box- 
cars grinds to a stop beside a long plat- 
form stacked high with plump white 
sacks. There are large motor trucks and 
chains of wagons drawn by bluster- 
ing tractors bringing more sacks from 
surrounding fields. In a distant field 
there is a huge heap of yellow straw, 
ever growing larger under the "blower" 
of a thrasher. Little men work busily 
about the machine, and two of them are 
on top feeding its greedy maw. The 
thrasher is driven by a long belt con- 
nected to a tractor. The white sacks are 
being filled at one side of the clanking, 
red thrasher. Another shriek, and more 
yellow grain journeys to the great mills 
of the city to be marketed at forty-two 
cents a bushel. 

Only the deep blue water in the mill 
race remains the same, sparkling, sing- 
ing, happy, unaware of any change. 



On Returning 

Clara Dayton 
Theme 11, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 

T WAS like looking into a still black past reflected in its depths; then a sud- 
■ pool, and seeing at once all of the den glare of sunlight blinded out the 



13 — 



n:i 



vision of that one moment. Thus it 
seemed, as I stood gazing at the forlorn 
little farm where I had spent the first 
careless years of my childhood. How 
different it looked to twenty than to ten ! 

There was the old wooden gate that 1 
used to clamber upon to watch the 
ruddy sun melt into the green pastures, 
while I waited for Father to come in 
from the fields, tired and hungry. The 
husky, sunbrowned workmen would be 
coming home, too, leading in the old 
black horses and heavy iron ploughs. In 
the barn was the smell of fresh, clean ha}', 
and warm, sweet milk, the gentle mooing 
of cattle, and the neighing of the horses. 

Behind the farmhouse now are a few- 
straggling trees, representing what was 
once an orchard. In spring it was white 
with blossoms, and in summer tlie trees 
were laden with red and green apples, 
purple plums, or golden-yellow peaches. 
How man}' lazy hours I spent in that 
garden of Eden, knowing no evil or 
trouble but onl\' pleasure and happy 
leisure ! 

In the fall I used to watch the men 
haul away the ripe corn in tall wagons, 



pitch the hay into the loft, and store the 
oats and wheat in the barn. I marvelled 
at their power and strength as they 
hoisted heavy bales of hay upon their 
Iiroad shoulders and swung them with a 
dull thud to the ground. Sweat poured 
down their brown faces, and muscles 
rippled beneath the blue cambric of their 
damp shirts, as the sultry day grew hot- 
ter beneath the August sun. 

But the sun brings back the reality of 
to-day and dispels the vision of yester- 
da}-. To-day I am twenty, and wonder 
how many points corn has gone down, 
or if wheat has gone up, because v\'e still 
o\\-n the farm, you see, even though there 
are other people living there. As I look 
at the gate now rather critically, I notice 
that it will soon need repair. It is sag- 
ging, and some of the boards are loose. 
Those ugly trees behind the house should 
be cut down, for they are old and use- 
less. The man who is working in the 
barnyard now looks rather tired and un- 
happy — he is the only one who has a job 
there. Perhaps he is feeling the depres- 
sion too. 



The Lane of Forgotten Men 



Sydney W. Taubek 
Theme 10, Rhetoric II, 1932-33 



'w; 



Chicago." 



"IT '■ACKER DRIVE, 

boulevard of rare beauty, with im- 
pressive structures of stone and steel 
towering hundreds of feet into the air 
along its cold curbs. Business and tumult, 
with the roar of trains buzzing in one's 



ears, while above, in magnificent offices 
resplendent with fine furniture and tap- 
estry, ticker tape flows in never-ending 
coils. The drive itself is an animate pic- 
ture ; expensive automobiles race along, 
tires singing over smooth concrete. The 



— 14 — 



I f 



occupants are smug and comfortable in 
their wrapping of sleek furs. ChautTeurs, 

'■ Yes, madam- No, madam 

Most certainly, sir ." 

The Drive begins at the end of Wash- 
ington Boulevard and winds along the 
Chicago River, past the crystal beauty of 
the Civic Opera House, through the rush 
of the "Loop," and then off to the lake. 
And all one can see, as he rides over this 
monument to wealth and business, is the 
glorious effect of it, the fineness of it all, 
the glint of steel and polish of marble. 
Ijut under Wacker Drive, where the 
American Masters of Finance never look, 
and never care to look, live the forgot- 
ten men of the city. 

The Drive was deliberately built in two 
levels in order that those in evening 
dress and elegant cars could sail over 
its upper floor, while those who work 
and sweat for these men could run their 
swift trucks down below. 

It is dark on the lower floor, dark and 
cold — and very dirty. The silent river 
flows at a level with this lower street. 
and in the winter its icy fingers reach 
into the cave-like dimness seeking 
W'armth. And it is during the winter that 
we notice, become acutely cotiscious of, 
the pathos of this "lane of forgotten 
men." These are Chicago's unemployed, 
and they sleep against pillars, cold pil- 
lars of the selfsame concrete that paves 



the thoroughfare above, with the sting- 
ing river-wind biting into them. They 
wrap their shivering bodies in newspa- 
pers, in burlap sacks, in anything that 
will turn awa}' the cold. The police can 
do nothing to prevent the stay of these 
homeless men — and perhaps the police do 
not care to do anything about it. Bread 
line or soup kitchen — their only source of 
food. Slimy muck of "stew," reeking, — 
its only benefit is the heat to be derived 
from it. Days without food at all ; too 
weak to go and stand hour after hour 
in the pushing, surging line of bodies, 
only to be turned aw-ay with, "Sorry, 
buddy, that's all there is." 

A picture, not all lovely, is painted of 
lower Wacker Drive. We of Chicago are 
aware of its existence, because of the 
flower}- editorials printed about it ; we 
are aware of its existence, because "slum- 
ming" parties are invariably shown its 
sordid face. But life (if it can be called 
that) under the Drive goes on as before; 
the only change of residence or suste- 
nance in the lives of these men occurs 
when they are dying of pneumonia or 
tuberculosis on a cot in the County Hos- 
pital. 

Upper W'acker Drive sings its song of 
power — because those who ride upon its 
polished surface never choose to go 
below. 



The Papaya 

G. W. James 
Theme 9, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 

CARICA PAPAYA — such is its scien- kings. It is a royal delicacy which all 
tific name — is a food really fit for who live in the tropics may enjoy. This 



— 15- 



/7/ 



fruit far transcends in gastronomic ap- 
peal any other of man's foods. Its sweet, 
succulent meat melts in one's mouth and 
engulfs the palate with a tantalizing 
Hood of deliciousness. The inhabitants 
of Olympus tremble when man plucks 
this fruit lest some mortal perceive there- 
in the fabled ambrosia and by its sensu- 
ous inspiration be emboldened to doubt 
their spurious power. 

Despite its intrinsic worth it does not 
blatantly cry its merits to the world. It 
is truly unimposing to the eye and pre- 
sents no external promise of gustatory 
ecstasy. To the wanderer from temper- 
ate zones it might be a dwarfed Tom 
Watson or an unripe cantaloupe. This 
interesting native of the torrid zone as- 
sumes a variety of shapes and sizes. It 
may be elongated like a watermelon, or 
almost spherical, or even slightly com- 
pressed on one end, like our crookneck 
squash. In the unripe state its skin is 
dark green and smooth witli a velvety 
feel to the touch. As it ripens, it becomes 
a light yellow. Within, it is arranged 
much like a muskmelon with a multitude 
of seeds which cling tenaciously to the 
firm, thick, salmon-colored lining which 
is its edible part. 

The great number of seeds is in keep- 



ing with the nature of the life of the 
papaya plant. With its tender shoots 
eagerly sought by the herbivores of the 
forest, with its mature fruit considered 
a delicacy by monkeys and fruit bats, 
and with its unresistant bole easily de- 
stroyed by the tropical winds, thousands 
of seeds must germinate to produce the 
ultimate single papaya. This useful plant, 
once the seeds are scattered, grows 
rapidly. It easily acquires a height of 
fifteen feet in a season, producing, while 
it grows, a large crop of its luscious 
pepos. It requires a rich loamy soil and 
the tropical combination of much mois- 
ture and abundant sunshine. 

Thus, we inhabitants of the temperate 
zone are deprived of the pleasure of in- 
cluding the papaya in our diet. After a 
taste of this fruit par excellence, one can 
understand Columbus' reluctance to de- 
part from the shores of the West Indies 
in the knowledge that, during his absence 
from the land of coral and palm, his 
board, however regal, would contain no 
papaya. It is, in fact, not impossible that 
this delectable food is the same with 
which Circe changed men into pigs, for 
many a man of discreet appetite becomes 
a gourmand in its presence. 



The Baked Potato 

Mildred Fisher 
Theme 12, Rhetoric II, 1932-33 

BAKED potatoes ordinarily do not — nor was the potato ordinary. I was 

arouse deep emotions or bring ro- from Champaign, and the potato was 

mantic ideas to sane people. Well, I as- from Idaho. Fanc}' our meeting in the 

sure you, this was no ordinary situation attractive dining room at Marshall 



— 16- 



/ / 3 



Field's! As the waiter placed it before 
1113' eyes, a shock — a thrill ran through 
me. Never had I seen such a huge po- 
tato — why, it was equal to four regular- 
sized ones! It seemed almost as if it had 
been blown up b}' a pump to its most ex- 
aggerated capacity and then had slowly 
burst, sending forth a most delicious, de- 
lectable odor of melted cheese and rich 
baked potato. A bit of parsley made the 
picture perfect. Could anything appear 
more attractive to a potato-lover? It was 
nothing short of wonderful to me. 

Was one supposed to eat the whole 
thing or just gracefully nibble at it? My 



limited experience had not prepared me 
to answer such a question as this. Still 
wondering, I placed the lirst bite into 
my eager, waiting mouth. How perfectly 
scrumptious ! My senses reeled with 
ecstasy. Heaven must be like this — 
baked potatoes, seasoned to perfection; 
hot, just from the oven; and covered 
with creamy melted cheese. Mine was a 
faithful potato too, for no matter how 
much I ate, there was always plenty 
more. 

"Breathes there a man with soul so dead 

Who never to himself hath said," 

Many and many a mile I'd go 

To eat a potato from Tdaho. 



Disinterested Courtesy 

John W. Waldo 
Theme 11, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



TAKING off the lid of the large box, 
with the gold coat of arms of the 
h'inchley establishment emblazoned upon 
it, and inspecting the contents nestled in 
the tissue paper, I asked myself, "How is 
it that going for just a hat, I returned 
with purchases many times the value of 
the contemplated hat?" 

1 sat down and, gazing out upon the 
lake veiled with snow, I reviewed the 
events of the afternoon. 

Entering the antique furnished lobby 
of this store for the rich or extravagant, 
I had been met by an impressive gentle- 
man, who introduced himself as Mr. 
.Schuler, a floor-walker. He looked like 
a utilities official to me. As I felt quite 
sure that my most painful affliction, 
"Shopper's Ecstasy," had been left be- 



hind me locked up in my hotel room, I 
blandly said, "I'm just looking around — 
perhaps a hat." 

The floor-walker introduced me to a 
Mr. Gregory, who took me in hand. My 
escort turned out to be a flesh and blood 
facsimile of an "ad" in Vanity Fair, il- 
lustrating "what the well-dressed man 
will be wearing." This human fashion 
plate immediately opened siege against 
my determined economy by inquiring if 
I were of the Bostoii Waldo's. I decided 
to impress him with my limited pocket- 
book and said, "Well, third cousins once 
removed. The proverbial poor relation !" 

Whether this remark instilled pity into 
liim or amusement, I could not detertnine. 
After learning that I might be interested 
in a hat, he conducted me to the proper 



17 — 



I'?i' 



department. As we sauntered through 
the store, searching for hats of attractive 
shades, we discussed the afternoon's game 
and the colleges playing. A very charm- 
ing person indeed was this fellow ! I se- 
lected a Borsilino marked "Au Autumn." 
It was most becoming. As I took it off 
to look at it in the light, I noticed the 
price mark. "I don't believe this color is 
suitable," I lied, hoping that this conclu- 
sion would settle any discussion about 
the hat. 

"With what color coats will 3'ou be 
wearing it?" he questioned. His non- 
chalant use of the plural form of "coat" 
upset my equilibrium, and I stammered, 
"Why, ah, grej'." This was the only 
color that I could think of. 

"Come with me," he said, leading the 
way into a huge room panelled in Jaco- 
bean fashion. He pulled a carved knob, 
and immediately the panelling along one 
side of the room folded back ; there were 
coats of every describable color. He se- 
lected a gre}- overcoat and helped me 
into it, explaining that now 1 could see 
how very nicely the color of the hat 
would blend with grey. 

As I walked over to the mirrors, I was 
hoping the coat would not be becoming. 
I looked twice in the mirrors before 
recognizing myself. "A lovely coat!" 
said I, admiring the gorgeous figure be- 
fore me. "And some dispute the old 
adage of 'clothes make the man'!" I con- 
tinued, feeling the dreaded "Shopper's 
Ecstasy" descending in all her disastrous 
powers upon me. 

As I posed this way and that way, I 
expected the clerk to mention how rich 
the cojt and hat looked on me and how 
shabby was the garment thrown across 
the divan. He disappointed me. He prob- 
ably thought I was able to see this point 
myself. I liked the silence, broken onl\- 



by liis saj'ing that man)' of the boys, 
going East to school, selected a type 
similar to this one. He concluded by 
mentioning that it was his favorite type 
of coat. 1 was glad he hadn't said he had 
one. Clerks usually imagine that if they 
say they own an item similar to that 
which we are contemplating buying, it 
influences the purchaser to buy. It does 
the opposite to me ! 

"A lovely coat !" I again exclaimed, 
unable to think of a more appropriate 
adjective. "And I'll take it!" 1 added 
recklessly, realizing my extravagance. 

He was not at all imj^ressed. I was 
sorry. It seemed to be an important event 
in my life to buy as expensive a coat as 
this one ; anyway getting the money to 
pay for it would be ! I wished it meant 
something out of the ordinary run of 
events to him. If it did, he did not show- 
it. 

".\nd the hat?" he questioned. 

"Yes, I'll take that, too. Let me see 
some gloves." The thought of the several 
pairs in m}' drawers at home was not 
present at this rash moment. Could I 
help being extravagant in all these lux- 
urious surroundings and among all these 
beautiful fabrics? 

He disappeared, reappearing with 
socks, a pair of gloves, some ties, and 
some handkerchiefs of hues blending 
with those of the hat and coat. Could I 
refuse the purchase of these compara- 
tively small items that would mean so 
much to my ensemble ? Naturally not ! 
Had I been able to remember my numer- 
ous obligations, I would have reached for 
my old coat and dashed out past the suits, 
past the hats, past the gloves, and beyond 
the ties, out into the territory of safety, 
where I should be safe from any subtle 
salesmanship technique. I walked over to 
the oriole window, paused, and, glancing 



•18- 



across Michigan Avenue through the fall- 
ing snow to the desolate and bleak park 
be}ond, 1 realized how utterly enipt)' 
material things are. How could I buy 
these things, thought I, while paupers 
were wrapping their frozen feet in scraps 
of stray newspaper ! How could I spend 
such an amount on unnecessary items 
when, just below me, a poor woman, 
braving the piercing blast in her thread- 
bare garments, was making her way to 



a miserable dwelling that was home to 
her. I turned away from this dreary and 
ugly scene. Looking at the "tete de 
negre" carpet, at the carved marble fire- 
place, at the stout gentleman in a Per- 
sian lamb coat inspecting some scarfs, 
my repentant mood vanished, and one of 
selfishness replaced it. I looked at the 
astonishingly well-dressed man beside me 
and said, "That's a charge." 




The Fury of the Elements 

William F. Ekstrom 
Theme IS, Rhetoric II, 1931-32 



THERE is no escapade so thrilling as 
a battle with the elements, where the 
odds against man are so tremendous that 
the peril of each moment seems well-nigh 
unescapable. Such an event is especially 
memorable when it comes, as it did in our 
case, at the end of a delightful week-end 
excursion to a nearb}- cit}'. We had been 
attending a conference at Princeton dur- 
ing the Labor Day holidays and were pre- 
paring to return home on Monday after- 
noon. Several of the girls of our party 



wanted to visit Starved Rock Park near 
La Salle, and I obligingly offered to ac- 
commodate them. It was a perfect day as 
we started out, four girls beside myself, 
in a Pontiac roadster. We spent a weari- 
some afternoon climbing up and down 
the ravines of Deer Park and meander- 
ing about the plateau on the summit of 
the historic rock. At length, we left that 
site of pioneer heroism and sped rapidly 
northward in the direction of Mendota. 
It was nearly six o'clock when we 



•19 — 



I 7 If 



arrived at that city, and we stopped there 
about an hour for dinner. We were in 
high spirits as we partook of the evening 
meal, entirel}' unconscious of the storm 
clouds that were gathering in the western 
heavens. When we returned to our car, 
it was very dark, but since it was late in 
the evening, we were not unduly worried. 
As a matter of fact, I was so little aware 
of the danger that I relinquished the 
wheel to my sister and went back to sit 
in the rumble seat. It grew rapidly 
darker, however, and, as we pulled out 
of town, I remarked casually to one of 
the girls that it looked as if it might rain. 
A dull rumble in the distance confirmed 
my opinion, and I began to think seri- 
ously of putting on my slicker. Suddenly 
there was a vivid flash of lightning in the 
west, followed by a prolonged roar of 
thunder, and, as if it were the trumpet 
heralding an oncoming storm, the clouds 
began to gather into a huge whirling 
mass. By this time, the blackness of the 
night was impenetrable, and a furious 
wind began to blow which all but threat- 
ened to sweep the little roadster from the 
highway. Before we had time to gasp 
for breath, the rain was coming down in 
torrents, driving at us from the west with 
all the fury of a gale. I tried to get into 
my slicker hurriedly, at the same time 
assisting the girls into theirs, but it was 
an impossible task as the wind blew the 
slickers inside out. and we could do no 
more than try to hold them up against 
the charging battalions of rain. I 
yelled to my sister to stop and let me 
drive, but my hoarse cries were lost in 
the violent crashes of thunder and the 
terrific fierceness of the wind. I began 
to wonder if there were any side curtains 
in the car to protect at least the girls in 
front, but vm speculation was suddenly 
cut short by the awful sensation of riding 
on uneven ground as first one side of the 



car and then the other would dip into a 
culvert or bump over fallen posts and 
fences. We were off the road ! The 
roadster plunged on through mud and 
mire, through rain and gale, going its 
occupants knew not whither, and likely 
at any moment to stop with a dead 
motor, or a broken axle, or, worst still, 
to plunge from the edge of an unexpected 
precipice, or plough into the side of some 
unseen farm building. There I was with 
four terror-stricken girls in an open car, 
bouncing over a cornfield in the most 
violent storm that I had ever experi- 
enced. I groaned inwardly, but I tried to 
keep a steady voice as I inquired of the 
girl next to me if she were all right. 
Suddenly, I felt a violent shift in the 
equilibrium of the car to my side as we 
struck something or other, and the road- 
ster settled back and stopped. There was 
one horrible second when a vivid flash of 
lightning, which occurred almost simul- 
taneously, lighted up the whole scene and 
displayed before our view, not twenty 
feet away, the shelter we sought — a 
farmhouse. 

We made one grand dash for the 
porch, our exit from the car being any- 
thing but dignified, and stampeded onto 
the low veranda without waiting to in- 
quire into the hospitalit\- of the farmer's 
household. The farmer's wife opened 
the door and, trying to protect herself 
from the onslaught of the elements by 
means of an old shawl, asked us what 
we wanted. To us, the question seemed 
so unreasonable that for a moment we 
stood there speechless. 

"Good heavens, woman !" I yelled, 
"have you no humanity?" 

She eyed me suspiciously, wondering, 
no doubt, what I was doing with four 
girls in an open car on a night like that, 
but, rather than expo.se herself any 
further to the frenzv of the storm bv 



-20 — 



prolonged conversatinn, she let us into 
the house. I made several heroic dashes 
to the car for luggage, until it was all in, 
and we were able to effect a change to 
dry garments which at once renewed our 
hopes and revived our spirits. The 
farmer's wife was not unkind after she 
discovered that we had been .itlending a 
religious conference, although she was 
sorry that we were not Methodists. Her 
husband, too, was cordial, l)ut he watched 
liis wife closely before speaking and took 
pains not to contradict her on any subject 
upon which she had voiced her opinion. 
Meanwhile, the storm refused to abate 
itself, and the house often shook to its 
very foundations, but we felt compara- 
tively safe. We tried to call Rockford, 
our home town, but the wires were all 
down, and there were no connections. 
We had been there about forty-five min- 
utes when I politely remarked that per- 
haps we were keeping the family up 
beyond their usual bedtime. 

"Oh no," was her kind reply. "We 
always stay up until nine o'clock." 

It was a quarter to nine when she thus 
diplomatically informed us that we could 
stay fifteen minutes longer. 

At nine o'clock we promptly departed. 
The storm had by this time let up to the 
point where it seemed to be merely a 
severe thunderstorm. We drove back to 
Mendota without any further mishap and 
went into a drug store, remaining there 
for an hour or two in the hope that the 
storm would end. Little did we know 
that storm ! We kept on ordering sodas 
and sundaes, but the constant dash of the 
rain against the front window pane and 
the incessant dimming of the lights with 
each strolce of lightning continued ^vith- 
out interruption. Our counsels were now 
divided. Two of the .girls urged the 
futility of proceeding farther and sug- 
gested that we remain until morning in 



a local hotel. The other two, however, 
voted solidly that we attempt to make 
home, believing, as they did, that the 
storm could not possibly last much 
longer. I was inclined to favor the latter 
group; so I added the weight of my 
prestige to their counsels, and we pre- 
pared to set forth. 

By this time, I had ascertained beyond 
all doubt that there were no side cur- 
tains : so the choice of places was not as 
difficult as it might otherwise have been. 
Two of my heroic passengers were as- 
signed to the rumble seat, together with 
most of the luggage. They were covered 
over with nearly all of the blankets avail- 
able and were made as water-tight as pos- 
sible. The remaining two were favored 
with front-seat accommodations and 
slicker facilities. For myself, I took a 
large canvas, which had fortunately been 
lying around in the car, wrapped it about 
me, and took my place behind the wheel. 
We were off, with fifty-live miles to go. 
The first five or six miles were tolerable, 
hut then the storm burst anew with all its 
former fury. It was not strange to me 
now how my sister had lost the road in 
the first outbreak. The continual play of 
lightning was my only guide, and be- 
tween the flashes I was forced to depend 
entirely upon instinct. In spite of the 
violent onslaught of the torrents, it was 
necessary for me to drive with my head 
out of the side of the roadster in order 
to watch, as best I could, the side of the 
road. As T held my left arm up to the 
wheel, it created a valley in the canvas 
between the arm and my body. Down 
this \alle}- gushed a mighty river of 
water which became a powerful cataract 
as it tore over my right knee and de- 
scended precipitoush" to the roadster 
floor and swashed about our ankles. The 
sensation of having a miniature Niagara 
rushing over mv lower limbs was noth- 



— 21- 



IX>0 



ing, however, compared to the dangers 
which confronted us. What if one of 
those wicked streaks of Hghtning, always 
so close at hand, should strike us ? What 
if the violent wind should sweep us from 
the road? What if the water-soaked 
engine should refuse to function? 

Our maximum speed was now about 
seven or eight miles an hour, and at mid- 
night we reached Compton. We parked 
under the shadow of the village garage 
for a while, but the fierceness of the 
tempest was uninterrupted, and we de- 
cided to move on. I tried to take the 
main street back to the highway, but I 
had not driven two blocks when there 
was a vivid display of lightning followed 
by such a terrific crash of thunder that 
for a moment I was unable to hear a 
thing. A few feet farther, however, T 
slammed on the brakes. The girls 
screamed. A huge tree had just fallen 
across the street and obstructed my way. 
I disentangled my radiator from the mass 
of green foliage and returned to the 
highway by another street. It was six- 
teen miles to the next town ! 

The violence of the tumult now 
reached its height. The downpour of 
rain spurred on by the gale attacked us 
with all the seeming fury of a hurricane. 
The crackling streaks of lightning zig- 
zagged incessantly across the sky while 
the air was rent with crash upon crash 
of deafening thunder. The girls, who 
had hitherto borne it bravely enough, 
now gave vent to their emotions. They 
screamed and cried alternately, and I re- 
ceived a chorus of commands and en- 
treaties in terrorized feminine voices. 

"For Heaven's sake, stop !" 

"Xo, no, turn around !" 

"Don't turn back! Keep on going!" 

I couldn't follow all of the directions : 
so we kept on going. For three terrible 
liours I drove on blindly, fearful every 
moment of instantaneous death. I 



wished a hundred times over that I had 
never made the trip, that I had never 
consented to go to Starved Rock, or that 
I had never left Mendota where two of 
the girls had so wisely counselled us to 
stay. Above all, I felt a certain responsi- 
bility for them, and the prospect filled me 
with a sense of indescribable horror. 

Finally, T realized that we had arrived 
at a brick pavement. The flashes of 
lightning disclosed a curbstone on either 
side. A town at last ! Suddenly, we 
struck a flood of water, and the spray 
leaped up all around us. One of the 
girls, knowing that the engine had been 
hot for some time, mistook it for smoke 
and opened the door preparing to jump 
out. She probably would have accom- 
])lished her purpose had I not immedi- 
ately yelled to her. The flood was over 
the wheels, and, although the roadster 
pulled through, the motor actually did 
l)egin to smoke, and I realized that we 
couldn't go much farther. Rock ford was 
still twenty-five miles away, and we knew 
that we could not make it : so we made 
our way to the nearest hotel. Dripping 
with water, the girls rushed into the 
lobby insisting to the night clerks that we 
must have some rooms. He saw our 
condition and, being a good business 
man. took advantage of our necessity, as 
we perceived when he presented us the 
bill tlie next morning. The girls dis- 
patched telegrams to Rockford while I 
returned to the car for the luggage. A 
bath and dry bedclothes probably saved 
some of us, at least, from pneumonia. 
It was four o'clock when at last I got to 
bed and uttered a prayer of thanksgiving 
for our safety. I had just closed my 
eves when there was a pounding at the 
door and the voice of the night clerk 
saving, "Rockford calling you." How 
they found out where we were or were 
able to get connections I could not guess. 



-22 — 



I slipped on my clcithcs again antl de- 
scended into the lobby. It was niy 
father's voice on the phone. 

"Everything is all right," I told liini. 
"We'll be home in the morning." 



Again [ returned to my room, and, 
this time, as I closed my eyes, I could 
hear the diminishing patter of raindrops 
on the window sill and the echo of rolling 
thunder as it died awav in the distance. 



I'll Meet You at the House 



F. C. Arthur 
Theme 17, Rhetoric II, 1931-32 



THE CAR slipped up to the curb, and 
the headlights bored into the cracked, 
red brick wall. The wall was bare and 
forlorn. Here and there a brick was 
missing from its mottled, discolored sur- 
face. We opened the doors and stepped 
to the street. I picked up the racks and 
the sax case. Doc fumbled in the seat 
for his trumpet and mutes. He reached 
to the dash board and snapped ofif the 
lights. The outraged wall receded into 
its modestl}' veiling murkiness as I took 
my foot from the running board and 
turned from the car. My vision was 
hemmed in. Up went my eyes, seeking 
the open, and there, far up, a star 
sputtered softly over the dull black out- 
line of the county court house. The 
square was small, and the court house 
towered over it like some monstrous, 
black tombstone. Black down the street. 
Black up above. Black almost every- 
where, except at the poorly lighted con- 
fectionery. The confectionery was across 
the square, but, even so, I could sense the 
dusty cigarette advertisement in the 
window, and the flies crawling up the 
pane. There was a cobweb over the 
whole square. 

Doc moved oft, rattling the mutes 
against the trumpet case, and T jerked 



my eyes from the square and followed 
him. The bumpy side street was bor- 
dered by the town movie palace. It was 
old and miserably small. The white ticket 
office elbowed the posters and took up 
what little room there was in the en- 
trance. The front was cut like a big 
horse shoe, and the cracked dinginess of 
the discolored whiteness was lighted by 
hundreds of electric lamps. Here was 
the sparkle, the dash of the town. Poor 
sparkle, poor dash, it hardly made itself 
visible down the stolid street. The light 
was pressed in, driven back by the heavy, 
oppressive air of the court house block. 

I followed up the dry-smelling wood 
staircase to the stunted landing, above 
which shone an unshaded light. We 
stepped into the hall and accustomed our- 
selves to the lights. Doc went over to 
the man who seemed to be the leader of 
the band and introduced himself. We 
climbed onto the platform and started to 
.set up our horns and racks. The plat- 
form was a crowded little place, pu.shed 
up to one end of the hall. There was 
scarcely room for the drummer and his 
gaudy traps. 

The leader sat at the piano. He was 
an oldish looking man in a clean white 
shirt and a straight little bow tie. His 



— 23 — 



/^^ 



nose was his distinguishing feature. It 
hung out in the breathless air Hke an idly 
flapping sail. It was not only long, it 
was wide. The leader was talkative and 
optimistic, but he had one great fault. 
He thought that everyone knew the same 
tunes that he knew ; consequently he had 
brought no music. I trembled in my 
boots. A little confidence came back 
when I looked at the calm visage of the 
banjo player. He was a bright-eyed, 
eager fellow who was crippled in one leg. 
My rack was jammed in close to him, 
and he hardly had room for the neck of 
his banjo. He busily tightened the strings 
and plunked away at meaningless chords. 
After we were more than ready, the 
gentleman at the piano looked wearily 
over the empty dance hall and pulled out 
his watch. 

"Guess we might as well start. It's 
past nine o'clock," he said sadly. 'TIow 
about 'Sand'?" 

Everyone agreed on the tune, and the 
leader hurriedly beat his foot against the 
floor, as if he wanted to get the thing 
over in a hurry. The drummer 
humped away, the banjo banged, and the 
piano rattled merrily. Doc screwed up 
his lips and blasted through his trumpet. 
I was completely lost : "Sand" must have 
been popularized some time before my 
birth. After the first chorus I located the 
key and began howling true to form. At 
times I had a little mechanical difficulty 
with the instrument, to say nothing of 
my musical troubles. I warmed up my 
clarinet and lost myself in a jumble of 
blue notes. 

These notes combined blueness with 
loudness. Our weird lamentations must 
have drifted out the open windows to the 
streets below. A few timid souls began 
to tinkle their silver on the table and to 
walk to the seats in a slightly bewildered 
wav. At first the crowd did not look 



promising. After playing to an empty 
dance floor for the length of three tunes, 
we finally had the honor of playing while 
two of the local 3^oung ladies went 
through a few refined and reserved con- 
vulsions together. The males were the 
more timid of the species. They lacked 
the confidence necessary to make them 
loose their hold upon their money. The 
few that wandered in during the first 
part of the dance were sketchy specimens 
of the agricultural youth of the neighbor- 
hood. Their trousers were baggy, and 
their faces were blotchy and red. For 
some reason or other I was not attracted 
l)y the men of the party. 

The girls were different. They were 
young. They were amused. They were 
amusing. Their dresses were certainly 
not Paris models, but the colors were 
pleasing and the dresses were worn with 
an air. The girls had rosy cheeks. They 
were different from the liedraggled fash- 
ion patterns I was used to. The girls in 
the dance hall were excited, alive, and 
happy, and their untrained facial mu.scles 
failed to conceal their emotions. Some 
came in with men. The seats filled up, 
and the sound of shuffling feet became 
audible above the thumping drums. 
Things were looking up when the drum- 
mer beat a tattoo and cracked his stick 
against the cymbal. 

Someone bawled out, "Intermission," 
and we put down our horns. In a mo- 
ment the floor was clear, and the dancers 
liad gathered in the dark corners. I got 
up, stretched my legs, and moved down 
the hall toward the fire escape doors. 
The air that floated in through the doors 
was cool, and I stepped out onto the first 
iron step. There was an arc light hang- 
ing from a tall pole, and the alley was 
lighted up in pale concentric circles. Just 
across the alley was an ivy-covered 
church. An owl broke the silence with 



— 24 — 



a whining cry. The town seemed de- 
serted and mysterious. No cars chugged 
up the street ; no couples strolled past the 
arc-lighted circles. The houses were 
dark, and tlie quiet was like the quiet of 
an isolated part of a basement. 1 could 
have gone to sleep with pleasure, but 1 
could not neglect the trumpet call of 
duty! 

Back at the platform Doc pulled me 
aside and struck up an animated conver- 
sation. 

"Did you see that babe in blue ? She's 
plenty nice. Don't you think so?" he 
asked anxiously. 

"Why, sure, she's O.K.," I said. "A 
little er — vital. She looks like she's been 
around quite a bit." 

"Boy! I think she's plenty nice! 
Here's the fellow she came with. She 
can't shake him until after the dance. 
lUit listen ! She says she'll meet me at 
her house after he takes her home." 

"But say! Won't I sort of be in the 
way? You'd better drop me off at your 
house." 

"No! You're coming too. You can 
drive for me. I'm going to be busy. 
Come on. Let's get hot here. It won't 
be long now !" 

We picked up our horns and started 
tooting again. The crowd was better. 
The music got worse. I slumped in my 
chair and moaned into the sax. The heat 
and the darkness started to go around 
and around. Faces floated past and 



thrust themselves into the glow of the 
lights that were hooked over our inusic 
racks. In the midst of a chorus I sat up 
and noticed a new girl. She was nice, or 
at least 1 thought so. My fingers lost 
themselves, and sour notes poured out of 
the bell of the horn. I caught myself and 
slumped lower in my chair. My body 
rose and fell with the music. I winked 
at the girl in my most devilish manner. 
The trumpet blared, and the girl's part- 
ner whisked her away in a queer and 
sensuous step. I picked up the clarinet, 
and its vulgar shriekings filled the crazy 
hall until the dance ended. 

Doc implored me to hurry. We tossed 
our horns into our cases and tried to col- 
lect our wages. Something was wrong. 
The leader whined about the crowd. He 
paid us almost half of what we had been 
promised. I paused to object, but Doc 
luistled me down the creaking stairs. We 
slammed our cases into the back seat and 
tore down the street as fast as the Buick 
would go. We jerked around a corner. 
We missed our street. A stop sign ran 
dizzily by us in the opposite direction. 
One more corner to turn and we would 
be at her house ! The tires complained 
in shrill voices as we battered around the 
corner. At last! What the — ? The 
liuilding was a one-story frame structure. 
Across the entire front stretched a sign 
— Stevens Funeral Home. 

We went home to bed. 



■25- 



1%'/ 



"Time Will Teir 



John DeWolfe 
Theme IS, Rheloric II, 1931-32 



THE DULL boom of falling earth and 
the sharp snapping of mighty sup- 
ports echoed and re-echoed in the ears of 
the five unfortunate miners. The black 
silence was painful, as the five men stood 
awed by nature's angry gesture. Flana- 
gan, the gas inspector, had been on his 
daily rounds, and had just paused to talk 
to the men before he went above. The 
falling earth had begun near the lift and 
crept back almost to the end of the level. 
The inspector noticed for the first time 
that all eyes were upon him. 

"What's the chances?" asked Johnston. 

A tremor seemed to break into the 
blond giant's voice. Once before he had 
experienced such a disaster, and had 
lived. 

Slowl}' Flanagan raised his safety lamp 
toward the roof of their prison. Every 
eye followed the telltale lamp upwards. 
Halfway to the ceiling it broke into a 
flame. 

"Three hours," Flanagan said slowly. 

"You guys all sit down," ordered 
Johnston. "This ain't goin' to be a 
picnic. You can douse the glim, too." 

Flanagan sat down heavily. Gee ! 
to-morrow would be pay day. He had 
always meant to quit the mining business, 
but somehow he could never bring him- 
self around to it. 

"What did you say?" asked the Irish 
inspector. 

"The time?" croaked Scala. 

"Ten to three." 

Scala was a good man, thought Flana- 
gan, in line for promotion, too. The 
accident would be a setback. There was 
a sob over in the corner. For the first 



time he noticed the two Smith boys. The 
younger one was afraid. Of what, 
Flanagan wondered. 

"Brace up, kid," said the older brother. 

After another sob, the kid sniffled and 
then grew quiet. Again all was still. 

"Maybe a prayer would help?" queried 
Johnston. 

"We all know the Lord's prayer," 
Flanagan heard himself say. 

Solemnly they repeated it. Scala kept 
praying — first in Italian, then in English, 
and then he jabbered in both. Flanagan 
wished that the Italian would shut up. 
That was a good preacher they had 
listened to last Sunday. The windows in 
the church were an odd color. He hoped 
liis kids wouldn't be miners. Minnie, his 
wife, would see to that. 

"What's the time, Irish ?" 

"Three-thirty." 

"God ! time drags," said the elder 
Smith. 

"Shut up," snapped Johnston. "We 
gotta save air." 

The long silence continued with only 
the monotonous ticking of Flanagan's 
watch to break it. Each indulged in his 
own thoughts. Death hovered above 
them. The Smith kid was weakening 
under the strain. His sobs were growing 
louder. 

"Listen!" 

"You can hear 'em digging." 

"Thank God !" 

Laughter and light-heartedness sprang 
into flame and lighted the little dungeon. 
Time passed. All was quiet again. No 
one said much — just sat and thought. 

Flanagan felt his shirt. It was wet. 



-26- 



/ D •) 



llreathing was getting a little more ililTi- 
cult, now. He thought of the paid vaca- 
tion he had had last summer. He re- 
membered their picnic in the country. 
The birds had sounded cheerful, and the 
grass was fresh. There wasn't any green 
grass in front of his little cottage. It 
was too near the factor}' district. The 
kids could take care of Ma. The house 
needed to be painted next spring. God, 
it was hot in here ! They never had an 
electric fan at home. Who was that 
coughing? The sweat was getting in his 
eyes. He licked his lip, and it tasted 
salty. 

"What time is it?" said the elder 
-Smith. 

"The time, damn you!" shouted Scala. 

"Here, take it !" Flanagan yelled and 
threw his watch against the wooden sup- 
port just over Scala's head. 

"Cut it out," growled Johnston. 

Their attention was turned to the 
Smith kid. He was beating his hands 
against the wall. 

"Let me out! Let — " 

A crunch of rocks against bones ended 
his pleas. 

"The next — " growled the Swede. 

They all knew what he meant. One 
by.one Flanagan thought of the men with 
whom he had been imprisoned. John- 
ston, the fighting Swede, was king of 
them all. He was never at a loss in any 
place. Scala's wife put him where he 
was. To-morrow he would have been a 



sorting foreman. Sorting foreman was 
a good job, but that wasn't the life for 
Scala. The kid had run away two years 
before, and he had returned at the time 
of his father's death. It was rumored 
that the .Smith boy was wanted by the 
police for a petty crime, but the company 
protected him because of his father. The 
elder Smith had wanted to be a lawyer 
before his father's death. His family 
had saved, and they were going to send 
him to school next fall. There was a 
man. Even Johnston respected and liked 
him. 

Flanagan now felt drowsy. His youth 
passed before him. Those rescuers had 
to work over time — poor suckers ! What 
if he died ! He wondered if his wife was 
at the mouth of the mine. He felt a 
hand in his — just the Swede trying to be 
of some help. The rocks were getting 
softer. Would those guys on the top 
ever get through ? What was that light ? 
The safety lamp ! He closed his eyes. 
Everjiihing was revolving in circles. 
Everything swayed slightly. He choked. 
Red, it reminded him of hell. Would he 
go to hell ? Oh, God — everything was 
black and silent. 

Later a ray of light broke through the 
w-alls. Noisy drills sang merrily. The 
opening grew larger. Finally there was 
room enough for a man to crawl through. 
The first one to go through went half 
way. He stopped. 

It was six-ten ! 




— 27- 



One of Our Finest 



J. H. SCHACHT 
Theme IS, Rhetoric II. 1931-32 



TT WAS the morning of May 8. The 
*■ patrolman lolled back in his tilted chair 
in the Thirty-third Street police station, 
and adjusted his feet on the rail at about 
the same level with his eyes. He spat in 
the direction of a brass cuspidor in the 
corner nearest him and, for the fifth or 
sixth time, turned to page two in The 
Daily Clarion, from which a replica of 
his own heavy-jawed, small-nosed visage 
stared back at him. Over the picture was 
the caption, "One of Our Finest," and 
underneath, a line of boldfaced type pro- 
claimed, "Patrolman John Sikyra, who is 
awarded $250 in The Daily Clarion's 
Police Hero Contest, for the deed of out- 
standing braver}' of the week." In a 
three-quarter column story at the side of 
the page was told how Sikyra had sur- 
prised, pursued, and killed two of a gang 
of notorious automobile thieves ; the 
neatness and dispatch of his performance 
was described in detail, and a good deal 
of favorable comment on the summary 
swiftness of his action was presented. 

Sikyra's pale blue eyes scanned the 
page and wandered away. His face 
broke into a smile. And then he 
gufifawed. For Sikyra had been almost 
ashamed to take the money. The shoot- 
ing had been so simple, he recalled ; the 
whole thing had been just too easy. 

The incident had occurred three days 
before, and the families of Michael Costa 
and Rudolph Pietro had just given 
their deceased twenty-year-old sons the 
best funerals their limited means could 
afford. Mother Costa and Mother Pietro 
were, at the moment John Sikyra spat at 
the cuspidor, sobbingly trying to console 



each other, and murmuring that Mike 
and Rudy had always been such good 
boys. Meanwhile old man Costa was 
gesticulating excitedly at old man Pietro, 
and every now and then he would break 
out with, "It's a murder, I tellya!" To 
which Costa would reply, "Sure, but ya 
can't do nuttin' widda p'leece." 

So the Costas and the Pietros were 
feeling upset the morning of May 8, 
though Patrolman John Sikyra was in 
high spirits. Mike Costa and Rudy 
Pietro weren't feeling anything ; they 
were six feet underground. 

On the afternoon of May 5, tlie youths 
were not underground. They were walk- 
ing along Arthur Avenue, outside the 
Ilruneo Press factories. They were on 
the east side of the street. On the west 
side they saw a Buick sedan. It was an 
attractive car, and if they turned it into 
the right people, they would probably get 
a hundred dollars apiece for it, the 
youths decided. They could use the 
money, too, because Marie and Rita 
Anastronova, the dancing sisters whom 
Mike and Rudy were taking to most of 
the roadhouses east of the city, had been 
complaining recently that the boys 
weren't showing them a good time an_y- 
more. Accordingly the youths crossed 
the street and tried to open the locked 
door with one of Mike's imposing collec- 
tion of skeleton keys. 

At this time Patrolman Sikyra was 
walking down the west side of Arthur, 
toward the Bruneo Press. He advanced 
to within thirty or forty feet of Mike and 
Rudy, just as Mike's last key was being 
vainly twisted in the door lock. The 



— 28 — 



/ V f 



young men crossed the street in search 
of a more effective means of entrance to 
the car, while Sikyra drew back in a 
gateway of the high fence which sur- 
rounds the Bruneo Press. He waited 
there about twenty minutes, and Alike 
and Rudy reappeared. Mike took out a 
crowbar from under his coat, inserted it 
in the crack between the door and body 
of the car, anci jerked. Patrohnan 
Sikyra saw his duty: he drew (lut his 
fortv-five caHber revolver, and with a 
ratlier pleased look in his pale blue eyes, 
as if he were enjoying himself, he walked 
toward the car and the youths. 

Thev saw him when he was about 
twenty feet away, and whirled to face 
him. Sikyra said gratingly, "All right, 
youse guys. Put 'em way up!" Piut 
young Costa swore and threw the crow- 
bar at the officer's head, while Rudy 
Pietro dashed down the street. Sikyra 
dodged the crowbar, and fired. His first 
bullet smashed the radiator cap on the 
Buick. His second went through Costa's 
neck, and Costa fell on the curb, and 
kicked a little, and was quiet. 

John Sikyra ran down the street after 
Pietro, firing while he was running, and 
not hitting anything in particular. The 
car bandit stumbled and almost fell once, 
so that Sikyra was only a few yards 
behind him when Rudy turned into what 
the officer knew was a blind alleyway. 
When Sikyra came around the corner, he 
saw Rudy Pietro back against a brick 
building, and if the youth had been con- 
templating any resistance, he obviously 
reconsidered when he looked into 
Sikyra's revolver. He was, indeed, sick 
with fear, and he flung himself on his 
knees and cried, "Don't shoot, mister ! 
Don't shoot me ! T gotta mudder, I 
gotta mudder !" 

Sikyra cursed him and pulled the 



trigger twice, but the hammer clicked on 
empty shells. Though the policeman was 
now unarmed, Pietro had no thought of 
fight or escape ; besides, a crowd was 
beginning to gather. While the erstwhile 
bandit crouched against a garbage can, 
Sikyra reloaded his gun with six shining 
new cartridges. After he was through 
with this operation, Sikyra stared at the 
youth for a moment, then grabbed him 
l)v the collar, and they started off down 
the street toward a call box. 

After walking a block or so, young 
Rudolph recovered from his paralyzing 
fear of sudden death, and began to 
reflect that the future did not look very 
bright for him, even alive and in good 
health. So he began to plead huskily: 
"Listen, mister, gimme a break, will ya? 
I ain't never done nuthin', mister. I ain't 
done nuthin. Gimme a break, chief. 
Gimme a break." 

Patrolman Sik3'ra said nothing, but 
looked at Pietro aslant with his pale eyes. 
Pietro said again, "Please, mister, I gotta 
mudder. Please gimme a break." 

"All right," said Sikyra. "All right, 
ril give 3'ou a break. When yuh come to 
this here next alley, bust loose and run 
down it. Run like hell !" 

"Gee, thanks, chief !" said Rudy. 

They came to the alley, on Arthur, 
between Twentieth and Twenty-first 
Streets. Pietro tore away and started to 
run. John Sikyra raised his gun and 
carefully fired point blank at the young 
man's rapidly receding back. Pietro 
shrieked and fell to his knees as Sikyra 
fired twice, more. The youth attempted 
to rise, but he found the feat difficult, as 
he was undergoing hemorrhages in both 
lungs. So he crumpled up in the alley, 
and choked and coughed while the patrol- 
man emptied his revolver for the second 
time that dav, and Rudy's blood colored 



•29 — 



the rags and newspapers in the alley a 
bright red that would soon turn to 
brown. 

Back again to May 8. "It's a murder," 
cried old Joe Costa; "Mike, he tella me 
'fore he die atta hospital." 

"Sure, but you gotta leave p'leece 
alone," said hollow-eyed Anton Pietro. 

"Mike always usta go to Sunday school. 
He was a gooda boy," wailed Mrs. Costa 
to Mrs. Pietro, who only cried quietly. 

"It was just too dam' easy," laughed 
Patrolman Sikyra to Patrolman Rafferty 



at the Thirty-third Street police station, 
to which Rafferty replied that Sikyra had 
always been a lucky stiff. 

"One of Our Finest," said The Daily 
Clarion, and The Daily Clarion was prob- 
ably right because, after all, it had the 
least prejudiced view of the matter, and 
besides, "The Clarion's news is facts, no 
more, no less," which, if you do not be- 
lieve, you can see in black and white 
under the paper's "flag" on the editorial 
page. 




-30- 



>3J^ 



T-HECKfEN 
CALDKON 



A Magazine of Freshman Writing 




March 
1933 

Vol.2 
No. 3 



CONTENTS 

ON AWAKENING 1 

Dick Caddick 
WITH SEAPLANE AND SLEDGE IN THE 

ARCTIC 2 

John H. Moore 
I'LL TAKE VANILLA 3 

Elbert L. Herron 
A CRITICAL EVALUATION OF MY FIRST 

SEMESTER 4 

Bernice Tanner 
DO AMERICANS THINK? 5 

Donald Melville 
THE HERO IN MODERN ADVERTISING . 6 

William F. Ekstrom 
MARS AND THE MARTIANS 9 

J. Robert Arndt 
PERCY GRAINGER U 

R. C. Hieronymus 
CRITICALLY SPEAKING 12 

Grace E. Curran 
POINT COUNTERPOINT 13 

Anne Brittin 
REFLECTIONS 14 

Stanley Gawin 
Thoughts on Reverie 16 

Homer Weir 

TWO INFLUENCES 17 

Mary Ann Price 

CRISIS 19 

Isabel Danley 
CATHERINE THE GREAT (FRESHMAN) . 20 

Margaret Reese 
THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER 21 

Henry McAdams 
HYMAN 22 

Myron Swee 
AN INAPPROPRIATE SPEED RECORD . . 23 

James L. Rainey 
IS IT BLOOD POISON? 24 

C. R. Gairing 
•■PATIENCE. FATHER!" 25 

Mary Jane Kennicott 
BROAD-MINDED 26 

Bert Griesel 
AND. HE HAS A NAME 27 

Richard Staggs 
RODERICK AND THE COCKROACH ... 28 

John H. Schacht 



PUBUSHED BY THE RHETORIC STAFF. UMVERSITY OF ILLINOIS, URBANA 



On Awakening 



Dick Caddick 
Theme 17, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



IT IS early morning. The inky dark- 
ness literally streams through the win- 
dows leaving a swath of blackness which 
quickly melts into the quiet corners. The 
entire atmosphere is forbidding, as if 
it were a time set apart for the dead who 
resent any interference upon their soli- 
tude. Theirs is a sacred isolation. 

I am asleep. I am floating through a 
void with no feeling whatever. I can- 
not move or change my thought, but am 
chained with invisible bonds which im- 
part a sense of security to my flight. 
Vaguely I hear a sound which seems to 
come from a shiny, round bell far in the 
distance. It grows larger and larger, 
making a thunder in my ears. The bell 
pushes the surrounding blackness into 
the corners and out of the windows. It 
is destroying something holy. Dimly I 
realize that I must demolish it. I try to 



raise my hand to cover it. My hand is 
miles from my body, and as a message 
travels down my arm, it trembles just 
a little. I am fascinated by its hesitancy 
as it slowly extends long fingers and 
reaches out and engulfs the bell which 
subsides with startling suddenness. The 
shadows rush in again, falling over one 
another and piling up like thick clouds. 
I feel as if they will smother me, and I 
try to fight off a longing to sink back, 
and give in. Rather hopelessly I push 
them away in large masses that squeeze 
through my fingers. I redouble my ef- 
forts and suddenly push myself througli 
into the clear. I am awake. 

I sit up in bed trying to remember why 
I must get up so early. Then I contem- 
plate my alarm clock with a wry glance. 
Once more we have had our battle. 




[1] 



With Seaplane and Sledge in the Arctic 



John H. Moore 
Theme 19, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



HARD HEELS clicked on the checker- 
board floor of the Hbrary. The chcks 
were not those of heels to my ears; they 
were the sound of choppy green waves 
breaking against the sturdy ice-scarred 
bow of the Polar Bjord. The rows of 
book shelves in the browsing-room were 
magically transformed into glacier-cov- 
ered shores. The hurrying students dis- 
appeared, and in their places bobbing 
seals and walruses sprang into being. As 
I sat in an easy chair, I was gradually 
surrounded with ice, snow, and slush ; 
even the solid floor soon became a mass 
of tiny rivulets. 

Never before had I become as en- 
grossed in a book as I was in With Sea- 
plane and Sledge in the Arctic. My im- 
agination has often got the better of me 
until I find myself merely reading words, 
but this book did not play upon my imag- 
ination so that I drifted ofT on a tangent ; 
instead, it made me feel with the men 
concerned. When they broke through the 
treacherous ice, I was as chilled as they. 



When the sledge was mired in the slush, 
I strained with both man and dog until 
finally solid footing was reached. 

The motor of the seaplane failed. Fog 
and great ground swells made life an 
uncertainty, while chilling winds and cur- 
rents carried the frail plane farther out 
to sea. Their fourteen hours adrift were 
no more nerve-racking than the long sec- 
onds that I was with them. My finger 
nails grew shorter and shorter, and when 
help finally arrived, I am afraid that I 
may have done a dance right there in the 
quiet browsing-room. 

Too soon I turned the last page, and 
after I had laid the book down, I slowly 
became conscious that no one was 
around. It was eight-thirty, and I had 
not even noticed the growls issuing from 
the pit of my stomach. On my way 
home, my feet dragged as though they 
were held back by the heavy slush, and 
when I crawled into the top deck of my 
swaying bed, even the clean sheets were 
covered with snow and ice. 




[2] 



ni Take Vanilla 



Elbert L. Herron 
Theme 13, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



MISS BLACK was completely side- 
tracked onto one of her philosophi- 
cal discussions which her students know 
so well and which those who forget to 
prepare their lessons like so much. "And 
furthermore," she raved, "no person can 
consider himself educated, can say that 
he has gained all that the University has 
to offer, unless he has gone through the 
museum at least once." 

The occupant of seat five, row one, 
voiced an opinion. "In that instance," 
he suggested, "don't you think that the 
student should also consider his educa- 
tion incomplete if he has not seen the 
Materials Testing Laboratory?" 

Aliss Black scowled. "Mr. Herron," 
she said in one of those disageeable mon- 
otones which give the same emphasis to 
every word, "We are not trying to be 
funny." 



A freshman who had been waiting in 
the outer office of a professor in the 
College of Sciences for more than fifteen 
minutes picked up one of his books and 
began to read. Less than five minutes 
later, the professor arrived and peered 
over the boy's shoulder. "What book 
are you reading?" he asked. The fresh- 
man was evidently pleased by the pro- 
fessor's attention, and he replied that 
the book was one of Scott's works. 

The teacher snapped out his disap- 
proval, "You don't belong in this Col- 
lege. You should be in the College of 
Liberal Arts with Mr. Herron here." 



One of the instructors in Russian 
seemed to be very much interested in the 
freshman lllini reporter who had just 
been placed on the language beat. As he 
started to leave her office the first day 
after their meeting, she remarked that he 
should be very careful about the course 
which he chose as a major. "I hope that 
you are not planning to enroll in the 
.School of Journalism," she added. The 
reporter admitted that he was preparing 
for entrance into the College of Journal- 
ism and laughingly asked if the instruc- 
tor would recommend Slavonic 
languages as a better major. "If you 
want culture, Mr. Herron," she said, "I 
can think of no better subject than 
Slavic. You will certainly get little cul- 
ture from the College of Journalism." 



I have never had it more thoroughly 
impressed upon my mind than at the 
present time that education can lead to 
one of the worst forms of ignorance — 
narrow-mindedness. I place education in 
italics because I am not convinced that 
this kind of learning is education. 

A supposedly learned author recently 
remarked that any man who cannot write 
one hundred sonnets in one week is men- 
tally lacking. What would be this same 
author's reaction to the statement of a 
watch-maker that any man is half crazy 
who can not make one hundred watches 
in one hundred days? The question seems 
too foolish to deserve an answer ; yet just 
what is the difference between these two 
instances? Both men are saying "I am 



[3] 



the perfect man. Anyone who thinks or 
does different things from those that I 
think or do is not educated." 

For many years the Barton Institute of 
Engineering has led the field of "conser- 
vative" engineering education. Its board 
of administration has laughed at sugges- 
tions that it recognize the place of liter- 
ary subjects in its curriculum. Recently 
it was surprised by the result of a poll 
taken among the outstanding engineering 
corporations of the country. It had asked 
the question, "Which do you prefer, a 
student who has specialized in engineer- 
ing (specialized to be taken as meaning 
absolute specialization), or one who has 
taken engineering subjects, philosophy, 
English, and the classics?" Without ex- 
ception the companies answered that, 
other things being equal, they would take 
the student who had not been so narrow- 
minded as to ignore other subjects. As a 
result, Barton Institute has announced 
that it will make drastic changes in its 
curriculum. 

Specialization in education is unavoid- 
able. The knowledge obtainable concern- 
ing the universe is entirely too vast for 
one or one million people to be able to 
absorb all of it. Nevertheless, every per- 



son should be conscious of the existence 
of this vast amount of learning and 
should respect all fields of it. When a 
scholar becomes so absorbed in one par- 
ticular line of study that he fails to be 
conscious of the existence of other learn- 
ing, then he has reverted to ignorance. 

A professor can do more harm in this 
University by holding the belief that he 
is teaching the only subject in the Uni- 
versity than he can ever hope to counter- 
act by enthusiasm for his course. He will 
not only fail to instill this enthusiasm 
into his students, in nine cases out of ten, 
but he will also give them a certain sort 
of contempt for all his ideas. 

I am willing to let these "learned" men 
keep up their specialization and their 
egotistical feeling of superiority. I do not 
hold them in contempt ; I merely think 
that they are amusing. But if Supreme 
Authority finally decides that such 
specialized and narrow learning is the 
finest and most delicately flavored type 
of education (thus contradicting both 
the cultural policies of the Platos and the 
practical learning of our fathers), and I 
am asked what flavor I desire, I'll answer 
with the time-worn words, "I'll take 
vanilla." 



A Critical Evaluation of My First Semester 



Bernice Tanner 
Theme 15, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



I WAS tremendously happy when my 
parents consented to let me come to 
college. At that time, a college education 
and all its trimmings seemed essential for 
an intelligent, adult viewpoint on life. I 
came eagerly to the University of Illi- 



nois, expecting to meet the most interest- 
ing people and to learn the most fascina- 
ting new things. I was eager to become 
popular and intellectual. 

A semester of college life, thoroughly- 
different from my own conception of 



[4] 



what it would be like, has rather disillu- 
sioned me. There are so many students, 
yet I know only a few ; there is such a 
large amount of knowledge within my 
reach, yet I have learned little. I have 
become merely another student, an indi- 
vidual without any individuality, going 
to classes day after da}', feeling myself 
but another cog in a huge machine ; yet 
realizing that if I were to leave college 
not the slightest notice would be taken of 
my absence, nor would the wheels pause 
for a moment in their daily revolutions. 
A rather petty thought, this last, yet dis- 
turbing to a budding egotist like myself. 
I have learned some things, however, 
and the little knowledge I have acquired 
fills me with a desire to learn more. I 
have come into contact with some very 
interesting people and their compara- 
tively rich, vivid personalities have some- 
how been woven into the threadbare rug 
of my own mental being. I have dis- 



covered that some of the students are 
snobs, that some of the professors are 
dull ; but there are students who are 
liberal-minded, sympathetic, and kind, 
and there are instructors who make the 
daily dole of learning refreshing rather 
than depressing. 

I have learned some hard facts in my 
first semester at college — from cruel ex- 
periences which one faces and never con- 
fesses to anyone. However, when I feel 
discouraged and ready to quit, I think of 
the all but unbelievable dullness of small- 
town life, of the slow succession of day 
following day, each weighted with a dis- 
mal monotony ; I know too the well- 
meaning vulgarity, the shabby dreariness 
of Main Street. 

Knowing this, I cannot fail to view my 
second semester with a boundless hope — 
a breathless confidence, in short, that a 
new and brightly glowing vista lies just 
ahead. 



Do Americans Think? 



Donald Melville 
Theme 12, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



A MERICA is now in many respects 
■'^■the foremost country in the world. 
Her three thousand miles of mountains, 
plains, and deserts, stretching between 
the mighty Atlantic and Pacific oceans, 
contain the greatest natural resources 
and the most wonderful works of man to 
be found on earth. Inventions are turned 
out each day by the score. American 
products are marketed throughout the 
world. To ask if all this has been done 
without years of thought and careful 
preparation would be inane. 



It is true that the speedy progress that 
has been made since the first days of 
pioneer Americans and covered wagons 
and Indians is due to the initiative — the 
original thinking — of thousands of in- 
telligent Americans. The first pioneers 
were forced to think, and think quickly, 
in order to save their lives and the life of 
the country they worked and starved for. 
The fierce competition that is evident in 
modern business is also an incentive to 
quick thought. Thought is still essential 
for the preservation of the individual and 



[5] 



^/y 



the race. 

That is not the type of thinking, how- 
ever, about which I shall talk. It is clear 
that a man must think during his work- 
ing hours, but does he think con- 
structively in his periods of leisure? 

Unfortunately a large part (I shall not 
say a majority) of this nation of enter- 
prising individuals positively shun all re- 
creation which might call for creative 
thinking. That they avoid such recrea- 
tion is probably the result of several 
forces. We all have, no doubt, a heredi- 
tary laziness which has been common to 
the human race since Adam. Anything 
which causes unnecessary exertion is to 
be banned. And because our minds have 
become rusty through years of disuse, 
any attempt at recreative thinking is cer- 
tain to require an excess of mental 
energy. It is not difficult in this present 
age to abstain from such thinking. There 
are many pleasant things to do that re- 
quire none or almost none of our brain- 
power. That is why they are pleasant. 



On an evening when there are no friends 
to interrupt, shall we sit in our favorite 
chair and reflect on some intellectual 
problem? Of course not! We have no 
time for such laziness. There is a good 
"movie"' to see, the radio to listen to, or 
a thrilling adventure book to read. Any 
or all of these things may be sufficient 
food for serious thought, but how many 
of us stop to analyze the "movie" we see, 
or the radio talk we listen to or the book 
we read ? Not very many, I venture to 
say. But, unless we do this, we are losing 
the best part of the mental entertainment. 
To be able to think problems through 
for oneself brings a satisfaction that can 
be gained from nothing else. All great 
minds have been minds that thought for 
themselves. To sit before a fire in a com- 
fortable chair and lose oneself in the 
intricacies of some problem is a pleasure 
known to few. But if one goes through 
life without ever gaining this enviable 
power, one loses half the value of life 
itself. 



The Hero in Modern Advertising 



William F. Ekstrom 
Theme 7, Rhetoric II, 1931-32 



WILL YOU please sign on the dot- 
ted line?" This was the question 
which confronted Captain Manning as he 
stepped ashore for the first time after the 
Florida disaster. The next day, news- 
newspapers and billboards throughout 
the countr}' proclaimed in large letters: 
"Captain Manning smokes Luckies! 
They're toasted! Crew of America gain 
necessary strength and self-control in 



emergenc}' to rescue perishing victims! 
Luck Strikes! Soothes the nerves!" It 
all sounded very beautiful until it was 
discovered that Captain Manning didn't 
smoke. 

The incident brings to our attention, 
nevertheless, an interesting phase of 
modern advertising. The A m e r i c a g 
people are great hero-worshippers. Not 
so long ago, schools, banks, and postal 



[6] 



stations were closed and legislative as- 
semblies adjourned throughout the nation 
to commemorate the bicentennial anni- 
versary of George Washington's birth. 
We have erected shrines, memorials, and 
monuments to our deceased heroes. In 
every city there is a Washington Street 
or a Lincoln Avenue. What state does not 
have a Franklin or a Jefferson County? 
These are merely indications of our un- 
dying devotion to those who have played 
important parts in our national develop- 
ment. Among the living, however, it is 
not those who are weighed down by the 
problems of state, or those who seek the 
welfare of their contemporary fellow- 
mortals in scientific research, who receive 
public acclaim. It is rather the spectac- 
ular man who can hit a home run over 
the gate in Comiskey Park or who can 
repose for a month upon the top of a 
flagpole, who is rewarded with popular 
applause. Until recently one might have 
added the girl who danced with the 
Prince of Wales. 

The interesting phase of this hero- 
worship is the general desire for emula- 
tion. If Babe Ruth plaj-ed croquet in his 
back yard at night, it would be necessary 
for hundreds of American boys to do the 
same, or if Mary Pickford ate only two 
meals a day, it would behoove a large 
percentage of the more delicate sex to do 
likewise. No wonder advertising finds an 
excellent opportunity to commercialize 
this great American characteristic. There 
is, however, a reasonable basis for this 
desire to emulate our heroes. In the first 
place, native genius is not always re- 
garded as the important factor in deter- 
mining leadership. Many people consider 
it the result of external influences, such 
as the development of habits and person- 
al application. The step from this point 
to the use of certain products in develop- 
ing strength and energy' is a very natural 



one. Modern advertisers have made the 

most of it. Many do not believe, of 
course, that the commodities really are 
great contributing factors in making the 
individual, but they have a great deal of 
confidence in the judgment and discern- 
ment of a popular hero, and, conse- 
quently, are easily led to believe that any 
product endorsed by him must be an ex- 
cellent one. 

The attractive part of it to the adver- 
tisers is that the testimonials are not very 
difficult to obtain. Many of the so-called 
heroes are eager to give their services, as 
they consider an endorsement as free 
publicity and a very good source of in- 
come. Others are more difficult to per- 
suade, but they can usually be brought to 
terms by the jingle of shekels or insid- 
ious threats of boycotted reputations. 
Whatever means the modern advertiser 
may use, he seems to have no trouble in 
obtaining a host of endorsers from 
almost any station in life. Thus we are 
enabled to see Muriel Vanderbilt in all 
the glorious luxury of her private bed- 
room, and, of course, we take special 
notice that the most conspicuous of her 
furnishings is a Simmons bed, without 
which no well- furnished society bed- 
chamber would be complete. The adver- 
tiser has his troubles, however, when 
there is not full cooperation all around. 
Thus, one can imagine that when Alice 
Roosevelt Longworth publicly announced 
the price she had received for endorsing 
Ponds, there must have been considerable 
resentment on the part of Mrs. Marshall 
Field, Queen Marie of Roumania, Lady' 
Asquith, and Mrs. William Borah, who 
were probably landed for less money. 

The testimonial type of advertising has 
become very widespread, therefore, but it 
has also become dangerously exaggerated 
and far-fetched. In many cases the en- 
dorsements are undoubtedly honest, but 



[7] 



the language of the advertiser is obvious- 
ly exaggerated to arrest public attention. 
It might have been perfectly possible that 
the crew of the America smoked Luckies, 
but to attribute the great strength and 
endurance of the rescuers to the energiz- 
ing effects of the cigarette is quite evi- 
dently an overstatement of facts. Movie 
stars may possibly use some of the 
articles, to the excellence of which they 
testify, but whether their success upon 
the screen is attributable to them is 
another question. Nevertheless, our mod- 
ern advertisements blaze forth their 
stories of success wrapped up, as they 
are, in a little bar of Lux soap or a bottle 
of Listerine. 

For a screen heroine to endorse a 
beauty cream seems perfectly permis- 
sible, but too often testimonials are en- 
tirely out of the endorsers' fields. It 
would be interesting indeed to notice the 
sort of life led by many of these people 
in the public eye. For instance, it has 
been ascertained that Constance Tal- 
madge chews Dentyne gum to preserve 
her teeth ; takes RIarmola Tablets to im- 
prove her figure ; uses a Sure-Fire Thor- 
en Lighter to light her cigarettes ; wears 
a Juliet engagement ring ; rides in a car 
equipped with Air-Container inner tubes ; 
goes to bed wearing a Benrus wrist- 
watch ; and is awakened with an Ansonia 
alarm clock. Thus the public is given a 
supposedly accurate picture of the life of 
a Hollywood star. Imagine Miss Tal- 
madge being startled from her repose 
each morning by the harsh strains of an 
alarm clock! We can appreciate the en- 
dorsement of Fleischmann's j'east by a 
Berlin medical authority regardless of 
whether we know him to be an authority 
or not, but it is more difficult to under- 
stand the connection between an actress 
and a set of inner tubes. 

Occasionallv the testimonial writer 



himself publicly disclaims any real en- 
thusiasm for the article endorsed. Mrs. 
Longworth, for instance, practically ad- 
mitted that such was her case when she 
disclosed her commercial transaction 
with Ponds. Captain Manning did not 
come out directly with a statement, but 
it was learned from reliable sources that 
he was a non-smoker. Thus, we have 
three aspects of testimonial advertising 
which have materially weakened its ap- 
peal in the public mind: exaggeration of 
facts, the absence of any real connection 
between the commodity and the endorser, 
and actual denials of any familiarity with 
the article endorsed. 

As a result of this weakening of public 
confidence, modern advertising faces a 
severe test of public approval. Hero- 
worshippers are becoming suspicious of 
their heroes. When one of the elite at- 
tributes his success in blazing words to a 
certain cigar, the hoi polloi smile, and 
skeptically comment on the "rake-ofY" he 
received for the endorsement. The im- 
portant thing, however, is not whether or 
not the testimonial type of advertising 
has ceased to be effective. Shrewd busi- 
ness men would soon perceive that. What 
is more vital is whether the attitude of 
the public toward advertising as a whole 
has not been affected by wholesale de- 
ception. If the advertiser purposely 
allows the consumer to be led astray in 
one type of advertising, will he not also 
do the same thing in another? Certainly 
the public is justified in asking such a 
question, especially since there are other 
appeals in advertising which also make 
gross misrepresentations. Modern adver- 
tising claims for its purpose that it edu- 
cates the public. Since it is the consum- 
ing public that eventually pay for it, they 
have a right to demand an honest educa- 
tion. What they get is merely a sham in 
the form of a battle set up by the diaboli- 



[8] 



cal cleverness of modern advertising 
agents. The successful advertiser must 
meet the test of public confidence. Only 
by purging itself of exaggerations and 
misrepresentations can modern advertis- 



ing hope to survive. The endorser should 
have an honest relationship with the com- 
modity which he endorses, and his testi- 
monials should be kept within the limits 
of reasonable probability. 



BiHl.IOGUAPHY' 

Christian Century 47:165 February S, 1930. 
American Mercury 17:444-451 August, 1929. 
Business li'eek p. 8 February 5, 1930. 
Magazine of Husiiiess 55:537-538 May, 1929. 
Nation 128:364 March 27, 1929. 
Outlook 151:583-584 April 10, 1929. 
Outlook 157:398-399; 434-436; and 466-467. 



Mars and the Martians 



J. Robert Arndt 

Theme 13, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



THE MARTIAN problem is one that 
has puzzled some of the best minds 
ever since the Italian astronomer, Schia- 
parelli, observed the markings on Mars 
which he termed "canali." The brilliant 
Professor Lowell devoted a lifetime to 
the study of the fantastic markings, and, 
coming to the conclusion that they were 
canals, he advanced many ingenious 
proofs of their existence. Most of the 
astronomers of today are agreed that 
there are such canals, but they do not 
pretend to know how or why they were 
constructed. Science, however, is unani- 
mous on the point that they do exist, and 
if they drain the water from the polar 
regions, as Lowell insisted that they do, 
then the Martians have solved the prob- 
lem of making water flow uphill. 

This leads to a thought of interest to 
most people — if the Martians are such 
marvelous engineers, why do they not 
signal, and why have they not attempted 



to visit the earth by means of space 
flyers ? 

In the first place, it is assumed that 
the planet is or was inhabited by super- 
intelligent beings. This seems logical 
since Mars, on account of its smaller size, 
must have cooled many years before the 
earth and given rise to life sooner. But 
it is unknown whether Mars is peopled 
today. If, indeed, the Martians were 
supermen, as no doubt they were, it is not 
impossible that the Martian canals are 
still functioning and will perform for 
years to come, all without any existing 
Martians. In other words, their machin- 
ery, set up millions of years ago, might 
still be working. A race of supermen 
would encounter no difficulty in having 
their work done by robots and leaving 
this stupendous monument of their work 
behind them. 

Secondly, the Martians may still be 
there. They may be a blind race, and have 



[9] 



no interest in other worlds. On the earth, 
there are the super-intelligent termites, 
totally blind, who can get along exceed- 
ingly well in spite of their handicap. 
Indeed, they have very nearly succeeded 
in overrunning certain parts of this 
world. 

Thirdly, the Martians, high in their 
civilization, millions of years ahead of us, 
may have long since studied the earth 
and its inhabitants and come to the con- 
clusion that nothing could be gained by 
visiting this world, let alone settling upon 
it. The intelligent Martians may be 
afraid, for one thing, to land upon this 
planet, because they would surely fall 
prey to the earth's destructive diseases, 
which they could not hope to conquer. 
Since they have an ample supply of land 
and have adapted themselves to their en- 
vironment, the earth probably means 
nothing to them. For one thing, the earth 
being larger than Mars, has a greater 
gravity pull and would prove destructive 



to them. A Martian weighing one hun- 
dred and fift}' pounds on his planet 
would weigh four hundred and fiity on 
this world. He could not possibly ac- 
commodate himself to his excessive 
weight, nor would he be able to breathe 
the earth's viscous atmosphere, without 
suffocating in a short time. For millions 
of years, the Martian has existed in a 
very thin atmosphere with a pressure of 
two and a half pounds per square inch — 
a pressure less dense than Saturn's, 
Neptune's, or Jupiter's. If a normal 
human being were transported to Mars, 
he would have to breathe the thin air and 
become accustomed to the higher gravi- 
tational pull. After he did so he could 
run many miles without fatigue, and 
jump many feet in the air without ap- 
parent effort. 

Such a planet would indeed be an in- 
teresting place to visit, but for a while, 
I'll stay upon terra firma. 



BlBLlOCRAPHY 

Randolph, J. R.; "Can We Go to Mars? Goil- 
dard's Rocket," Scientific American, 140- 
142. August, 1928 

Meek, Capt. S. P. ; "Mars," Amusing Stories. 
October, 1928 




[10] 



Percy Grainger 



R. C. HiERONYMUS 

Theme 14, Rhetoric II, 1932-33 



THE SANTA FE Navajo pulled into 
a small town in western Iowa, the 
train doors were opened, and an at- 
tractive little lady, followed by her ath- 
letically built husband, stepped off on to 
the desolate platform. The train chugged 
away and the couple set out on foot for 
their little bungalow half a mile away. 
Presently the man, clad in overalls, and 
pushing a good sized wheelbarrow, re- 
turned to the station. On his unusual 
vehicle he piled as man}' of his trunks 
as he could, then transported them away, 
his wheelbarrow rumbling noisih' over 
the rough pavement, and his bushy 
brown hair waving in the breeze. 

Yes, after he had again and again 
thrilled European audiences, Percy 
Grainger, world famous pianist, had re- 
turned home. 

Known to thousands of concert-goers 
all over the world as a wonderful musi- 
cian, he exhibits, even for a composer, a 
most singular and wayward personality. 
He receives nearly as much money for 
his concert performances as any artist, 
but the way in which he spends it is en- 
tirely different. One day a friend asked 
him to explain why he so frequently rode 
all night in a day coach instead of a 
luxurious drawing room. He replied, 
"Well, if I had a concert the next night, 
I wouldn't do it, but the money I save 
makes two little orphans a whole lot 
happier." 

Two summers ago he arrived, un- 
known to a great many of us, at a music 



camp in northern Michigan. Dressed in 
a camper's khaki outfit, he entered the 
boys' clubhouse alone to play a while for 
his own pleasure and relaxation. He be- 
gan with scales and exercises, then start- 
ed on technical fireworks of various 
kinds. A little while later, a trombone 
player came out with the information 
that there was some backwoodsman over 
in the clubhouse who was playing the 
piano as he'd never heard it played 
before. 

The camp orchestra rehearsal was at 
nine in the morning; so the stage hands 
usually arrived on the scene about eight 
to see to the arranging of chairs and 
music. The first day of Mr. Grainger's 
stay in camp, they came over the top of 
the hill to see him hard at work shifting 
chairs and pianos, with the greater part 
of the job completed. Imagine a famous 
musician arising to prepare for any or- 
chestra practice ! 

His ensembles and arrangements are 
as highly individual as his personality ; 
for instance in one of his selections, 
fifteen pianos, which he himself helped 
move onto the stage, were used along 
with a whole galaxy of xylophones, cel- 
estes, vibra harps, chimes, bells, and 
gongs. Sunday afternoon, in addition to 
the orchestra's colorful rendering of his 
unique compositions and arrangements, 
Mr. Grainger, attired in white duck trous- 
ers and an army shirt, held the crowd of 
seven thousand spellbound with his won- 
derful piano playing. Once during the 



[11] 



?^^ 



concert, it being necessary for him to go 
from the conductor's rostrum to the solo 
piano, rather than walk around the whole 
row of instruments, he merely vaulted 
over one of them, greatly amusing the 
audience, and incidentally saving time. 

These performances impressed u s 
greatly, because the guest conductor the 
previous week had been a reserved 
American composer, who continually car- 
ried with him a sophisticated and lordly 
air, and who would rather have died than 
turn a hand to help anybody, or descend 
to the level of the rest of us. 



I understand that last winter Mr. 
Grainger appeared at a Chicago Sym- 
phony Orchestra rehearsal in a new dress 
suit and a highly polished pair of hiking 
boots ; and that just before a solo per- 
formance in Danville, Illinois, he learned 
that something was amiss with the piano ; 
so he procured from the janitor a ham- 
mer, and, in his tuxedo and before a 
packed house, crawled underneath the 
instrument, and presentl}' emerged with 
the damage repaired. 

What a temperament! 




Critically Speaking 

Grace E. Curran 
Theme 16. Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



NOT IN DEFENSE of the gangster 
move, but merely as a matter of 
arguing against a point which I believe 
false, I want to say that I don't at all 
agree with the first point discussed in 
Katherine Stiegemeyer's theme, 
"Children and the Gangster Movie." 
After reading the first few paragraphs, I 
decided that the author did not know 
small boys as I know them ; for from my 
own experience in playing with boys 



when I was small, I know that shooting 
and killing are as natural to them in their 
play, as dolls and "dress-up" are to little 
girls. 

Let me give as an example a famous 
radio star, a crooner. Todaj' Bing Crosby 
is the idol of a thousand infatuated 
women all over the country. How did he 
get his nick-name ? Why, when he was a 
little boy, he played with a toy gun and 
shouted "Bing!" at everyone who passed 



[12] 



him on the street. And that, Miss Stiege- 
meyer, was long before the time of the 
gangster movie. 

For the greater part of my life I have 
lived next door to a family of seven 
boys. I spent all my time playing with 
them, since there were no girls of my age 
in the neighborhood. Our favorite game 
was either "Robbers" or "War." Theirs 
was the kind of family which allows its 
children to do anything so long as they 
are having a good time. And since this 
was the period directly after the World 
War, my playmates dug a long deep 
trench in their back yard, and we spent 
every day of one summer playing in that 
trench. There wasn't one day during that 
time that I wasn't shot and mortally 
wounded a dozen or more times. If I 
didn't fall down dead just when they 
shot at me, I was in disgrace. One day 
they even dug a grave for me, and my 



mother caught them burying me alive. 
And, Miss Steigemeyer, there were no 
gangster movies in those days. 

Moreover, the older of these boys are 
now fine young men, two of whom hold 
responsible positions. The younger are 
either in college or in high school, and 
none of them shows any signs of being 
a nervous wreck. I myself am a rather 
healthy specimen for a girl who was 
raised on shooting and killing. 

These games are natural to all small 
boys. Doctors in those days tried to 
blame the war for the bloodthirstiness of 
youth. Now they are trying to blame the 
gangster movie. I don't know what they 
will find to blame next, but boys' games 
will go on essentially the same no matter 
what is to blame. A boy can't be happy 
unless he is being a man, and his idea of 
being a man is to handle a machine-gun 
or a revolver with dexterity. 



Point Counterpoint 



Anne Brittin 
Book Rcfort, Rhetoric II, 1932-33 



T DO NOT KNOW whether I under- 
^ stood the real idea of Point Counter- 
point, even after I read it two or three 
times. However, the theme of the book, 
I believe, is that modern civilization does 
not allow people to be human beings. 
Mediaeval Christianity started the prac- 
tice of looking upon the natural instincts 
of mankind as beastly, and it attempted 
to suppress them by mortifying the flesh. 
It regarded sex as an evil or, at the best, 
merely a shameful necessity to be tolera- 



ted by the Church as a means of bringing 
young Christians into the world. Of 
course, mediaeval Christianity has van- 
ished, but its attitude toward sex still re- 
mains the basis of the modern attitude. 
At first thought, such a statement seems 
to be silly, reviewed in the light of the 
prevalence of the modern sophisticate 
who has no moral standards at all. Such 
a type is represented in Point Counter- 
point in the characters of Lucy Tanta- 
mount and Spandrell. They, at any rate, 



[13] 



seem to be free of any of the repressions 
and inhibitions fostered by the Church. 
However, they too, like the ascetics and 
saints, regard sex as beastly and hate it. 
But while the Christian ascetics fled from 
life into monasteries or the desert, these 
young moderns show their hate by pro- 
miscuity and lasciviousness, and cultivate 
desires that have no natural existence. 

Not only is modern civilization unad- 
justed sexually, but it tends to renounce 
reality in favor of abstractions. Science 
and big business are helping the ghosts 
of the Christian ascetics to make man- 
kind as non-human as possible. The as- 
cetics wanted to repress the desires ; the 
scientists want to make life a thing of 
pure mentality ; the business men want to 
turn their workers into machines. I am 
not certain whether I agree with Huxley 
that science is a childish refuge from 
reality, while art is somehow vital and 
significant. Surely intellectual curiosity 
is as vital a mental trait as the love of 



beauty and, when rightly expressed, is as 
significant. He seems to think that we 
should give up scientific thought and 
philosophy in favor of Living (whatever 
he may mean by Living). Lord Edward 
Tantamount may have had a childish at- 
titude toward his wife, but still I do not 
see that he was fleeing from reality when 
he experimented on newts. What else 
would you have him do ? Find reality by 
painting plump, wooden- faced nymphs 
dancing coyly under bilious-looking 
trees ? 

The characters in this book are carica- 
tures, and most of them are pretty dis- 
agreeable. Practically all of them are like 
case-histories from Freud, and it is 
rather amusing to pick out what particu- 
lar complex each one has. 

There is certainly nothing to criticize 
in Huxley's style, for it is perfect. His 
descriptions of music are unlike any 
others I have ever read. 



Reflections 



Stanley Gavvin 
Theme 16, Rhetoric I, 1932-33 



FOR THE third time I had caught my- 
self mechanically rereading the same 
sentence. Somehow or other the page 
before me had gradually resolved itself 
into a meaningless jumble