lAfAWATil^l 



Vol.7 



OCTOBER, 1937 





TABLE OF CONTENTS 

ON BEING AN INDEPENDENT 1 

Anonymous 

LETTER TO A SORORITY WOMAN 3 

Anonymous 

WHY I CAME TO COLLEGE 4 

Ethel Donnelly 

RELAX AND RUN 5 

Robert Ingalls 

HANG UP THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW ... 6 
Allen Piatt 

FLIES IN A WEB 9 

Anne M. Worland 
THE SKETCH BOOK 10 

(Material written in Rhetoric I and II) 

WEDGWOOD CHINA 12 

Bernadine Pendergrast 

THE ZO LAB 15 

Dorothy Pilkington 

BEING INTELLIGENT ABOUT MOTION 

PICTURES 16 

William H. Hutchinson 

THAT DREAD DISEASE: HOMESICKNESS . . 17 
Frank Brown 

WISE GUY! 19 

William Faris 

HAS MY HOME TOWN CHANGED? 20 

Anonymous 

THE LAST FOOTBALL GAME 21 

David Murray 

WHAT'S IN A TITLE? 23 

MY TRAVELS 24 

Mary Alice Burgett 

ALONG THE TRAIL TO TIN CUP 25 

R. J. Leimbacher 

ON MADAME'S HAT AND OTHER ABSURDITIES 27 
Lorraine Groupe 

TROUT FISHING 29 

Kenneth Busch 

RHET. AS WRIT 32 

PUBLISHED BY THE RHETORIC STAFF, UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS, URBANA 



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

The committee in charge of this issue of the Green 
Caldron includes Dr. Robert Blair, Mr. Lee Hughes, 
Mr. C. W. Roberts, Mr. C. H. Shattuck, Dr. Caroline 
Washburn, and Dr. R. E. Haswell, chairman. 

The Green Caldron is for sale in the Information 
Office, Administration Building West, Urbana, Illinois. 
The price is fifteen cents a copy. 



6l» 



c 

I J 



On Being An Independent 

Anonymous 
Rhetoric I, Theme 18, 1936-1937 



"O EING an independent in a university 
*^ whose women students are divided 
into two factions, independent and soror- 
ity members, is somewhat of a problem. 
Among the independents who could af- 
ford to join a sorority some enjoy their 
status; others are frankly envious of 
their more favored sorority schoolmates. 
Whatever their feeling, the independent 
women cannot help recognizing the fact 
that there is a distinct difference between 
the lives of the members of the two 
groups. 

Entering the University as a fresh- 
man, a girl whose experiences illustrate 
this point attends rushing parties at sev- 
eral sororities. Although she has usually 
made friends easily enough before, she 
feels rather strange at these affairs. The 
forced animation and tenseness produced 
when rushees and rushers are each striv- 
ing to make a good impression upon the 
other seems to engulf her, and she senses 
that she is not being herself, but rather 
is presenting a caricature of her real per- 
sonality. Throughout rush week, this 
strange feeling persists, so that on the 
day when pledgings are announced she 
is not particularly surprised to find that 
she has not been pledged. No great 
heartbreak accompanies this discovery, 
only a slight disillusionment at the way 
in which college life has begun. 

Now her life as an independent really 
starts. Her first difficulty is finding a 
room, as all the most desirable living 
quarters are, by this time, taken. After 
searching frantically all of one morning 
and having the panicky fear that she 
might not have a place to sleep that night. 



she finally discovers a room in a house 
not far from the campus. The location, 
she soon finds, is one of the few good 
points about the house. Her room is 
tiny, over-priced, and not too well fur- 
nished. Her roommate, a stranger, shows 
herself to be interested in one thing only 
— boys. Her landlady, though she is a 
harmless, well-meaning woman, grows 
more and more distasteful as she dis- 
plays daily her lack of intelligence and 
refinement. Altogether, the independent 
appears to have begun her college life 
very badly. 

In spite of these faults in her room- 
ing-house, however, the student finds 
other girls there who share her interests 
and prove to be good friends. They are 
juniors and seniors, for the most part, 
and have outgrown the childishness 
which her roommate and some of the 
other freshmen in the house display. The 
independent and her new friends eat all 
their meals at a nearby campus restau- 
rant, and she begins to enjoy her meals 
there, although she had first feared that 
she would tire of them. The group of 
girls get a great deal of amusement out 
of watching others who eat there, getting 
acquainted with some of them, knowing 
the waiters by name, and getting little 
bits of special service because they are 
regular customers. 

Activities, the freshman finds, are her 
best substitutes for the advantages of 
sorority life. They give her the oppor- 
tunity to make many friends and to do 
something both interesting and useful in 
addition to attending classes. Although 
she feels there is a slight favoritism 



[ 1 ] 



I I 77269 



toward sorority women in some of these 
activities, they are, on the whole, handled 
impartially. Gradually the difference be- 
tween herself and the others bothers her 
less and less, and finally it is not espe- 
cially important any more. In the activi- 
ties she has chosen she is liked for herself 
and her work alone, not because of her 
connection with any group. As she loses 
her early natural resentment toward 
sororities, the independent is able to see 
more clearly the bad as well as the good 
features of sorority life. She is glad that 
she is not restricted almost entirely to 
one group for her friendships, that she 
does not have to spend all her spare time 
in the library as her pledge friends do, 
that she can have dates when and with 
whom she likes, that she does not have to 
keep regular hours for eating and sleep- 



ing, that she does not have duties to per- 
form for upperclassmen, and that she 
can be herself and not have to conform 
to a sorority pattern. 

She realizes, however, that sororities 
are really valuable in numerous ways. 
They provide backing in activities for 
their members, give them many chances 
for social contacts, enrich their lives with 
pleasant home surroundings, and add to 
their prestige in college and, later, in the 
world. The independent has opportuni- 
ties to join two small sororities, but does 
not think their ratings or standards are 
high enough and, consequently, prefers 
to keep her freedom. She has decided 
that she will pledge only if she is asked 
by a house of good standing, because she 
has found that life can be just as full 
outside as inside a sorority. 



Family Life 

1887 

In the evening the mother of the family usually sat in a rocking chair close to an 
old oil lamp and knitted socks, crocheted bed-spreads, or thought of delicious recipes 
for the family to sample. At this time the children amused themselves with games 
such as checkers and dominoes. The evening games were often stopped in favor of 
popping popcorn in the fireplace for the purpose of eating it with delicious apples, 
which for some reason always seemed to be plentiful in the eighteen-hundreds. The 
father of the home was usually a very reserved person. He usually tried to read the 
weekly paper, or talked shop with his wife as she worked by the lamp. His attitude 
toward these evenings and his family was one filled with pride and contentment. He 
was well satisfied with what he possessed. 

1937 

The family in 1937 almost doesn't exist. The women have been set free from their 
homes and have been shamed into working in a business world that does not want 
them. They have become part-time file clerks, stenographers, or clerks in department 
stores .... Children are not wanted today. They are too much bother. They keep 
parents home days and up nights .... If the situation does arise where children are 
unavoidable, the modern couples soon call in Grandmother, who was trained in the 
care of babies when babies meant something. It is a fine thing we do have grand- 
mothers or all our babies might die from neglect .... The man of today leads a mis- 
erable life ... . His evenings, instead of being restful, are nightmares that leave him 
with headaches to be taken to work and suffered. His house is a place where he must 
be awfully careful not to disfigure the lovely rooms and the beautiful furniture. 

— Milton Dawson 



[2] 



Letter to a Sorority Woman 

Anonymous 



Rhetoric II Proficiency 



D 



EAR B- 



This will evidently come as a sur- 
prise to you, because you have never 
heard from me before. If you glance at 
my signature, you will recognize it I am 
sure, for you are the girl to whom I have 
been introduced at least sixteen times. 
The first occasion, I believe, was at your 
sorority's open house. You came up to 
me, asked my name, and gave yours. 
We then proceeded to chat for fifteen 
minutes — or shall I say you chatted and 



Examination, 1937-1928 

followed with a little tidbit about the 
effective style in which I wore my hair. 
You told me, I remember, that I looked 
like Janet Gaynor — only I was dark com- 
plexioned. You expressed regret at not 
having met me before and cordially 

invited me to dinner at the A 

M E house, which invita- 
tion I gracefully rejected. 

I could list each one of those six- 
teen introductions, with time, place, and 
allusion to a movie star, but I'm afraid 




I listened? I heard all about the merits 
of your sorority and a few choice, 
muddy comments on others. We were 
the best of friends. You thought I 
looked like Merle Oberon, and I was 
highly flattered to think that you, a 

junior and an A M E , 

would pay so much attention to me, an 
insignificant rushee. We parted amidst 
fond farewells and promises to "look 
you up." 

The second time I saw you I was still 
unorganized and still eligible. We met at 
a fraternity dance, in front of a mirror. 
A girl I had just met introduced us 
again, and your opening remark was a 
compliment on my dress, which you 



my patience would wear out. Before I 
close, however, let me ask you one ques- 
tion — just who do you think you are? 
Are you laboring under the delusion that 
the fifteen dollar pin you wear over your 
heart can make up for the million dol- 
lars' worth of pain you have inflicted 
on me and on others of my ilk? You 
are undoubtedly the most grossly ignor- 
ant creature I have ever had the mis- 
fortune of encountering, and on the next 
occasion we chance to be introduced to 
each other, I shall flash before your eyes 

the insignia of G G D . 

Revengefully, 



[3 ] 



Why I Came to College 

Ethel Donnelly 
Rhetoric I, Theme 10, 1936-1937 



COLLEGE is an intriguing word. 
When I was a child it had a vague 
meaning — a green campus, gay with Hfe 
and laughter, or silent in the first hush 
of early evening, with the cloistered 
buildings painted stark and beautiful on 
the pale horizon. But today when I think 
of college, I think of things that are 
abstract and indefinable: culture, inde- 
pendence, tolerance, and understanding. 

The world in which I live is very 
small, bounded on all sides by my meagre 
knowledge, my ignorance and my pov- 
erty of thought. I can admire a great 
book or a painting, but the philosophy 
and true significance of an artist's work 
elude my feeble grasp. A black shadow 
seems to enshroud my mind, and in the 
faint light of m.y learning I can only 
glimpse the beauty of truth and under- 
standing. The sharp clearness of culture 
would end this miserable groping, and 
culture can only be found in books and 
in the teachings of wise men. 

I want to be self-reliant, to know that 
the food which I eat and the house in 
which I live are mine, earned by my own 
toil. The degree that I receive upon 
graduation should not be just an empty 
title ; it should be the key to the gate of 
my chosen profession. I should stand 



upon the threshold of adult life assured, 
confident of success, secure in my pre- 
paredness for my chosen field. But col- 
lege teaches more than material, busi- 
ness-world independence; it demands an 
independence of thought and action that 
were not needed in childhood and early 
youth. 

But most important to me, I shall 
learn a measure of tolerance and under- 
standing. If youth can be tolerant, it 
will be the victor. I shall read in history 
of other peoples, their manner of life, 
their philosophy, and perhaps in ques- 
tions of international hate and jealousy 
I shall understand their viewpoint and be 
more in sympathy with their ideals. I 
want to be more tolerant of the opinions 
of my friends, to master my sudden 
flashes of anger and to understand that 
I am not always right and they always 
wrong. 

Culture, independence, tolerance, and 
understanding — they are not tangible, 
like the trees that shade the wide campus, 
or the rough stone of the cloistered 
buildings, but they are the essence of a 
college, the foundation on which it is 
built. I came to college to study the 
different cultures, to learn independence 
and appreciate tolerance. 



Successful Interview 

Reporters on a paper come in contact with notorious people ranging from scien- 
tists, society leaders, and reformers to gangsters, movie actresses, and maniacs. There 
is no twaddling about waiting for introductions or standing on sidewalks yearning 
for glimpses. The reporter walks boldly in and asks the notorious one all sorts of 
personal questions, and within fifteen minutes he has a more accurate account of that 
person's thoughts, ideals, references, ambitions, and past history than an ordinary 
individual could gather in six months. — Peggy Laughun 



[4] 



Relax and Run 



Robert Ingalls 
Rhetoric II, Theme 9, 1936-1937 



XTOTHING is more pleasing to the 
^ ^ critical athletic eye than to watch a 
sprinter click over the yards of a 
straightaway with the action of an ex- 
press train. His knees are pumping like 
pistons, and his feet seem barely to touch 
the ground. There is a natural lean in 
the upper part of his body, and his head 
is dropped slightly forward. This ath- 
lete appears, with ease, to be pulling with 
the utmost of his power. 

Many newspaper pictures of the finish 
of a race show a sprinter exerting all 
of his remaining energy in a last frantic 
jump across the line. His face is dis- 
torted by an expression which shows the 
strain to which he is unnecessarily taxing 
his muscles. The tendons leading from 
the neck to the shoulders are standing 
out, and in all probability the muscles of 
the shoulders are hunched with tension. 
There are other forms of incorrect run- 
ning, but this is by far the most common. 

What is the remedy for this ? There is 
only one answer — relaxation. A sprinter's 
legs should do the work, not his arms or 
his head. Jesse Owens, Olympic cham- 
pion, presents an example of perfect 
running. Not a ripple nor a sign of 
tension may be seen in the muscles from 
his hips to his head, but his legs are 
pumping straight up and down, and his 
feet are reaching for more and more 
ground. 

A machine that roars, clatters, and 
bangs attracts attention and inspires awe 
at the energy which it is expending, but 
it does not get the best results. Good 
results come from the machine that con- 



trols its power and quietly darts along. 
The farther it goes, the more speed it 
picks up. So it is with a sprinter. One 
might speak of Jesse Owens as a Zephyr 
that quietly shoots out ahead of all com- 
petition. Pity the poor sprinter who, like 
the engine that roars, clatters, bangs, and 
sways, fights his way along the track ! 

As there is a correct way of running 
a dash, so there is a correct way of 
watching it. A dash is much too short 
to watch just for the pleasure of seeing 
somebody win. A suitable place from 
which to view a dash is at either end, 
preferably the finish, or about three- 
fourths the distance down the straight- 
away. Keep your eye on a favorite run- 
ner, and watch him from start to finish. 
Notice how he shoots out of his blocks. 
He is not lunging like a tiger. Rather, 
his legs are moving like trip hammers, 
and his steps are short and choppy. As 
he gains speed, and his stride lengthens, 
his trunk will gradually rise from that 
crouched starting position to a natural 
lean. As he passes the three-quarter 
mark, one may see that the distance 
between him and the rest of the field is 
slowly lengthening. Here, the momentum 
of his drive is becoming effective. As he 
breaks through the finish tape, he may 
lift his arms slightly, but those legs keep 
driving until he is well past the finish 
line. 

If you are one who does not enjoy 
or cannot understand such an athletic 
accomplishment, even at its best, at least 
appreciate the smoothness of coordina- 
tion and relaxation. 



[ 5] 



Hang Up the Fiddle and the Bow 



Allen Platt 
Rhetoric II, Theme 6, 1936-1937 



SOMETIMES when the trombones 
blare, and the trumpets blast, and the 
bass drum beats on endlessly like a drum- 
mer bird on his favorite hollow log, I am 
troubled for an explanation of the origin 
of bands, both military and "symphonic." 
After the din has subsided and the blow- 
artists have gone home, I can imagine 
some such scene as this: 

Place: The court of August, Prince 
of Nordbayren 

Time: About 1820 

[Enter the harrassed Kapellmeister, 
Alfons] 

Alf. "Your Highness — " 

Aug. "Yes, Alfons?" [He lays down 
his pen and glowers at poor Alfons] 

Alf. "Your Highness, my men, the 
musicians, are complaining." 

Aug. "Indeed, Alfons! And of what 
do they complain?" 

Alf. "They refuse to play for Your 
Highness' review on the morrow. When 
I told them it was your wish that they 
march with the soldiers, why, my string 
players — Your Highness, I tremble, — all 
of them declared they would not." 

Aug. [Resuming his affairs]. "Alfons, 
why must you bother me with trifles? 
Compel them, and let there be an end." 

Alf. "But, Your Highness, the Grand 
Duke Dittlesdorf is forming an orches- 
tra. Dare I threaten them? They could 
go to him." 

Aug. "Um — Alfons, perhaps you are 
right — this once. These musicians! 
Every year they grow more irresponsible 
— it is disgraceful! — Alfons, did you 
say all the orchestra refused?" 

Alf. "All but the players of blown in- 



struments. Your Highness. They are not 
greatly hindered by walking as they play 
— a thing, Your Highness, impossible for 
my string players. And then, too, they 
have not so much conscience in the mat- 
ter. I think sometimes they enjoy march- 
ing, because there they may blow more 
loudly." 

Aug. "Good, good. Alfons, you shall 
have only the wind players march. That, 
I think, will solve everything." 

Alf. "But — but, Your Highness, no 
violins? no 'cellos? Oh, no, Your High- 
ness ! I could do without the wind in- 
struments, but not my strings. They are 
the soul of the orchestra ! They — " 

Aug. "Silence, Alfons! You have 
heard my order. Himmel ! If violins are 
the soul of your orchestra, we will have 
music without a soul." 

Alf. "Music, Your Highness — with- 
out a soul ?" 

Aug. "You have heard me, Alfons? 
Schnell ! Prepare your men." 

Alf. "Yes, Your Highness." [Exit 
slowly, bewildered but convinced.] 

This may explain how bands started. 
I do not know how they have survived. 

You must not think that I criticize 
bands when they are in their proper 
place. They add life and energy to many 
occasions. At athletic games when the 
crowd cheers, and we are in the most 
boisterous spirits, a stirring march cer- 
tainly adds to the excitement. Parades 
and political conventions are nothing 
without bands. Bands have become 
linked in our minds with patriotism and 
more particularly with that type of 



[6] 



patriotism abroad in time of war. It 
would be interesting to know how many 
of the soldiers that went to France owed 
the final bit of persuasion that resulted 
in enlistment to the music of parading 
bands. I can not deny they have a place 
in the scheme of things, but the idea, 
held particularly by school systems, that 
bands constitute the highest in musical 
art and the proper source for a student's 
musical education seems to me gross 
error. 

Perhaps the most damaging evidence 
against bands as individual musical 
groups is their constant striving to be 



are at least trying to raise their stand- 
ards. But why do they continue to be 
bands if they have higher ideals? If a 
symphonic band is better than a brass 
band, is not an orchestra better than 
either? Yet schools continue to labor 
over their bands while their orchestras 
struggle along carelessly managed and 
poorly equipped. 

There is one quarter, however, where 
a band will not modify its organization 
to imitate an orchestra. The percussion 
section — the so-called battery — must be 
large and mighty. Without these instru- 
ments of rhythmic noise the marches 




what they are not. For their standard 
of excellence they choose the orchestra, 
and they try in their playing to approxi- 
mate as nearly as possible the tone qual- 
ity and coloring of an orchestra. When 
I used to play in a band, our conductor 
often admonished us to play with a 
smoother and finer tone in order to make 
the whole sound more like that of an 
orchestra. To this end he was making a 
constant effort to find more clarinet 
players. After stringed instruments the 
clarinet has the largest range of tone and 
expression, and the addition of this in- 
strument, our leader thought, would 
drown out some of the less agreeable 
noises. 

The fact that bands strive to be like 
orchestras shows, to be sure, that they 



which a band delights to play would lose 
much of their characteristic vigour. Band 
leaders esteem the clash of cymbals so 
highly that they either deputize a special 
player to the office or provide the bass- 
drummer with a cymbal fixed upon his 
drum which he can beat with his left 
hand while he drums with his right. 
During the playing of marches particu- 
larly you can see an experienced drum- 
mer beating his drum with his right hand 
and on every other beat, or at even more 
complicated intervals, smiting the cym- 
bal with his left. A drum with all its 
modern improvements is a formidable 
instrument ! 

In contrast to this monotonous use of 
cymbals consider for a moment what I 
believe to be a highly artistic use. The 



[ 7] 



familiar overture to Wagner's opera, 
Die Meister singer, begins with a broad 
theme that is used later in the work as 
a march. This march, however, has not 
the earmarks of a band march: there is 
no bass drumming, no cymbal clashing, 
but rather the full, large tone of the 
orchestra. The music changes character 
many times, and then begins to build to 
the final climax. There have as yet been 
no cymbals, but on the culminating chord 
of the climax, at the very peak of excite- 
ment, there is one loud cymbal crash, 
striking out an unforgettable note of 
finality. Wagner has saved the cymbal 
through most of the overture for the one 
place where its use would be significant 
and artistic. 

There is little if any of this kind of 
music in the literature of bands, because 
hardly a composer of importance has 
written music for bands. Verdi, who as 
a young man composed some things for 
the municipal band of his native village, 
is the only one I recall. Could we 
imagine a Debussy or a Delius inventing 
delicate strains, or a Beethoven or a 
Brahms creating deathless symphonies 
for a band? Most composers would not 
confine themselves to an instrumental 
combination of so few and such inferior 



effects. Consequently, for their best 
music bands must look to rearrangements 
of orchestral scores. This arranging is 
ruinous to the composer's original con- 
ception and kills any subtle effects it 
might have had. Even bandsmen must 
realize this, but with band scores in their 
present state, they are helpless. 

Someone might advance the argument 
that students prefer bands. Perhaps 
many of them do. Hearing little else but 
bands, they have not a fair chance of 
deciding what they prefer. In other 
phases of study the school program pro- 
vides that they shall have good to com- 
pare with bad whether they like it or 
not. Schools saw to it that most of us 
were reading Shakespeare before we 
actually preferred Shakespeare, and I 
hardly think the argument that we pre- 
ferred dime novels would have impressed 
our teachers. 

Yet band music, bearing much the 
same relation to orchestral music as wild 
west stories to the Elizabethan drama, 
does influence school officials. They are 
so influenced that they encourage clang- 
orous, jarring, sourish musical absurd- 
ities to represent their schools and train 
their students — to the discredit of Ameri- 
can good taste. 



Street Scenes 

Two men sitting on high stools behind their lavish display counter on the side- 
walk wrangle with each other. One, insisting that the depression is over, at the same 
time weighs a pound of prunes for a litde girl who is waiting. The other, his mouth 
jammed with grapes, splutters and chokes, heartily disagreeing. — Harry Goldfarb 

• • • • 

Toward the end of the street, standing within a circle of squatting listeners, an 
old man, his face lighted by a smoky lamp, relates the tale of Passover: how in the 
remote long ago, Moses led his people from the Egyptian chains of slavery into the 
land of Palestine, wherein milk and honey flowed as abundantly as water. He makes 
gestures, which his shadow repeats with absurd exaggeration, and the audience utters 
cries of admiration. — Leonard Cohen 



[8] 



Flies in a Web 



Anne M. Worland 
Rhetoric I, Theme 9, 1936-1927 



JACOB WASSERMAN'S World's 
Illusion started me thinking about 
many things. All the characters (and 
the author included many in his novel) 
are wrapped up in little -worlds of their 
own, seeking to understand themselves 
and derive happiness from life. Un- 
fortunately, none of them succeed, and, 
in the end, those that haven't been mur- 
dered, or committed suicide, or died 
some other horrible death are existing 
in an atmosphere of loneliness and 
futility. 

The book was originally published in 
Europe under the title of Christian 
Wahnsehoffe. Christian is a young man 
of high social standing. He has an un- 
conscious charm that causes all people to 
love him. I will say that Christian does 
achieve some ultimate satisfaction from 
life. But at what a cost! He, who, in 
his youth, paled at the thought of suffer- 
ing, hated to think of the past, and 
shunned all people or places that re- 
minded him of unpleasant incidents, 
gives up his fabulous wealth, his home, 
his wonderful collection of art, his rac- 
ing stable, and his position in society to 
devote himself to the people in the worst 
slums of Berlin. He sacrifices himself 
completely for the sake of humanity. 

Each character in the book has a com- 
pletely distinct personality. The author 
deals mostly with the mental aspects of 
each person. One finds oneself strug- 
gling, as the characters are struggling, to 
analyze one's own intellect. It's like 
battering one's head on a stone wall. 

Class conflict plays some part in the 
novel. Most of the people are either very 



rich and striving to obtain the stars out 
of reach or very poor and deriving what 
sordid pleasures they can among the 
lowest types of humanity. The women 
are either the worst prostitutes on the 
streets or the most poised and beautiful 
among the nobility. The men vary just 
as much. 

The book is divided into two volumes: 
Eva and Ruth. Eva, one of Christian's 
mistresses, is a dancer. She is extremely 
beautiful ; every motion of her well- 
trained body is perfect. Men grovel at 
her feet. She is the toast of Europe. 
One admires her beauty but dislikes her 
for her ambitions. She enthralls the 
political leaders of many countries and 
thus holds the fate of nations in her 
hands. Her perfect body is crushed to 
bits on the stones when she leaps to her 
death from the highest tower of the 
magnificent castle she has built. 

Ruth Hofman, a little Jewish girl, is 
the only really lovable character in the 
whole eight-hundred pages. She has 
been born and reared in poverty. All 
those whom she has held most dear have 
been separated from her. She, however, 
remains happy and pure, doing all she 
can to help the derelicts about her. I 
really grew very fond of her and was 
tempted to throw the book aside when 
she was brutally murdered by a sex 
maniac. 

At the end, as well as at the beginning, 
one finds a group of people, widely dif- 
ferent in hopes and beliefs, thrown to- 
gether in an impossible entanglement of 
human lives. It is like flies caught in a 
spider web. 



[ 9] 



The Sketch Book 

(Material written in Rhetoric I and II) 

A Flight Above the Clouds 

It was a dull, gloomy, overcast day down below, and the roar of the engine as I 
climbed toward the gray ceiling sounded sullen and fretful, as though it were matching 
the mood of the elements. 

Soon I was approaching the lower portions of the clouds, with small fragments 
scooting past, for all the world like frightened teal at the blast of the hunter's gun, 
and a little higher came what seemed like thin clouds of smoke or haze through which 
the distant earth showed dim and ghost-like. Another moment and I was swallowed 
completely in a dark, gray, clinging mass with nothing but the dancing needles on the 
instrument dials to guide me and tell me whether I was right-side-up or up-side- 
down; no earth, no sky, no horizon — nothing but a thick, cold, clammy mass that 
seemed to have no ending. From somewhere out of the vast grayness beyond my 
vision came the muffled "whroom-whroom" of the engine, and a warm glow of satis- 
faction and security stole over me as I realized that my faithful old Lycoming was 
still with me. — Glenn L. Brown 

Red-headed Virtue 

Other women look askance and hiss things about "hussy" whenever a redhead 
passes by. It is absolutely illogical to assume that red hair is a clear indication of 
immorality; therefore. I conclude that the charge is merely a defense for the less 
charming blondes and brunettes who cannot hold their men. Beauty is not the red- 
heads' chief means of fascination, for freckles and pale eyelashes are far from allur- 
ing, but the noble calibre of the redheads' long-suffering soul instinctively attracts the 
opposite sex. Thus it is in reality not a fault, but rather a tribute to their virtue that 
redheads have established the reputation of being bewitching. — Peggy Laughlin 

With Approbation 

Swiftly and efficiently she went about doing all the things a girl must do in pre- 
paring for a school day, applying carefully a wee amount of powder and a suspicion 
of lipstick and combing her shining brownish hair until it was smooth. Margaret had 
neat, regular features, a perfect complexion, and a more than passable figure. She 
noticed with approbation all these assets as she put the last bobby-pin in her hair and 
viewed the result. — Peggy Laughun 

Joe Lewis 

He suggests a gorilla or a jungle lion about as much as would an assistant of 
mathematics at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. — H. Maurice Kirby 

Character Sketch 

Tom was a happy-go-lucky fellow with an amazing faculty for keeping the candle 
burning indefinitely, even though it burned at both ends. — Robert Kaplan 

Campus Impression 

The gargantuan buildings, the amoebic students. — Robert Gatewood 



[10] 



Newspaperwoman's Difficulties 

A high wall of prejudice confronts women when they enter newspaper work. 
Unless possessed of unusual ability or a father who is a friend of the editor, women 
find it difficult to land a job on a large paper. If they have the good fortune to get 
on the staff, they are given very little to do. For one thing, the editor feels that 
women are helpless and not very bright; he makes it his business to see that they are 
given dull and trifling notices to write up so as not to over-tax their feeble brains. 
Nor is it only kindness that prompts the editor to bestow such insignificant tasks upon 
the newspaperwoman. Dark suspicions assail his morbid mind, and through his brain 
glide ominous thoughts of incompetence, unreliability, snoopiness, sulkiness, and resent- 
fulness, which he always associates with a skirt. — Peggy Laughlin 

Parlor 

Aunt Emma lived in a high square house in town with shutters for summer heat 
and storms. There was a parlor where little boys were not allowed, and chairs re- 
mained in fixed places, and Great-grandfather glared with righteous indignation from 
his picture on the wall. There were crystal candlesticks on the mantle. There were 
rocks and shells on a whatnot and a stereoscope on the table. Aunt Emma's hand- 
painted wooden shovel and wicker easel stood in the corner. — Frederick G. Faust 

Chief Fly-swatter 

War had broken out — grim war with its ghastly pranks. England was once again 
fighting desperately for her life. And all the while she fought in the front lines, a fly 
kept hovering around her head, lighting on the back of her neck to distract and 
exasperate. That fly was Turkey. Something had to be done, and T. E. Lawrence was 
selected as chief fly-swatter. — Grover Haines 

In the Army 

At the trading post for pants, it is a matter of grab and get, coupled with swap 
and swipe. Occasionally an honest transaction occurs, with both parties feeling the 
other got the worst of the bargain. — Harold Massie 

Uncertainty 

She was in a fog of uncertainty, broken occasionally by bright spurts of confidence 
and darkened by moments of deepest doubt. — Peggy Laughlin 

Twig 

I have no doubt that she considers me a malformed twig which spoils the perfec- 
tion of the family tree. — Harold Morine 

Couple 

Susie was a minister's daughter with wild red hair and a dead fish expression. 
Harry was just a smile between two ears; he wore old football jerseys to school. 

— Betty Betz 

Simile 

I came out of the fray with an eye like a plum. — John Kaufman 

Dejected and hopeless as a mass of sodden feathers in the rain. — Bettie Becker 

• • • • 

The only lobby the day laborer has is the ballot-box. — L. E. Eluson 

[11] 



Wedgwood China 

Bernadine Pendergrast 
Rhetoric II, Theme 10, 1926-1937 



FAURING the life of one man, Josiah 
'-^ Wedgwood, an entire industry was 
transformed. Perhaps it was the beauti- 
ful English countryside which deeply 
impressed upon his sensitive and observ- 
ant mind the beauty found in all of 
nature's gifts. While on his way to 
grammar school he would pick up tiny 
shells, delicate ivy leaves, and trailing 
vines ; later, he used these as designs for 
his pottery, which has never since then 
been surpassed in either beauty or 
daintiness.^ 

The beauty of the English country- 
side was not the only influence which 
started Josiah Wedgwood on a career in 
which he was later to gain the title, 
"Prince of Potters." He belonged to a 
family which had been traditionally asso- 
ciated with the craft of potting for many 
generations. As he was only nine years 
old when his father died, it was neces- 
sary for him to begin his life's work at 
a much earlier age than was customary. 
Consequently, when he was only four- 
teen years old, he was apprenticed to his 
brother, with whom he worked for five 
years. Here he gained a very good 
foundation for his work which was to 
follow. To enlarge his experience even 
more, he apprenticed himself to Daniel 
Mayer of Stoke for two years, and from 
him he learned many essential things. 
After completing these periods of ap- 

'Cooper, N., "Creamsware of Wedgwood," 
House Beautiful, 67 (June, 1930), 775. 



prenticeship, he entered into a partner- 
ship with Thomas Wheldon, whose 
methods in potting and particularly in 
the coloring of glazes have caused his 
work to be prized as the most charming 
of all English earthenware of the pre- 
Wedgwood period. Wedgwood, however, 
was too ambitious for his partner, and 
so it is not surprising that this partner- 
ship was soon dissolved. The dissolving 
permitted him full range to his individual 
ideas. 

His great advancement in the pottery 
world is due directly to his "Creams- 
ware." For years before the introduction 
of this beautifully designed and service- 
able ware, England had been forced to 
use fragile and imperfect imported china. 
This lovely "Creamsware" was made 
from the whitest clay of Devonshire," 
mixed with finely ground flint and gowan 
or Cornwall stone to insure perfection. 
Not only was the quality of his material 
perfect, but he also extended his per- 
fection to such an extent that every lid 
was made to fit exactly, every handle was 
placed in the exact place, and every base 
was made steady upon its axis. The 
glazes were soft and very rich, and the 
designs were very neat. The ivy leaf was 
the most popular of the designs, and 
certainly this little leaf held an undis- 
puted first place in the mind of 
Wedgwood.^ 



'Hughes, H. S., "My Wedgwood Quest," 
House Beautiful, 65 (May, 1929), 638. 



[12] 



We can easily see how such beautiful 
designs and serviceable ware, even 
though an entirely new ware, could be 
considered the greatest of his achieve- 
ments, Josiah Wedgwood, however, con- 
sidered this "Creamsware" as only a 
"means to an end," or an "anchor to 
windward," for his heart yearned for 
jasper works. To him, his "Creams ware" 
was only a means of keeping a steady 
flow of capital into his business, so that 
he might better accomplish the perfection 
of ornamental wares in classic style. His 
ideal was even further stimulated by the 
discovery of splendid examples of Greek 
and Roman art at Pompeii and Hercu- 
laneum, which gave great impetus to the 
revival of classic themes in art and which 
were readily adaptable as designs for 
jasper ware. The fine-grained and ex- 
tremely smooth hard surface and the 
colors with which jasper ware could be 
tinted rendered it especially suitable for 
delicate and precise craftsmanship. In 
fact, it was criticized because it more 
closely resembled the art of the sculptor 
or of the gem cutter than the plastic 
arts.^ 

Probably Josiah Wedgwood's greatest 
designer was John Flaxman, a sculptor 
who was already a man of great emi- 
nence. Certainly his work was the best 
representative of the classical revival in 
England. His artistic designs are well 
represented on the jasper vases and on 
the medallions, on which the portraits of 
notables were made so exact that even 
the hairlines were scientifically accurate. 

Lady Templeton, the only artist to 
which Josiah Wedgwood ever gave any 



'Avery, C. L., "Gift of Ornamental Wedg- 
wood," Metropolitan Museum of Art, 27 
(November, 1932), 238. 



acknowledgment, contributed the most 
expressive works. Her designs may be 
immediately recognized by the presence 
of a girl with a distaff and two children 
— a very simple depiction but very im- 
pressive. Her skill was so great that she 
could make even classical groups seem 
alive. 

Everyone recognizes the perfect crea- 
tions of Josiah Wedgwood ; yet he was 
severely criticized by Emil Hanover, 
Danish connoisseur and writer, who 
stated that "with a multiplicity of fault- 
lessly wrought but mechanical produc- 
tions, he has crowded out of the field the 
work of the more haphazard but more 
spontaneous and artistic craftsmen."* 
Perhaps he deserves this criticism from 
the viewpoint of the less artistic crafts- 
men, but surely it is unfair to condemn 
anyone who is able to reach such a state 
of perfection. The "cool smooth sur- 
faces" and "true-filled lines" with grace- 
ful, little, white figures and bright 
designs have invested in them the sophis- 
tication of that century. In fact, Wedg- 
wood came nearer than the poet to the 
spirit of the age ; his vases were wrought 
cool and impersonal as the aesthetic 
ideals, instead of like the couplets of the 
poet, which were often hot with the 
heart- felt emotion of an unhappy lover,^ 

We can readily see why the name of 
such a great man is associated with the 
building of the greatest industry on Eng- 
lish soil, an industry which, at any cost, 
has maintained a steadfast ideal of per- 
fection. His wares were placed upon a 
level which could be reached by the rich 
and poor alike ; they were highly prized 
by both. He was an artist of faultless 

*Ibid., 238. 

"Hughes, H. S., op. cit., 637. 



[13] 



taste, of extreme enterprise, and of inde- 
fatigable zeal ; he combined these qual- 
ities with magnanimity, dignity, and 
kindness. 

Bibliography 

Avery, C. L., "Gift of Ornamental Wedg- 
wood," Metropolitan Museum of Art, 27 
(November, 1932), 237-238. 

Comstock, H., "Wedg\vood Club's Exhibition 
in Boston," Connoisseur, 95 (March, 1935), 
95. 

Cooper, N., "Creamsware of Wedgwood," 
House Beautiful, 67 (June, 1930), 774-775. 

"Famous WedgAvood Paper Doll Patterns," 
Mentor, 15 (April, 1937), 54-55. 



Hughes, H. S., "My Wedgwood Quest," House 
Beautiful, 65 (Alay, 1929) 637-638. 

"My Friend, The Connoisseur, Considers 
Wedgwood Ware," House Beautiful, 62 
(September, 1927), 253. 

Park, J. H., "Josiah Wedgwood, Industrialist," 
Antiques, 26 (August, 1934), 64-66. 

Read, H., "Josiah Wedgwood, Prince of Pot- 
ters," International Studio, 96 (May, 1930), 
31-34. 

Russel, E. H., "Pottery with a Past and a 
Future," American Home, 4 (June, 1930), 
317-318. 

"Told By a China Plate," Mentor, 17 (Feb- 
ruary, 1929), 62. 

"Wicked Wedgwood," Antiques, 27 (March, 
1935), 87. 



Scenes from Childhood 

Practice Hour 

She sets the alarm clock on top of the piano in the most conspicuous corner, and 
reluctantly places two pillows upon the piano bench. The cookies, which up to this 
time have been very carefully concealed beneath her printed apron, are put at the 
right end of the keyboard. After a few prolonged minutes which she uses in giving 
an additional pat to the pillows and in searching for the already obvious music — all of 
this time carefully counted on the practice hour — a few faint, unsure notes become 
audible. Slowly, up and down the keys her little fingers feel out the notes of the "C" 
scale. She continues this for perhaps two or three minutes, but with every second 
her look of boredom is increased. Finally the monotony of the scales ends with a 
diligent bang, and she eagerly reaches for a cooky, which she eats with such careful 
mastication that even a doctor would nod his head in approval. 

— Bernadine Pendergast 

Small Boy's DiflSculty 

He slowed to a walk, then to a slow, leisurely amble. His animated expression 
was replaced by one of perplexity, and he carelessly hooked his thumbs in the shoulder 
straps of his unkempt overalls and kicked some gravel about in the driveway. Restless, 
he flopped to the ground, almost landing on Snap, his affectionate white pointer, who 
had softly padded up behind him. Jimmy sat on the grass and gently rubbed behind 
Snap's ears. 

"Aw — heck !" he said, lying back with his head cushioned on his folded arms. 
"My work's done and I don't know what to do." — Carl E. Watkins 

Pet Pig 

He was a very sweet little piglet, scrubbed white except for his snout and hoofs, 
with a most delicate shade of pink inside his ears. When I first saw him he was wear- 
ing a clown hat and a frill around his neck and helping a human clown to amuse a 
circus crowd. Of course I wanted him, just as I wanted everything I saw, and the 
adoring but malicious uncle who was treating me bought him for me. My parents were 
amused and worried when we arrived home; as days passed, the amusement lessened 
and the worry increased. — Lorraine Stuart 



[14] 



The Zo Lab 



Dorothy Pilkington 
Rhetoric II, Theme 11, 1936-1937 



O OOM 312 is tucked away modestly 
■'• ^ in the northwest corner of the Nat- 
ural History Building. The door opens 
just behind a dark bend, and you would 
probably never notice it unless you 
stopped in the hall to look at the illum- 
inated nature snapshots. Once inside 312 
you would be aware that it is a zoology 
laboratory, for the "wild life" makes 
itself aggressively known to every visitor. 
Not that the animals scamper around 
grunting and squealing — on the con- 
trary, they are quite passive. In fact, 
those creatures neatly packed in sealed 
jars in the glass cases on the east wall 
(next to the soldierly ranks of micro- 
scopes) make no disturbance whatever. 
But the fauna in the three sinks along 
the south wall would claim your instant 
attention. Legless frogs and frogless 
legs, bits of star fish, desolate segments 
of earthworms, forlorn mussel shells — 
all blending their indelicate essences with 
the mal-odor of formaldehyde — ^you 
could not ignore them. 

But your nose could not long monop- 
olize your senses. When you had re- 
covered sufficiently to look around you, 
you would think of "Alice-Through-the- 
Looking-Glass." For a big glass panel 
separates 312 from the main laboratory 
to its west, and there are looking-glass 
beings working and talking in utter 
silence. The light that enters through the 
panel and the glass door to its left is 
very welcome; 312 is rather dim in 
spite of the few sunbeams that survive 
the northern shade of the building and 



struggle through the windows with their 
lime-misted aquaria boxes. The valiant 
sunbeams are aided by the large blue- 
globed electric lights that dangle low 
over the laboratory desks. You would 
see three rows of these desks — each row 
two desks long and two desks wide. 
They are black, battered, and varnishless 
with padlocked drawers for laboratory 
materials below the desk top and little 
drawers above in an open frame-work. 
The open work allows each student to 
see his neighbor across the desk and 
chat with him about coelenterata or 
idiosyncrasies of paramecia. Each row 
of desks accommodates eight students, 
who perch on gray-green stools that can 
be raised and lowered "at will" if the 
"victim" grips the top firmly, pushes his 
foot against the braces correctly and 
breathes the right prayer. If the student 
is quietly studying, however, the stools 
are likely to collapse suddenly and with- 
out cause. 

The north and south walls are lined 
with blackboards. These are generally 
covered with complicated diagrams, illus- 
trating the life-cycle of the obelia or the 
genealogy of the drosopila and the other 
mysteries of zoology that you could 
never learn unless you steeped yourself 
in formaldehyde and "went zoology" for 
six hours a week. 

But even from your first visit you 
would likely carry away with you an 
evasive "something" which your friends 
will wonder at or which will stamp you 
as a veteran of the Zo lab. 



[15] 



Being Intelligent About Motion Pictures 



William H. Hutchinson 



Rhetoric I Proficiency 

AT ONCE, let us be frank with our- 
selves. There is no such thing as 
being intelligent about motion pictures. 
We might as well attempt to be scientific 
about jig-saw puzzles, aesthetic about 
fishing worms, or profound about short 
division. Just as there is nothing in 
balloons but air, so there is nothing in 
motion pictures but a few glorified 
magic-lantern slides that don't stand still 
and do make a noise. 

Let us, however, not confuse ourselves 
with terms. When we refer to motion 
pictures, we refer to those we have seen 
— i.e., Holly\vood. That motion pictures 
will some day rise and take a place to 
rival even the stage, I don't doubt; but 
that Hollywood has so far done little 
more than to accumulate huge quantities 
of celluloid and money for maldistribu- 
tion, I claim to be evident. 

Since we did set out to be intelligent, 
though, let's take the axes off the grind- 
stone and look at things. We can at 
least be sensible about motion pictures. 
Being sensible is going ahead and doing 
or saying whatever we would have done 
or said if we hadn't stopped to figure the 
thing out, in a manner that makes other 
people believe that we really have 
stopped to figure the thing out. 

Being sensible about pictures involves 
two questions. Do you go to moving 



Examination, 1927-1938 

pictures or don't you? Now don't lie to 
yourselves ; tell the truth. Like George 
Washington, look yourself right in the 
eye and say, "Yes, damn it, I do go to 
moving pictures." It's nothing to be 
ashamed of ; I, myself, go to them. The 
same effect can be had by taking a good 
sleeping powder, but that gives you a 
headache ; then too, you can't try to start 
a conversation with the blonde in the 
seat alongside you. 

The second question: "Do you go to 
pictures to see the pictures or the stars?" 
If you go to see the pictures, you're 
wasting your time. Maxwell Anderson's 
Winterset was the only good work that 
ever got into the movies, and that must 
have been because somebody made a 
mistake. Even Winterset had to be 
doctored before it was filmed. If you go 
to see the stars, you're a damned idiot, 
unless you just go to see Luise Rainer 
as I do. Even then you're not very smart. 

While we are yet sensible, we've got 
to admit that pictures do have their little 
niche in the scheme of things. They give 
a lot of ham actors, hack writers, and ex- 
electricians a new incentive in life; they 
peddle day-dreams to minds too inade- 
quate to create their own; and they 
afford a refuge for men in ragged coats 
when park-benches are snow-frozen. 
Live, I say, and let live. 



Homesickness 

The patient may bep^in to suspect that he is catching the disease if he has a slight 
hungry feeling that will not be satisfied by food. He may be more sure that he is 
catching it if scenes of home flash frequently before his mind and cause a tight, 
lumpy sensation in his throat. When the patient finds one night that he has to sleep 
upon a damp pillow, he may be certain that he is homesick. — Donald H. Staley 



[16] 



That Dread Disease: Homesickness 



Frank Brown 
Rhetoric II, Theme 5, 1936-1937 



WERE you ever homesick? I mean 
"the real thing," not merely a 
touch of lonesomeness. In my opinion, 
homesickness rates as a minor mind dis- 
order and should be regarded as such. It 
is a disease that passes through several 
stages, bringing great mental anguish to 
the infected person. 

The symptoms usually appear, in a 
person who is leaving home, about a half 
hour after the train pulls out of the sta- 
tion. The excitement of going away hav- 



he is so bored by the program that he 
turns it off in disgust. The room is very 
quiet, and as he sits there, head in hands, 
he runs the gamut of emotions. Sud- 
denly he looks about the room and feels 
the heavy, oppressive silence beating at 
his brain. As one in a daze, he quickly 
gets his hat and coat and runs outside 
into the refreshing night air, walking as 
if he never intended to stop. Gradually 
his mind clears, and he begins to think. 
"Why am I acting this way? I'm no 




ing worn off, he gets a funny little aching 
sensation in the pit of his stomach. He 
tries to forget this persistent feeling by 
attempting to make himself believe he is 
excited about what the future may have 
in store for him. This preliminary con- 
dition persists until well into the next 
day. Then comes the longest and most 
serious phase of the illness. 

At this time the person finds that he 
can think of nothing but home — his fam- 
ily, his friends. He tries to sidetrack 
his train of thought by studying, but 
finds his mind wandering back. He turns 
the radio on, but, after a few minutes. 



child. I'm old enough to control myself. 
Haven't I any pride?" As he returns to 
a more normal state of mind, he starts 
walking slowly homeward, thoroughly 
ashamed of himself. 

The patient goes through this involved 
bit of suffering every day for about a 
week. Then a gradual change takes place. 
He finds that his increased obligations 
give him less time to think of himself, 
and better yet, he is able to control him- 
self when the feeling of nostalgia does 
come back. It is not as suffocating or as 
painful as it was before. When he thinks 
of his family now, he smiles — a weak. 



[17] 



half-hearted smile, but a smile neverthe- 
less. He is on the road to recovery. An 
occasional little heart-pang that comes 
and goes very quickly, and our patient 
is fully recovered, ready to see life 
through a perspective not distorted by 
internal torture. 

May I take it upon myself to offer a 
few suggestions to help bring a cure. I 
prescribe, not as the doctor or psycho- 
analyst would, but from personal experi- 
ence. Seek acquaintances with whom you 
can talk and unburden yourself. Don't 
lock yourself up in your room to brood! 
Take advantage of the opportunities 
offered by a nearby library or movie and 
let your thoughts become involved in the 
troubles of the characters in the book or 



on the screen. When you feel nostalgia 
coming on, take a walk — a long walk. 
Fresh air acts as a tonic for a troubled 
mind, and, besides, walking is good 
exercise. 

We might define homesickness as "the 
state of mind that results when a person 
has to adjust himself to new surround- 
ings and a new social environment." It 
is this period of feeling alien to one's 
environment, then, that brings such an 
uncomfortable period of strife between 
emotion and reason. The person, how- 
ever, who possesses a reasonable degree 
of adaptability and manages to gain con- 
trol of himself will find that he is the 
better for the experience, painful though 
it may have been. 



Items from an Autobiography 

Phenomena of Nature 

During the period between his eighth and ninth years the boy began to wake up to 
the phenomena of nature about him — the cold beauty of the large sleet storm that 
winter, the novelty and tranquillity of the coming of spring, the lengthening of the 
days, the wet, scent-saturated breezes as they passed over freshly ploughed fields and 
lingered around cow-barns and pasture lots. The different colors and songs of nature, 
the smell of a litter of pups, or anything young and breast-fed, the strong animal taste 
of warm milk fresh from the udder — all things seemed to unfold to him, and stir a 
physical side in his nature which had been dormant. 

Vacation 

He spent three months of barefoot freedom close to the breast of the native soil — 
days when the sun beat down on quiet fields and woods, nights when the silence was 
broken only by the hoot of an owl or the bay of a hound. A stillness came into the 
heart of the boy, a solitude of spirit caused by boisterous and yet silent, natural things. 
It was during that summer of 1926 that a "Peter Pan" spirit stole into the boy's heart, 
where it remained a constantly recurring upset to the painful process of "growing up." 

School Days 

His recollections of early days are vague, intangible. Like most children, he was 
first impressed by school. It made the first indelible mark upon his memory — marching 
up the stairs while a phonograph scratched tempo from a record, answering stuffy 
questions in a stuffier classroom, running about the playground during recess, or having 
the janitor halve an apple with his pocket-knife. But school, at best, was an inter- 
ruption of life's pleasures, except at Christmas time. Then there were cards and 
posters to make, and carols to sing. The teacher would read stories that smelled of 
plum pudding, roast goose, and chestnuts, and echoed with "Merrie Christmas." 

— Eldon J. Smith 



[18] 



Wise Guy! 

William Paris 
Rhetoric II, Theme 12, 1936-1937 



npHE three boys sauntered into Prehn's 
* with a carefully studied sophistica- 
tion. They leaned nonchalantly against 
the cigarette counter and indifferently 
surveyed the crowd of students. The tall 
blond was named Robert but was known 
as Ace, a name which, though he brushed 
it aside casually, was a source of great 
pride to him. He lit a cigarette and, 
through the cloud of smoke, spoke to his 
companions without turning his head or 
looking at them ; he moved his lips as 
little as possible. 

"There's Beachman over there with a 
rather smooth looking filly. Think Pll 
ankle over and show our little pledge 
how it's done." 

He swaggered over to young Beach- 
man's table and raised one hand slightly 
in greeting. 

"Hi, pledge," he drawled slowly, and 
pulling out a chair, he sprawled care- 
lessly in a very good imitation of Noel 
Coward. 

"Oh, hello, Ace. I'd like to have you 

meet ." Beachman stopped, confused 

and a little embarrassed because Ace had 
completely ignored him and was talking 
to the girl. 

"Seems to me I'd recognize you if I'd 
ever seen you before. Are you visiting?" 
Ace regarded the girl lazily through a 
cloud of blue smoke. 



"I came down this afternoon from 
Chicago. I wanted to see the campus 

and ." The girl leaned back in her 

chair and ran a hand over her soft blond 
hair, hoping fervently that she looked a 
little like Carole Lombard. She lowered 
her head a little and smiled wanly up at 
him through her lashes. 

"Then how about seeing the campus 
this evening with me? We could take in 
Katsinas' and the Park, and if you're 
here tomorrow night we could go slum- 
ming. You'll find me rated among the 
best as a guide." 

"Grand. It sounds like a lot of fun to 
me. You'll find me at the Delta Gamma 
house this evening about nine o'clock." 

"Be seeing you then." Ace rose lazily, 
smiled at the girl, and flicked a finger at 
Beachman. 

He joined the boys who had been 
watching in awe at the cigarette counter. 

"Don't know her name, but I've dated 
her for tonight and tomorrow night. Is 
Beachman burned up !" 

"Not bad !" breathed his public. 

That evening at the fraternity house 
Beachman came up rather timidly. 

"Well?" asked Ace coolly, 

"I just wanted to thank you for being 
so nice to my sister, sir." 



Masculine Coifiures 
His hair looked as if it had been combed with an egg-beater. — Minnie Faucett 

• • • • 

His hair looked as if it had been oiled up for a smooth- running evening. 

— Davtd Miller 



[19] 



Has My Home Town Changed? 

Anonymous 
Rhetoric I, Theme 13, 1936-1937 



npHE old home town isn't quite the 
* place it was less than three months 
ago. One of us has changed, the town 
or myself. The streets are just as they 
have always been ; all twenty-six taverns 
still light up the night with their red 
neon signs, "Beer," What's more, the 
sign informing the transient concerning 
the number of souls our village contains 
hasn't even recognized my absence, and 
that really caused a large drop in popu- 
lation for such a small town. 

It isn't at all strange that everyone on 
the street remembers me. It hasn't been 
so long since I left, and when I was there 
I caused a lot of disturbance. People 
don't forget the troublesome things so 
easily. Some of the citizenry extend a 
hearty welcome as of old. Others, in- 
clined to be doubtful about the value of 
higher education, sniff, and snort, and 
intimate that I ought to be out making 
my own living. They seem to forget that 



going to work before their skulls become 
hard hasn't done them much good. 

The children of the town aren't im- 
pressed either favorably or unfavorabl>i 
by my new status. Because most of them 
can read, I haven't dared to tell them 
I'm a football star at Illinois. It's a pity. 
I've always wanted to impress children. 

The neighbors have reacted beautifuU) 
to my leaving. Just a few short months 
ago they sat in their windows, sometimes 
till dawn, to determine whether or nol 
I would be sober when I got home. Now 
they go to bed fairly convinced that mj 
step will be uncertain. They have for- 
gotten the fortunate death of the "jaz2 
age" and probably still read that old 
November, 1924, issue of College Humor, 

My own home is more beloved thar 
ever, but the home town has dropped a 
few points in my estimation, Christmas 
time. I feel very sure, will find it still 
dropping. 



Upon the Dam 

Crash ! The sound and a blazing fury of white light were upon us at so precisely 
the same time that the illumination seemed to explode in our very faces. A floating 
log some twenty feet in length had raised its ponderous weight from the water to be 
flung over the crest of the spillway. Falling, it seemed to be chewed in the churning 
waters like some black bone in the white-toothed jaws of a giant. The dam ! We were 
upon the dam ! A hundred feet below, we could hear the flood pounding on the 
bescigcd rocks. Spume blew in our faces, heavier and wetter than that damnable fog. 
God! What if the motor failed us now! What if the tank should run dry! Already 
the top-drag of the current had gripped the canoe; an unseen hand seemed to be 
pushing us over the spillway. A precious moment was lost in bewildered, absolute 
fear; then I jammed the tiller left and kicked the throttle to wide open. The motor, 
choked by the sudden rush of gasoline, coughed, missed fire, then roared madly as it 
spun the light boat on a pivot that brought the stern within two scant feet of the 
concrete abutment. Thirty yards farther, I ran the boat full-speed upon the sandy bank, 
where we half fell, half stumbled out upon the land to lie face down and shivering, 
too frightened even to thank God for what still seems to me a miraculous escape from 
death — cold, drowning, shattering death, — Harl E, Son 



[20] 



The Last Football Game 



David Murray 
Rhetoric I, Theme 7, 1926-1927 



SINCE Saturday I have been a re- 
formed collegian ; before that I was a 
collegian. I was stuffed to the gills with 
spirits of loyalty and all of the other 
laudable emotions. I must have been so 
before I bought those tickets. There was 
something that made me buy them ; I 
very rarely shell out four fifty without 
a reason. Anyway, I am now a reformed 



The way I figured it out the number 
added up to two hundred and seventy- 
eight, two teams of eleven men each, 
three men in white suits to run around 
and blow whistles, two men with two 
sticks tied together to run up and down 
the side of the field, the bands, and the 
fellow who printed the tickets. If no one 
were cheated in the divy, each one of the 




collegian without four fifty and with a 
head cold, who saw one game and isn't 
going to see another. 

I might have had the wrong attitude 
about the game to begin with. As soon 
as I'd paid the price I felt rooked in the 
buying of those tickets. It bothered me, 
and I thought of all the other four fifties 
that came rolling in and wondered where 
they went. I knew that a good number 
of people would be working hard that 
afternoon to see that I had a good time. 



lads was due to get a little bit more than 
one and six-tenths cents of my shell out. 
That would have been perfectly all right 
with me ; the boys work hard, and there's 
enough underpaid help here as it is. 

But it turns out that the lads never 
even see the money. It seems that the 
teams play for a pure love of the game, 
and the bandsmen strut their complicated 
meanderings to enlarge further the tra- 
ditions of old Alma Mater. What I want 
to know is, who does get that money? If 



[21] 



the three fellows in white suits and the 
two lads with the sticks got it, I really 
have been robbed. All that they ever did 
was to object and make the teams go 
back to the beginning whenever the 
action started to pep up. Summed up, it 
seems that I and a few others paid some- 
one a large sum in order to see a show 
put on by a good number of hard work- 
ing, unpaid actors. 

Without the finances I still don't like 
the game. What did the teams do? The 
ball went in all directions, but the score 
always stayed the same. Before the 
game a friend told me to read through 
the rule book to understand everything; 
another friend told me that all the rules 
would be changed next season and not to 
bother; so I didn't read them and found 
out that I understood everything about 
the game wath the same degree of intel- 
ligence as one who knew the rules. 

Then there was this stadium where 
they had the game. That immense, cold, 
damp, concrete mausoleum could be bet- 
ter set aside as a place for spiritual 
meditation. Anything would be better 



suited to its gloomy soul. I feel a little 
down on the place, because I'm almost 
positive that it was the big factor in giv- 
ing me a head cold. 

I must mention the cheering too. 
Everyone else who writes anything about 
football does. The only thing to do 
seemed to be to stand up and make a 
loud noise every time the team went 
forward, and to yell "HOLD THAT 
LINE" every time the team w^ent back- 
ward. Now it stands to reason that a 
team knows what it's doing and doesn't 
need advice from the stands. The logical 
thing would be for spectators to shut up 
and let the team concentrate on its prob- 
lems undisturbed in moments of stress. 

I'm all fixed for the next game ; I've 
figured out a system that I think will 
work nicely. I'm going to the game in 
someone else's comfortable, radio- 
equipped car, and when the game starts 
I'll be right there in that car, listening to 
the radio, wrapped in a blanket, with a 
sensibly hot and well-filled thermos bottle 
beside me. I don't really think that it 
will be the game that I'll listen to either. 



Night Scenes 

Night Sailing 

Not only do we find more time for mental relaxation in quiet night sailing, but 
we also easily discover unlooked-for beauty in the night. Our observation becomes 
finer and very soon we know the meaning of every sound on shore and water. On 
any night, sailing from the island to the head of the lake, we are as clearly aware of 
every star in the sky as we are of every fisherman's light flickering along the shore; 
we distinguish every sound: the plaintive call of the island's whippoorwill, the shrill, 
excited noise of the killdeer at the water's edge, and the crane's raucous cry breaking 
a great stillness at the head of the lake. — Barbara Schroeder 

Fog and Darkness 

Dead, dank air, overladen with soggy fog. pressed upon our eyes and ears like 
dirty wool. The night was as dark as the inside of a pocket, and almost as confining 
.... Leaves and branches slapped our faces like wet towels as I steered too close to 
the channel side of the bank, unable to judge the distance properly through the milky 
vapor. — Harl E. Son 



[22] 



What's in a Title? 



(Titles of themes submitted to the Green Caldron, 1936-1937) 



Alliteration 

Christmas in the Country 
Fountain Pen Folly 

Anatomy 

To Combat Intestinal Toxicity 
Finger Wave for a Corpse 
There Goes My Appendix 

Comparison 

All the World Is a Chessboard 



The Dirty Dragon 
Silly Stuff 



Asparagus Art 
Music and Me 



Red Fingernail Polish 
I Scalp Henry 
Crooked Jaw 



Flies in a Web 



Black Eyes 
That Face ! 



Discoveries 



Chinese Drama in the United States 
My First Exciting Book 
Decline of Sophistication 



Archaeology for Me 
Rhetoric Tricks 
Pledge Rules 



Myself 



Fish, Flesh, or Fowl 

The Owls of Edwards Gulch 
Donk 



Helping the Stork 
Turkey Talk 



Wise Ducks 
Muskellunge 



Geography 



Atlantis 

At the End of a Path 



Beneath the Stadium 
Down on the Farm 



Oldsters in Eden 



Irritation 



Football Players Are Not Dumb 
Wanted: Relief from Women 
Don't Mention Bus to Me ! 



That Beastly English Climate 
I Don't Believe It 
I Don't Like It ! 



Paradox 

The Romantic Drudge 

Processes 



White Blindness 



How to Earn the Hatred of a Room- Basketball : New Style The Pin Hanging 

mate How to Eat an Apple Making Beer 

My Cures for Boredom Bumming Cigarettes 



Question 



Is Civilization Enough? 
Is Imagination Useful ? 



Depression ? 
Why Not? 



Is It Fair ? 



[23] 



My Travels 

Mary Alice Burgett 



Rhetoric I Proficiency 

THE word travel always suggests 
"giagic carpet" to me. When fairies 
and dwarfs and gnomes were still very 
real to me, I sometimes imagined myself 
drifting about on a magic carpet through 
a sea of whipped-cream clouds and pale, 
lemon sunshine! Today it is almost as 
easy to travel as that. Smooth ribbons 
of concrete lace together these United 
States of ours. Comfortable, inexpensive 
automobiles, streamlining these high- 
ways, transport us speedily wherever we 
may wish to go. If I had a magic carpet 
just this minute, we'd float down to New 
Orleans. Two years ago I motored from 
Dallas, Texas to New Orleans — and it is 
the trip I would choose again. You'd like 
it too ! 

We'd follow the Gulf of Mexico 
closely enough to see the glints on the 
crested, blue water, to watch the clean- 
winged gulls veering out to sea, to hear 
the slap of waves against the piers. We'd 
cross the Mississippi at Baton Rouge 
and, while waiting for the ferry, munch 
a bag of peanuts sold by the "nigger" 
boys along the water front. From this 
side you could see the capitol building 
of Louisiana, built by Huey Long. It's 
a beautiful building with French win- 
dows opening out on the river, and it is 
composed entirely of Louisiana products. 
Then from Baton Rouge we'd hop on to 
New Orleans. Our first meal would be 
fine, old Creole cooking, and we'd buy 
a box of pralines just for fun. 

The main street in New Orleans is 
called Canal Street, taking its name from 
the old French canal running through 



Examination, 1937-1928 

the middle of the street. Today it is 
grass-grown and unclean, but the French 
built it as a means of sewage disposal. 
Lake Pontchartrain, named by Indians, 
would be so warm and salty you could 
take a floating nap ! 

But I'd be anxious to go back to the 
French quarters. There the streets are 
twisted and narrow, damp and dirty. 
But if you'd like to poke about some of 
the curio shops you'd be likely to meet a 
kindly old lady who would show her 
patio and court to you. She might even 
proffer a glass of ripened sherry. The 
court I glimpsed belonged to Eugene 
Field. It is just as he saw it as he sat 
there writing — except the grapevine is 
a little more gnarled, the cobbles more 
moss-covered, the tufted grass thicker in 
the crannies of the wall. The sunlight 
would lie in the same mottled pattern, 
warm on the cobblestones. The shadows 
would have the same picket edges be- 
neath the palms, have the same cool 
grayness beside the stone steps. The 
clatter of the street would sound as 
muffled. The peace inside would be as 
deep. Wrought iron balconies with Marie 
de Ponsel's monogram attest the rule of 
Spain. The French inhabitants attest the 
rule of France. Today, all strife is over 
for this belle of the Mississippi. New 
Orleans rests in the serene possession of 
the United States. Her traditions, her 
romance are ours. 

If you've enjoyed this magic-carpet 
view of New Orleans, you can, perhaps, 
slip down with me on my magic carpet 
for the Mardi Gras! 



[24] 



Along the Trail to Tin Cup 

R. J. Leimbacher 
Rhetoric II, Theme 16, 1936-37 



IN 1930 I spent two months in south- 
western Colorado — wonderful months 
that will never be forgotten. And as I 
idly shuffle through the scores of snap- 
shots I took that summer, old memories, 
joyful scenes, glow warmly. All are but 
memories now, but memories to cherish 
and to keep. Once more I picture my- 
self riding along the trail to Tin Cup 
with Casey and Frank — six days on 
horseback over rugged Indian trails, 
through deep tangled underbrush, 
through soft, beautifully clean snow far 
above timber line. 

I remember the shabby false- fronted 
saloon at Pitken where we stopped one 
morning to eat a breakfast of pie and 
root beer. Our horses were tied to a 
hitching rail bordering the wooden walk. 
While we were eating they broke the rail 
and dragged it with them down the 
town's only street. How fortunate for 
the citizens of Pitken that we had not 
tied them to the town hall ! 

Next day we wandered off the main 
trail and followed the mere ghost of a 
path until it faded into nothing at an 
abandoned gold mine high in the moun- 
tains. There we came across an un- 
marked grave and the dusty, yellowed 
and crumbling notebook of some luckless 
miner. We located the mine shaft and 
explored it: a dark, damp, vile-smelling 
hole that had long since been forgotten, 
the life's work of some old prospector 
who had staked his life on that hole — 
and lost. We spent a good part of the 
night speculating on the life lived by the 
man buried outside, and we slept in his 
last home — a crudely fashioned log shack 



whose roof had fallen in years before. 
We reached Fairview Pass, far above 
timber line, the next evening just as the 
sun was sinking. The snow-capped peaks 
surrounding us took on a pale, pink tint 
as the last light of dying day fell upon 
them. The smaller peaks below us 
stretched in parallel ridges as far as the 
eye could reach. And somewhere — none 
of us knew exactly — in the main valley 
to the north was Tin Cup. We began the 
descent of the steep, narrow, twisting 
trail in Indian file. I took the lead, Casey 
came next, and Frank brought up the 
rear. The trail was about three feet wide, 
and to the left there was a sheer drop 
of some four hundred feet. Casey sighted 
a wildcat slinking across the rugged 
slope to the right, and without a word 
of warning he fired at it. My horse was 
a spirited, nervous animal, and at the 
sound of the shot he reared up on his 
hind legs. I caught a glimpse of the 
jagged rocks far below, and my heart 
froze while the horse pawed the air with 
his forefeet. After a moment which 
was an eternity to me his feet came back 
to the trail, but he continued to prance 
in a most annoying manner along the 
outer edge of the path. Casey had missed 
the "cat," and while he was cursing his 
luck I was damning him. I was too shaky 
to ride further in the deepening dusk, 
so we camped for the night at the next 
level spot. Above us the glorious stars — 
those stars which exist only in a western 
sky — twinkled and sparkled, and a quar- 
ter moon peeked over the snow-capped 
mountains, giving them the appearance 
of silver. I was glad the stars, the moon. 



[25] 



and the mountain peaks were there to 
keep me company, for, although I was 
tired, I couldn't sleep. Bare hard rock 
was never intended for use as a man's 
bed ! And saddles were made to sit on — 
not to be used as pillows ! 

Late next afternoon we reached Tin 
Cup, the dead village. At one time Tin 
Cup had been a prosperous mining town 
— a desolate hotel, a tumble-down and 
rotted wooden depot, and a rusty section 
of narrow railroad track were monu- 
ments to its past prosperity — but now 



there was no one living within miles of 
it. In the depot Casey found a rusty bed 
spring; he at once appointed himself 
station agent and slept in comfort that 
night. 

In exploring Tin Cup next day I found 
a yellowed, frail newspaper in a tin box 
under the clerk's desk in the hotel and 
read with much interest an account of 
a raid made by Villa on a border town 
in Arizona — the paper was dated May 
11, 1913. I still have that paper; it is one 
of my most highly valued possessions. 



Snapshots 



Caveman 

He efrasped a huge piece of slag and raised it above his head and poised, waiting 
for a chance to throw it. As he stood silhouetted against the rising sun, his thick, 
squat body tensed and his arms bent, holding the rock, time ran backwards and I saw 
a paleolithic caveman preparing for the kill. — Kelton M. Scott 

Frog 

Whenever T see him going down the street I am reminded of a frog which has 
reared up on his hind legs and, by some freak of nature, has been permanently glued 
in that position. — Bettie Becker 

Mouse 

She was like a mouse in most respects. Her small beady eyes, her small puckered 
mouth down where her chin should have been, her drab coloring, and even her cheap 
grey coat contributed to her mouse-like appearance. She sat timidly upright in her 
corner of the bus with her hands and feet primly folded. Her black eyes darted fear- 
fully about, her bony little hands clutched her pocketbook with desperate intentness. 
One wondered where the cat was that made the litde mouse so wary. 

— Peggy Laughun 

Co-ed 

Georgianna entered her French classroom wearing a touching expression that 
practically said, "Don't hurt me, teacher-weacher, I'll be a dood dirl." 

— Peggy Laughun 

Mr. Quixby 

He is a tall, lanky individual, with shoulders slightly stooped, and a walk that 
greatly resembles the famous German goose-step. This latter impression may be 
caused by his shoes, which are extremely long, with curious lumps and bulges to accom- 
modate the tortured toes beneath. A small Adam's apple skitters up and down above a 
stiff white collar, while the long forehead slopes up and back to a shock of snow-white 
hair which is always neatly combed. — Glenn L. Brown 



[26] 



On Madame's Hat and Other Absurdities 



Lorraine Groupe 



Rhetoric II Proficiency 

QINCE the time when Adam jeered at 
^ Eve for twining hibiscus in her hair, 
woman and her peculiarities have been 
a common source of humor to the All- 
Perfect Male. The most consistently- 
successful radio programs are those in 
which the woman is the nincompoop, the 
butt of all jokes. A famous novelist 
writes a book on the Influence of Woman 
and Its Cure. In motion picture come- 
dies it is generally the woman who is 
embarrassingly disconcerted at the end. 
There lurks in the rear of the minds of 
even the most respectful of men that 
little maggot — a laughing contempt of 
the hapless and helpless female. With 
my attemptedly vitriolic pen, I shall try 
to tear down a few of the oldest sub- 
jects for leering innuendoes — namely. 
Woman and the Hat, Woman and the 
Complexion, Woman and Mirrors, and 
Woman and Gossip. 

The acknowledged objective of every 
woman is to attract and please the male 
eye. She accomplishes this end by mak- 
ing herself outstanding, different — and 
what can be more outstandingly differ- 
ent than an extreme hat? After 
attention has been attracted, interest 
provoked, the elusive male captured, he 
then comes to the conclusion that the 
darling little windmill hat, in which she 
looked so well, is ridiculous, outlandish* 
My theory is that the turncoat attitude 
is prompted solely by jealousy and noth- 
ing more. Have you ever watched the 
wistful expression, the hungry look on 
a man's face when he gazes at the 
brightly colored millinery confections for 
men in Esquire? Sometimes a hardier 



Examination, 1937-1938 

spirit will saunter carelessly into a store 
to try one on — or, courageous soul, to 
actually buy one ! But, alas, the purchase 
is worn only until he feels the eye of 
another man (probably envious) upon 
his head ; and then the short-termed 
delight is laid aside with the excuse that 
"it didn't fit anyway." Therefore, the 
oldest object of ridicule is laid to rest 
under the tombstone of envy. 

The next, woman's concern for her 
complexion, is easily understandable. But 
what is underestimated, in fact disre- 
garded entirely, is the male concern over 
his epidermis. A man who will face an 
irate automobilist, a mad bull, or a 
mother-in-law boldly, will flinch when he 
finds a roughened spot on his face. So 
he uses a little of his wife's, or sister's 
cold cream, tissue cream, and skin tonic, 
and when accused of theft, blames it on 
evaporation and changes the subject with 
a long tirade on the money wasted on 
beauty preparations. Thus, man is not 
only jealous but deceitful as well. 

Thirdly, contrast a woman's careful, 
but unconcerned survey of herself in a 
mirror with a man's self-conscious, self- 
admiring preening. A woman looks into 
a mirror only to see if she needs any 
more powder ; a man gazes complacently 
at the handiwork of God, which gives 
him so much pleasure. I add conceit to 
the list of male faults. 

On the last subject, the one of gossip- 
ing, I wax indignant. Man disclaims any 
part in it, but boldfacedly admits to the 
bull session, that ruination of any girl's 
reputation. Speaking as an individual, I 
would rather have my appearance pur- 



[27] 



ringly commented on by cats than my deceitful, conceited, and jealous person 
moral codes, my physical deficiencies, my who will take every opportunity to pro- 
conversation torn to shreds by tigers. voke the rage of woman, just with the 
In surveying the arguments I have idea of cloaking his own naked faults — 
described, I find that man is a malicious, but, oh, how we women love it ! 



Figures of Speech 

He lived a moth ball existence. — Sister Mary Mercedes Crane 



The cream pie was sprinkled with a sort of glorified excelsior. 

— Sister Mary Mercedes Crane 



The round dome of the auditorium looked like a huge fruit bowl turned upside 
down. — Lee Roy Hays 

• • • • 

The observatory like a giant's marble half-hidden among the trees. 

— E. H. Mueller 

• • • • 

Construction men like grasshoppers on the stalk of the structure. 

— E. H. Mueller 

Static like a crackling brush fire. — E. H. Mueller 

The golf course was as windy as a ride in a roadster. — E. H. Mueller 

The fateful words of the message danced before her eyes like a swarm of tortur- 
ing gnats. — Sister Ida Marie Adams 

• • • • 

His nose extended into the sea of air like a peninsula. 

— Sister Ida Marie Adams 

My desk-lamp eyed my work like a quizzical, long-necked goose. 

— Sister Ida Marie Adams 

• • • • 

She wore a pink hat shaped like an inverted dog-dish. — Charles J. Taylor 

• • • • 

The clouds looked like grey, soggy dumplings. — Charles J. Taylor 

Protected by red shin-guards, the catcher's legs looked like those of a lobster. 

— Charles J. Taylor 

As proud as the foam on a stein of beer. — John A. Shaneman 

[28] 



Trout Fishing 

Kenneth Busch 
Rhetoric II, Theme 16, 1926-1927 



npHE NEXT time you see the village 
*■ weather prophet cock his eye at a 
cloudless sky, and announce solemnly 
that it is a "weather-breeder," ask him 
how he knows. The chances are you'll 
never find out, for it's a weakness with 
most men to conceal, if possible, their 
sources of information, and the manner 
in which they achieved skill in perform- 
ing certain tasks. 

I too share this weakness for conceal- 
ment. I take particular care to avoid 
exposing some of my early experiences. 
Why, the very first time I set a steel 
trap, the only thing I caught was my 
fingers. And my first pair of long pants 
— I tripped myself publicly by stepping 
on the cuflF while taking a step back- 
wards. Although I have since attained 
some proficiency in these lines of en- 
deavor, I still take care to keep those 
early memories buried. 

There are, however, a few youthful 
efforts I don't mind recalling. One, for 
example, was the first fish I ever caught 
on a fly. 

The family doctor was responsible for 
this. He was a great fly-fisherman, and, 
naturally, a true sportsman. He hated to 
see me growing up and still using worms 
for fishing. When I was nine, he gave 
me some flies and a little information 
about them. It all sounded very well, but 
I lacked confidence in mere feathers and 
silk. When I did use the flies, I added a 
hunk of worm. The results were just 
what you would expect. But I couldn't 
bring myself to believe that trout really 
would be caught on something they 
couldn't eat. I had heard about its being 



done, of course, but I suspected that 
there was some secret being kept from 
me. 

One afternoon in May, school was dis- 
missed early. It was what local officials 
proudly called "Clean-up Day." School 
children were supposed to devote their 
"free" time to cleaning up their home 
premises. Prizes were to be awarded to 
the conscientious urchins who exhibited 
the cleanest yard as a result of their 
own labors. Our yard looked like more 
of a job than I cared to undertake, par- 
ticularly in view of the fact that the 
very highest reward offered was an 
engraved scroll. Besides, it had rained 
the night before, and the amber waters 
of Indian Meadow Brook sang a song 
which I couldn't resist. 

On the afternoon of the civic cleanup, 
I was told at home to rake up the front 
yard. I did for a while, but the enchant- 
ing song of Indian Meadow Brook 
tinkled in my thoughts. I found it neces- 
sary to rake all the way across the pave- 
ment, and then I had to go across the 
street to see how the yard looked from 
there. And finally, not much to my sur- 
prise, I found myself at Indian Meadow 
Brook. I'd got my rod, a basket, and a 
can of worms from their hiding place. 
But, in my haste, I'd lost the worms. 

I could, of course, have grubbed 
around in the woods for more, but that, 
I felt, would take too long. Besides, 
worm grubbing would be hard work. I 
decided to use the two flies the family 
doctor had given me. Even if I caught 
nothing I could practice casting, about 
which I knew almost nothing. 



[29] 



My rod was a hand-me-down, a 
battered implement which had seen the 
depths of the dread Hammerton 
Swamps, and had taken many a fine 
trout from the gravelly bends of the 
Farmington East Branch. In an old 
envelope, I carried the doctor's contri- 
butions — a three-foot leader, a Coach- 
man, and a Professor. I soaked the dry 
leader for a few minutes and then 
fastened on the Coachman. I trailed the 
leader in the water, and pulled on it, and 
gradually it became less like a coiled 
spring. Then I began to fish in the best 
imitation of the methods I had heard 
about. 

As the fly slid across the current at 
the end of a pool, I saw a trout roll up 
from the depths and lunge at it. I could 
scarcely believe my eyes. Startled, I 
jumped, and as I did, the line tightened, 
and the trout was fast. Somehow I 
pulled myself together, and played him, 
with due regard for what seemed to me 
the criminal smallness of the hook, which 
was a mere number ten. I used number 
six or larger for worming. But finally 
the trout was landed. Still I was unbe- 
lieving. How could a trout be caught on 
an artificial fly? 

He was a big fish, as they ran in that 
stream then — nine and a half inches or 
so. I was hysterical with joy. It could 
be done ! When I had put the trout into 
the basket, and turned once more to the 
water, it was a thrill to realize that I was 
ready to continue fishing, without paw- 
ing around in the bait box for a worm. 
Just heave the fly, and go to it. It 
occurred to me that fly fishing had some 
virtues I had overlooked. 

It took something under a minute to 
learn that fly-fishing was not so easy as 
I had assumed. A trout rose, mouthed 



the fly, spat it out, and swam away. All 
of them were not going to hook them- 
selves. I was tensely set w^hen the next 
rise came, and I whipped the fly away 
before the trout could get anywhere 
near it. The next ten minutes I spent 
disentangling the hook from the unyield- 
ing upper branches of a hemlock which 
had crept up behind me. When I finally 
got the hook free, I shinned down the 
tree, and fell into the brook. 

I wrung out my clothes, and while I 
dried in the sun, my composure returned. 
I resumed my operations cautiously. The 
trout were feeding steadily, and soon, 
after many misses, I caught another. He 
was a good one, too. The misses were 
instructive, for I began to realize the 
mistakes I was making even though I 
could not immediately put my new-found 
wisdom into practice. After a while, I 
took a third fish, and then caught two 
on successive casts. This puffed my ego 
so much that my casting grew careless. 
The trout, however, were on my side, 
several of them virtually committing 
suicide. 

When I got home, I had sixteen trout. 
The largest was ten inches long, and 
they were all fat and brilliant. I rushed 
up to the house, having forgot, in my 
pride, just what I was coming back to. 
The rake leaned accusingly against the 
steps, and there stood my parents, look- 
ing stern. Just leaving was the Clean-up 
Day inspection committee — the first 
selectman, the Congregational minister, 
and the school principal. One glance 
satisfied me they weren't pleased. 

I crept forward and exhibited my 
catch. 

"Got 'em all on a fly," I said weakly. 
I thought I detected a gleam of interest 
in my father's eyes, but his mouth was 



[30] 



grim. I stood meekly, waiting for the 
lightning to descend. 

Just then there was a gentle hiss be- 
hind me. I turned to see the doctor driv- 
ing up in his Stanley Steamer. I felt 
better — here was an ally. 

But I didn't need help. Father came 
down the steps, took the basket of fish, 
and held it out for the doctor's inspec- 
tion. 

"How's that for a string?" he asked. 
''He caught them all on a fly, too!" 



The battle was won. Father was a 
fisherman first, and a stem parent sec- 
ond. The inspection committee was 
forgot. 

And then came the thrill that made me 
feel suddenh' grown up. The doctor 
looked at the tmtidy yard, the telltale 
idle rake. Then he looked at the basket 
of fish. Turning to me, he winked 
solemnlv. 



The Fight 

Professional 

Baer stands flatfooted, with his great death-dealing fight fist doubled by his side. 
He swings, and one can almost count three while his fist sails through the air. Louis 
moves sidewise and back, because he has been taught that if he moves with a blow it 
can never hurt him. Baer's glove slides up the side of Louis' head harmlessly. He 
swings again and again, and, carefully and unhurriedly, Louis slips awa)-. Look! 
Louis is at last going in. A left, a right, and another left in close. Louis has pidled 
in his head, and, with both arms up before him, he looks like a brown crayfish. All 
one can see is the twitching of his shoulders. So incredibly fast is he that the blows 
themselves are almost invisible. His hand cannot possibly be mo%-ing more than a 
few inches. He is Literally raining down blows. Baer's nose spurts blood, his lower 
lip is gashed, and his face is red pulp. — H. Maubice Ktr by 

And Amateur 

I foolishly precipitated the clash while mopping in one of the cabins. E , the 

chambermaid, was making a bed in the other room of the cabin. R , the waiter, 

ambled by in his white coat and trousers. I playfully flicked the water-samrated mop 
out the door, not really meaning to splash him. It was a foolhardy move, however, for 
he snarled a curse, stepped into the cabin, and dealt me a lusty slap in the face. I was 
taken aback. \Mien I realized what had happened, I was thoroughly enraged and 
threw myself into the batde with vim. We rolled on the floor, hitting wherever, and 
whenever, we could. I remember seeing, on one of the frequent times when I was 

underneath him. E nm out of the cabin, screaming for one of the brothers to 

come and break up the fighL I vi^-idly recall his face bobbing before me and my lash- 
ing out at it. One particularly accurate blow smashed his upper lip and made his nose 
gush blood. He, however, beat the wind out of me with a superb punch in my solar 
plexus region, bashed my head against the end of the bed, gave me a '"mouse" (black 
eye), and completely whipped me. I drew one logical conclusion from the combat — 
the bigger they are, the harder I fall. — \\'illis Ballaxce 



[31] 



Rhet. As Writ. 

(Extracts from themes written in Rhetoric I and II) 



Your telephone also brings incon- 
vience to you by ringing when you are 
cooking and are near a cridical point of 
being burned or well cooked. 



It is a very good experience which he 
would probably never have had if it had 
not been for his having to have a sum- 
mer job. 



I expected to see only seven or eight 
college buildings and to be placed on a 
hill or knob away from the town and its 
business. 

It was fun for most of them to be able 
to ware a uniform with shinning but- 
toms and have the ladies look up to them. 

Every seat was filled to capacity. 

• • • • 

John was in a trench, and on both 
sides of him were men dressed as he 
was, with bowel shaped helmets on their 
heads. 

Whenever anyone called on the head 
of the government, the visitor was ex- 
pected to stand while he sat. 



With the Arabian Knights in my arms, 
I could be whisked merrily away with 
Ali Baba and his forty henchmen. 

Peoria's growth in the past has been 
rapid, but it will be more rapid in the 
hereafter. 

The picnics are usually held in forest 
preserves during the day on Sundays, 
while the wiennie roasts are held in the 
evening over an outdoor fire place. 

When we follow the irrigation ditch, 
we see many things of interest — com- 
mon things, such as wood chucks, golfers, 
and frogs. 

I will be the butt of no leg-pulling. 



[32:\ 



Honorable Mention 



Lack of space prevents the publishing of excellent themes written by the 
following students. Some of these themes may be published, in part or in entirety, 
in future issues. 



Edwin J. Barber 
David Ehrenberg 
George Foster 
Doris Good 
B. E. Gordon 
Collin Handlen 
Earl Humphrey 
RoLLiN A. Johnson 
Ellin Kudo 
Buck Lowry 
Betty McMarron 



Patsy Maxwell 
Randal A. Mehler 
Shannon Powers 
Frances Pritchett 
John E. Sicks 
Joseph O. Stites 
Maxine Stogsdell 
Robert Waters 
M. B. Wolfe 

IVIlLTON YaNOW 



The English Readings 



Each year the Department of English sponsors a series of readings from 
literature. The program for the rest of this semester follows. 

November 2. — Ben Jonson, Poet and Man (The Tercentenary of His Death). 
Professor Harold N. Hillebrand. 

November 16. — From John C. Branner's The How and Why Stories. Professor 
Marvin T. Herrick. 

December 14. — America's Most Popular Play: Uncle Tom's Cabin. Mr. Wesley 

SWANSON. 

January 11. — Modern Metrical Rhythms. Professor W. M. Parrish. 

The readings will be held at 228 Natural History Building (at the corner of Green 
and Mathews), and will begin at 7:15 p.m. 




Vol.7 



DECEMBER. IQ*^? 




TABLE OF CONTENTS 

BLACK EYES 1 

Dorothy Dietz 

SHAKESPEARE'S MIDSUMMER'S IDIOM ... 2 
June Morgan 

A PACIFIST'S PHILOSOPHY: 1937 3 

M. B. Wolfe 

I DON'T BELIEVE IT 5 

Anonymous 

THE SKETCH BOOK 10 

(Material written in Rhetoric I and II) 

THE ADVANTAGES OF A LARGE FAMILY . . 12 
Isabel Roberts 

ON BEING A SCULLERY MAID 15 

Irma Breiter 

ON BECOMING EDUCATED 17 

R. Marschik 

LESSON IN SELF-CONFIDENCE 19 

Robert Waters 

WHAT'S IN A TITLE? 22 

(Titles of themes submitted to the GREEN 
CALDRON, 1936-1937) 

BLUT UND EISEN 23 

Allen Adams 

1914 — 1937 25 

Regina Eberle 

SLUM CYCLE 28 

B. E. Gordon 

RHET. AS WRIT ,32 

t PUBLISHED BY THE RHETORIC STAFF. UNIVERSI TY OF ILLINOIS, URBANA 



^ 



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

The committee in charge of this issue of The Green 
Caldron includes Dr. Robert Blair, Mr. Gibbon But- 
ler, Mr. Lee Hughes, Dr. Carolyn Washburn, and Dr. 
R. E. Haswell, Chairman. 

The Green Caldron is for sale in the Information 
Office, Administration Building, Urbana, Illinois. The 
price is fifteen cents a copy. 



Black Eyes 



Dorothy Dietz 
Rhetoric I, Theme 13, 1926-1937 



TT WAS Christmas Sunday. All was 
*■ warm and happy and comfortable at 
home. We finished our dinner, loaded 
the baskets into the car, and went to 
call for two of the Sunday School stu- 
dents who were to accompany us. 

Each year at Christmas time it had 
been a family custom to give away a 
little of what we had ; this year I had 
invited my Sunday School class of thir- 
teen year olds to help me. For weeks 
before, we had been making over clothes, 
repairing toys, dressing dolls, and saving 
for the food and special presents that 
were to be included in our gifts to a 
Mexican family of the slum district. It 
was a great deal of fun ; our evenings 
together were rather festive. The hours 
we spent together were part of the 
Christmas season. They had been for 
years past and would be for many 
Christmases to come. 

Arriving at the grayed, tumble-down, 
wooden tenement that was the home we 
were to visit, we managed to scramble 
out from beneath the baskets and bundles 
that we had been packed in with, and to 
find our way up the narrow, dark, worn 
staircase to the small, cold rooms of the 
family we were seeking. They were ex- 
pecting us, and the smallest black-eyed 
boy shyly escorted us, with our first load 
of bundles, into the cold dampness of the 
front room. After laughing with the 
mother over the big eyes of her nine 
excited children, we returned to the car 
for another load. Upon entering this 



time, we were received by one little boy 
who had found his voice enough to say 
something about Santa Claus. The old- 
est girl mustered courage enough to peek 
at a doll whose head was sticking out of 
a box. Soon all except the very smallest 
little girl, who was busy with a woolly 
dog, were chattering happily. After more 
trips to the car and when everyone 
seemed happy, we decided to leave. 
When the others were on their way 
downstairs and I was saying a last 
goodbye, the seven-year old, with her 
black eyes shining and her cold little 
hand in mine, reached up and kissed 
me. It was then, very suddenly, then 
I knew. 

We had been wrong, terribly wrong. 
How dared we ! Making a convention- 
ality out of toying with their happiness ; 
gratifying our sense of duty by so "gen- 
erously" giving of what we did not need 
— was it not little more than mockery? 
Behind those black eyes had been love 
for us ; had we looked behind black eyes 
to see more than just an object for our 
giving? Had we seen individual person- 
ality potentially as rich and beautiful as 
any on earth, character potentially as 
fine as we hoped ours might become? 
It zvas there — and we regarded it much 
as we regarded the plants we watered 
and the canaries we fed ! Christmas gifts 
to the poor? Let them rather be Christ- 
mas gifts to friends who happen to be 
poor — because a little girl with shining 
black eyes kissed me goodbye. 



[ 1 ] 



Shakespeare's Midsummer s Idiom 



June Morgan 
Rhetoric I, Theme 4, 1927-1938 



I ABHOR up-lifters. I detest raisers 
of the popular taste. I loathe givers 
of beauty to the proletariat. This is my 
"j 'accuse" against those who would force 
down the already much distended throats 
of the public a more cultured cinema. 
Movies are America's Public Relaxation 
No. 1. They are for the millions who 
cry for belly laughs, for tears, for cheap 
songs, for superterrestrial lovely ladies, 
for men with the best parts of an Apollo 
and a Tarzan ; they are not for the mili- 
tant Knights Templar of Culchar who 
will burn the many in the hot oil of blank 
verse to save them from the devil, bad 
taste. They cannot see that an auto-da-fe 
never truly converts anyone. 

Let us take for example the much 
heralded Midsummer-Night's Dream 
which was to retail the Bard to breath- 
less, awe-struck movie-goers from 
Broadway to Mid-Western whistle stops. 
Rather than criticize the simpering 
Shearer, the half-hearted Howard, or the 
boisterously burping Barrymore, let us 
go to the spirit in which this juggernaut 
of refinement was rolled over the bodies 
of those dumb, unquestioning idolaters 
who would much rather be seeing the 
Ritz brothers. It was a sop thrown to 
women's clubs and school teachers with 
enough super-colossalism added to bring 
the hoi -polloi. 

In any case Shakespeare in the movies 
is an anomaly. It is not in Shakespeare's 
own spirit. The typical movie audience 
must be much like that which filled the 
Globe. I dare say few learned church- 
men or Oxford dons found their way to 



Southwark. The ribboned gallants who 
"strutted and fretted" to their stools on 
the stage, the ladies in vizards in cur- 
tained boxes, the fishwives, the coster- 
mongers — these were his audiences. And 
they loved these plays. They were in 
their idiom ; they had the spirit of the 
time ; the language which so confuses us 
now was their language. Shakespeare is 
now archaic. He has been deified by 
those who love him ; and those who study 
him understand him far more than those 
Tudor Londoners out for good times 
across the Thames. The point of all this 
is that Shakespeare in his time was ex- 
tremely popular — and yet all his works 
are artistic. He is not popular in the 
movies — and not very artistic. The 
movies putter about attempting to make 
a popular art of Shakespeare, of the 
great novels, of historical events without 
even considering that the movie public 
must have a new idiom, one that is of the 
moment, appealing to all — popular, yet 
artistic. 

Let us remember that the audience 
which sat enthralled on the hard stone 
benches watching the masked actors per- 
form a tragedy of Sophocles were not a 
group of Walter Paters or Matthew 
Arnolds — they were mere citizens of 
Athens. Shakespeare's audience was on 
the whole less esthetic than the Pi Phi's 
and Sig. Nu's who sing with Ray Turner 
Saturday night at the Rialto. The com- 
mon movie-goers are asking for master- 
pieces that are in their spirit — for the 
all, not the few — for immortal drama 
which can be played by Alice Faye. 



[2] 



A Pacifist's Philosophy: 1937 



M. B. Wolfe 
Rhetoric I, Theme 1, 1937-1928 



OACIFISTS can orate, present facts 



r 



and figures, give unanswerable ar- 



I 



guments, but they have little eflfect upon 
the stark realism of war, for pacifism has 
one all-powerful enemy, mob hysteria. 

A few thousand people go to a theater. 
They are so many individual, rational, 
sane beings. A notice is flashed on the 
screen. It reads, "In case of fire, this 
theater can be emptied in three minutes. 
Walk, do not run to the nearest exit." 
The theater-goers read it, understand it, 
realize that the theater can be emptied 
most quickly if the people leave in an 
orderly fashion. Thus, when a fire does 
break out, they file quietly toward their 
respective exits, kindly assist the aged 
and the children to safety, and all es- 
cape unharmed? Like H — 1 they do! 
They cease to become individuals. They 
become one solid, screaming, clawing, 
beastlike mass scrambling roughly over 
those too weak to fight their way out. 
Many people are needlessly killed. These 
once-sane people have not suddenly gone 
crazy, they are only responding to mob 
hysteria. Their reasoning is gone. They 
have come a monstrum horrendiim with 
one, and only one idea — to get out, 
quickly. 

This is basic, and illustrates the force 
of the emotion which grips people at 
the beginning of a war. There are other 
factors existing today which discourage 
the pacifist — jingoistic nationalism, dic- 
tators seeking to keep their subjects' 
minds off their empty stomachs, Zahar- 
offs, Krupps, and Du Fonts who sell 



munitions and need markets, and the 
tragic results of the last war. These all 
help to provide the spark and tinder 
which start the devastating bonfire. 

Also it is said that warfare is in our 
blood, that war will last as long as man- 
kind does. The best answer I have seen 
to this dogmatic argument was a cartoon 
in the New York Times last year. On one 
side of the cartoon is shown a group of 
missing links disporting themselves in the 
trees. On the ground is an enterprising 
youngster who is attempting the danger- 
ous experiment of standing on only two 
of his legs. The others are laughing and 
saying, "The fool ! We have always 
walked on four legs and we always will." 
The other side of the cartoon shows 
people filing toward a peace forum. A 
sceptic in the foreground comments that 
such things are useless, since war, like 
the poor, will always be with us. 

Pacifist organizations are not con- 
vinced that war is inevitable. World 
Peaceways, the American League against 
War and Fascism, and the various stu- 
dent leagues are doing spendid work. All 
history, however, seems to indicate that 
their efforts are useless. All over the 
world, in the last war, groups who had 
stood out most strongly against war were 
among the first to enter the battle lines. 
Even the radical organizations fell in 
line. It is easy enough to say that these 
groups were fickle and hypocritical, but 
that is not true. They were an intelli- 
gent, honest-minded class, but they were 
swept along in the tidal wave of national- 



[ 3 ] 



istic emotion which deluged their re- that when we hear the bands playing and 

spective countries at the outbreak of the see the flags flying and are urged to go 

war. out and make heroes of ourselves we will 

Yes, it is easy enough to be a pacifist enthusiastically kill our fellow creatures 

after the fighting is over; it is easy in order to make something safe for 

enough to assert that no such thing can something? 

happen today. Do we really believe that ? We don't dare to believe anything. We 

Or do we have a well-grounded fear only hope. 



As the Movies See Them 

Small Town 

Movies concerning small town life invariably open with scenes showing peaceful 
Main Street with dusty stores ranged in an undeviating line on both sides, or a lovely 
village residence of white frame surrounded by a picket fence and beautiful elms, or 
the citizens just getting out of church and giving and receiving pleasant gossip. Then 
something happens to disrupt the calm village life. Perhaps Theodora goes wild — 
writes a novel about the wicked city and the sinful people living there. Immediately 
there is life in the little town. The village paper starts to work as it never worked 
before, the village gossips start to work as they never worked before, and all in all 
the whole town enters into a lively dispute. Is Theodora right or wrong to have 
taken to such a career? Everyone in town except the worldly newspaper editor is 
against careers for women — at any rate such a one as Theo's. However, the reading 
of Theodora's books goes on stealthily and extensively. After Theodora has proved 
that her innate rectitude can neutralize the bad effects of any career that she may 
wish to undertake, the townspeople finally remove their hypocritic disguise. The 
picture fades with the town back in its calm serenity. The people are still going 
calmly to church and unhurriedly to market. 

Big City 

City life in the movies is a picture of unceasing activity. If the poor working girl 
is not hurrying down to work via the congested subway, the wealthy daughter of a 
bank president is rushing from one cocktail party to the next in search of excitement, 
true love, or a husband. If I can believe half of what I see, New York is a city in 
which live very poor people who must either honestly or dishonestly gain food, cloth- 
ing, and shelter for themselves and their little ones, and very rich people whose only 
problem in life is how to avoid ennui. The latter class searches for adventure in 
making love, getting married and divorced and married again as did the couple in 
"Private Lives," who were spasmodically making love to and throwing chinaware at 
each other. Even becoming involved in a murder seems to be a not uncommon rem- 
edy. Between drinks and hangovers, the wealthy couple in "The Thin Man" was 
absorbed in a real murder mystery. Neither Mr. Charles, retired detective, nor Mrs. 
Charles seemed to have any great interest in life except their dog; luck was with us 
when we were allowed to see them during this exciting moment. Of course, the great 
detective ferreted out the criminal as a movie detective never fails to do. Wouldn't 
Scotland Yard be pleased if it had a Sherlock Holmes like Nick Charles, who never 
failed to solve a mystery he undertook? — Jean McJohnston 



[4] 



I Don't Believe It 



Anonymous 
Rhetoric II, Theme 10, 1936-1937 



IS MY personality at the mercy of a 
group of ductless glands? The mod- 
ern scientific trend would have it that 
way. One writer says that tall thin 
men with an over-supply of some hor- 
mone are destined to be of a melan- 
choly nature ; to play solitaire, dote on 
funerals, read radical literature, and 
seek to reform the world. Plump men, 
on the other hand, who have the gland 
working smoothly, even too smoothly for 
their appearance's sake, are found to 
play poker, enjoy weddings, read P. G. 
Wodehouse, and shout Bravo ! to the 
world's ways. However, that my joy 
or anxiety, fear or ecstasy, or the way 
I think and the thoughts I have are all 
created by, and responsible to, a few 
bulbs of tissue hidden away inside of me 
is more than I can accept, even from 
our intelligentsia. The thought inspires 
a sense of futility. A hundred million 
guinea pigs have been wasted on that 
score, at least so far as I am concerned. 
The intangible perfection of thought 
cannot be approached by so gross a 
thing as flesh. The two do not speak 
the same language. Their difference is 
that which exists between the corpse and 
the coroner. One is shapen clay; the 
other, clay made alive by thought. What 
are the glands doing in the corpse ? Can't 
they make it walk? The misled physiol- 
ogist who seeks to control and create 
thought by working on the glands re- 
minds one of the equally misled chemist 
who tries to build life from atoms — 
tries to make a dog out of a dog-house, 
since atoms are merely the housing of 
thought. 



"I'll remove a gland," says the scien- 
tist, "and then you may witness the 
change in mental state as well as in 
physical." 

"Very well Mr. So and So. PU re- 
move your arm, and then you witness 
the change in your mental state as well 
as your physical. But even so, I don't 
make any claims concerning the arm's 
power over the creation and control or 
choice of thought, at least no farther 
control than all external circumstances 
have on personality." 

Pm not a Christian Scientist declaring 
the power of thought over matter. Need 
I be, to have the preceding beliefs? 
There are certain things that need only 
to be seen to be self-evident, and to me, 
the improbability of this modern scien- 
tific theory is one of them. The glands 
and the mind have a relationship, no 
doubt, but it isn't the former's creation 
of the mind's products. The mind acts 
through the glands, I believe, and conse- 
quently the glands can alter the action, 
but only so far as is given them to do 
so by the mind itself. To explain more 
fully what I mean, I will re-tell an ex- 
perience I once had that seems to mirror 
the idea well. 

I was then ten, and the place was in the 
hills of my father's cattle ranch in Colo- 
rado. I rode with a companion, a lean, 
bronzed man known to the rest of us as 
Fritz. The foreman, he was a man 
capable of severe exactions when neces- 
sary, but also possessing a remarkable 
softness and understanding on certain 
occasions. The season being spring, we 
were starting the round-up for calf- 



[ 5 ] 



branding. Our morning ride had taken 
us twelve miles from the ranch, deep 
into a pasture-land of abrupt hills with 
green meadows winding aimlessly be- 
tween. We ate lunch on a flat rock 
directly in the rays of the sun, and then 
continued our hunt for cows and calves. 

About mid-afternoon we came upon 
the object of our search. Rounding the 
crown of a small hill we found below us, 
relaxed on the short green grass and 
chewing their cud, fifty or so mothers 
with their immaculate youngsters frisk- 
ing about them. Mastering the herd was 
a giant Hereford bull of about ten sum- 
mers. His head was obscured in a mass 
of curly white wool from which pro- 
truded a set of thick, battle-scarred 
horns. His shoulder-breadth was im- 
mense, even for a range bull of his breed, 
and there was an atmosphere of solidity 
about him that I felt and saw even at a 
quarter mile distance. 

The group as a whole, together with 
the natural setting, formed such a de- 
lightful picture that Fritz suggested we 
dismount and watch them while he had 
a smoke. To eliminate the danger of 
becoming "hung up" in the saddle leather 
should my pony decide to stage an act, I 
was, on my father's orders, riding bare- 
back. As a result, the abused portions 
of my anatomy welcomed a rest there on 
the warm hillside. I slid ofif in a jifify, 
but Fritz was more dignified in his dis- 
mounting. We reclined on our elbows 
and hips while the foreman took out his 
beloved "makin's." Soon the odor of 
Bull Durham was floating about, mingled 
with the scent of pine needles and fresh- 
growing grass. For a time we were 
silent, sopping up the caressing sunshine. 
Then we began to converse in low tones. 
There is a quality about the silent open 
spaces that frustrates sophistication and 
the pretensions of security that men 



ordinarily wrap themselves in. Because 
of that, our conversation led into things 
that would have seemed childish back at 
the ranch. We were attacked by that 
embarrassment that accompanies the con- 
fessions of one's inmost ideas and be- 
liefs ; but we continued, because the pres- 
sure of the big silence about us had 
awakened a loneliness and an insecurity 
that we sought to stave off with the 
exchange of intimate thoughts. 

While thus engaged, we noticed the 
big bull had become restless. After 
watching him for a moment, Fritz de- 
clared that another bull was somewhere 
in the vicinity. Sensing a delightful con- 
flict, I looked eagerly about. Sure enough, 
another bull was coming, coming at a 
lope around the skirt of the hill directly 
across the meadow. He held his head 
high, and his nostrils were dilated with 
quick breathing. He sensed a conflict 
also. As he moved more plainly into 
view, it was evident he was a younger 
bull by several summers. His hide was 
slick and his muscles were rhythmic. 
Where the old bull showed staunchness 
and ruggedness, the new-comer showed 
energy and litheness, and his coming 
across the meadow toward the herd was 
a picture of dashing confidence and 
determination. 

"He's from the early spring crop the 
year we had so much snow. Remem- 
ber?" Fritz remarked. "That big fella' 
is his father. It looks like the prodigal 
son has returned with a purpose. There's 
gonna' be a fight that's really a fight." 

It was a real fight. When within a 
hundred yards of the herd, the stranger 
lapsed into a walk for caution's sake. 
The father, head held low, massive neck 
muscles rippling, walked confidently 
from the herd and approached the 
antagonist. He paused every few yards 
to gouge up great hunks of turf with his 



[ 6 ] 



foreleg and send it whipping into the 
air above him, meanwhile emitting a low 
bellowing from his cavernous throat. 
The son disregarded these customary 
preliminaries and, when a few yards 
away, broke into a speedy trot again, 

"When an irresistible force meets an 
immovable object, what happens," I 
wondered. For standing the weight and 
strength of the father against the speed 
and agility of the son, the fighting wis- 
dom of the elder against the lasting abil- 
ity of the younger, I could not predict 
the outcome. 



gaining momentum for a short time he 
suddenly gathered his muscles and, push- 
ing the unwary stranger's head suddenly 
to one side, lunged directly into his shiny 
side, riding him across the ground in a 
shower of clods and grass. The victim 
finally righted himself and got clear. 
Cautioned by this setback, he changed 
tactics, drawing the older bull into in- 
numerable false rushes, escaping from 
each with superior speed. He explored 
the older bull's wind and found it poor. 
Finally, standing his ground, but refus- 
ing to carry the fight to the aggressor. 




"I'll take the old fella'," Fritz voiced 
excitedly. 

"Then I'll take the stranger," I 
countered ; but on watching the veteran's 
confidence and business-like approach, I 
was secretly swayed in his favor also. 
"He really deserves to win," I thought. 
"He is only trying to protect his rights. 
Down with the aggressor !" 

They met with a terrific impact — a 
steadily moving ton against a fast-mov- 
ing three-quarters. There followed a 
moment of checking and straining in 
equilibrium. Head to head and shoulder 
braced against shoulder, they cut a 
battle-statue in the clear air. Then 
weight began to triumph. The father 
moved the son steadily backwards. After 



the father stood panting and bellowing. 
Judging it the proper time, the son met 
the father again head to head. There was 
the same shock and checking, the same 
straining, but this time the father had 
lost his vitality. Slowly he was pushed 
back. It is not the first lunging, side- 
hooking, and dodging that decides the 
winner in a bull fight. Rather it is the 
last steady pushing that convinces the 
loser of his opponent's superiority. Slow- 
ly the son pushed the father back, gather- 
ing momentum and his muscles. When 
the time was ripe, he pushed the tired 
head suddenly aside and launched him- 
self full into the old bull's side. There 
was not the necessary agility there. The 
defeated monarch stumbled, and the still- 



[ 7 ] 



potent rush of the younger bull spent 
itself on a foreleg. The bone snapped 
and the victim dropped to the ground. 
Sensing the battle completed, the new 
master trotted over to inspect his herd. 

In a cowboy's eyes the source of tears 
is early dried up by the winds and heat 
he must deal with eternally. But Fritz 
had a lump in his throat. I knew by his 
failure to speak at the finish of the fight. 
I had to draw my handkerchief hastily 
and make a general bluster with it to 
camouflage my emotions; but the awk- 
ward silence that followed spoke the 
feelings of both of us. 

The old bull rose unsteadily to his 
three good legs, the fourth dangling from 
the shoulder. He gazed for a moment at 
the herd, but a low bellow warned him to 
begone. He turned and slowly hobbled 
around the skirt of the hill. 

'T'm sorry I haven't my rifle here," 
Fritz said at length. 

"You wouldn't shoot him?" I queried. 

"He'll be dead before morning," came 
the reply. "The coyotes and wolves will 
ham-string him and clean his bones 
before morning." 

My last look at the wounded animal 
disappearing around the hill brought 
back that same creeping loneliness I had 
felt earlier in the afternoon. But this 
time it was augmented by a more serious 
factor than the spaces round about. It 
hurt to see the old fellow, proud even in 
defeat, hobbling around the base of the 
hill, not knowing of, nor expecting, such 
a thing as the comfort human beings 
give to one another under similar circum- 
stances. An animal's world is a cold, 
uninviting world, I thought. That the 
son had unknowingly killed his father, 
that knowing one another was a thing 
unthought of in animal life, set a fresh 
value on the loveliness of human rela- 
tions for me. 



There had passed before us in the 
space of an afternoon the drama of "con- 
tinual life." 

"What is life?" I asked myself, "and 
why should it be of one kind in man and 
another in beasts?" Five years before, 
the young bull had come into the world 
as a portion of the older one's life. He 
had been protected and looked after until 
he was old enough to go away on his 
own. After a few years he had felt his 
strength and come back to kill his father. 
Life had been given from life, and then 
it slew its source. 

My mind pored over the question and 
the vivid events of the day until loneli- 
ness changed to anxiety, for there were 
no answers forthcoming. "One thing is 
certain — man isn't an animal," I rea- 
soned. That had been clearly shown. 

"But what is life?" came forcefully to 
my attention again. A vague tingling 
sensation arose at the base of my spine 
and spread into a wave enveloping my 
entire body. My throat became full and 
uncomfortable; my eyes filled, I was 
made vitally aware of some physical 
action going on within me. 

"What is ?" I started to ask my 

companion, but the syllables froze into 
silence and dropped from the edge of my 
tongue. Then my emotion changed to 
fear, not of the terror-kind, but the cold, 
relentless fear that comes of vital ques- 
tions unanswered, I turned to speak to 
Fritz, but he was half way down to the 
herd. I mounted in a jiflfy and trotted 
ahead, eager for the comfort of compan- 
ionship. 

Today as I remember the happenings 
of that afternoon, it isn't that I ques- 
tioned the how's and wherefore's of 
existence that is significant in connection 
with my ideas of modern gland theories. 
Rather, it is the fact that the events of 
that specific time created, or caused me 



[ 8 ] 



i 



to think, a certain set of thoughts. Be- 
cause they were thoughts of a vital na- 
ture, they caused a general excitement in 
the various glands of the body. The 
gland action, in turn, was felt as emotion, 
actual physically perceptible emotion. To 
get at the mind's bidding, and to reduce 
thought to a physical entity is the role 
of those sensitive little bulbs or leaves 
of flesh. That is the relationship they 
bear to the personality. 

This view I choose in preference to the 
one that would have it that upon that 



certain day and in that place, from no 
other cause than the over-supply or 
under-supply of some hormone, my 
glands decided to stage an exhibition of 
their power; and that as a result, the 
significance of the fight having nothing 
to do with it, my metabolism was stepped 
up to a point where those disturbing 
thoughts resulted. 

But I distinctly remember that it was 
the thought that came first, before the 
emotions, and I am confident it was the 
thought that created the rest. 



Touring 

The tourist prides himself on the five hundred or six hundred miles that he can 
make in one day. He gets up before daybreak, eats a hasty breakfast, has a hot dog 
for lunch, and arrives long after dark, tired and hungry. During that day, what has 
he accomplished beyond traveling a distance of five hundred miles? He has not really 
seen the country that he has traveled through. His goal was a city five hundred miles 
away. Somewhere off in the distance was a big attraction that he had to see at once. 
He would never think of turning off and exploring an interesting old dirt side road, 
just to see where it led to. He would think it a waste of time to stop and enjoy the 
beauty of an old bridge over an interesting little stream. When he stopped for lunch, 
he worried about the time lost, and thought of how far down the road he could have 
been if he had not stopped. He is haunted by the figures on his speedometer, and as a 
result knows nothing about the country leading up to his far off and not so important 
goal. . . . 

In Yellowstone Park this mad rush of the tourists is at its highest. I know, 
because two years ago I was among them. At one of the geysers close to the road 
the tourist would stop, get out of his car, and after a hasty inspection of his surround- 
ings, get back in and drive on to the next geyser. We happened to turn off the main 
road onto a little used dirt side road which, according to our map, would return to 
the main road a few miles farther on. We spent over an hour on this bumpy, dusty 
side road, but it was well worth the time and trouble. We came across many little 
hot springs and geysers. Finally we came to a geyser which was many feet in width 
and made of a great number of smaller geysers. It would have been a wonderful 
sight, but we could not wait there for two hours until it was to go off. We were 
cursed with the curse of all tourists — lack of time. Later on, we came upon two of 
the most beautiful pools in the park — Opal and Sapphire. One was a clear green, and 
we could look far down into its depths. The other was beautiful milky blue, and 
little ripples went across its surface. They are far more beautiful than the far-famed 
Morning Glory Pool, yet few visitors to the park saw them. Morning Glory, sur- 
rounded by a little fence and spoiled by trash, is a few steps from the main road. 
Opal and Sapphire, as pure and clean as they were before anyone visited the park, 
are separated from the main road by the Firehole River, and the visitor must walk 
across a little plateau covered with a quarter of an inch of overflow water from 
another pool in order to reach them. — Charles J. Taylor 



[ 9 ] 



The Sketch Book 

(Material Written in Rhetoric I and II) 

The Last Hour 

That hour was misery for me. My hands were covered with burning callouses and 
blisters which pained me like hot pins driven into my hands, but they helped distract 
me from the aching of my back, which seemed to fold in the middle. My blood was 
hot, and my head seemed to swell with each heart beat. My clothes clung un- 
comfortably to me like a sticky, slimy second skin. Dust from the hay had collected 
on my arms and matted in the hair on my arms. Sweat cut its way through the dirt 
until definite little streams coursed their way down to my hands. My feet seemed 
weighted, and I had difficulty in dragging them back and forth across the tangled 
surface of the mow. Often they tangled in the hay, and I would reel to catch my 
balance, grit my teeth, and start out again towards the baler. What was worse, the 
level of the hay had sunk until now we had to lift the hay up into the baler instead of 
just letting it fall into the machine. I became so fatigued that I thought I would 
rather admit defeat than exhaust myself completely. — Charles L. Norton 

Revivalist 

He squirmed impatiently in his pulpit chair before the cracked choir-loft paneling 
and raised his eyes from the green-squared carpet to the watery pink and blue 
windows. He gazed at the congregation encouragingly, as if to say: "Sinners, you 
too may be saved." Being announced, he sprang upon his feet and with one breath 
said what a blessing it was to be there, and what a blessed worshipful day it was, 
and what a fine introduction the blessed young preacher had given him, and would 
everyone please turn to hymn number nine and raise his voice in blessed praise. 

With a happy smile and a dainty circular flourish of the hand, "Sunlight, sun- 
light, in my soul today — " Ah ! it was good. He smacked his lips faintly and began 
the next verse. By dint of much hand-waving and a series of little curtsies he 
carried us through to the end. On the word heaven he pointed to the very peak of 
the discolored ceiling, and, pausing until all realized the great truth that heaven was 
indeed in a generally upward direction, he smiled indulgently and began to shout. 

— Allen Platt 

Distance Runner 

He is a distance runner. With head erect and chest arched forward he seems 
to drift around the course. There is in his action no laboring, desperate effort but 
only a rhythmic repetition of the successive movements dictated by proper form. He 
strides lightly, the ball of the foot striking first, followed by a light touch of the heel 
as the other leg swings past on its forward reach. The muscles in his back seem 
all in play; they, not the arms, seem to furnish the balance for the upper part of the 
body. — W. B. Yarcho 

Darkness 

Soon, as I trudged along, the tall pillars of dusk fell across the land, sunset 
changed to evening star, and darkness covered the valley. Occasionally I stumbled, 
for I had nothing but the moon to guide my footsteps. Tall cliffs frowned down upon 
the trail, a little bit beautiful, perhaps, but a little bit fearsome, too. Moonbeams, 
sifting through the limbs of the gnarled trees, checkered the floor of the path with 
strangely silhouetted shadow patterns of the leaves. — Wendell Sharp 



[10] 



i 



Peace and Comfort 

The highest compliment to a modern room is a sensation of comfort experienced 
upon entering. One might, sincerely, give this compliment to our living room at 
home. It is a high-ceilinged room with golden-oak casings. Afternoon sunlight, 
filtering through chintz drapes, lends a mellow grace to its capacious proportions 
and lights the squares on the green carpet like glowing cathedral windows, bright 
with many tapers. The wing-backed chair in bird's-eye maple, the comfortable studio 
couch, the cane-seated rocker, the red hassock before the radio mean not only a 
living room, but a livable room. The book case, four-cornered and wooden pegged, 
must be fifty years old, but it is a useful antique; it is filled with books — classics 
and contemporary. And within reaching distance are magazines and papers. When 
the curtains are drawn against the night there are good lamps to soften the shadows 
and trace filigree upon the ivy growing from the white swan's back, afloat upon the 
glassy sea of a cofifee-table top. Perhaps it is because this is my living room, for 
one's personal possessions have an added beauty, but to me this is a lovely room 
where charm, and grace, and the goodness of peace and comfort reside. 

— Mary Alice Burgett 

And Sat on the Lid 

The quickest landing of a muskellunge that I have ever heard of — and a very 
efficient one, too — took place one summer in Georgian Bay, Canada. Two ladies 
riding in a motor boat discovered a heavy line and plug in the bottom of the boat. 
More for the pleasure of watching the plug swish through the water than with the 
idea of ever getting a strike, they threw it in. There is a law against trolling with a 
motor on a small lake, but it is permissible on a larger body of water. Suddenly there 
was a jerk, and the trailing line drew taut. Although frightened and bewildered, 
the two ladies realized the value of speeding up the motor of the boat. Away they 
went ! But this time the boat was pulling the musky. Between the two of them, 
the ladies dragged him into the boat — he was either drowned or had not realized his 
predicament — put him in a large tool chest, and sat on the lid until they had reached 
home with their prize. — Robert Ingalls 

Settled for a Long Stay 

Faintly we heard a pair of dice rattling on the planking behind our relaxed 
bodies. Lefty quizzically revolved his head to see what was causing the disturbance. 
With a startled gasp he stiffened, and following his line of sight, I saw a small coil 
of brown resting on the decomposing boards. The dice were on its tail. Our tramp- 
ing and talking had disturbed a rattler who had taken possession of the abandoned 
building and had crawled out to investigate the noise. Now he was between us 
and our freedom. We were prisoners. 

For several minutes neither of us spoke. Then Lefty turned a white face 
towards me and whispered, "What're we gonna do ?" 

"I dunno," I whispered back. 

We looked at the snake for what seemed hours, hoping he would slip away. But 
no, he had settled himself for a long stay. — Charles B. Green 

Lost Train Ticket 

My last and only hope ! They must accept a check. At any rate they could not 
hold me for not being willing, and able, to pay my fare. Taking the freshly written 
check, I strutted down the aisle to the place where the agent was draining a peaked 
paper cup of its contents. Determined to be as sarcastic as possible, I presented 
that despicable individual with the check, saying, "I trust this will do." 

Smugly grinning, he looked at me benevolently and said, "Keep it. Buy your- 
self a pair of stockings for Christmas with it." — Ann June Stastry 



[11] 



The Advantages of a Large Family 



Isabel Roberts 
Rhetoric II, Theme 8, Summer Session, 1937 



"LJE IS a lucky boy," they say. "Be- 
•*• ^ ing an only child, he will have all 
the encouragement and opportunities that 
his parents can give him." But is he so 
lucky? Are the encouragement and op- 
portunities given an only child compensa- 
tion for the brothers and sisters he has 
been deprived of? I have always con- 
sidered myself a lucky person — being one 
of six children. 

A new-born babe is as helpless as a 
young animal. All he can do is eat and 
sleep, but as he grows and develops, he 
becomes interested in this queer world 
of which he finds himself a part. Chil- 
dren are born little animals, but become 
human beings by association. The chil- 
dren in a large family have a greater 
advantage than a single child because 
they have a wider and more varied con- 
tact with many individuals. It is only 
natural that they will develop quicker, 
both mentally and physically, because of 
their relations with a group. 

A young child struggles to sit up, and 
then crawl, and then walk. He watches 
his older brothers and sisters, and is 
encouraged by them. Grown-ups are so 
old and wise that they don't know what 
a great risk it is to walk from one chair 
to the other. But he can watch his little 
playmates, not many years older than he, 
and compare himself with them. "If 
they can walk across that huge, bare 
space, I can too," he thinks. And so he 
does. He is proud of himself, and be- 
gins imitating all the things he sees his 
older brothers and sisters do. They are 
a part of his world, from which he ex- 
cludes the adults. 



When a child has brothers and sisters 
with whom he may play, he learns to be 
congenial and tolerant. He plays their 
games as well as his own. He waits his 
turn to be scrubbed behind the ears, and 
he eats his spinach along with the rest. 
So, when he enters school, he naturally 
falls in with the other children. It is 
merely an expansion of his old life with 
new worlds to conquer, more children 
to play with, and different things to 
learn. He isn't thrown into a completely 
new atmosphere as is the child who has 
had to spend most of his time by him- 
self or with adults. 

Through the contacts with his brothers 
and sisters, he may meet a great number 
of children of various ages. Gradually, 
he becomes interested in community life. 
He exchanges ideas with the other chil- J 
dren and is attracted by their interests J 
and hobbies. His mind begins to expand 
and absorb all these new ideas. An only 
child is inclined to be self -centered. All 
his actions, his interests, and his thoughts 
revolve around himself, whereas the 
child in a large family is drawn into as- 
sociation with other children. He realizes 
that they are just as important as he, 
and he is willing to give to them just as 
much as he takes from them. 

Often there is hostility among children 
toward one who is an only child. Some- 
times it is apt to make him over-aggres- 
sive or create an inferiority complex. 
Any tendency toward either of these 
failings is immediately "squelched" in a 
large family. If the person becomes a 
little over-bearing or too sure of his 
good looks, he is jokingly informed that 



[12] 



there are other people who are better 
looking than he, and also, that he has 
nothing so outstanding in his accomplish- 
ments that he can assume such a superior 
attitude toward the rest of the world. If 
he feels himself inferior to the people 
with whom he comes in contact, he is 
encouraged and bolstered up until he 
becomes sure-footed and self-confident. 

One of the most trying times of life 
is adolescence. The individual becomes 
restless and, likely as not, irritable. 
There is no place for him in the world. 
He is too mature to be a child, and yet 
he lacks the experience and wisdom of 
an adult. His restlessness leads to an 
over-emphasis of his independence, and 
his lack of experience leaves him quak- 
ing and frightened. And as a result, he 
resorts to loud words and bluffing to 
hide his inadequacy. The parents, in the 
eyes of an adolescent, are complete 
strangers to him. Where the only child 
relies on his own judgment, weak as it 
may be, the adolescent in a large family 
has his brothers and sisters to fall back 
on. He feels free to discuss his weighty 
problems with them, when ordinarily he 
would labor through these troublesome 
circumstances rather than discuss them 
with his parents. 

The open forum of books and news- 
papers held in the home leads him into 
another new and broad channel of his 
education. He reads books above the 
level of the average adolescent so that 
he can enter into these forums. He 
makes the acquaintance of many people 
in his tours and excursions into the 
world outside his home, and upon the 
approval or disapproval of his family, 
he learns to sort the acquaintances and 
cultivate those whom he wants for his 
friends. In this way he soon becomes an 
accurate judge of character and gains a 
sense of security and well-being. He has 



confidence in hjs ability to make friends 
and thereby gains independence. 

There is always someone among his 
family who is available and willing to 
listen to his schemes and plans for his 
life, who will help him to tame down the 
wild plans so many adolescents are in- 
spired by. He thereby learns modera- 
tion. Gradually, through his close family 
life, his congenial friends, and his feel- 
ing of rightness with the world, he is 
equipping himself with a strong, bullet- 
proof armor with which to battle the 
business world. 

When he enters the business world, he 
relies completely on himself for the first 
time. But he has a solid foundation to 
stand on. He has an appreciation of 
others' needs and feelings; he is used to 
spending most of his time with people, 
so that he is congenial and easy to work 
with ; he can employ the strategic meth- 
ods he used in handling his family in 
handling his co-workers. Because he 
misses the exchanging of ideas with his 
family, he immediately makes friends 
with the people around him and is stimu- 
lated by their ideas and attitudes toward 
life. Nine times out of ten, a man from 
a large family will make a successful 
business man, not only from the stand- 
point of the money he earns, but also in 
the esteem the public has for him. 

When he passes the peak of his suc- 
cess, when he becomes tired of "bucking" 
the business world, when he longs for a 
place where he can do exactly as he 
pleases — where he has no established 
precedent to live up to — he again has his 
family to fall back on. If by some odd 
chance, he has not become a success in 
life, he still has the love and interest of 
his family. Then too, there is his great 
number of friends for him to enjoy, now 
that he has some leisure time. 

When a man grows old, if he has no 



[13] 



interests, he is apt to become senile, a their families to help, so he keeps in 

little slovenly in his appearance, and tune with the changing conditions and 

careless in his manners. His family is enjoys the life that goes on about him, 

close enough to him to rebuke him for although he is unable to take 'an active 

these careless mannerisms and encourage part in it. He has passed through his 

him in keeping up with the world. He span of years, enjoyable and well-lived, 

has his other brothers and sisters and and is a happy and satisfied old man. 



Writing a Theme 

Patience and Endurance 

Writing a theme is like unravelling a ball of tangled yarn — one doesn't know how 
to start. The student comes into the room, throws his books heavily on his desk and 
begins to think. After a few minutes cogitation on that all-important "subject," the 
writer jerks out a pen and some theme paper and begins scratching away. One hour — • 
two — two and one-half hours elapse, and we take another glimpse at the would-be 
essayist. Ah, there he is — still sitting — still thinking — still scratching. But something 
is lacking; yes, it is the happy-go-lucky air of the writer, which has now changed to 
a perturbed, worried look, for Mr. Student is in the clutches of that strange phe- 
nomenon known as a "brain lapse." But don't worry about him; as papers continue 
to litter the floor in ever-increasing quantities and as his face assumes more and more 
that look of a pleading, desperate child, ideas are forming in his brain. When we 
look back on him after the short ( ?) space of an hour, his face is beaming like that 
of Old Sol on a June morning. In reward for patience and endurance, he has had 
wonderful, soul-stirring ideas brought to the tip of his pen, and he is confident that 
when he hands in his theme a big "A" will be forthcoming. — Luther E. Ellison 

Inspiration 

When Leni writes a theme for her English composition class, she herself is more 
entertaining than her theme. She drags a chair over to her study table, the toe of her 
shoe hooked around the leg of the chair. She plops herself down in a carefree man- 
ner and. before settling down over the waiting sheet of paper, pulls and pushes her- 
self and the chair around and back and forth until she is able to make up her mind 
that she is comfortable. She props her chin on her elbow and heaves an enormous 
sigh which informs her silent observer that she is assuring herself, "If I don't get to 
work now, I'll never even start." With her right hand, Leni rolls her pen across the 
table, over her paper, and catches it nimbly with her left hand. She lifts the pencil 
over the first line on the theme paper. "What zvill I write about today?" she invari- 
ably asks, but always receiving no answer — and, indeed, expecting none — she an- 
nounces the given subject with a groan. "Ink! What is there to say about ink that no 
one knows already?" Receiving no answer, she sucks the top of her pen for a long 
minute. A smile interrupts the bewilderment in her face, and inspiration shines 
through every feature. For five, ten, fifteen minutes Lcni's hand races back and 
forth over the surface of the theme paper, trying to keep up with the speed of 
Leni's thoughts. It is like trying to accomplish the impossible; for in the process, 
Leni's pen jabs impatiently into the paper, leaving a hole to blot a word or two. At 
last Leni expels a war whoop and drops her pen onto the table; with one hand she 
sweeps up her paper, folds it unevenly, and pushes it between the already mistreated 
pages of her book. "I'm through, kid !" she exclaims gleefully. "No more themes for 
another day ! I don't know whether I'll survive or not." — Beatrice Widger 



[14] 



On Being a Scullery Maid 



Irma Breiter 
Rhetoric II, Theme 11, 1936-1937 



A SCULLERY is a place where kit- 
■^*- chen utensils are cleaned and kept. 
Since cleaning pots and pans is one of 
the functions of the restaurant kitchen 
in which I work, it is not taxing the 
word unduly to bring the entire room 
under its motherly wing, steam table and 
stove and all. But if the steam table and 
stove are in the scullery, the cook needs 
must work in the scullery. And if the 
cook works in the scullery, surely her 
helper toils hard beside her. This helper, 
girl of all work, maid of the scullery — 
just what is her purpose in life? Does 
she hew at chunks of meat, and scrape 
endlessly on earthy potatoes? Not this 
scullery maid. My collar is white, or 
very nearly so, although I do scrape 
carrots and peel onions and clean celery 
intermittently with my other work. 

But it is not so easy a task to scrape 
carrots as one might think. To get the 
greatest efficiency, I grasp the carrot in 
my left hand and hold it firmly with the 
butt aimed menacingly at my abdomen. 
Then, knife in right hand, I begin to 
work on the patient, shaving from the 
halfway mark toward the thick end, strip- 
ping the carrot of dirty orange, and leav- 
ing it naked and clean. The shavings 
spatter delicately on the not so delicately 
grease-spotted orange of my apron. When 
I stroke away from the body, toward the 
root, I throw decorum to the winds and 
scrape with abandon, for every little bit 
of skin is taken off without concentration 
on my part. 

Likewise, I strive after proficiency 
with onions, hardening my heart and 



shedding not a tear as I peel them. And 
the celery — I fairly quiver with desire as 
I brush the crisp tender stalks and break 
them into smaller lengths. If celery 
makes me tremble, conceive of the tight 
rein I must keep upon my appetite when 
I pare apples. All my life, to see an 
apple has been to eat it, and to eat one 
has been to eat another, and so on ad 
infinitum. Only to think of delicious red 
peelings, so near, so tempting, flung into 
the garbage with my very hands, traitor- 
ous implements — it fair scunners me. 
But that is not all. When I cut up all 
manner of juicy fruits to make a salad, 
the boys who wash the dishes and pots 
and pans sidle over to me, one by one, 
and gently, ever so gently and innocently, 
reach around me and pick out a choice 
morsel for greedy consumption. My 
smile is feeble, my mouth is dry, and 
my breath comes in gasps. A slice of 
peach is between my fingers. Dare I 
have a taste, just one slice? They will 
not care; they will not miss it. But no, 
I cannot. My breathing subsides and I 
relax to comparative sanity, only to be 
aroused again by the next pilfering 
knave. 

I start from my task as the calm of 
the kitchen — a medley of bantered words 
from the boys at the sink, clatter of pots 
and pans, and loud whirring from the 
electric dishwasher and the fan — is 
rudely shattered by heads popping in and 
out the steam table window and shouting 
in rapid succession, "Swiss steak regu- 
lar with spinach and carrots, no pota- 
toes," "Meat loaf special with hominy," 



[15] 



"Tomato juice on the upstairs, with veal 
steak and spinach." There is a tooth- 
paste ad smile from Rex as he sings in 
melody all his own, "Small hot mince." 
The cook gets into action, while I fill a 
glass with tomato juice and cut a piece 
of mince pie. I then help with the 
plates, fixing the salads and trying to aid 
in remembering which vegetable goes 
with which meat and whether it is regu- 
lar or special or upstairs. We put the 
orders up as best we remember, once in 
a while being chided with, "I said 'No 
potatoes.' " But it is not sufficient merely 
to put up the order correctly. It must 
be done swiftly and neatly, with no 
vagrant droplets decorating the edge of 
the plate. 

When the confusion has been some- 
what dispelled I fix a few more salads 
on the three remaining plates, taking 
delight in calling "More plates. Bill?" 
and watching the boys bustle in quick 
response with a cheerful, "O. K., 
Cookie." I return to my task at the table, 
only to be summoned back to the window 
in eagerness by a cry of "Peaches" 
from a devilishly grinning Joe. I fall 
back chagrined as I realize what he 
wants and put up a dish of peaches, 
proffering it with a tight smile. 

When the orders begin to come in at 
greater intervals the cook spends more 
time in the preparation of food for the 
morrow, and I "ret" up. It is no mean 
task, "retting" up. The idea is to trans- 
fer the food from steam table jars and 
pots and pans into lined cans, set them 
away in the large icebox, and clean up 



the work tables and the steam table. I 
grab the huge hot jars, lift them dripping 
from the steaming water, and hazard- 
ously pour the food into cans. I gen- 
erously take the empty jars and pans 
to the sink board for the boys to wash 
and return to clean up the tables. 

In the midst of my work, Milton goes 
into contortions to accommodate his 
height to that of the window and pokes 
his head in, saying, "Beef san'." In re- 
sponse to the cook's "Will you take it, 
kiddo?" I dash to the sink to wash my 
greasy hands, jumping a foot and squeak- 
ing even before Al tells me kindly, "It's 
hot." Back again, I butter the bread 
which was placed in the window for me, 
put a leaf of lettuce on one side, and 
mess around in the pan of roasted meats 
until I find the sirloin of beef, from 
which I cut a few ragged slices. I slap 
these sorry looking pieces on top the 
lettuce, cover the whole with the other 
slice of bread, and cut the sandwich 
from corner to corner. I ting the bell 
for Milton to come and get it, for it is 
getting nigh onto closing time. At a little 
after seven, I help the cook carry the 
cans of food from the stove to the large 
icebox and finish "retting" up the table 
while she puts the cans away. 

As I change into street clothes in the 
back room, the cook comes in to get her 
coat, sighing with a little laugh as she 
dons it, "Well, another day." We walk 
together through the deserted scullery 
and take a last look to see that everything 
is "set" for the next day. All is quiet 
and peaceful, and I turn away satisfied. 



Co -Education 

All the mischief is supposed to have beie:un about one hundred years ago at some 
small college in Ohio. There be-whiskered pedagogues experimented and permitted 
four women to sip of higher education. It seems quite apparent that these four coeds 
liked the taste of it. By 1930 the women's feet were on the rail and they were 
elbowing the men for room. — Douglas Morse 



[16] 



On Becoming Educated 



R. Marschik 
Rhetoric I, Theme 7, 1937-1938 



AGATHA HAYCOX was the typical 
country girl. I say was, because she 
isn't so anymore. Four years of univer- 
sity life have created a change within 
her— a most positive change. Once she 
was pleasingly plump. Now she is 
smoothly slender. Once she had thick, 
chestnut-brown hair. Today she is a 



couldn't be college! Why college was 
different, altogether different, a serious 
and sober institution in whose environ- 
ment you labored diligently, striving for 
an education. Had it been misrepre- 
sented ? Was this really college ? 

Two weeks later she joined a sorority. 
Of course, it was a good sorority. They 




beauteous blonde — after surviving four 
hennas. Yes, Agatha Haycox has 
changed. Four years ago she was the 
smartest girl in Hillvale High School. 
Her friends looked up to her. Her teach- 
ers were lavish with compliments. She 
was pointed out as "the girl" to all visit- 
ors. Someday this same attractive 
country lass would amount to something. 
Yes, Agatha Haycox would someday be 
a household name. 

And then she went to the university. 
The first week on the campus proved to 
be most disillusioning, and almost un- 
bearable. Surely these laughingly gay 
young people who so rudely pushed her 
aside were not college students? There 
really must be some mistake. This 



all are. And of course it was only 
natural that an organization of this type 
should influence her in her education. 
She hadn't wanted it to become the real 
source of education, however; but then, 
how was she to know ? 

A month passed, thirty days of almost 
total bewilderment. Now came her first 
college date — a blind date — an unfor- 
gettable evening. Although Agatha 
didn't fully realize it, here was the turn- 
ing point in her desire for education. 
Studies took a back seat. Followed a 
series of these unforgettable evenings, 
each creating a definite change within the 
country girl. Somehow, she found less 
time for study and more time for the 
consideration of her complexion, hair, 



[17] 



and form. Where formerly a faint trace 
of rouge revealed itself, now a vivid dab 
of red flamed. Lips were further en- 
hanced by a thick smear of vermilion. 
Eyebrows assumed the arch of the 
ancient Goths. Daily applications of 
peroxide upon the hair did their required 
work. The diet was limited, and the 
silk of the form-fitting dress clung 
closely where the gingham had only lain. 
Fingernails harmonized with the indi- 
vidual dress. Letters home ended with 
". . . . and could you please increase my 
monthly allowance. I do need so many 
new things." And so ended her fresh- 
man year. 

The second year came and went, with 
but one important forward step in 
Agatha's education. No more freshman 
or sophomore dates ! It was now either 
a senior or nothing. Somehow they were 
different, more experienced. They knew 
when and how to do things. Besides, 
your friends were more impressed by 
the dignified senior than by the lowly 
underclassman. 



The junior season passed without in- 
cident. Perhaps it should be mentioned, 
however, that during this period Agatha 
Haycox became Gail Cox. No, she didn't 
marry. She merely changed her name. 
After all, Gail Cox was a more sophisti- 
cated name, and therefore a more ap- 
propriate name for a lady of her type. 
Perhaps it should also be mentioned that 
during this period her studies were more 
neglected than ever. Let it be under- 
stood, however, that the deep desire for 
education still existed. Miss Gail Cox 
would some day be somebody. 

In the final year, she changed again. 
No longer were freshmen excluded from 
her dates. On the contrary, they were 
warmly encouraged. Somehow they were 
so refreshing, so naive, and apt to be so 
impulsive. Besides, the change was really 
good for her. Didn't someone say 
once that a wise man changes his 
mind, a fool never does? Well, Agatha 
Haycox was wise. She was always 
changing her mind. She was becoming 
educated ! 



Editing the High-School Paper 

Being of a rather fiery temperament, I was constantly being called on the carpet 
by some caustic remark I had put in the paper. I think I shall never forget the time 
I criticized the school basketball team after they had lost in the city semi-finals. The 
team coach was "out for gore," and when he finally caught me he dressed me down 
for one solid hour before the assembled study body. (The next issue I devoted a 
seven hundred word theme to the inadequacy of the school coaches; and the day 
the issue went on sale I went home to spend a two-week Christmas vacation out of 
the reach of homicidal maniacs and basketball coaches.) Another time I wrote an 
article telling that a certain teacher was going to spend the summer traveling, when 
in reality she was trying to assemble a summer school class. This last episode was 
rather awful; I was nearly dropped from the staff. 

But these incidents, I think, did me more good than harm. I acquired a thick 
enough skin to take stoically any and all criticism, and I learned the necessity of 
accuracy in print. I found that where I was right, as in the case of the basketball 
coach, and in a rather caustic analysis of a certain B. M. O. C, there were no rever- 
berations from the main ofiice. But where I was wrong, as in a thoroughly inaccurate 
criticism of the book-supply system and the aforementioned summer story, the punish- 
ment was swift and sure. — Joseph W. Galeher 



[18] 



Lesson in Self-confidence 



Robert Waters 
Rhetoric II. Theme 15, 1926-1927 



I JOINED the ranks of the employed 
immediately after graduation from 
high school. All my life I had been hear- 
ing glowing tales of the steel mill. Now 
at last I was to become a part of Ameri- 
ca's most romantic industry. I got the 
job by means of the well known "drag" 
method. Dad, having worked in the 
mill some twenty years or more, had no 
trouble getting me in. 

After an extensive training period, I 
was placed in a blooming mill, or what 
is commonly referred to as a rolling mill. 
Here in one or two minutes ponderous 
rolls reduce steel ingots to bars having 
a cross section of only a few inches. My 
job was to be sure the ingots were heated 
hot enough to facilitate easy and rapid 
rolling. When a heat was to be rolled, I 
would have to check the temperature of 
the steel before it was drawn from the 
pits. Eight or nine ingots generally con- 
stitute a heat, and the brick lined fur- 
naces are called pits. I had very little 
to do with the rolling of steel. Most of 
my efforts were concentrated on heating 
it before it was rolled. However, to 
work my job successfully I had to have 
a general knowledge of the entire mill, 
rolling included. 

It seems the natural thing for old 
timers to treat new hands roughly. The 
pit heater with whom I had to work was 
a classic example of a bear. He was posi- 
tively the largest boned Swede I have 
ever seen. I felt like a dwarf whenever 
I stood beside him. His hands were like 
hams, and he walked with a slow deliber- 
ate stride that suggested a wealth of 
power and strength in his huge body. He 
was appropriately named Big Ed. No- 



body trifled with Big Ed's humor. He 
heated his pits the way he wanted to. 
Woe be to the man who dared criticize! 
One of the favorite stories about him 
relates how he chased the mill superin- 
tendent out of the mill with a crowbar 
when the superintendent told him he was 
using too much gas. 

When I was introduced to Big Ed, he 
glowered from beneath his thick shaggy 
eyebrows and snorted contemptuously. 
He made no friendly gesture of any 
kind, he just turned on his heel and 
stalked away. Big Ed, I thought, was 
the sourest, most ill-tempered individual 
I'd ever had the misfortune to meet. 
Time, however, proved me a poor judge 
of character. Ed gradually lost his hos- 
tile attitude and he and I became good 
friends. He never showed to the outside 
world his friendly actions ; that would 
ruin the illusion the steel workers held 
concerning him. Ed had to be tough. 
The only way to get anyone to do any- 
thing around the mill is to swear and 
holler until it is done. Working man's 
"French" is the only understandable 
language. If Ed asked someone to do 
something in his quaint way, and the 
poor individual neglected to do it, Ed 
would curl his hair with a burst of pro- 
fanity. He meant no insult, of course; 
it was just his way of expressing dis- 
pleasure. 

The responsibility of my job worried 
me a great deal. I felt uneasy and un- 
certain after every decision I made. Not 
having confidence in myself was my 
worst fault, and later on it proved to be 
my undoing. 

Stainless steel is to the steel manu- 



[19] 



facturer what gold is to the goldsmith. 
More precautions are taken in the mak- 
ing of this expensive steel than in any 
other phase of the industry. Just at the 
time I was placed in the mill, extensive 
research was being carried out concern- 
ing the rolling practice of "25-12," an 
alloy high in nickel and chromium. The 
high percentage of chromium in this 
steel made it extremely hard and expen- 
sive to make. The conditions for proces- 
sing had to be just right. We pyrometer 
men, named so because of the instrument 
we used, hated the stuff. We had to 
check the temperature of this steel every 
hour while it was in the pits. The whole 
responsibility of heating rested on our 
shoulders. If we found the heater was 
heating the steel too fast, it v.as up to us 
to make him cut down. As a general rule 
the heaters acted surly when told to slow 
down, and at such times I appreciated 
Ed's friendship. 

I was working the night turn when I 
got my first dose of stainless steel. The 
steel came to the mill accompanied with 
special instructions for me. Underlined 
in red pencil was the very important 
fact that the steel was not to be rolled 
until it reached a certain temperature. 
That red line scared me to death. I 
imagined all sorts of dire things that 
would happen to me if the steel was 
rolled at the wrong temperature. 

As the time drew near to roll the 
steel, I was a nervous wreck. Everything 
had gone wrong. The heater complained 
of bad gas. The foreman kept nagging 
me, bouncing in every few minutes de- 
manding to know if the heating was 
progressing all right. The arrival of mill 
officials added to my consternation. They 
always seemed to stick their noses in at 
the wrong moment. The plant superin- 
tendent asked me if the steel was ready. 



I mumbled something about not being 
sure and grabbed my pyrometer and 
dashed out for a last minute check. Ed 
was anxious to get the steel out of the 
pits. He tried to keep me from reading 
it by assuring me in his most sincere 
manner that it was all right. This alone 
should have warned me that the steel 
probably was not hot enough. I insisted 
upon reading the temperature and he 
grudgingly opend the pit door. I took a 
quick reading and moaned aloud. "Too 
low, too low. You can't let them roll 
this, Ed," I said. "It will crack to pieces. 
It's too cold." Ed immediately lost his 
temper and started to shout at the top of 
his voice. The officials overheard the 
commotion and came over to see what 
was causing the delay. The vainness 
and stupidity of these stiff shirts angered 
me beyond words. Why wasn't the steel 
hot? Did we know what we were doing? 
\\^hat in hell were we paid for? They 
kept pounding at Ed and myself with 
these foolish queries until Ed silenced 
them with a bull like roar. "Get the hell 
out of here, you !* !* !** before I 
break this bar over the back of your 
thick skulls." The men scurried away 
like rats from a cat. They stood away 
at a safe distance and jabbered and 
gesticulated among themselves like a 
pack of excited sparrows. They made 
no threatening motions you can be sure. 
To do so they knew would bring down 
the full power of Ed's fury. I would 
have thought it funny if Ed had con- 
fined his anger to these men. But no, 
he told me I was crazy. "The steel's all 
right," he boomed. "Do I have to wait 
all night while this damned kid makes 
up his mind?" 

I read that pit a hundred times if I 
read it once. Ed heaped a torrent of 
abuse on me after every reading that 



[20] 



indicated his steel was not hot enough. 
Finally I could stand no more. I threw 
up my hands in despair and told him to 
go ahead and let them roll it. Instantly 
I regretted what I had done. I knew 
that steel was not ready to roll. 

At Ed's sign the machinery of the 
mill swung into motion. The giant crane 
moved slowly towards the pit. The pit 
cover rolled smoothly back. Great 
tongues of yellow flame billowed up to 
the roof, illuminating the mill with a 
weird light. The jaws of the crane 
firmly grasped an ingot and drew it 
majestically from the pit. I scanned the 
glowing steel eagerly, looking for cold 
spots. To my dismay I saw several dark 
areas near the bottom of the ingot. "Cold 
bottoms," I groaned. A bad sign. Cold 
bottom meant an uneven heat which in- 
evitably resulted in poor rolling. It was 
too late to stop the rolling now. It 
wouldn't have done any good to have 
tried. The officials gathered around the 
rolls to watch. Nothing would escape 
their eyes. I had a sinking sensation in 
my stomach as I watched the ingot move 
slowly towards the rolls. The steel hit 
the rolls with a jarring thud. Relent- 
lessly the ingot was squeezed through 
with crushing force. The first few 
passes went all right without mishap. 
The ingot was now longer. It had been 
reduced to a bloom eleven inches wide 
and twelve feet long. The crucial mo- 
ment had arrived. Unless the steel was 
hot enough it could not be reduced any 
farther without cracking to pieces. The 
roller flipped the controls and the bloom 
moved once more towards the rolls. The 
bar was halfway through when a crash 
that jarred my back teeth resounded 
through the mill. Along with this came a 



rending tearing shriek that announced 
the ripping of steel from steel. My heart 
was in my mouth as I ran wildly to the 
rolls. The roller shut down the mill and 
came tearing down out of the control 
room like a man possessed. "If you have 
cracked my rolls with your cold steel, I'll 
have all your jobs," he roared to nobody 
in particular. The once symmetrical steel 
bar was now a broken crushed shapeless 
mass. Stainless, because of its composi- 
tion, flies to pieces if it is rolled too 
cold. The bar was wrecked beyond 
redemption. In addition to this, the rolls 
were cracked, just as the roller feared. 
This is what caused the first terrible 
crash. Cracked rolls meant shutting 
down for eight hours and a loss of about 
ten thousand dollars to the company. 

The resulting confusion is only vague 
in my mind. I slunk back to my office. 
I couldn't think of anything but that it 
was my fault. If I had only insisted on 
letting the steel heat for another hour. 

A few days later a report of the acci- 
dent was circulated around the plant. It 
was with great relief that I read that 
report. The accident was blamed on the 
mill as a whole. General lack of coopera- 
tion between employees was the chief 
cause listed. We all received minor de- 
ductions from our pay checks. I con- 
sidered myself lucky in view of the fact 
that if I had refused to allow them to 
roll the steel it never would have hap- 
pened. Right then and there I resolved 
to use my best judgment in all things 
regardless of opinions of others. Ed 
learned his lesson too. He held my py- 
rometer in higher regard after that. 

Ed and I made a great team from then 
on. You can be sure that no steel left 
the pits unless it was hot. 



[21] 



What's in a Title? 

(Titles of themes submitted to the Gkff.x Caldron, 1926-1937) 



Advice 



Leave Your Coffee Grounds 
Make 'Em See It Your Way 



Don't Ever Marry a Waiter 
Walk for Health 



Relax and Run 
Laugh 



Characters 



Memories of an Old Bum 
Napoleon and Roosevelt 
The Romantic Drudge 



My Brother and I 
A Poet I Know 
Joe College 



Freshmen 
Smokers 



DiflBculties 



My Difficulty with Grammar 
My Struggle for Existence 
How I Learned to Dance 



A Freshman's Budget 
Sleeping on a Train 
Working My Way 



My Pet Problems 
This Is My Job 
Girl Trouble 



Evaluations 

An Education Outside the Classroom 
In Defense of a Sane Hell Week 
We Fashionables 



A Get-Rich-Ouick Scheme 
An Example of Progress 
A Wasted Vacation 



Exclamation 

Yea, Verily ! 
Move Over! 



Wise Guy! 
Going Up ! 



Taxi 



Food 

Sophisticated Mudpies Hard Tack 



Stewed Tomatoes 



Moods 



Life: or Forty-nine Davs in a Rabbit 

Hutch 
Just Philosophizing 



Well, That's That 
Disillusionment 
Rainy Weather 



Sweet Misery 

Spellbound 

Lonesome 



Mystery 

A Phantom '^Vorld 



In a Fog 



Pride 



How I Learned to Dance 
And So They Flunked Me 



I Didn't Join the Xavy 
Reading Interests Me 



My Name Is Johnson 
An Original Idea 



On- 



On Being a Doctor's Daughter 
On Starting a Model T Ford 



On Theme Writing 
On Family Traits 



On Dance Halls 



[22] 



Blut Und Eisen 



Allen Adams 
Rhetoric I, Theme 4, 1937-1938 



BACK in the eighties, when the steel 
industry existed as independent, un- 
organized, wildcat enterprises conceived 
by financial plungers to float huge issues 
of watered stock, technical methods of 
making steel were ver}' inefiicient and 
wasteful. A large percent of the ore was 
discarded because of poorly heated smelt- 



and bare. Many men had been caught 
and ground to pulp in the heavy ma- 
chinery, or had fallen into a ladle or an 
open hearth full of shimmering, glowing 
steel. Steel made in those days had a 
high content of human blood. Blood and 
Iron were truly partners. 

This partnership, however, existed in 




ers, while the steel that resulted from 
these reduction smelters was of poor 
qualit}' and unable to stand any great 
stress or strain. 

In those early days of American in- 
dustr}^, the mills were long, dark, low- 
roofed buildings, painted slate gray and 
blackened by the sulfurous smoke that 
belched from many chimneys. The night 
saw the flares of the smelters reflected in 
green, brackish ponds that were laden 
with slag and ^cid residues. Inside the 
mills, the workers had no protection 
from the poisonous fumes that resulted 
from ore reduction. The huge furnaces 
and smelters were not furnished with 
railings, while machiner}- was also open 



another way. Often the mill hands were 
bitter toward their employer, whom they 
held responsible for the high death rate 
and the low wages. The land of steel has 
run red many times from battles between 
workers and the Pinkerton detectives or 
Coal and Iron Police. Equipment was 
destroyed, plants were burned, and men 
on both sides were killed. Both camps 
committed horrible atrocities in those 
steel wars, atrocities not soon forgotten. 
None benefited from any of these af- 
fairs, and both sides were really injured, 
as the history- of the Homestead strike 
bears out in graphic, merciless detail. 

Let us now come down to the present 
dav. Technical methods in almost even* 



[23] 



field of the steel industry have advanced 
greatly from the processes of yesterday. 
A large variety of strong, firm, acid- 
resisting steels is turned out yearly with 
the help of practically no human lives. 
New alloys for special industrial and 
engineering uses come from the mills one 
after another. Our technical knowledge 
in steel is rapidly leading to great effi- 
ciency and perfection. 

Then, too, the plants are long, tall 
buildings with huge windows and ade- 
quate artificial light. All machinery is 
fully protected ; the furnaces, which were 
so dangerous, are now operated me- 
chanically by a man who sits sixty feet 
away at a switchboard. Poisonous fumes 
no longer endanger the workers but are 
carried off and are treated chemically, as 
is the smoke. Mills are operated without 
frequent accidents. Blood and Iron have 
been separated in manufacturing. 

The strikes, however, claim a few lives 
each year. During the last big steel 
strike, the C. I. O. had merely to threaten 
to call away the workers from the mills 
of the United States Steel Corporation, 
to get Melvin Traylor to invite Mr. 



Lewis to lunch at an exclusive New York 
club. Then the basic negotiations were 
made for settling the differences between 
labor and capital in America's first bil- 
lion dollar corporation. No strike was 
needed. Then when Little Steel came 
along and decided to make industrial 
America safe for Fascism, trouble came 
fast and furious. The green-eyed mon- 
ster of strikes again raised its fearful 
head, but he had grown senile with the 
years. Some violence occurred, partic- 
ularly in Chicago, but it was mild in com- 
parison with the riots at Homestead. 
The strike was finally settled, with Little 
Steel's profit dipping ninety per cent and 
United States Steel rolling up a sixty- 
seven million dollar net profit for the 
first six months. A few lives were lost, 
but the old-time massacres were avoided. 
I have briefly traced a metamorphosis 
in an industry. As technical methods and 
working conditions have been improved 
and higher wages paid, less violence and 
strike deaths have occurred. Men in 
both of the two opposing camps are 
happier than before. Blood and Iron 
have been divorced. 



Baling Hay 



Resumins^ my duty was painful. My muscles, unaccustomed to such strenuous 
work, had stiffened during the noon hour, and every movement I made was an effort. 
The work was monotonous. First I would look for a likely spot where the hay 
appeared loose. Then I would stick my fork, take a firm grasp on the smooth, hard 
handle of the fork, spread my legs to give myself a good foundation, throw my 
weight backward to over-balance the resistance of the hay, and hope that the hay 
would yield. After the hay tore loose (if it did), I would carry the forkful over to 
the edge of the mow and drop it into the mouth of the rhythmically gulping baler. 
I stopped once to watch the machine in action. Each time the driving wheels made 
a revolution, the arm which pushed the hay into the compressing chamber was re- 
tracted just in time to evade a terrific blow which the plunger delivered to the hay 
in the chamber. It reminded me of a cow lazily chewing her cud, only this thing had 
to be fed. The foreman's cry of "block 'er" (meaning a block of wood should be 
inserted into the chamber to separate the bales) brought me out of my daze, and 
I trudged back across the mow to find another forkful of hay which I could dislodge 
with the least effort. — Charles L. Norton 



[24] 



1914—1937 



Regina Eberle 
Rhetoric II, Theme 10, 1936-1937 



TF the newspapers and periodicals of 
^ 1937 were published without any 
date, anyone with a knowledge of the 
sort of things published in 1914 would be 
justified in believing he was reading a 
newspaper or magazine of that fateful 
year. The situations in which the nations 
of the world have now entangled them- 
selves and those that resulted in the 
World War are practically identical. The 
same atmosphere of sharp, unrelenting 
vigilance, the same feverish excitement 
hang like a pall over the capitols of the 
world. Everywhere there is suspicion ; 
everywhere there is watchful waiting. 

Today we are experiencing a long 
awaited splurge of prosperity. Industry 
is picking up. Prices are rising and the 
stock market is booming. The prices of 
wheat and metals are soaring. Thought- 
ful men recall another time wheat and 
metals brought record prices — it was in 
1914. They know that a rise in the price 
of metals is an almost infallible harb- 
inger of war. Since 1776 inflation has 
always preceded a war, and today we 
find ourselves in the midst of America's 
fifth great inflationary movement. 

A rise in the price of steel and an arms 
race go hand in hand. Every nation in 
the world is participating in an unprece- 
dented race to accumulate huge stores of 
munitions. The budget of every nation is 
being expanded to the breaking point to 
allow for the purchase of more instru- 
ments of war. Staggering sums are being 
expended for the latest and most modern 
machines of death. In 1914 every nation 
was more heavily armed than at any 



other period in history. Today the arm- 
aments accumulated by the world powers 
are double what they were in 1914. And 
these nations are by no means satisfied. 
They do not intend to be outraced by 
their neighbors. 

The most peculiar thing about the 
whole procedure is that all nations sol- 
emnly deny that they are preparing for 
war. They are merely bolstering up their 
lines of defense. They are merely being 
"prepared." I say that it is peculiar be- 
cause one would think that statesmen, 
after they have used the same "line" so 
many times before, would adopt another 
method of camouflaging their true pur- 
poses. 

In 1914 the public was informed about 
the efforts that were being made by many 
nations to make themselves self-sufficient 
— independent of imports from outside 
sources. Today we know that the same 
program is being followed. Germany is 
the country that comes to mind first be- 
cause her efforts towards conservation 
of food products and materials that 
could be utilized in the manufacture of 
war implements are so concentrated. 

One of the most startling aspects of 
this similarity between 1914 and 1937 is 
the unchanged attitude of the nations of 
the world toward each other. The rela- 
tions between nations are quite as 
strained in 1937 as they were in 1914, 
and their distrust of one another has 
been prompted by practically the same 
reasons as before. I quote a passage 
from the Literary Digest of September, 
1914: "The real roots of the conflict are 



[25] 



to be found in France's irreconcilable 
attitude over the loss of Alsace-Lorraine, 
in German's imperial aspirations, in Eng- 
land's desire to remain commercially and 
industrially supreme, and in Russia's 
hostility towards Austria's influence and 
aspirations in the Balkans." If war 
should be declared tomorrow, this same 
passage could be reprinted, with perhaps 
a few additions. The French are still 
obsessed with their hatred for Germany. 
Germany is getting out of hand because 
of her anxiety to recover her colonies. 
Russia is alarmed because Germany has 
been casting an avaricious eye toward the 
Ukraine, which has the ample oil supply 
that Germany needs but lacks. To Italy, 
the thought of Germany invading Bren- 
ner Pass is a nightmare. Nor could Italy 
afford a Sovietized France and perhaps 
a Sovietized Spain for neighbors. Japan 
is very definitely pro-German. England 
presents a real problem when it comes 
to forecasting with which side she would 
ally herself. For the fight would again 
be between Germany and her allies and 
France and her allies. Popular feeling, 
curiously enough, is definitely pro-Ger- 
man and anti-French. But the powerful 
political influences in England would 
probably succeed in aligning England 
with France as in 1914. And America, 
who in 1914 was educated to hate any- 
thing German, in 1937 is being educated 
to hate everything that is "Fascist." 
Propaganda has proved a powerful and 
invaluable weapon in producing the de- 
sired American attitude toward the Hit- 
ler and Mussolini regimes. The figures 
of these two gentlemen decorate the 
cartoon of 1937, occupying the place of 
honor reserved in 1914 for the Kaiser. 

In the Review of Reviews for Janu- 
ary, 1914, the first fourteen articles were 
devoted to various suggestions for a 
more adequate defense program. They 



all chided us on our lack of "prepared- 
ness." Today, the American people are 
again the victims of a vigorous, pointed 
barrage of propaganda in which our 
attention is directed toward the ease with 
which this country could be attacked. 
We know now that certain factions knew 
long beforehand that the United States 
was going to enter the war. We know 
that all the talk about being "prepared" 
was merely a blind behind which our war 
machine could be set in action. I quote 
a paragraph from the Review of Reviews 
for March, 1914, (mark that the war 
wasn't declared until August, 1914) that 
seems to be significant. It discusses a 
"plan for the establishment of a summer 
camp where military instruction and 
training are given to young men of the 
higher education institutions." It goes on 
to say that "the object of these camps is 
to afford educated young men the oppor- 
tunity to spend a portion of their vaca- 
tion in a profitable and novel manner. 
They can mingle and become acquainted 
with the students of other colleges and 
institutions, learn something from them, 
and secure a wider range of vision gen- 
erally. They receive inestimable physical 
benefits from a life in the open and 
sleeping in tents in a healthful climate. 
They will acquire increased business effi- 
ciency, learn self-control and accustom 
themselves to a discipline that is con- 
ceded to be a good thing for every 3'outh 
just entering manhood. . . . These camps 
are not to inculcate ideas of military 
aggrandizement, but to encourage meth- 
ods of preventing war by more thorough 
preparation and equipment." The last 
sentence is the key to the purpose of the 
plan. 

Surely we are not going to be fooled 
again by the same type of propaganda 
that led us into the horrible holocaust of 
1914. We must not be blinded by it, but 



[26] 



we must probe into it and discover its 
true purpose. We must realize that 
"preparedness" will not prevent war but 
merely precipitate war. We didn't gain 
anything from the World War. We can 
prevent the repetition of such a futile 
orgy of destruction if we will but realize 
where the policies of the governments of 
the world are leading us. It is not yet 
too late. 



Bibliography 
Austen, F. Britten, "Choosing Sides for War," 

Chicago Daily News, April 3, 1937. 
"Conservation," Literary Digest, July 25, 1914, 

16. 
"Inflation in World Markets," Literary Digest, 

July 20, 1914, 4. 
"Summer Camps," Review of Reviews, March, 

1914, 321. 
"The Race Is On," Literary Digest, July 4, 

1914, 9. 
"Vindication of Rulers," Literary Digest, July 

11, 1914, 1. 



Figures of Speech 



Ferry 

The ferry is an insignificant, patient water-bug, pushing off with a groan from 
one side of the narrow river, coasting in with a bang at the other. Then it scuttles 
backward — it really doesn't have bow or stern, though — to the American side. 

— John Paddock 

Sergeant 

He turns red in the face and puffs up like a stuffed toad. — N. E. Van Fussan 

Dickens and Belloc 

I do not mean that "On" should be compared with books by such authors as, say, 
Dickens, or even Lewis or Dreiser, any more than meat should be compared with 
dessert. Where Dickens supplies beef, solid, substantial, and filling, Belloc supplies 
cake, light, spicy, and frosted. — Philip Brewer 

Golf Ball 

The gleaming number six iron, after a moment's hesitation at the top of its up- 
ward swing, started its downward sweep. Faster and faster the head came down. 
With a rubbery smack that would thrill any golf enthusiast, the ball was driven 
cleanly off the tee. The small white pellet rose like a frightened humming bird. 

— Forrest H. Mades 

Brother and Sister 

One brother was undeniably elephantine; when he walked he rippled, and I had 
the impression that should he sit down suddenly, he'd splash. He had a good-looking 
daughter, but she gazed at me in a calm and detached manner as if I were a train 
she didn't have to catch. — Willis Ballance 

Dizzy Dean 

The long right arm of Dizzy Dean rose slowly in a half arc and then shot out like 
a striking snake. The ball, a small white blur, sped with incredible swiftness toward 
the plate. The batter swung viciously, but instead of the sharp crack of wood meeting 
leather, there was only a dull thud as the ball sank into the catcher's mitt. — Carl Pihl 

Coed 

Trying to persuade a girl to return to a "spinster factory" after she has tasted 
coed life is like persuading a kitten to return to milk after she has tasted catnip. 

— Douglas Morse 



[27] 



Slum Cycle 



B. E. Gordon 
Rhetoric II, Theme 16, 1936-1937 



A SEARING pain, like a white-hot 
■^^ iron thrust into his back, passed 
through him. He plunged forward into 
a sea of blackness ; suddenly it parted. 

"Arthur, mein boy, get up. Already 
it's six o'clock." Hot anger surged 
through him ; anger at this nagging voice 
which disturbed his sleep. 

"Get outta here," he mumbled, pulling 
the blanket more tightly around. But, 
the voice would not be shaken off. 

"If you come late again, the boss will 
take another hour off from your pay." 
She spoke wearily, with a heavy Yiddish 
accent. 

"Okay, okay, I'm up," and with that 
he lethargically rose and began to dress. 
His mother, knowing from years of ex- 
perience when it was safe to leave, 
waited until he had put on his shoes 
before she returned to the kitchen. 
Arthur, now fully dressed, paused before 
the yellowed sink in the corner of the 
room, shrugged his shoulders, and 
walked out into the kitchen, unwashed. 

His mother was bending over a bat- 
tered pot, from which came the sweet, 
rich odor of boiling oatmeal. The dingy 
kitchen seemed bare, occupied as it was 
by a sink, a tiny stove, a table, and two 
chairs. The rough wooden floor was a 
menace to bare feet. Yet, the room was 
kept surprisingly clean, for Mrs. Cohen 
took pride in her only worldly posses- 
sions. On the table lay a brown pack- 
age, his lunch. Without a word he picked 
it up and turned to leave. His mother 
suddenly hearing him, turned, and seeing 
that he was about to leave, asked 
anxiously: 



"Ain't you eating the oatmeal what I 
made?" 

"Naw," he said irritably, "I ain't 
hungry." 

"But look, it's nice and fresh. Please." 

"Aw, eat it yerself," he snapped, and 
hurried out the door. She stared after 
him, sighed hopelessly, and returned to 
her work. 

The morning was grey and dismal, the 
high tenement houses effectively block- 
ing the first rays of a rising sun. Arthur 
noticed nothing of this ; his mind had 
not yet awakened. He hurried down to 
the subway entrance, paid his nickel, and 
managed to slip through the closing 
doors of a downtown express. Throwing 
a quick glance around, he saw that all 
the seats were filled. He sighed, think- 
ing of the long ride. Gripping a strap, 
he settled down to his usual day-dream- 
ing. Now he was a hero; now a philan- 
derer ; now a financial magnate. Because 
he had little in the real world, he had 
given himself over to the fanciful world 
so wholeheartedly that, to his mind, 
there was no line of demarcation between 
the two. Thus his imagined conquests 
had become real, and he turned vain. A 
most unprepossessing sight is a tall, thin, 
pimply-faced youth who is vain. 

With a start, he heard the name of his 
station called. Springing toward the 
door, he hustled out with the leaving 
crowd. He arrived at the mill in a few 
minutes, and ascended in the lethargic 
elevator. Hurrying into the huge loft 
where lay great stacks of freshly cut 
lumber, he tossed his cap onto a nail, 
took up a broom, and began to sweep. 



[28] 



Here in this other world, he was the 
lowest of the low. His job was to help 
all; to do everyone's bidding; to make 
obeisance before one and all. And, by 
that token, one and all bullied, browbeat, 
and cursed him savagely. For they 
vented upon him all the anger and fury 
they felt toward their employer, who 
bullied, browbeat, and cursed them just 
as savagely. Arthur, on the other hand, 
was at the end of the line. He had only 
one upon whom to vent his pent-up hate 
— his mother. 

Freddie, also a helper in the shop, was 



men discussed the two things of which 
they were aware — work and women. 
They were essentially physical beings ; 
all that was abstract or tenuous was 
outside of their realm. Only that which 
made an impression on any of their five 
senses aroused in them any semblance 
of thought. 

He eagerly did the men's bidding, 
bringing them water, a newspaper, or 
an);1;hing else they wanted. They repre- 
sented his goal. Imagine ! Some day he 
might become a machine worker or a 
carpenter. Some day he would have 




working at the other end of the loft. 
Perceiving Arthur he called loudly: 

"Hey, Arthur, come over here. I got 
some woik for yuh." 

"Aw, I'm doin' somep'n over here," 
replied Arthur weakly. 

"Come over here, you — " mouthed 
Freddie foully. Still protesting, Arthur 
went. His weak will had been further 
weakened by Freddie's bludgeoning fists 
in the first month of his employment. 
The morning dragged. Finally, the 
hoarse whistle announced lunch. Arthur 
was the first to quit for lunch, and the 
first to begin eating. He seated himself 
by the older men, trying to join in their 
spirit of comradeship. This gathering 
was the social hour of the day, and the 



inferiors to browbeat, to curse, and to 
vilify. He swelled at the thought. Like 
the men, he, too, was purely physical, but 
unlike them, he was forced to compen- 
sate for his low status by developing a 
perverted imagination, one which was 
based only on desire. The men talked. 
Arthur hung on to their words, devour- 
ing every detail, yearning to be as non- 
chalantly experienced as they. 

Lunch over, they returned to work. 
Arthur was put to a back-breaking job, 
hauling 150 pound beams from one end 
of the loft to the other. He stole rests 
whenever he could but they were few 
and far between. Promptly at 5:30 he 
dropped his work, grabbed his cap, and 
hurried out of the shop, eager to attack 



[29] 



the hot, tasty meal which he knew was 
ready for him. Springing into the open- 
ing door of the subway, he managed to 
slip ahead of an elderly woman into the 
last vacant seat. Ignoring the disgusted 
glance of the woman, he sank again into 
his self-induced stupor, rousing only 
when a pair of pretty ankles or a shapely 
figure crossed his line of vision. The 
ride, like all others, was uneventful. 

He walked rapidly, urged as by the 
clamourings of an empty stomach. Burst- 
ing into the flat, he ignored his mother's 
greetings, and sat down to the steaming 
stew. His mother busied herself, tend- 
ing to his every want, feeling acutely 
the fatigue which she knew her son 
felt. Engrossed only in his meal, he ate 
hurriedly, loudly, and gluttonously. 
Stomach full, he leaned back with a 
sigh more like a gasp. His mother 
beamed happily, overjoyed to see that, 
for once, he had found no fault with 
her cooking. Sitting sluggishly at the 
table, conscious only of the unpleasant 
sensation which comes from overeating 
he waited for the food to settle. Mrs. 
Cohen busied herself silently. She knew 
better than to speak to her son when he 
sat thus. She would be greeted only with 
a vicious snarl. 

He sat, staring vacantly ahead, think- 
ing nothing. After a while, he roused 
himself, arose slowly, took his cap, and 
turned to leave. Mrs. Cohen confronted 
him timidly. 

"Arthur?" 

"Yeah?" he snapped impatiently. 

"Maybe you feel like staying home 
to-night ?" 

"Jees, no. I'm gonna meet the fellers." 

"Well, I was thinking, if you didn't 
have nothing to do, you could stay with 
me to-night. It gets a little lonely here, 
sometimes." She spoke hesitatingly, 
afraid to oflFend, yet urged on by the fear 



of the intense loneliness she often ex- 
perienced. Hot anger surged through 
him ; to think that she had the presump- 
tion to ask him to give up the little 
spare time he had. 

"Fer God's sake," he yelled wrath- 
fully, "I woik like a dog all day, and 
now you wanna make me stay home. 
Ain't it enough that I keep the place 
going? Next thing I bet you'll be askin' 
me to help you with the housewoik." 
Mrs. Cohen cringed beneath his fiery 
wrath. 

"I didn't mean nothing," she said 
apologetically. "I just thought you didn't 
have nothing else to do." 

"Well, I got something else to do," he 
spat, and slammed the door. 

She stared after him, tears filling her j 
eyes. She quickly wiped them away. 
After all, he did work very hard, poor 
boy. Other boys went to school, had 
nice, almost new clothes to wear, pla3'ed 
after school, and lived in big four- and 
five-room houses. She musn't be so 
selfish ; a boy is young only once. Still, J 
it did get so lonely. 1 

Arthur slouched down to the corner 
where a few of the boys of the neigh- 
borhood had gathered. Even here, among 
his own kind, he was looked down upon. 
He had that unfathomable air about 
him which branded him as inferior. His 
very bearing invited contempt and ridi- 
cule, and he certainly got it. The gang's 
pastime was rather limited, consisting as 
it did of talk and petty thievery. They 
talked mainly about their sex exper- 
iences, magnifying every detail, pretend- 
ing to listen casually, yet straining all 
the while not to miss a word. Arthur 
contributed his share, based only on what 
he had picked up down at the shop. He 
was an unwilling virgin. 

After standing around for an hour or 
two throwing catcalls and jeers after 



[30] 



giggling girls, they decided to visit the 
Five and Ten, the chief object of their 
petty thievery. They strolled down Madi- 
son Avenue in a group, yelling loudly, 
coarsely, and obscenely. They felt ag- 
gressive, bolstered as they were by their 
aggregate presence. 

Entering the teeming store in two's 
and three's to avoid any suspicion, they 
wandered about looking for anything to 
steal. They were outwardly calm, in- 
wardly tense, keyed up to such a pitch 
that every move on the part of the 
salesclerks was interpreted as suspicious. 
Arthur's senses were on edge ; the slight- 
est untoward sound would send him 
dashing wildly out the door. He strug- 
gled to keep his face calm against the 
tumultuous pounding of his heart. Stop- 
ping by the hardware counter, he quickly 
looked around and, with a swift move- 
ment, pocketed a flashlight. 

"There he is," rang out the floor- 
walker's voice. Instantly the entire gang, 
spread out as they were through the 
whole store, bolted for the exit. They 
dashed out the door and fled, blind, 
overwhelming fear lending wings to 
their feet. The floorwalker, long tor- 
mented by these raids, pursued. 

"Stop, you ," he cursed. The offi- 
cer on the beat, taking the scene in at a 
glance, immediately took up the chase. 
Fat, ungainly, knowing that he would be 
hopelessly out-distanced, he drew his 
pistol and fired into the air, yelling, 
"Stop! you damn kids." They ran 
faster and harder. Lumbering after them 
he again pointed the pistol at the sky. 



Just then he tripped off the curb and 
lunged forward pulling the trigger. The 
gun was not pointed at the sky, but 
straight ahead. There was a sharp, bark- 
ing report. Arthur stumbled. A searing 
pain, like a white, hot iron thrust into 
his back, passed through him. He 
plunged forward into a sea of blackness; 
it did not part .... 

The white- jacketed interne straight- 
ened, looked at the nurses and said suc- 
cinctly, "Shattered vertebrae, internal 
hemorrhage ; didn't last more than five 
minutes. Notify his home." The nurses 
nodded and wheeled out this load of 
clay. 

Days later, the workmen at the shop 
sat discussing Arthur's death, 

"Too bad! He was a swell guy; al- 
ways ready to help anyone out of a 
jam; always ready to stand up for his 
rights." 

"Yeah, I'll bet he'd 'uve gone a long 
way." 

His friends, no longer meeting at the 
corner, spoke in lowered tones. 

"A right guy if there ever was one." 

"You betcha. Lotsa' spunk; he sure 
could stand up and take it." 

"Jees, I'll miss that guy." 

An elderly Jewish woman sat on the 
stoop of a begrimed tenement house. 
Clad only in a faded blue kimona and 
torn house-slippers, she stared vacantly, 
mumbling constantly, "He is a good boy, 
mein Arthur, He woiks very hard. He 
is a good boy, a good boy, a good 
boy , , , , " 



Apology 

The Green Caldron regrets publishing-, in the October, 1937, issue, a paragraph 
and a sentence from "Joe Louis Never Smiles" by Jonathan Mitchell (The New 
Republic, October 9, 1935). Our apologies have been sent to the author and to the 
editors of The New Republic. 



[31] 



Rhet. as Writ. 



In our daily newspapers we read of a 
most dastardly criminal, the hit and run 
driver. It may be a small child who is 
on its way to school, or it may be an 
elderly person who is out for his or her 
exercise. 

There was a spacious cool verenda 
with coliders, lawn chairs, and cossacks. 

• • • • 

If this is kept up, the human race will 
soon be wiped out — due to speed-fiends, 
drunkards, and earless drivers in gen- 
eral. 

The characteristics of Grandfather 
Johnson were found in his posteriors 
also. 

The land from the far north to the 
far south is webbed with the trails of 
man's expositions. The oceans have been 
racked with his vessels and submarines. 
It seemed that new lands, new places, 
and new worlds to conquer had finally 
come to the end of its rope. But man 
forgot to look up and see what this rope 
of exploration was hanging from. One 
fine day a man realized this and when 
he looked up, he found stratosphere. 

We had a great deal of trouble run- 
ning a grove of hogs into the truck. 

His maximum was that the customer 
is right. 

That is the question, whether to go 
into the mountains or just some lake. 

No opportunity is going to be allowed 
to pass me by unscathed. 



My two cousins would tell tales that 
made me stand gapping. 

And so a man with a college education 
is more desirous than a man who has not 
had a college education. 

Here is where the trouble began ; be- 
cause of the water being deeper than 
my head, I naturally went under. 

This distraction takes her eyes off of 
the direction of the car and may prob- 
ably lead to an accident in which the 
occupants of the car may get seriously 
or probably killed. 

While tying his tie in front of a mir- 
ror, he notices that his "chest" has 
slipped and will draw in his stomach and 
try to walk like that. After a time he 
has completely forgotten about it and 
down comes his "chest." 

If he buys a new tie, suit, or any other 
article of clothing he invariably asks the 
following question: "Are you certain 
that you like my new suspenders? Do 
you think I would look better in purple 
or red socks." 

To be able to trot comfortably a 
horseman has to know how to post. The 
rider allows himself to be lifted upward 
by one hind leg and sits down again in 
time to be lifted upward again by the 
same leg. 

At a state university the possibilities 
of social life are unlimited in spite of 
restrictions. 



[32] 



Honorable Mention 

Lack of space prevents the publishing of excellent themes written by the fol- 
lowing students. These themes are being held in the hope that they may be pub- 
lished, in part or in entirety, in future issues. 



Sister Ida Marie Adams 
Charlotte Conrad 
Miriam Crabtree 
Louise Deutch 
George E. Evans 
Sister Mary Henry Frey 
Paul R. Johnson 



Cedric King 
EsPAR Law 
Craig Lewis 
Norton Mendelbaum 
Harrison B. Ruehe 
Patricia Shesler 



The English Readings 

Each year the Department of English sponsors a series of readings from 
literature. The program for the rest of the semester follows: 

December 14. — America's Most Popular Play: Uncle Tom's Cabin. Mr. Wesley 

SWANSON. 

January 11. — Modern Metrical Rhythms. Professor W. M. Parrish. 

The readings will be held at 228 Natural History Building (at the comer of 
Green and Mathews), and will begin at 7:15 p. m. 



m 



wmm^ 
immm 




Vol.7 



MARCH, 1938 



No. 3 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

AND SO THEY FLUNKED 1 

Marjorie Helen Palfrey 

A LETTER 3 

Anonymous 

HOW TO MAKE AN ICE CREAM SODA .... 5 

Charles Dippold 

GOSSAMER AND SPINDRIFT 7 

Edwin Traisman 

MEMORIES AHOY! 8 

Anonymous 

LIFE IN A MORGUE— FUN! 9 

Arselia Block 

THE SKETCH BOOK 12 

(Material written in Rhetoric I and II) 

HOBBYISTS 14 

Sister Mary Henry Frey 

ON WRITING LETTERS 17 

Reone Rasmussen 

LET'S BLOW OUR HORNS! 19 

Clinton Cobb 

DON'T YOU KNOW OR DON'T YOU CARE? . . 21 
Anonymous 

THAR SHE BLOWS! 23 

Milton Yanow 

HAVANA 25 

Ethel Donnelly 

CHRISTIANS' EXHIBITS 26 

Frances Pritchett 

BOY DIES 30 

Betty McMarran 

RHET AS WRIT 32 



udMy\!^ 




PUBLISHED BY THE RHETORIC STAFF, UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS, URBANA 



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

The committee in charge of this issue of The Green 
Caldron includes Dr. Robert Blair, Mr. Gibbon But- 
ler, Mr. E. G. Ballard, Dr. Carolyn Washburn, and Dr. 
R. E. Haswell, Chairman. 

The Green Caldron is for sale in the Information 
Office, Administration Building, Urliana, Illinois. The 
price is fifteen cents a copy. 



And So They Flunked 



Marjorie Helen Palfrey 
Rhetoric II, Theme 2, 1926-1937 



APPROXIMATELY 2,800 of the 
12,000 students of the University 
of Illinois failed during the first semester 
of the 1936-1937 term. This is the report 
of the newspaper; but even if this report 
is not wholly true, it must be admitted 
that a great number of students fail 
every year in every college institution. 
This unpleasant situation can be accred- 
ited to several factors. A student may be 
mentally incapable of doing passing 
work, or he may not have the ability to 
adapt himself effectively to a college 
environment. Strangely enough, a large 
number of students are determined not 
to be educated. Under such circum- 
stances, how is a college to keep a high 
scholastic standard without getting rid 
of these unfortunates. 

The actual lack of mental capacity 
appears in a few students. Because there 
is the feeling of "keeping up with the 
Joneses," even in education, Archibald 
Percival, Jr. is sent to college. He has 
inherited his inability to learn from his 
social-climbing mother, who insists that 
he go to the same college as Billy Van 
Deveer. Junior probably had a great 
struggle to graduate from high school, 
and he is quite sure to fail in college 
unless he exerts an extreme amount of 
energ}' — but this he probably will not be 
willing to do. In some families, going to 
college is a tradition, and every branch 
of such families strives to keep up the 
custom no matter how hopeless the new 
twig may be. Sometimes, a family name 
will keep a student from getting on the 
flunking list during his first year of col- 



lege if the school is small enough and if 
the student's family name is prominent 
enough, but the probability is slight. 

Other students have a fine learning 
capacity, but do not have the ability to 
adapt themselves to new surroundings 
and to organize their studies. Often high 
schools are at fault in this kind of fail- 
ure. Most high schools give a student 
enough information to pass college en- 
trance examinations, but few teach their 
charges how to get along in college. 
Academic pedagogues do not realize that 
the prospective college student must 
learn to study before he gets to college. 
The student, upon entering college, finds 
not only a great deal of studying to do 
but also a large number of attractive 
outside activities to enter. Trouble be- 
gins if the new student does not know 
how to budget his time ; he must allot 
certain amounts of time for studying, 
recreation, outside work, and sleep. A 
rigid schedule including these items 
should be set up and kept until the stu- 
dent has acquired the habit of auto- 
matically organizing his time — that is, if 
the student wants to succeed. 

But it is often doubtful whether the 
collegian wants to succeed scholastically 
or socially while attending school. Mary 
Jones may be homesick and think that 
flunking out is the easiest means of 
getting back to her family — it is probably 
the quickest way in most colleges. Some 
students have the "dare-you-to-teach-me" 
attitude. These students usually refuse 
to look at a text book, give the instructor 
supposedly clever remarks for answers 



[ 1 ] 



in discussion, and fall asleep in lecture. 
When exams come, such students make 
a grand exodus out of a prominent door 
ten minutes after the printed question 
sheets are distributed. Some of these 
students go astray during the semester 
and somehow acquire enough interest in 
a course to desire some credit. Then the 
light bill soars and the neighborhood 
drug and soda store is relieved of a large 
supply of black coffee and anti-sleep pills 
the night before the final exam. Our 
own University seems to have an actual 
class-cutting group, some of whose mem- 
bers prefer indulging in a coke-and- 
smoke at Hanley's at ten o'clock rather 
than attending History 3a or English 
10b. while others permit Morpheus or 



Venus to interfere with their study 
routine any night of the week. 

Of course, there are a few students 
who have the misfortune of flunking out 
for legitimate reasons such as having to 
devote too much time to earning money 
while going to school and not being able 
to save time for studying, too. Or sick- 
ness may put one so far behind the rest 
of the class that he is unable to catch up 
before exams. The fact that only 600 
of the 2,800 who failed at Illinois peti- 
tioned to be re-instated proves that many 
students either don't care to have a col- 
lege education, that they realize their 
inability and inefficiency, or that they 
feel there are wider worlds to conquer 
elsewhere. 



America Isn't Always Right 



T, like all true .Americans, have always believed that everything' that the United 
States has done was absolutely necessary and endowed with God's blessing. From 
early childhood I have always felt perfectly confident that America did not have the 
same weaknesses and blunderincfs as other countries. As I looked back on the history 
of the United States, I saw the Revolutionary War as a glorious struggle for free- 
dom from a beastly and unbearable autocrat; a god-sent inspiration to all Americans 
to give their lives on the altar of freedom. The Mexican War was a heaven-sent 
order to go out and free suppressed peoples from the Mexican rule. The Civil W'ar 
represented a determined attempt of religious and righteous northerners to punish 
the cruel southerners for enslaving negroes. And the World War was a declaration 
of mercy toward other countries who were not so fortunate as ourselves in being 
able to live in peace and plenty, unmolested by aggressor nations. All through grade 
school this doctrine of "America can do no wrong" was impressed upon me. 

But now I can see the bitter truth. We would be the same as any nation if it 
were not for our isolation and plentiful resources. We have fought to gain territory 
and hinder other nations the same as European countries. The Revolution was no 
glorious battle for freedom. The colonists revolted because they refused to be taxed 
and have their incomes decreased. George Washington was a great man, but he was 
not the "God" that I always thought he was. His lands and possessions were being 
taxed and taken away the same as others, and he fought to escape these evils, not 
because he got an inspiration to be the "father of our country." The Mexican War 
was an invasion of Mexico just like Japan's invasion of China today. H Mexico had 
been a larger country and more closely connected with European powers, the war 
would have started a controversy among all nations. The war to bind the nation 
into a stronger union was, of course, necessary, but the cry of "free the slaves" was 
only a justification of it. The northerners would have used slaves if they had been as 
profitable as they were in the South. I will say little of the World War as everyone 
knows that if it were not for the monied interests in foreign nations, we would never 
have been forced into it. It was instigated by capitalists. — Gene Schelp 



[ 2 ] 



A Letter 



Anonymous 
Rhetoric I, Theme 4, 1937-1938 



DEAR JOE, 
You and I have been told that Uni- 
versity studies are difficult, that living 
conditions are bad, that luxuries are 
absent, that the days are long and full, 
that there is no scenery, that the town is 
dead, and that there are drunkards stag- 
gering around, bleating about the labors 
of study and the curse of education. We 
have heard rumors about the wild night 
life, the immorality, the absence of re- 
ligion, the flowing of liquor, the crazy 
mobs of students that tear up the town 
on nights before football games, and 
much other poppycock not worth remem- 
bering. People that scatter such cheap 
talk are sea-anchors on the ship of 
progress. 

Studies here are easier than those en- 
countered in grade and high school for 
these four reasons: after our initiation 
into the mysteries of knowledge, our 
curiosity has been aroused, and we enjoy 
delving deeper ; we have learned, or 
should have learned, how to work and 
think ; our minds are approaching ma- 
turity, and we are able to grasp more ; 
and we are better able to see relations 
between branches of human thought and 
endeavour. Most of the students, if they 
really bent down to the beautiful truth, 
would admit that learning is not so 
difficult. In fact, to a human being, learn- 
ing is the principal and the easiest of 
all his adventures. 

Study rooms here are typical of stu- 
dents. Rooms could be put into four 
general classes: they are clean and order- 
ly, clean and disorderly, dirty and dis- 



orderly, and simply uninhabitable. There 
are characteristics common to all types: 
the customary college insignia are placed 
on the walls; banners, pictures of pretty 
girls cut from magazines, city maps, 
calendars, remnants of mistletoe and 
bittersweet, schedules, fake licenses, tie 
racks, and prize candid camera shots 
adorn the humble plaster ; corners and 
other convenient crannies may hide such 
articles as tennis rackets, paddles, and 
dilapidated portable typewriters. Drying 
on the radiators (articles vary with the 
individual) may be seen half -washed 
handkerchiefs and socks, towels, wash- 
cloths, or a baggy-looking shirt or two. 
There is usually a miniature delicatessen 
in a box on the closet shelf. Of course 
I haven't been in any of the girls' rooms, 
but I imagine that they are about the 
same. There are, undoubtedly, dainty 
articles draped on the furniture ; drawers 
full of letters from old and new, and 
more or less imaginary, boy friends ; pic- 
tures of Clark Gable and Robert Taylor 
tacked on the walls ; and faint odors of 
powder, perfume, bath salts, hair set, 
soap, and other agents of chemical war- 
fare floating around the room. 

I am living with twenty-two other fel- 
lows in an unorganized house. We all 
sleep in single beds on the third floor, 
or to be exact, in the attic. Every one, of 
course, must have his own clock ; making 
necessary twenty-three alarm clocks in 
good working order. A word or two may 
be said about the sonorous, musical, 
rhythmic, harmonious, flowing, liquid, 
and otherwise eff'ective sounds produced 



[ 3 ] 



by such a barrage of dollar-day chronom- 
eters. It is really quite a stud}- to de- 
tect one's alarm from the others nearby. 
I have been fooled quite a few times into 
diving for my clock when my neighbor's 
went off. In time, however, I have be- 
come intimately acquainted with the par- 
ticular tone of my alarm, and sleep until 
the last moment. It is indeed remarkable 
what quickness and deftness are dis- 
played bv some of the men in shutting off 
their alarms. It is certainly an art to be 
acquired. Some persons, however, insist 
on allowing their alarms to run com- 
pletely down. These persons are regarded 
as common enemies to the community, 
and are dealt with accordingly. 

As to the absence of luxuries, indeed ! 
What a luxury the University Library 
would have been to a man like Lincoln ! 
Down here the sun still shines, the moon 
still glows, the sky is still blue, plants 
still grow, breezes still blow, people still 
laugh, cakes still bake, and candy is 
handy ! What more could anyone ask in 
the line of luxuries? 

Days are anything but long and dull. 
It seems that the days only get a good 
start before finishing quickly. One goes 
to bed with the feeling that only half his 
work has been done. And interesting? 
One seldom sees the same persons twice ! 



There are new faces every hour. Nor 
are classes dull. Chemistry, for example. 
I have never realized that the atomic 
chart was such an absorbing discovery 
and development. Every student has the 
privilege and thrill of discovering its 
laws and principles all over again. 

You and I both agree that there is as 
much scenery in a human face as in any 
inorganic pile of rock. There is more 
scenery here than one is able to grasp. 
It is new ; it is varied ; it is ever changing. 

There are, naturally, a few alcoholics 
walking the streets ; some meek and 
some violent. As the risks are great, the 
percentage of student drunkards is small. 
The average alcoholic student imbibes 
alcohol for sheer devilment at first and 
gradually gets into the habit. Some feel 
that the only way to have a good time is 
to go out on a "bender." When they 
come to, they are usually ashamed of 
themselves. 

In summing up, I would say that col- 
lege is very much like any other life in 
most respects. Its chief different char- 
acteristic is inquisitiveness with resulting 
acquisitiveness. Each day brings a new 
experience, a new friend, a different out- 
look, or a changed viewpoint. 

I shall write again in the near future. 
Yours sincerely. 



School for Bachelors 

A man is often said to res^rtt that he was ever married after he has first seen 
his wife when she gets up in the morning. If this is true, I should think that all 
sorority house waiters would remain bachelors for the rest of their lives after seeing 
about forty sleepy-eyed girls at the breakfast table every morning for nine months 
of the year. The waiter sees them as God made them, except for the tin curlers in 
their hair, of course. He knows just how many freckles "Red" Miller has, that 
"Dotty" wears red pajamas, that the beautiful coloring on Marion's cheeks isn't 
natural as she claims, and that most of the girls smear their noses and cheeks with 
cold cream. How amusing it must be to him to see the sophisticated campus 
"smoothie" slouching in her chair at breakfast. Her traditional grey, baggy "Dr. 
Denton" nightsuit is about the same color as the soggy oatmeal she is eating, and on 
her feet is a pair of old sheepskin-lined "Woogie" slippers. — Betty Betz 



[ 4 ] 



How to Make an Ice Cream Soda 



Charles Dippold 
Rhetoric I, Theme 7, 1937-1938 



AS A former Amalgamator of Aque- 
ous Solutions of Carbonic Acid, I 
can state with authority that the ice 
cream soda is the acme of the soda- 
jerker's art. Sundaes, cokes, and shakes 
are all secondary ; anyone can ladle syrup 
over ice cream or mix charged water and 
syrup to make a coke, but it takes long 
experience and inspired artistic endeavor 
to blend together the few 
simple ingredients of that 
masterpiece of the profession, 
the ice cream soda. As in any 
art, individual technique va- 
ries, but like any artist, I be- 
lieve mine to be the most 
satisfactory. 

To begin with, a glass must 
be chosen. The ideal glass is 
tall, with thick sides to pre- 
vent breakage, and with a 
heavy base to prevent tipping. 
It should be conical in shape, 
since a cone has only one- 
third the volume of a cylinder of equal 
height and base, while appearing almost 
as large. 

Equipped with the proper glass, one 
now chooses the syrup. I personally 
prefer chocolate, but with any flavor the 
procedure is the same. The proper 
amount must be judged by the soda- 
jerker. It is generally between two and 
three ounces, depending upon the size of 
the glass and ones individual taste. A 
dab of stiff whipped cream is flipped 
upon the syrup by a dexterous tap of 
the spoon on the edge of the glass, and 




then one is ready for the most important 
step, adding the water. 

The object is to produce a light, 
frothy, homogeneous mixture of charged 
water and syrup. To do this perfectly, 
the fine stream must be used. At some 
fountains, quality must be sacrificed to 
speed and the coarse stream substituted, 
but since we are considering the ideal 
soda, we may disregard this 
practice. One places the glass 
under the faucet, slowly mov- 
ing the handle forward to 
allow the soda-water to fizz 
out with increasing velocity, 
and rotating the glass care- 
fully to insure a complete 
mixture of water and syrup. 
When the glass is about two- 
thirds full, the water is shut 
off and the soda is read}^ for 
the addition of the ice cream. 
Two small scoops are better 
than one large one, since a 
large one blocks the bottom of the glass 
so that all of the liquid cannot be re- 
moved w4th the straw. The scoops must 
be well rounded to prevent their disin- 
tegration in the liquid. The ice cream is 
carefully slipped in. to avoid splashing; 
and now the soda is ready for its crown- 
ing glory, the cap. 

Slowly and carefully the charged water 
is again added in a fine stream, the object 
being to produce as high a cap as possible 
without causing it to run over. If the 
stream strikes the floating ice cream, the 
water will splash out violently. This is 



[ 5 ] 



particularly embarrassing if it lands on a 
customer sitting in front of the faucet. 
However, a really great soda-jerker has 
so coordinated his hand and eye by con- 
stant practice that he skillfully guides the 
stream into the glass without splashing. 
When the cap has reached the highest 
possible point, the water is turned ofif, 
the artist quickly seizes a spoon, and both 
soda and spoon are nonchalantly set be- 



fore the customer in one graceful motion. 
What a joy it is to behold ! Beads of 
moisture form on the cool sides, and 
through the foamy mass one may discern 
the white lumps of ice cream floating like 
beautiful water lilies. The top, streaked 
with brown lines of chocolate, rises like 
some snow-capped mountain, inviting the 
epicure to partake of this nectar and 
ambrosia, the ice cream soda. 



Music and Musicians 
Peggy 

Every inch of Peggy's slender five feet was imp. Now, bent lovingly over her 
violin, she looked like an angel. Her hair was coal black and lay in natural waves, 
framing a face that was almost a perfect circle. Black eyes, usually laughing, dream- 
ily wandered over "Humoresque." Straight white teeth between lips that curved from 
habit, pug nose pushing from smooth tan — that was Peggy. — Catherine B. Currax 

Grandmother 

She used to pride herself on her modern ideas and outlook, and she did have 
more pep than any of her friends. But at times she seemed old-fashioned beyond 
belief. I have seen her leave for a party dressed in the height of fashion and looking 
half her age. And I have seen her in an old house dress, knitting and listening to 
the radio. Sometimes when an old Victor Herbert tune was played she would grow 
sad and maybe cry. That was the way certain kinds of music affected her — jazz 
made her nervous and opera bored her. She preferred the old melodic songs she had 
sung in her younger days. — Buck Lowry 

Opera at the Dance 

Occasionally a miserable arrangement of some opera tune raises its battered head 
in their programs. Can you imagine Saint-Saens "Ma coeur a ta doux voix," hoarsely 
vvhispered by a saxophone with bouncing bass accompaniment and with "slick" breaks 
added by a trumpet? You are lucky if you can not! It is the most God- forsaken 
combination of sounds I have ever heard. — Harry Marlatt 

Popular Music 

I wonder if a great many people, outside of the cigarette company which spon- 
sors the "Hit Parade," have ever paused to consider the importance of popular music 
in the every-day lives of normal persons in this country. Its influence is tremendous. 
The grocery boy whistles "Caravan" as he delivers his goods; the campus play-boy 
bellows lustily "Turn on Those Red Hot Blues" as he wades through the flooded 
gutters on the way to his next class; even the staid spinster may be heard humming 
"Little Old Lady" as she putters around her rose garden in summer. 

— Mary S. Chapman 



[ 6 ] 



Gossamer and Spindrift 



Edwin Traisman 
Rhetoric II, Theme 5, 1937-1938 



j\/rR. HUDSON has produced a 
■^ ' *• strange, emotionally significant 
book out of gossamer and spindrift. 
It is unusual when anything more than 
a pretty, stylistic rhapsody of sounds is 
produced from such materials. It is not 
difficult to combine delicate words and 
pleasant ideas to produce a lacy effect, 
but to do so and create a worthwhile, 
definite story, with an important philo- 
sophical background, is unusual; and so 
Green Mansions is an unusual book. 

To remain emotionally aloof from the 
book seems impossible. Rima, the nymph- 
heroine, is a character of such potent 
charm that she must necessarily project 
herself into the private life of the reader. 
Sometime every man has dreamed of 
someone sufficiently lovely for him to be 
able to transfer his dream to her per- 
sonality, and every woman sees in her 
the personification of all the grace 
women are supposed to possess. 

Strangely, frequently, but not incon- 
gruously, Mr. Hudson weaves into the 
background of the story his bitter hatred 
of God. That such a bitter feeling can 
appear in a romantic book without con- 
flict is an indication of the ability of the 
writer to mix oil and water, and obtain 
a clear, sparkling solution. Briefly, Mr. 
Hudson seems to feel that prayer, re- 
pentance, good-works, and all the inani- 
ties which organized religion associates 
with virtue are wasted effort, that 
the path to virtue lies within the in- 
dividual, and that only by truly master- 



ing his conscience and forgiving his 
derelictions, with the result that they will 
not be repeated, can he obtain spiritual 
haven. 

The story is not as simple as one might 
suspect for a small book, many pages 
of which are devoted to description of 
forest and field. Abel, a political refugee 
in the wilds of Central America, is in- 
terrupted in his wanderings through a 
forest by the peculiar melody of a voice, 
half-human, half-birdlike in its quality, 
and transcending both the human and the 
bird in sheer loveliness of sound. After 
many days of sweet torment, he manages 
to discover the origin ; a slight, beautiful 
girl, living in close harmony with nature, 
speaking this lovely, carolling language 
b}- which he has become entranced. He 
falls in love with her, and she with him. 

Before they have reached entire accord 
she is trapped by savages and burned to 
death. Abel begins to go mad after that 
— his days are filled with conscience- 
stricken agony for supposed misdeeds, 
and at night all his disintegrating reason 
can produce are dithyrambic configura- 
tions of his epliemeral bliss with Rima. 
He finally manages to escape the forest 
and retain his reason. 

How Hudson is able to produce scenes 
of bitter emotional conflict and almost 
unbelievable mental agony, using all the 
time an unsurpassed beauty of language, 
defies analysis. One only knows, on 
finishing the book, that he has read some- 
thing very beautiful and moving. 



[7] 



Memories Ahoy! 



Anonymous 
Rhetoric I. Theme 7. 1937-1938 



YOU could ask me to write of the 
birds, the flowers, or the broadwalk, 
and I would do so gladly. When you ask 
me to write of my memories, however, 
I feel like the old soldier in one of Edgar 
Lee Master's poems. When a little boy 
asked the veteran how he had lost his 
leg, the old man morose!}- replied, "A 
bear bit it off." But through his mind 
ran the vivid memories of the stench and 
misery of war. It is thus with my first 
impressions of life. In a theme I would 
be inclined to color them ; but in my 
mind they would be shadows of loneli- 
ness and misery. Yet, you have com- 
manded to remember, and I shall obey 
that command. 

Two ordinary words, the home, would 
speak my story for me. To those of you 
who have never lived in an orphanage, 
these words would mean little. In my 
mind they suggest little black devils with 
red tongues. Even now, the devils haunt 
me, and I often dream I am back in their 
power. The picture clearest in my mind 
represents an incident which occurred 
when I was about four years old. I can 
still see that group of skinny, pigtailed 
orphans pointing their fingers at me and 
chanting, "We're going to SNITCH on 
you!" Oh! the horrible sound of the 
word, snitch. 1 ran away from the reach 
of their accusing fingers and shook with 
fear, a special kind of fear that I associ- 



ated with hair brushes and the stinging 
hands of fat matrons. 

Because of an experience at the or- 
phanage I have always associated soap 
with bread pudding. While bathing me, 
one day, the matron applied to my face 
too much soap, which I sniffed into my 
nose. All afternoon my nose burned 
and felt very much like a stuffed red 
pepper. That evening my favorite bread 
pudding was served for dinner, but I was 
too ill to eat any of it. Today I feel 
justified in eating a second dish of this 
delicacy for the little girl with the 
stuft'ed-pepper nose. 

Then, most terrible of all, my beauti- 
ful blue dress was given away, the first 
pretty dress I can remember owning. I 
was not allowed to wear it in the home, 
as we all dressed alike in ugly calico 
aprons. A little girl who had just been 
adopted wore my dress on the way to her 
new home. I still remember the embroid- 
ery work on the collar, and the way the 
skirt flared. It was the one beautiful 
thing in my life, and I cried about losing 
it for months after the girl had gone. 

I know now that I cried for beauty, 
understanding, and the love which can' 
never be found in an orphanage. But 
though my early memories are bitter, I 
am not sorry I was placed in an insti- 
tution, since I more fully appreciate the 
freedom and understanding I now enjoy. 



Prose and Poetry 

Prose strides purposefully forward, but poetry dances or dreams to the music of 
its verses. — Dorothy Pilkington 



[ 8] 



Life in a Morgue — Fun! 



Arselia Block 
Rhetoric II, Theme 6, 1937-1938 



A PHONE is smashed down on a 
desk. The wide-eyed man snaps up 
the transcript of a cable just received. 
The crack reporter comes on a run. "Diri- 
gible Amazon burned 1:20 A.M. after 
taking off from Lakehurst, New Jersey. 
38 of 60 known dead." Seventeen words 
— that is all the newspaper has until re- 
porters can get stories. But this is a 
scoop! An "extra" should be out by 
dawn, giving every detail of the fiight, 
including photographs, maps, tables, dia- 
grams, and as much as possible about the 
disaster. There will be a few more 
precious cables — maybe. But the bulk of 
the material? There is only one place 
to look — only one person who can secure 
it. And that, my skeptical friends, is the 
librarian. 

I call you skeptical because most 
people simply cannot visualize a librarian 
in any but the most peaceful of monk- 
like surroundings. Interview a news- 
paper librarian: "We wouldn't be sur- 
prised if one of them (a reporter) 
queried us as to whether a 'wampus' 
walked or waddled; or what became of 
House Bill 4-11-44 for the conservation 
of sidewinders or horned toads. If we 
replied 'No record' he would doubtless 
damn us with 'Hell, what a rotten 
morgue !' "^ It isn't so "dead" in a 
morgue. It isn't so stagnant there amid 
the skeletons of all those things once fit 
to be called "news." 

Too often the editor or distraught re- 
porter comes to the librarian with only 



an idea, not a question. One ex-librarian 
remarked jokingly that he used to "sit 
up nights devising ways to make people 
do their own thinking .... Half the 
time the editor doesn't know what he 
wants. "^ However, it is equally true that 
"everybody wants what he wants when 
he wants it, but newspaper editors and 
reporters want it a little more earnestly 
and loudly than anyone else, and set up 
a bigger holler when they don't get it."^ 
A sad paradox. But the newspaper li- 
brary serves more than the staff. Serving 
the public is a new and developing phase. 
For instance, military records kept dur- 
ing the war proved invaluable to many 
individuals investigating for memorial 
purposes. The Seattle Times, through its 
Information Bureau, answers fifteen 
liundred questions every day on any sub- 
ject, and much less than one per cent of 
the material available is used all year !* 
Think of meeting fifteen hundred dif- 
ferent acquaintances in one day and 
just saying "Hello" to them ; then think 
of facing fifteen hundred strange little 
new problems a day, and solving them. 
No wonder short-staffed libraries dis- 
courage direct public service ! 



^Rogers, D. G.. "The New York Herald- 
Tribune Library," Special Libraries, 19 (Octo- 
ber, 1928) , 273. 

'Conrad, Will C, "Getting the Thing You 
Haven't Got," Special Libraries, 19 (October, 
1928), 267. 

'"Four Great Newspaper Libraries," Special 
Libraries, 19 (October, 1928), 276. 

*"The Special Library Profession and What 
It Offers," Special Libraries, 25 (September, 
1934), 191. 



[9] 



Even as laymen are helped when li- 
brarians accommodate them, so are news- 
paper libraries greatly benefited when 
they cooperate with public libraries and 
special libraries, especially other news- 
paper libraries. When Brisbane was 
young — and there was included in his 
morgue, along with the usual cigar box 
files, snakes, an appendix, and a real 
skeleton nonchalantly holding a cigar 
butt between his yellow teeth^ — the motto 
was "competition" instead of "coopera- 
tion." Librarians have done a great deal 
to preach the doctrine of good will in 
newspaper relations. It is to their ad- 
vantage. 

It is inevitable that to equip a morgue 
to render such constant and prompt 
service as it must constitutes a pains- 
taking and arduous task. There are, of 
course, the regular reference library de- 
tails, w^th which we are familiar — in- 
volving call slips, encyclopedias, catalog- 
ing. But the real job is the filing of each 
important news item as it occurs. Filed 
also are mats and cuts, negatives, pam- 
phlets, periodicals, and entire newspa- 
pers. There is necessarily a constant 
process of elimination, and determining 
what can be safely discarded is a very 
real problem. What is of value? Pic- 
tures vary extremely. Today a picture 
of Roosevelt in knee breeches would be 
far more valuable than one of him in a 
top hat, but the latter will be worth more 
in a few decades. How are pictures best 
preserved? But the most tortuous of 
problems is that of classification. "The 
choice of a word, made in the process of 
classifying a page, may afifect the system 
of the librarian, not only for days but 
for months and years to come."® How is 
a reporter most apt to call for the ma- 
terial? This part sounds dull. But in the 



way of compensation, think of the fun 
newspaper librarians have "keeping tab" 
on the politicians. If they change policies 
with presidents their speeches reflect it — 
and when excerpts from speeches made 
at widely different times are compared in 
a single column of an up-to-date paper 
the combination may be quite unusual. 
New scientific "discoveries" and sup- 
posed business "trends" are also sus- 
ceptible to pessimistic observation from 
the man in the morgue. 

So newspaper librarianship means all 
of this ! I wonder if I could meet the re- 
quirements. They are severe. 

Physically, the librarian need be no 
/Vtlas, but must have the ability to work 
far longer than the usual hours, in an 
emergency. And an emergency seems 
to be quite a usual thing in this profes- 
sion. There is some moral responsibility, 
concerning what is brought out to be re- 
printed and what is not. The mental re- 
quirements seem unusually stringent. 
Native intelligence is considered more 
necessary than education ; the prepara- 
tion most preferred includes a "cultural" 
college education and one or two years 
of graduate work. A thorough knowl- 
edge of journalism is almost indispen- 
sable. He who's going to live with a 
newspaper should have a nose for news 
as great as Cyrano's. Smell it coming 
before it gets here! What may be called 
the "social requirement" is necessary, as 
it is in most professions. The librarian 
must be able to deal with people. Or they 
will not deal with him. And then he can 
just go out and find himself a nice job 

°Keycs, Willard E., "Practical Ways in 
Which Newspaper Librarians May Effectively 
Cooperate," Special Libraries, 20 (November, 
1929), 344. 

"Peterson, A. J., "The Technique of Mark- 
ing Newspaper Articles," Special Libraries, 20 
(November, 1929), 335. 



[10 



keeping bees, or something — at least he'll 
be the only one stung, then. There are 
other necessary qualities, too: untold 
patience, amiability, adaptability, relia- 
bility, managerial ability, a business 
sense, and loyalty to authorities and as- 
sociates. 

It appears to me that a successful 
newspaper librarian is quite a person. 
What are the opportunities and the re- 
wards for him? 

If he goes through graduate school he 
will probably be placed within a reason- 
able length of time. He should be. The 
chances are that his beginning salary 
will be higher than the twenty to thirty 
dollars a week which is the professional 
average.' During the depression the 
salaries of librarians were little affected. 
He will work five or six days, or around 
forty hours, on shifts, which does not 
seem unreasonable. And he will have 
the opportunity to work up to a five 
thousand a year position ! It has been 
suggested that there is more need for 
persons with five thousand dollar qualifi- 
cations than for the less qualified f 
naturally, I would want to be well quali- 
fied ! A librarian's security of tenure 
depends entirely upon his ability to make 
good. But is this all that there is to be 
considered? There are rewards of a non- 
financial nature: contact with vital per- 
sonalities in a comparatively pleasant en- 
vironment ; ample room for self-expres- 
sion in the work ; and a practically un- 
limited opportunity for serving others. 

Well, it looks like a real job. It looks 



like work and plenty of it. But it would 
be utterly fascinating ! And do you know 
—I think I'll try it! 

Bibliography 

Baker, H. A., "Value and Depreciation of 
Photos," Special Libraries, 20 (1932), 326- 
328. 

Canter, H. B., "Schools of Journalism and the 
Newspaper Library," Special Libraries, 16 
(1925), 316-317. 

Conrad, W. C, "Getting the Thing You 
Haven't Got," Special Libraries, 19 (1928), 
267, 268. 

Crawford and Clement, The Choice of an Oc- 
cupation, Yale University, 1932, 88-101. 

Danforth, R. H., "Can the News and Library 
Departments Get Along Amicably?" Spe- 
cial Libraries, 21 (1930), 378. 

Davenport, B. L., "Keeping a Record of Li- 
brary Calls and Its Use," Special Libraries, 
20 (1929), 341. 

Desmond, R. W., "Instruction in Newspaper 
Library Methods," Special Libraries. 20 
(1929), 323-325. 

Foster, P. P., "Co-operation Among News- 
paper Librarians," Special Libraries, 17 
(1926), 362-363. 

"Four Great Newspaper Libraries," Special 
Libraries, 19 (1926), 362-363. 

Jones, R. W., "The Editorial Writer and the 
Library," Special Libraries, 21 (1930), 
2,76-2,77. 

Keyes, W. E., "Practical Ways in Which 
Newspaper Librarians May Effectively Co- 
operate," Special Libraries, 20 (1929), 344. 

Alaugham, Charles, "The Newspaper Library 
and Morgue," Special Libraries, 15 (1924), 
132-133. 

^Miller, J. H., "Looking in from the Outside," 
Special Libraries, 20 ( 1929) , 338-340. 

"Newspaper Libraries ; Their History, Func- 
tion and Methods," Special Libraries, 15 
(1924), 1-12. 

Peterson, A. J., "The Newspaper Librarian," 
Special Libraries, 22 (1931), 111-112. 

Rogers, D. G., "The New York Herald- 
Tribune Library," Special Libraries, 19 
(1928), 273. 

"The Special Library Profession and What It 
Offers," Special Libraries, 25 (September, 
1934). 191. 

'"The Special Library Profession and What 
It Offers," Special Libraries, 25 (1934), 193. 
"Ibid., 193. 



Twenty Thousand Pennies 

Ann's neat black and white dress was designed on the "square deal" plan — with 
broad shoulders, practically no waistline, and a very straight skirt. I liked it and 
blurted out the fact that I did. But when Ann informed me, "Well, you should like it ! 
I paid $200.00 for the outfit," I gave up. To her. $200.00 was a unit; to me it was 
20,000 precious pennies. — Dorothy Fehrenbacher 



[11] 



The Sketch Book 

{Material Written in Rhetoric I and II) 

Log Cabin 

An unexpected clearing, only a few rods square, and cut so regularly out of the 
dense pine wood as to give the impression of the inside of a huge box with the blue 
sky for a lid, was hiding at the origin of the dim path. In the center, like a fallen 
match-house within the box, a one-room cabin of rough-hewn logs sprawled in un- 
touched decay. At one corner, the lock-notches that once held the logs firmly coupled 
together had rotted through, allowing them to roll out upon the forest grass and 
collapsing the heavy, sodden roof at an angle to the ground. The resulting ruin, 
because the opposite side stood staunchly and defiantly, holding its part of the roof 
tightly, appeared as an almost-intentionally constructed half-faced camp of pioneer 
days. Eerie bars of light blinked through spaces where the chinking between the 
logs had washed out. — Cedric King 

H. G. Wells and Stalin 

Inasmuch as Stalin and Roosevelt appeared to be the foremost leaders for 
reform, Wells conceived the idea of trying to bring the two together to form a united 
front. To most people, certainly to most Americans, the conception seemed slightly 
far-fetched, but to Mr. Wells, nothing was far-fetched. We next find him in Russia 
for a formal conference with Stalin. Let us draw up a brief comparison of the two 
men. Wells — fiery, fresh, and friendly; Stalin — stern, stolid, and strict. The former 
easily given to emotion, the latter willing to resign himself to sweet, submissive 
silence. — Alex Goldberg 

"The Cows Are Out" 

The next morning at 4:30 — when I was getting my audible breathing exercises 
— I felt someone jerk me right out of a healthy snore. Bed covers were fl3'ing, and 
apparently I was supposed to be. There stood "Mom" in her big yellow apron, saying, 
"Hurry up out of there ! The cows are out and Buddy needs help with them !" 
With a final, punctuating snore, I started to stretch. But then my temper must have 
got lost in the bedclothes, for I jumped up, pushed my mother out of the room, 
and banged the door so hard that the knob on the outside fell off. 

— Dorothy Fehrenbacher 

Definition of a Referee 

The ref. is an individual who runs about the field or floor of contest in a pair 
of white duck trousers and usually a striped shirt. He differs from the players in 
that he gets paid for his running. — Julian Christensen 

Field Trip 

Mary and I came armed with a large capacity for fun and one small sheet of 
paper for notes. — ^Jean McJohnston 

Quiller-Couch's Mind 

So to misinterpret the example would take a really active mind — one that had a 
tremendous capacity for confusion. — Stephen Kratz 



[12] 



» 



Swing Band 

"Red Davis" and his "Five Swing Grenadiers" are the music-makers. Their 
organization consists of two saxophones, a trumpet, a set of drums, and a piano. 
Leaning towards one another with heads close together, the tenor and alto saxophones 
sing sweet, tender strains in a way that would be almost saccharine if it were not for 
the break that is heard now and then, when one of the players runs out of breath in 
the middle of a phrase, or a too blue harmony, when several notes are played wrong. 
\\'ith face contorted, eyes popping, and veins swelling, the trumpeter jumps from his 
seat and cheerfully screeches into the "hot" parts. "Hit those high notes or burst" is 
his motto. At times we are led to believe, and rather hopefully too, that some day he 
might. Piano and drums finish ofif the ensemble by filling in harmony and supplying 
rhythm. The drummer in particular must be versatile, for his equipment includes 
practically everything from Chinese temple blocks to castanets and cowbells. 

— Harry Marlatt 

Reading Quiller Couch 

But before he reads the essay through, he is diverted by examples of the follies 
that are committed in everyday writing, is entertained by Sir Arthur's vivid way of 
expressing himself even though it differs little from the examples he criticizes, 
and finally finishes with a glow of amusement and not much more. He has lost 
whatever constructive ideas he had at first in trying to keep abreast of the author's 
inconsistencies. — Stephen Kratz 

Action ! 

There was a sudden flurry, then we saw the man who had held up his arms jump 
into the limousine and race away, tires screaming on the rough pavement. The men 
scattered; one poised on his knee, levelled a machine gun, and leaned against the 
recoil. Tarring, staccato explosions piled themselves on top of each other. The big 
car careened crazily, smashed into a small tree, and rolled end over end down 
the steep hill that faced the river, coming to a stop as it burst into flames. 

— Harl E. Son 

And the Checks 

Xo one, it seems, is immune from the paid-testimonial idea. From the most 
famous matron of Newport to the freaks in a circus, all have some time or another 
testified to the marvelous qualities of this or that cigarette. And why not? The 
companies are very courteous, the pictures flattering, the publicity welcome, and the 
checks fat. — Martin Wolfe 

Thoroughly Nauseating Odor 

When we reached the second floor we were greeted by the most thoroughly 
nauseating odor that I have ever experienced. It was so dense that the very air 
seemed hazy. — E. Richards 

Betrayal 

Her life is a continual pose; only when one sees her sleeping, can one actually 
see that she is graceful in personality as well as in body, that she is unusually kind, 
and that she has fine, clean thoughts. — Dorothy Fehrenbacher 

Disguise 

He tries to hide his personality behind a wildly checkered necktie, but fails 
utterly. — Harry Marlatt 



[13] 



Hobbyists 



Sister Mary Henry Frey 
Rhetoric II, Theme 8, Summer Session, 1927 



IN RECENT years. American atti- 
tudes toward play and entertainment, 
like other attitudes, have undergone revo- 
lutionary changes. In the eighteenth 
century people were unwilling to play. 
There is this difference between play and 
entertainment: when we "play" we take 
an active part in the game, whereas when 
we are "entertained" others do the play- 
ing — -we look on. Even as late as the 
50's, people attended games by proxy. 
For them a worthy pastime was the 
theater. But today we are realizing more 
and more that in order to be "healthy, 
wealthy, and wise" not only our bodies 
must be physically fit, but our minds also 
must be active and interested. Most of 
us, it is true, do work which requires an 
active mind and which may interest us 
vitally, but we are not satisfied. We 
want something to pick up when we lay 
down our pen or our shovel at the end 
of the day — we want a hobby. If our 
job requires a "white collar," we want 
to don a pair oi overalls and dig and 
hammer ; if ours is a pick-and-shovel job, 
we want to spend our leisure time pursu- 
ing the aesthetic. Thus, our lives are 
balanced: a little work and a little 
relaxation. 

Ennui, perhaps, better than any Eng- 
lish word describes a life without play, 
without a hobby. This was rather pa- 
thetically brought out by the death of 
Calvin Coolidge. He retired from active 
life to his home, but there was nothing 
to do. He went to his garden, but he was 
a stranger to the flowers. He went to his 
room, but he found nothing to do. He 



went to watch the janitor shovel coal, 
but he didn't understanding firing. He 
went back to his room, and dutifully 
rode his "hobbyhorse," but exercise 
taken from a sense of duty is not a 
hobby. He apparently had no engrossing 
interest — he had no hobby. 

That men are guarding against this 
ennui and this emptiness in old age is 
brought out in the lives of those around 
us. Men in both public and private life, 
by a wise selection, have chosen hobbies 
that fill their leisure and guarantee to 
them a kind of old age pension. They 
realize that the shop is not a thing to 
take home, to eat with, to sleep on. 

For example, Henry Culver, a New- 
York lawyer, fostered a kind of penchant 
for naval archaeology. He bought up 
rare books and old marine prints and 
became an authority on historically cor- 
rect models. He rigged a dockyard 
model, Prince George, and soon found 
himself a kind of professional amateur. 
His greatest work was the building of 
the Sovereign of the Seas, Charles Fs 
finest craft, the most complete model 
ever built, which kept six Italian wood 
carvers busy for six months, and cost 
$30,000. 

Perhaps the objection may be raised 
that a hobby is too expensive for the 
average American. The list of hobbies is 
so long, however, that there is a hobby 
to fit every pocketbook. Among the 
many things which might be chosen as 
hobbies are work with wood, metal, clay, 
cloth, leather, linoleum, and wax. Chris- 
topher ]\Iorley has pictured men stand- 



[141 



ing enthralled in front of windows where 
instruments of precision — micrometers, 
compasses, calipers, and protractors — 
are displayed. They are eager to put 
their hands on them — to use them, to 
play with them. Hobbies, however, avoid 
the limelight ; the best hobbies are buried 
in the lives of their hobbyists. 

Our own natural talents may suggest 
a hobby. Music has always held its 
charms. Doctor Einstein, noted scientist 
and theorist, is known to have played in 
an orchestra. The former Secretary of 
the Treasury, William H. Woodin, be- 
sides being able to play the violin, guitar, 
zither, and cello, composed music, best 
known of which are his Raggedy Ann 
and Little Wooden Willie. The Duke of 
Windsor, the ex-King of England, cer- 
tainly had a hobby that cost him very 
little. He was taught to knit by his royal 
mother and later found great delight in 
knitting scarfs and mufflers for friends. 
Handwriting has always been a hobby 
much sought after. There are people 
who have transcribed complete volumes. 
One hobbyist is known to have copied 
Old Wives Tales, 150,000 words. Callig- 
raphy or elegant writing certainly offers 
much in the way of divergence, especially 
if one has learned to embellish. Mark 
Twain once announced that he was work- 
ing on a book in Arabic — Gum Arabic — 
which was nothing more than a scrap- 
book in which he pasted many clippings. 
Another hobbyist, a loving father, pre- 
sented his daughter on her wedding day 
a book, depicting her childhood with 
clippings and snapshots. Still another 
collected clippings about actors and 
actresses which, when bound, filled 800 
volumes. 

This is by no means a complete list 
of hobbyists ; to complete it would re- 
quire volumes. Hobbyists, however, are 
found not only in public life but also in 



private life. I once knew a venerable 
old man who cherished and held every- 
thing sacred. He pursued almost every 
known hobby, and yet, unlike the "Jack 
of all trades," he cannot be called master 
of none. He delighted in handwriting, 
and the simplest card he would embellish 
with fine lettering in red and black. He 
also drew unusual pictures — one, I espe- 
cially remember, came to my sister on 
the morning of her tenth birthday. On 
the letter, opposite the heading, was 
pictured a little curly-headed girl, rubbing 
her e)'es with her fists, and under the 
picture was printed, "Good morning, 
Margaret. A happy birthday!" In the 
da3^s before 1918, he would delight in 
displaying beer steins, ranging in size 
from very small to very large, which he 
had collected from all parts of the world. 
He religiously kept all forms of corres- 
pondence and clippings. His scrapbook 
would compare admirably well with Gum 
Arabic. Tucked away in the attic — his 
den — of the great old house were the 
concrete reminiscences of the olden days, 
and fresh in the mind of the appreciative 
old hobbyist were the events connected 
with each. 

In the lives of our grandmothers, or 
great-grandmothers, knitting and quilting 
were pleasurable recreations. Knitting, 
at one time, was a necessary occupation, 
but at the time my grandmother retired 
from active life it had become, at least 
for her, a pastime. She knitted yard 
after yard of wool, and when the family 
were supplied with more socks than they 
could possibly wear out in a lifetime, she 
began to knit socks for the mail man, 
whose "feet must get awfully cold plow- 
ing through the snow." I can remember 
her sitting at the old, wooden quilting 
frame and stitching away at a pattern 
which she called the "morning star." 
When finally she rolled up the unfinished 



[15] 



quilt and put it away for the last time, 
she had spent her life and had not let it 
just "rust out." In contrast are the 
lives of her daughters, who amid the 
drudgery of mending and patching, 
haven't found time in twenty years to 
unroll the old frame and finish the quilt. 

Hobbyists have pursued hobbies which, 
remaining no longer personal and inti- 
mate, have contributed valuably to sci- 
ence. They have followed their hob- 
bies with so much enthusiasm that they 
have discovered new fields opening to 
them. John Braska, a mill worker in 
Philadelphia, became very much inter- 
ested in the stars. He came home at 
night and, with his faithful wife, went 
to an old shed behind the house — their 
observatory — to study the heavens. They 
needed a telescope, but being too poor 
to buy one, they determined to make one. 
Year after year their interest in the 
stars grew, and every year their tele- 
scopes improved. Finally, Uncle John 
(and he delighted in the name) became 
known as an instrument maker of pre- 
cision. The head of the department of 
astronomy at Harvard gave him an order 
that required great accuracy. When the 
Academy of Science in Paris determined 
to place in America an authentic measure 
for the meter, Uncle John received the 
task of measuring the red ray of cad- 
mium vapor, correct to one-millionth of 
a millimeter. 

In a word, hobbyists may look forward 
to a threefold reward: they enjoy leisure. 



they are guaranteed an old-age pension, 
and sometimes they are insured finan- 
cially. A man I know now has a salaried 
job in a large corporation, but he realizes 
that without the assurance of a pension 
by the company he will be laid aside in 
sickness or old age. To guard against 
this possibility or probability he has inter- 
ested himself in Jersey cows. Today, 
when he is still active in business, he 
delights to come home at night to care 
for his herd. His interest is to hold the 
butterfat-producing record. In this he 
has been successful, for last month he 
took the county record of 84.1 pounds 
of butter fat. He sells the cream, double- 
whip, at forty cents a pint, which a boy 
delivers to city customers. He hopes in 
this v/ay to be able to insure himself 
against the rainy day. 

Just last Thursday, we were awed by 
this announcement: "U. S. Pensions 
Aged Scion of Mount Vernon." Harry 
Parker, venerable doorman of the Ways 
and Means Committee for forty-six 
years, by a unanimous vote of the House 
received a pension. The old darky, the 
seventy-five year old grandson of George 
\A'ashington's special body servant, was 
pensioned for the remainder of his life 
at his present salary of $1,250 a year. 
We only hope that when the smiling old 
darky, whose "feet have begun to hurt," 
returns to Mount Vernon, he will have 
a hobby waiting for him lest the House's 
record vote of 340 in favor, against, 
speed his faltering steps to the grave. 



Curiosity 

You don't know what "sly as a fox" means, until you've tried to put the clamps 
on one of these babies! But their curiosity usuallyspells their doom. I cauj^ht one 
once, on a bet. by puttinij an alarm clock in the .e:rass and carefully setting a trap on 
a nearby knoll. The fox came aloni? and heard the clock tickine:. His sense of smell 
warned him of human odor, so he kept away from the clock. Still, he was curious. 
That tickiner sound worried him. Spottinu: the knoll, he jumped up to look the situa- 
tion over. Click ! I had him ! — Clarence Springer 



[16] 



On Writing Letters 



Reoxe Rasmussex 
Rhetoric I, Theme 2, 1937-1938 



EXPERT letter writing is becoming 
an important part of every colle- 
gian's school life. Although it is an art 
occupying a rather lowly place in literary 
circles today, writing a letter takes real 
talent and practice if it is to be used 
profitably. Using my mailing list as a 
fairly average one for a college girl, I 
will begin with the diplomatic type. 

•'Dear Gramp, (Always call him by a 



school for four years instead of only two 
as had been originally planned. 

The next type combines diplomacy 
with a plea for funds. 

"Dear Mom and Pop, (Again the re- 
ceivers are reminded of how young their 
little girl really is, and hozv far she is 
from home.) 

"College is really swell, just like I 
thought it would be, but I do kind of 
miss my own room at home and every- 




pet name, so that he will think of you as 
his 'little' grand-daughter.) 

"College is just gorgeous ! I'm sure it's 
the most wonderful thing that ever hap- 
pened to me. I intend to work just 
awful hard so you'll be real proud of me 
and won't be sorry that you're sending 
your oldest grand-daughter to the Uni- 
versity of Illinois, etc." 
The main characteristic of this type 
of letter is its extreme enthusiasm. You 
just have to make him understand how 
much it all means to you and also to 
work up the idea that he send you to 



thing. (This breaks down the last vestige 
of resistance. Now for the business end 
of the letter.) 

"Gosh, Mom, I'm afraid I just won't 
be able to get along on four dollars a 
week allowance because you see we 
hadn't figured on my having to buy Art 
supplies every week and besides I want 
to take horseback riding. 

Love and XXX from your 

Boots (Always use their 
pet name for you so they will surely 
realize how much they miss you.) 
"P.S. I already drew three more dollars 



[17] 



because I just had to have it for the 
horseback riding." 

Now we come to the really newsy 
letter, that bulging envelope just chock- 
full of all kinds of information. This 
type of letter is usually sent to the best 
girl friend. 

"Dear Carrots, 

"Well, kid, how's tricks? This college 
life is really the berries; but take it from 
me, you kids are having a real vacation 
by going to High School. I really never 
thought so much outside work existed. 
We have to write a theme every single 
week ! 

"I've met a bunch of the cutest guys 
down here; one is an army officer! Of 
course the fellows back in Chicago 
haven't forgotten me yet. I received a 
dozen roses last Friday from Harry. 
You know Fridaj' always was my date 
night for him. Last week-end Weller and 
Bob both came all the way down here to 
see me and it was really terrible because 
each of them thought I was going steady 
with him. (This information is always 
sent from one sorority sister to another 
just to let the other know you've still got 
what it takes.)" 

The fourth major type is the love 
letter. 



"My Darling, 

"I've missed you so much since you 
were down here last. Do you still love 
me? Sweetheart, are you coming down 
to see me this week-end? etc., etc." 

This letter may go on indefinitely and 
fill many pages but is intelligible only 
to the person it is written to. The main 
thing to remember in writing a letter of 
this kind is not to implicate oneself. It's 
perfectly ethical to say you love him and 
all that, but never say anything in writ- 
ing that could be taken for something 
else or misunderstood by his parents or 
his friends should they happen to pick 
it up. 

Of course, there are other, secondary 
types such as the sick friend letter, the 
maiden aunt letter, and the letter to the 
"just a friend" boy with gobs of money, 
but the most often used by the college 
girl are the four described above. The 
first, if written correctly, brings about 
an extension of college life, the second, 
more money, the third keeps up the 
reputation, and the fourth keeps HIM 
on the "string." 



Today's Cowboys 



No longer the romantic figures they once were, the cowboys or cowhands art- 
sturdy young men who lead a very ordinary life. They do not gather around camp- 
fires at night, but live in spacious, white bunkhouses furnished with many of the 
modern conveniences. Their work consists of driving trucks, handling the latest 
model farm machinery, and maintaining wire fences, windmills, and other equip- 
ment, as well as tending the vast herds. Perhaps the cattle have become more docile 
with the advance of civilization. At any rate, they are moved about with a minimum 
of lassoing and other tricks so popularly ascribed to cowboys. The cowboys, although 
good horsemen, are, for the most part, not the experts they are commonly reputed 
to be. At the rodeo in nearby Cheyenne it is largely the professionals, who go from 
show to show, and not the local cowhands who capture the bronco-busting awards. 
After their pay-days on Saturday the cowboys clamber into old Fords and Chevrolets 
and head for town to indulge in some recreation, but not to "shoot up" the locality 
as their predecessors are said to have done. As for wild animals, the worst animal 
the rancher faces today is the small prairie-dog or gopher, who is combated with 
poisoned food placed at the mouth of the hole where he lives. — Dudley McAllister 



[18] 



Let's Blow Our Horns! 



Clinton Cobb 
Rhetoric I, Theme 11, 1937-1938 



FROM the theme entitled "Hang Up 
the Fiddle and the Bow" in the 
October, 1937, Green Caldron, one gath- 
ers that the author has a strong prejudice 
against bands as musical organizations 
and a low opinion of their value in public 
education. He claims that a band has 
no "soul," apparently because there are 
no stringed instruments used in it. He 
indicates that the band does not have the 
ability to arouse the emotions of an audi- 
ence, except at athletic events, military 
parades, and similar gatherings. But has 
he heard the beautiful, rich, melodious 
music of a fine s^inphonic band? The 
sonorous tones of the clarinet, the beau- 
tiful, lilting quality of the flutes and 
oboes, the forceful "calls" of horns, 
trumpets, and trombones not only pour 
forth "soul" but portray character and 
personality much as an orchestra does. 

What about the versatility of an or- 
chestra? Who can imagine a symphony 
orchestra playing a rousing march in 
typical military style at an exciting foot- 
ball game? At such a time no one cares 
to hear the beautiful tones of a pleasing 
melody, no matter how exquisitely it may 
be played. A march to which one may 
beat his foot, wave his arms, and sing is 
much more satisfying. Here it is that 
the versatility of a band may best be 
illustrated. From a military parade or 
football field a finely trained band may 
move to a concert stage and please equal- 
ly as well the type of audience attending 
this performance as it did the excited 
crowd at the militar\' event or game. The 
band thus may arouse very different 



human emotions while an orchestra is 
confined to such emotional effects as it 
may create from the concert stage. 

Why do the public schools of the 
country not foster the development of 
symphon}' orchestras? The chief reason 
is that the age of the student does not 
permit it. The stringed instruments are 
exceedingly difficult to master, as com- 
pared to the wind instruments of the 
band. Rarely is a high school pupil able 
to play a violin so that the music is 
pleasing to listen to. There are few such 
young people today, and when we do 
come across one, he is usually referred 
to as a prodigy. On the other hand, the 
mastery of the majority of wind instru- 
ments is well within the abilities of an 
average child, if the study is pursued 
from an early age. Therefore children 
are urged to start their musical education 
by learning to play the instruments which 
make up the band. 

The band of today does choose for its 
standard of excellence the symphony 
orchestra, but only because it has no 
higher standard toward which to work. 
Compared to the orchestra, the band is 
a new invention. The instruments used 
in the band have been developed only 
recently, as compared to stringed instru- 
ments, and therefore the art of syn- 
chronization of the different instruments 
has not been so well developed as in the 
orchestra. The possibilities of the band 
have not yet been fully exploited ; only 
recently have they begun to be dis- 
covered. 

Because of the relative under-develop- 



[19] 



ment of the band, the musical Hterature 
available for it has been limited. More 
and more the great music of the orches- 
tra is being rewritten for band use. The 
music which formerly was played by a 
few musicians and was heard by a com- 
paratively few persons now is being made 
available to great masses of people, both 
musicians and laymen. Great numbers 
of people now may have the joy of play- 
ing and hearing the works of the great 
masters. The ponderous, exciting, thrill- 
ing music of Wagner is now brought to 
people all over the world by bands, which 
are thought by some to create more 
nearly the effect desired by the composer 
than the great orchestral organizations 



do. The musical qualities of the great 
works of the masters undoubtedly have 
been preserved in the transposing of 
orchestral literature for the band. And 
as this work progresses, the band 
assumes a higher place in public edu- 
cation and the world of musical art 
generally. 

Thus has developed an organization, 
essentially musical, though adaptable to 
the demand of almost any occasion, 
which has represented in it, and is typical 
of, the American people and spirit. It is 
becoming more popular because it is 
truly a product of the ingenuity, prac- 
ticability, and musical tastes of the great 
mass of American people. 



Figures of Speech 



There is something about September — the smell of burningf leaves, the hazy 
autumnal atmosphere, the harvest moon hanging like a huge round mold of yellow 
cheese in the sky — that always makes me long to return to HazeKvood, the place of 
my birth. — Wendell Sharp 



Nothing is as impartial as a traffic light. — Willis Ballance 



The foul lines were the X and Y axes, home plate the origin, and the ball a point 
which traced out various curves on this huge piece of green graph paper. 

— Charles J. Taylor 

• • • • 

He was jolted like a solitary penny in an iron bank. — Dan McWethy 



The radiator gave several consumptive coughs, and then started purring. 

— Helen Kientzle 
• • • • 

As alert as a robin on a lawn after a rain. — L. M. Irwin 



The Broad Walk is like a huge conveyor belt, picking up its load and distributing 
it to the different work shops. — J. R. Gardner 



As spineless as spaghetti. — Roy Christopherson 



[20] 



Don't You Know or Don't You Care? 



Anonymous 
Rhetoric I, Theme 11, 1937-1938 



HOUSING for independents should 
be as desirable and healthful as for 
fraternity students. The university ought 
to have sufficient accommodations for all 
the students so there would be no neces- 
sity for a waiting list. But, since the 
university cannot afford to build addi- 
tional residence halls, it ought at least 
to raise its requirements for approval of 
private rooming houses. The house- 
owners should modernize the rooms and 
keep them in repair ; they should provide 
comfortable, if not attractive, furniture 
and adequate lighting facilities. They 
should equip their beds with healthful, 
moderately soft, even mattresses and 
coil springs, and should heat the rooms 
properly during the winter. They should 
provide a comfortable, fairly modern 
living-room where (in girls' houses) the 
girls may receive guests. They should 
take the girls' telephone calls pleasantly 
and intelligently, and they should not 
molest their belongings. 

The house in which I live has not 
been remodeled since its construction 
sometime during the nineteenth century. 
The furniture, old and unattractively 
painted over, is anything but comfort- 
able ; and there is not a light in my room 
except a reading lamp that I bought, 
and my parsimonious landlady com- 
plained about the size of the bulb in that. 
The room had to be wared, at my ex- 
pense, for my lamp and radio, because 
the only electric socket, which was in- 
conveniently connected to the wall 
switch, was out of order. These condi- 
tions, unpleasant as they are, might be 



endured, but the beds are unbearable ! 
Mine must be that bed of hard rock I 
have been studying about in geolog}'. 
It has a dilapidated link spring (I have 
yet to find any spring in it), which, we 
learn in our required hygiene course, is 
most unhealthful, being conducive to 
poor posture and unrestful sleep. The 
mattress, if possible, is worse. It alter- 
nately sags and bulges and is compressed 
by three or four decades' use to a thick- 
ness of not more than three inches. 
Although my room is fairly well heated, 
the other rooms in the house are almost 
as cold as the out-of-doors. Getting up 
in a cold bedroom is a common cause of 
that too- frequent disease — the cold, as 
we learn in hygiene. 

Leaving the inadequacy of the bare 
necessities, let us look at the social dis- 
advantages of these houses. Our house, 
which is typical of a great number of 
independent rooming houses, has an anti- 
quated, dust-laden parlor which acts as 
an immediate quencher of good spirits, 
and in which we hesitate to receive 
guests. The uncomfortable and much- 
worn antique furniture and the painfully 
out-of-tune piano do anything but en- 
courage youthful good-times. Further- 
more, Mrs. refuses to answer 

tlie telephone. When we are home, we 
take all the calls, including hers and the 
hired boy's. She may be sitting not more 
than ten feet from the phone, but she 
will not think of answering it. If, on 
the very rare occasions, for instance, 
when she is expecting a call, she does 
answer the phone, she is very curt and 



21] 



impolite to our callers. At the present 
time, I am expecting important rushing 
calls from sororities, and I do not like 
to miss my purely social calls. Periiaps 
all this sounds like a personal grievance, 
but let me assure you that it is not. I 
know and have talked to a large number 
of independents in other houses, and 
they make the same complaints. 

These undesirable housing conditions 
for independents need not continue. The 
university can certainly do something, 
can do a great deal indeed, to remedy 
these evils. The room-renters have an 
unfair advantage over the students. The 
students must live somewhere, and since 
there are more students than the univer- 
sity halls, the sorority and fraternity 



houses, and organized independent 
houses can possibly hold, these room- 
renters can and do greatly over-charge 
for rooms which they fill with old furni- 
ture which they themselves would not 
use. To think that the deans of the 
university have approved all of these 
living quarters ! The university carefully 
looks after us to see that we get enough 
exercise by requiring us to take ph3'sical 
education, and to see that we learn, in 
our required hygiene courses, how to get 
the most out of life by the proper care 
of the body and mind. Such inconsist- 
ency! If, as a state university, it is pri- 
marily interested in the welfare of the 
students, how can it allow this exploita- 
tion of the students to exist? 



Amateur Pottery 



The kihi proper had yet to be prepared. After looking' all over camp, we finally 
found an old chlorine can, about two-and-one-half feet hi.g^h, in which we placed wire 
shelves for the pottery. The whole day before the firinor, every one interested (and 
some who were not) .gathered wood and chopped down trees. That night I went to 
bed early for at six the following morning the fire had to be started. In the stone- 
lined hole we built a roaring fire which was allowed to burn low after two hours of 
intensive heat. This was to heat all the rocks so that the heat could be kept even and 
constant for the actual kiln when the can was lowered. The chlorine can, now a kiln 
filled with the pottery, was placed near the fire and gradually (about an inch every 
five or ten minutes) lowered nearer and nearer the red hot ashes in the rock-lined 
hole. After it had reached these ashes and was thoroughly heated, a little fire_ was 
begun around the can. Very gradually this fire was increased until the can could not 
be seen because of the collecting wood ashes and the hot flames. By twelve o'clock 
the can was red hot under inches of wood ashes, and the fire above was roaring so 
loudly it could be heard yards and yards away. The fire was kept going at this rate 
until four-thirty in the afternoon; then it was gradually allowed to diminish. By 
seven o'clock the fire was gone; a huge heap of wood ashes gave a silent evidence of 
the amount of wood used, and my scorched legs, face, and arms gave a screaming 
evidence of who had been "playing with fire." 

At ten o'clock at night by lantern light I slowly shoveled off the still hot ashes 
until I could see the can — still much too hot to go very near. Inch by inch we gradu- 
ally pulled it away from its hot bed. By removing it too quickly, thereby quickly 
coolin.g it and its precious contents, we would have ruined many days' work. Finally 
we opened the end of our can-kiln and peeked inside. I became so excited that I 
forgot the articles were still too hot to touch and picked up the first dish I saw. It 
burned my finger so that I dropped it. Luckily it fell in some sand at my feet and was 
none the worse for its flight through space. One by one we took the articles out and 
placed them on the hot sand. Of twenty-two pieces only two broke ! — Frances Quirke 



[22] 



Thar She Blows! 



Milton Yanow 
Rhetoric II, Theme 16, 1937-1938 



THE fishing was not very good. We 
had set out after sailfish but as yet 
no one had had a strike. At three o'clock 
there were two mackerel, a small sword- 
fish, and two bonito. Shorty had caught 
a barracuda, too, and when Old Timer 
had killed him, I had a good look at his 
teeth and then looked down at where 
he came from and was glad he couldn't 
climb. 

"You're sure he can't, though?" 
Shorty had said. "Say, uh — up the side 
of the boat when your back was turned?" 

Now it was three o'clock and Shorty 
and the Old Timer were in the fishing 
chairs — the back-rests tipped back so 
their heads touched the cabin — and I was 
lying on the cabin roof watching them. 
The sun had gone behind a bank of 
heavy, rolling clouds and it was still hot 
and heavy, with a breathless impending 
thickness. The water had a dark and 
oily polish ; it looked slippery and thick 
in the enormous shadow. Simultaneously, 
Shorty and I began reciting lines from 
the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner. The 
ominous settings had touched us both in 
the same way. When the water slapped 
against the boat it made a heavy, sullen 
sound that made our tiny motor craft 
seem smaller and the dark clouds darker 
and the land a long, long way off. I had 
the feeling that the fun was over but I 
didn't want to be the one to say it. 

I was the first to see the high fin 
cutting through the water, nearing 
Shorty's bait. "Look!" I called, "A 
shark !" Old Timer, now back at the 
wheel, behind the cabin, leaned out and 



looked back. He called out, "Sailfish ! 
Sailfish! If he nuzzles it, pay out a little 
line, lad. Give him line and time. You'll 
know it if he bites." 

Shorty and I were both landlubbers ; 
and this being our first such experience, 
I got as excited about the strike as he 
did. 

The sail went under. Shorty said, 
"He's — he's doing something!" 

"Give him line, give him line !" 

Then his line jerked and he nearly 
lost it as the sailfish jumped and every- 
one began to yell. He jumped clean, in 
a beautiful silver arc ; he went off kicking 
and fighting, in a series of enormous 
gorgeous leaps that took one's breath 
away. 

Shorty gasped, "I can't — can't hold 
him. Take him, Old Timer." 

"Go on and fish your own fish! Stay 
with him, boy ! Fight him !" 

"Help!" 

His feet braced against the foot rail. 
Shorty was trying to stay with him. The 
fish was sounding now^ and taking line, 
and Shorty was hanging on and trying 
desperately to get his rod back in his 
fishing belt. Then suddenly the fish 
started back toward the boat, and every- 
body yelled again. There, Shorty made 
his big mistake. He got to his feet in 
the excitement. 

"Sit down. Hold him, somebody!" 

The fish came up again and jerked 
Shorty's body sideways with a twisting, 
vicious leap. He was jerked up against 
the low rail and his hand slipped from 
the reel. His rod was jerked to arms 



[23] 



length and he tried to reach to get his 
other hand on it. Old Timer yelled and 
jumped for him as he slid over the rail 
like a shot from a bow. 

Without a second's hesitation the old 
sailor was over the side in a long flat 
dive. 

He couldn't see Shorty. The waves 
had seemed small from the boat, but now 
they towered over him in enormous bil- 
lows. From the top of the next wave he 
saw the boat and it looked far away. A 
life belt smacked the water behind him — 
then another. The boat was turning with 
deliberate, maddening slowness. But he 
couldn't see the boy anywhere. He 
yelled. "Shorty! Shorty!" He heard him 
answer and his heart turned over as he 
came up on the crest of another wave 
and saw him there, not fifteen feet away. 



Shorty swam as well as he did, and was 
swimming toward the boat. 

"Don't swim ! Don't move ! These 
monsters will strike at anything that 
moves." As he finished his instructions, 
he reached Shorty's side. "Float!" 

"I know," Shorty gasped, clinging des- 
perately to him now that aid was so near. 

It would only be seconds now. The boat 
was near them, slowing down. I stood by 
the rail, a rope coiled, and a rifle at my 
feet. Another ten seconds and everyone 
would be safe. Old Timer caught the 
rope and I hauled Shorty to safety while 
he treaded water. His legs must have 
seemed miles long treading there beneath 
him, and it must have seemed like hours 
instead of seconds till I threw him the 
rope and finally pulled him from those 
demon-infested waters. 



Border Law 

He resembled a man of dirty brown clay unworked as yet by the skilful artist's 
hand. Two arms were suspended like rigid posts from his bent body. As he slowly 
slouched across the street a silver star on his coat caught the sun's rays at intervals, 
hurling them in blinding reflections about him. That glistening silver spot on his 
breast marked him as superior to anyone else in that lonely frontier town. People 
stepped briskly from his uncertain path and murmered phrases of "Good morning, 
sheriff," or "Howdy, sheriff." As he approached nearer to where I stood by my 
horse his features were magnified before my eyes. The wrinkles on his bleached 
face appeared like sand ripples on an ocean beach. A jagged, faded brown moustache 
soiled with splotches of dark brown tobacco juice protruded from his upper lip like 
quills on a porcupine's back. He shuffled by me without turning his gray, shaggy 
head. I watched him with awe as he walked down the dirt street. Suddenly, faster 
than lightning, two great steel-blue guns loomed in his hands, and just as abruptly 
a roar like thunder broke the silence. Flame and smoke belched into the air. His 
wilting inert body leaped forward in a headlong dash. With a lurch he tore through 
the swinging doors of the saloon. A shot — another shot — then stillness. A minute 
passed. Then he appeared at the entrance of the saloon. His face held no expres- 
sion; his lips were still. Gray, cold eyes looked calmly about. With his familiar 
slouchy gait he came away from the bar room. His chest rose and fell with a slow, 
even rhythm. He stopped before two men standing at the end of the crowd. Im- 
mediately they hustled off toward the saloon. Crossing the hot dusty street he sat 
down in a chair that was propped up against a small whitewashed building. As he 
looked about himself a thin smile appeared upon his dry, cracked lips and then dis- 
appeared. Slumping back into the chair he relaxed in the warm sun — satisfied. 

— Robert Brun skill 



[24] 



Havana 



Ethel Donnelly 
Rhetoric I, Theme 13, 1936-1937 



T"/ 



HAT will be all today." How long 
had waited to hear those words ! 
All day I had run errands, typed letters, 
helped old Mrs. Snyder with her knitting, 
and sympathized with Miss Keper as she 
repeated the tragic story of her little 
"Petey's" death. But now, as I sat on 
the deck, and watched the ship sway in 
the rhythm with the waves and the 
blood-red tropical moon that painted a 
golden path on the luminous sea, I de- 
cided that perhaps, even with Petey, the 
tragic canary, and the endless letters 
extolling the beauties of the "Southern 
tour," the life of a tour director's secre- 
tary (personal-maid, errand-boy, story- 
teller, and nurse maid not being men- 
tioned v.'hen I had applied for a position) 
had it? compensations. 

Early the next morning the boat 
docked at Havana, ancient, beautiful 
Havana, a city of mystery and intrigue. 
I stood at the rail and looked down upon 
the quay, startling white in the brilliant 
midday sun. Giant palms were etched 
against the turquoise sky, like wide green 
fans, waving gently with the breeze. I 
saw the vendors on the wharf, small 
brown men, shouting of their wares in 
high, shrill Spanish, and it seemed to me 
that I was a little girl again, holding my 
father's hand as he pointed out the peo- 
ple to me, and brought me roses. Roses ! 
Always when I think of Havana, I think 
of their delicate, haunting fragrance. It 



was ten years since I had seen the lovely 
city, and yet, searching the crowd for a 
familiar face, it seemed as if I had come 
home. 

The feeling of nostalgia grew all day 
until I felt that I must be alone, be free 
to wander about the city as I had done 
so long ago. It was an easy matter to 
slip away from the party, enjoying the 
sweet Cuban wine and rhumba music at 
"Sloppy Joe's," and soon I was out in 
the shadowy darkness of the soft tropical 
night. I walked slowly past the silent, 
shuttered stucco houses, with their flat 
roofs and bright colors, and I felt as an 
old, old woman must feel when she re- 
turns again to the scenes of her child- 
hood. Soon I could smell the ocean, and 
hear the lulling swish of the waves. 

The Malecon was brightly lighted, but 
quite deserted. I made my way to the 
low sea-wall, and my breath came in little 
gasps — Havana Harbor in moonlight is 
more beautiful than the most talented 
pen can describe. The moon shone 
through the clouds just then, turning the 
grim, century-old ]\Iorro Castle into a 
fairy palace. Graceful palms were 
silhouetted against the blue, diamond- 
studded sky, and the white foam rode 
slowly in on the swell of the white waves. 
I thought of the morrow, of the "sight- 
seeing," and trite phrases of the tour di- 
rector, and still I was happy. This night 
had been mine. 



In the Sands of Time 

When this generation has learned its lesson, the next one will be ready to follow 
in the "foolsteps" of their fathers and their forefathers. — Josephine Farrell 



[25] 



Christians' Exhibits 



Frances Pritchett 
Rhetoric II, Theme 16, 1936-1937 



THE after-dinner coffee had scarcely 
been drunk before Christians began 
to put up the screen. We had been 
warned in advance at the table that 
Christians had a few moving pictures, 
taken by himself. Christians was quite 
modest about them. 

"I know that everyone thinks his 
homemade pictures are pretty good," he 
remarked genially, ''but I don't believe 
I'm fooling myself a bit in thinking that 
ours are really unusual. They are, aren't 
they, Ellen?" 

Mrs. Christians was sweetly emphatic. 
"They really are. Of course, we had 
simply wonderful subjects. The trip 
west, Yellowstone Park, and then, last 
year, the boat and Europe and all that." 
She waved her hand vaguely. 

My husband and I nodded, silently 
agreeing that Europe alone was quite a 
subject. 

"You see," Christians continued, "it's 
all in knowing your camera. Now I 
know mine from A to Z. But there are 
a lot of people who don't." 

He paused, giving us time to contem- 
plate an unfortunate host of people who 
did not know their cameras. 

"How silly of them!" exclaimed my 
husband, feeling some comment was 
expected. 

Christians beamed. "Isn't it? Rut you 
see, they don't make a study of it. You 
can't just go slap-bang. Well, let's ad- 
journ to the living room and get things 
set up." 

Christians began to put up the screen, 
which consisted of a sheet tacked across 



one end of the room between two 
window frames. 

'T wouldn't stand on that chair, Ben; 
it isn't very strong," remarked Mrs. 
Christians as he began the preparations. 

"There, that looks about right," he 
remarked, descending to view his handi- 
work. "It hangs nice and smooth. Of 
course, a real silver screen would be 
better and give you a clearer image — 
they are making them now for home use, 
and we are going to get one — but this 
does pretty well, doesn't it, Ellen?" 

"It really does," agreed Mrs. Chris- 
tians. 

"Now," said Christians, "I will move 
this table into position where we can be 
ready in a jiffy." 

"You had better take the things off it 
before you try to move it," suggested 
Mrs. Christians. 

Christians took the things (a pile of 
magazines, a dozen books, two book 
ends, a bronze paper cutter, several ash 
trays) and moved the table to the spot 
designated by Airs. Christians. 

"These reels haven't been functioning 
quite right lately, but I'll have them fixed 
in a minute. Put the lights out, Ellen. I 
can work by this lamp. Ellen has seen 
these pictures twent}- times, so you two 
get the best seats. JVIove up good and 
close. That's it. Now a little nearer the 
center. I don't want you to miss any- 
thing." 

Obediently, we moved. 

"Close the door, Ellen, and sliut out 
the light from the hall. I'll try the 
focus." 



[26] 



An oblong of light appeared in the 
upper right-hand corner of the screen. 
Christians fumbled, and it slid down 
toward the center. 

"It looks a little faint, dear," sug- 
gested Mrs. Christians. "Why don't you 
move the projector a bit nearer?" 

"It's all right where it is," answered 
Christians shortl}-. "The flicker isn't 
working properly, but I can fix that. 
Now I'll thread the first film, and we'll 
see what we shall see. The first part 
shows us leaving the house for the train, 
and then come various stages of the trip 



picture of the youngster every month or 
so, and these show her up to the age of 
two. Would you like to see them?" 

"W^e should love to." Bob, my hus- 
band, seemed actually interested. 

And then we saw them — Pattsie, tak- 
ing one bath after another, looking very 
much the same in each ; Pattsie, rolling 
on a blanket in the lawn ; Pattsie taking 
her bottle ; Pattsie always and invariably 
in a state of nudity. 

"Isn't she too cute for words?" gurgled 
Mrs. Christians. "See the way she lies 
on her back and kicks her legs in the 




west. Try to get in the mood. We are 
off for the station. All aboard, all 
aboard !" 

There was a buzzing sound as the pro- 
jector went into action and the film began 
to unroll, and then, before our astonished 
gaze, there flashed upon the screen the 
nude figure of an infant of about two 
months. 

"Great Scott !" exclaimed Christians. 
"That's the wrong film." 

"I didn't think I recognized the sta- 
tion," I murmured to myself. 

"It's Pattsie," cried Mrs. Christians 
delightedly. "Oh, do show it, dear. There 
are some lovely pictures of her." 

"Well, they are pretty nice," agreed 
Pattsie's father. "You see, we take a 



air. Don't you love it?" 

"Adorable," I replied, while I reflected 
that Pattsie would certainly "love" these 
pictures when she was a young lady of 
eighteen. 

"The sequence is wrong here," Chris- 
tians explained. "I made a mistake when 
I was clipping and joining. This picture 
shows Pattsie when she was eighteen 
months. It really should come after the 
next one. It shows her at sixteen months. 
But it doesn't make much dift'erence 
when it's explained." 

So far as I could see, it made none 
at all, even if it weren't explained. 

"Well, that's about all there is of 
Pattsie." announced the exhibitor. (It 
was difficult to imagine that there might 



[27] 



be more.) "Now we'll rewind this and 
get on with the western trip." 

There were difficulties with the re- 
winding; but after five minutes the pro- 
jector was buzzing again, and Christians 
had begun his lecture. 

"Here we are at the station. You can't 
see very much, of course, because there 
wasn't enough light, but you can get the 
idea. There ! That's Ellen, getting on the 
train. It's pretty blurry, but anyone 
could recognize her if they knew who 
it was going to be. See? She's turning 
around and waving her hand. The first 
part of the film didn't come out so Vvcll 
because I hadn't got used to the camera. 
Now we are looking out of the train 
window, just after starting. It's con- 
fused, but that's the way the country 
looks from the train anyway. It just 
rushes past you. There ! That's a good 
picture !" 

Upon the screen appeared an ugly, 
commonplace frame building, carrying 
across its dingy front a bold sign: ED 
LARKINS — HAY, GRAIN, AND 
FEED. This notable structure held the 
center of the screen, and continued to 
hold it for what seemed like minutes. 

"That was outside of Chicago. We 
stopped off there to see friends. Of 
course I held the camera on the store 
too long, and I don't know why I de- 
cided to shoot it at all. But the light was 
awfully good, and the building happened 
to be there. You see, I was still experi- 
menting. This sort of thing takes a lot 
of ex[)erimenting. Ellen was supposed to 
be in the j^icture, too, but something 
happened. There ! That's Ellen's back 
now. She's walking down the platform 
at Detroit. It's pretty clear, isn't it?" 

As a portrait of a female back it was 
perfect. 

"I was so self-conscious," confessed 



our hostess. "That's why I walked so 
funny, I guess." 

"Now this section of the film," Chris- 
tians continued, "is badly light-struck, 
but there wasn't much of interest in it 
anyway. The fun begins when we get 
to Yellowstone." 

For a minute or two the machine 
ground along, producing nothing more 
than a confused flicker of light and 
shadow ; then suddenly there flashed up 
on the screen what looked like a great 
column of water, w^hich vanished al- 
most instantaneously, leaving blankness 
behind. 

"That was Old Faithful!" cried Mrs. 
Christians. 

"That was Old Faithful, the geyser," 
announced Christians, ignoring her. "It 
should have been a perfect picture. But 
I was too near it, and I'd forgotten that 
I'd almost used up the film, so I only 
got a flash. I tried to take it another 
day, but the light wasn't very good. You 
could get the idea, though, couldn't you?" 

"Oh, yes, we get the idea," Bob assured 
him. 

"Now we come to the real film," said 
Christians. "This one was taken in Yel- 
lowstone and it's extraordinary. You 
haven't been there, have you?" 

"No," I replied. 

"Well, this will make it live for you." 

"It will, indeed," chimed in Mrs. 
Christians. "Wait until they see Inspira- 
tion Point." 

"And Artist's Point," said Christians. 

"And the Devil's Tower," said Mrs. 
Christians. 

"And the Morning Glory Pool," said 
Christians. 

"And the pool where you throw youi 
handkerchief in," said Mrs. Christians, 
thereby apparently having the last word, 
for Christians did not respond. Instead 



[28] 



he busied himself with re-winding the 
old film and adjusting the new. 

"Now we are all set," he announced. 
"First we see some of the hot springs. 
Would you believe it, you can catch a 
trout in a stream and flick it back into 
one of these springs and cook the fish 
without ever taking it off the hook. 
Now — watch closely." 

The projector buzzed, the light flick- 
ered on the screen, there was a sudden 
crackling, a sizzling sound, and then com- 
plete darkness. 

"Damn !" shouted Christians. 

"Oh, Ben! What have you done?" 
asked Mrs. Christians. 

"Don't be a fool, Ellen ! What do you 
think I've done? I've done nothing. It's 
a short circuit ; that's what it is." 

"But you must have done something 
wrong." 

"Well, I didn't. See if you can find a 
candle." 

"Won't any of the lights turn on?" 

"No, they won't. They are out in this 
room and in the hall, and the worst of it 
is that there isn't an extra fuse in the 
house." 

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Mrs. Chris- 
tians. "That means we won't be able to 
show the pictures." 



"I'm afraid it does," agreed Christians 
heavily. "I'm sorry to disappoint you 
like this," he continued, and we could 
feel him turning towards us in the 
darkness ; "but it simply can't be 
helped. You will forgive me, won't 
you? And you will come over again 
soon, so that you can see the Yellow- 
stone film." 

"Of course we forgive you." 

"And don't forget the pictures of the 
European trip," Mrs. Christians re- 
minded her husband. 

"No, we mustn't forget those," said 
Christians. "We can show them the same 
evening. Now let's see — what day would 
be convenient next week?" 

"Oh," I replied. "You and Mr. Chris- 
tians must come over to see us." 

"All right. We will," said Christians 
heartily. "And what's more we'll bring 
along the projector and the films. How 
about it?" 

For a moment silence enveloped the 
darkened room ; the proverbial pin 
would have dropped with a thunder-like 
boom. Then I heard Bob saying in an 
absurdly thin voice, "Great, old man, 
great. Why — that will be perfectly — 
great !" 



Brooklyn Bridge 

A stubborn drizzle floats over the massive gray web stretched taut between two 
slumbering boroughs; a myriad of thick cables strain under the load they support. 
The t-lot, t-lot, t-lot of a lonely horse wearily dragging an antiquated wagon .... 
the driver, humped over on his seat, hatless and gray, spits over the nearby railing, 
rasps at the lagging animal. 

Far beneath, the rubbish-laden East River. A pudgy tug whimpers three times 
and puf^s ofif in the direction of the bay. A ragged Bowery bum leans silently over 
the wet rail; the stub of an unlighted cigarette edges out from beneath his shapeless 
hat. He stares for a few minutes into the murk below, contemplating perhaps. A 
massive policeman is trudging towards the "forgotten man," who still leans over the 
rail; the bum looks up, pulls his hat down further over his face, slouches away. It 
is still drizzling. A cat leaps lightly onto the slippery rail, totters perilously, regains 
its footing, and springs back onto the wet walk. 

Down the river a little farther, the indistinct outline of another span, and behind 
it another. Only two more hours of peaceful silence for the old Brooklyn Bridge, 
then the steady slush of traflfic. The drizzle still floats steadily in. — Harry Goldfarb 



[29] 



Boy Dies 



Betty McAIarrax 
Rhetoric II, Theme 16, 1936-1937 



THE undertaker had opened the coffin 
for the last time, but I didn't want 
to look again. There in the cemetery, 
with the sun glaring down upon the 
gathered throng, I didn't want to see 
Freddie dead. I wanted to remember 
him as he used to be — tall, muscular, gay, 
playful. I wanted to hear him shout and 
sing and whistle as he always did, in- 
stead of lying there in his white satin 
bed so cold and still. He was gone, I 
wouldn't see him again, but I couldn't 
bring myself to take that last look at 
him. I stared about me at the beautiful 
morning he would have loved so much. 
The grass was soft green and dewy. The 
buds on every tree seemed to have turned 
into leaves overnight, just for Freddie. 
The air was heavy and depressing with 
the scent of too many flowers. Every- 
where spring was singing, except in our 
hearts. 

I looked at the banks of flowers heaped 
on the pile of dirt that would soon 
cover that young body. Somehow it 
seemed to help a little when I thought 
that all these flowers represented friends 
who had loved him. To keep myself 
distracted I tried to read what it said on 
the ribbons. There at the head of his 
grave was a pillow of white roses, and 
across it was written, "Our Son." That 
would be from his mother and dad. How 
significant it was. All his life his head 
had lain upon the pillow of their devo- 
tion, and even in death it was there. 
Never would they fail him. I thought of 
how they would miss him ; they had been 
so proud of him and had planned his 



future so carefully. He would have fin- 
ished college, gone on to law school, and 
then, under their loving encouragement, 
worked hard to become successful. But 
all of these golden dreams had been 
shattered when, after the first awful 
months of illness, they had discovered it 
was cancer and that he could not live. 
No one would ever take his place. They 
would always remember how he might 
have and how he had filled their lives. 
How his dad would miss the long tramps 
in the woods ; the hunting trips that had 
been almost always unsuccessful but that 
had made them such close friends ; the 
companionable silences as they sat in a 
boat and fished for hours. How his 
mother would long for the boyish confi- 
dences he had given her; the mad bed- 
lam that entered the house with him; 
the troubles and scrapes she always 
helped him to straighten out ; his kiss of 
utter love and devotion. Oh, there would 
be an empty place in their lives now 
that he was gone. What were they 
going to do ? 

Just next to the pillow of roses I 
could see a long silken spray of lilies 
tied in green. Across the ribbon in gold 
was "Brother." Just that one word, but 
it meant the bewildered cry of two who 
could hardly comprehend the tragedy 
that had entered their small world. This 
boy lying dead in the coffin wasn't their 
brother. This wasn't he who had laughed 
and played with them ever since they 
could remember. Their brother had 
never allowed them a dull moment. Long 
ago he had begun to like magic. He had 



[30] 



taken them with him to see every famous 
magician that came to Chicago, and then 
they had gone home to let him practice 
the tricks on them. He and Carl had 
had an unbeatable pool team, and they 
had played for hours while Lois watched 
from the sidelines. They had built and 
tended a garden that one year ; they had 
romped at the lake for a whole summer 
together ; just the three of them, they 
hadn't needed anyone else. They had 
been the three musketeers, but now they 
were only two. I knew that they did not 
fully realize yet that he would never be 
with them anymore. 

Tears welled up in my eyes at the 
thought of that brother and sister, and I 
glanced away. Far back in the corner, 
half hidden under the rest of the flowers 
I saw a ribbon peeping out that had on 
it "Dearest Friend." I couldn't see the 
spray, but I knew there would be one red 
rose, the sweetheart flower, among them. 
Dorothy had been Freddie's girl, and my 
heart bled for her. All night long she 
had just sat in the house and stared at 
his coffin. She hadn't shed a tear, but I 
could imagine what she was thinking; 
she was his first love. Call it puppy-love, 
say it wouldn't last, say she will get over 
it ; it doesn't matter. Freddie and she 
had called it the real thing, and her 
heart was breaking. She knew that from 
this time on she must be without him. 
They had grown up together, gone to 
grade school, entered high school, seen 
their first dance, and always she had 
been his girl. No more would they think 
of crazy, wild things to amuse them- 
selves. No more would he tell her things 



only she could understand. No more 
would they plan that bright, glorious 
future. It was all over. Some day the 
pain of this awful thing would be dulled. 
Some day she would be happy again — 
completely happy. But I knew she would 
never forget this boy who had first loved 
her. He would be her dearest memory, 
and in years to come she could often 
think of what might have been if—. 

I couldn't go on. I turned and looked 
at all those people gathered around 
him. I saw his mother and dad straighten 
their shoulders, clasp each other's hands, 
and try so bravely to stop the flow of 
their tears. I saw Grandma, who was 
always so gay and sprightly, looking old 
and feeble and worn-out. And I saw my 
own mother gazing at me while her lips 
moved as if she were thanking God that 
I was spared to her. A long, shuddering 
sigh ran through the crowd as the under- 
taker stepped up to close the coffin. 
Slowly he lowered it, and I caught a 
brief glimpse of the sun shining upon 
Freddie's now frail body and tawny, 
golden curls as if it hoped by its own 
warmth to bring life and warmth back 
to this dead boy. His face was white and 
reposed. Those thin, blue-veined hands 
that held such a tight grip upon all of 
our hearts were folded in front of him. 
Under his arm I could see the broken 
stick, his magic wand that he had asked 
his brother to break and bury with him 
when he died. I felt as if I were caught 
in an iron vise that was squeezing — 
squeezing until I thought I would 
scream. The lid of the coffin closed 
softly. 



Just the Thing 

In this corner is the sheik. He wears a pearl gray suit and a flaming necktie, 
and his hair is plastered down with what appears to be a quart of hair oil ... . This 
sheik is a fairly good dancer, and a rather harmless fellow, just the thing a good 
pearl gray suit needs to set it off. — Harry Marlatt 



[31] 



Rhet as Writ 



She wore a sleek mink coat held 
snugly about her supple body and a 
stocking with a hole showing bear, pink 
flesh. 

• • • • 

He finds her; they immediately fall in 
love ; and, as most pictures do, they 
agree to be married at once. 

Stanley is very tall and skinny ; his 
arms are long and at the end of each 
arm are two large hands which might be 
called paws. 

• • • • 

Jean Valjean's rise to success showed 
that no matter how far you may sink, 
if you put your heart into a thing you 
will climb upward. 

• • • • 

The sphycological effect of his dis- 
appointments was very serious. 

I took for granite while I was reading 
the letter that both of you had taken a 
part in writing this letter. 

• • • • 

The college opened this year with the 
Dean of Men giving a talk in welcoming 
all the new commers into the school. 
As he was giving his speech he was 
errupted by an indian, who was riding a 
motorcycle. 

• • • • 

While examining the building in its 
present condition one will find the type 
of architecture to be as ancient as the 
building itself. 



Shanghai Shek has been trying to or- 
ganize the separate provinces of China 
into one nation. 

Hib's stomache, however, was what 
brought him most of his grief. It per- 
petualh'- hung at half-mast. 

William Lyon Phelps the author of 
Selected Stories from Kipling is not the 
author of the stories. 

Avoid jargon. Jargon is a word that 
may be used as a meaning for another 
word, although it does not mean that 
word at all. Jargon may be a word that 
does not have a meaning at all, or, if so, 
very little meaning and perhaps without 
a senseable meaning. 

Although Germany tried the best she 
could to win the war by propaganda, 
other countries excelled in propagation 
technique. 

• • • • 

When the financial basis is low, it is 
unfair to have a large family. 

She is of a Swedish descent, light 
complexed, and tall of statue. 

• • • • 

Tragedy, of course, has the inevitable 
sad ending ; the lover loses the girl or 
dies in the attempt. 

While eating a few days ago I was 
pasted the potatoes. 



[32] 



Honorable Mention 

Lack of space prevents the publishing of excellent themes written by the fol- 
lowing students. These themes are being held in the hope that they may be pub- 
lished in part or in entirety, in future issues. 



Allen Adams 
Florence Anderson 
Frances At wood 
Raphael Aviami 
Pearl Jean Cohen 
Dorothy Cox 
Cynthia Dursema 
John Hansen 
Sarah Houghton 
William Hutchinson 



Audrey Klivans 
Wanda Little 
R. Marschik 
Leon Messier 
Florence Schnitzer 
Dan Sitzer 
Ruby Watson 
James West water 
Patricia Weems 



The English Readings 

Each year the Department of English sponsors a series of readings from 

literature. The program for the rest of the semester follows: 

Wednesday, March 23. — Songs by English and American Authors. Vocal Division 
OF THE School of Music. Smith Recital Hall, 7:30 p.m. 

Tuesday, March 29. — From The Poems of Robert Burns. Prof. Edward Chauncey 
Baldwin. 228 Natural History Building, 7:15 p.m. 

Tuesday, April 12. — From The Works of Lord Byron. Prof. Paul N. Landis. 228 
Natural History Building, 7:15 p.m. 



Vol.7 



MAY, 1938 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF AN AMMUNITION 

FACTORY 1 

Anonymous 

AN AMERICAN SPORT 2 

Gordon Davis 

R. O. T. C 5 

Charles Schiller 

EVENING NAP 6 

Marjorie L. Greider 

JOE AND JERRY— BOSSES 7 

George S. Amsbary 

STREET CAR ! 9 

Robert Kimbrell 

THE SKETCH BOOK— I 10 

(Material written in Rhetoric I and II) 

NOTHING BUT THE BEST 12 

Edwin Lampitt 

THESE WOMEN 13 

Robert Haynes Green 

LUCY IS 

Albert Braviak 

THE SKETCH BOOK— II 16 

(Material written in Rhetoric I and II) 

STARS MAY FALL 18 

D. Curtis 

ALMS 19 

Mary K. Grossman 

FAITHFUL TO THEE 21 

Wanda Little 

DEBUSSY'S SUITE "IBERIA" 24 

Grace Hantover 

WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME? 26 

Glenn Wiegel 

MY GREATEST ENTHUSIASM 27 

Donald B. Agnew 

THE OWLS OF EDWARDS GULCH 29 

Cedric King 

RHET AS WRIT 32 




PUBLISHED BY THE RHETORIC STAFF, UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS, URBANA 



JL HE Green Caldron is published four times a year 
by the Rhetoric Staff of the University of Illinois. 
Material is chosen from themes and examinations 
written by freshmen in the University. Permission to 
publish is obtained for all full themes, including those 
published anon3miously. Parts of themes, however, 
are published at the discretion of the committee in 
charge. 

The committee in charge of this issue of The Green 
Caldron includes Mr. E. G. Ballard, Dr. Robert 
Blair, Mr. Gibbon Butler, Dr. Caroline Wash- 
burn, and Dr. R. E. Haswell, chairman. 

The Green Caldron is for sale in the Information 
Office, Administration Building West, Urbana, Illinois. 
The price is fifteen cents a copy. 



First Impressions of an Ammunition Factory 



Anonymous 
Rhetoric J, Theme 16, 1937-1938 



AT FIVE o'clock in the afternoon it 
was even hotter than it had been 
at one o'clock of this mid- July day. The 
hard, black coal cinders beneath my slip- 
per soles were as hot as live coals. In 
imagination, I became one of the India 
mystery men who walk over live coals 
to the amazement of tourists. I was 
jerked back to reality by the sight of the 
shining tin roof of the long, low, lead- 
colored building which simmered in the 
July heat, and in which I was to spend 
eight hours each evening for — God alone 
knew how long. 

The interior was even hotter than the 
direct rays of the sun had been. The 
heat was oppressive ; the narrow room 
with the machinery jutting out almost to 
the center of it, had captured all the 
sun's heat and the energy from the ma- 
chines, and was reluctant to let it escape. 
The windows, set at regular intervals in 
the dusty, nondescript wall, gaped open, 
but not even one stray breeze wandered 
in to cool the sweating brows of the 
operators. The one fan dangled motion- 
less from the ceiling. The women moved 
with leaden feet, but their fingers were 
lightning swift. They all seemed, be- 
cause of their expressionless eyes and the 
machine-like rhythm of their fingers, to 
be of the same mold — as automatic as the 
machines on which they worked. I hoped 
desperately that I would not become 
like this. 

I looked around. In this room they 
looped and stripped, molded, and tinned 
the wire for the loaded caps of electric 
blasting caps. Above me, next to each 
wall, a row of wheels turned monoto- 



nously around and around, pulling a belt 
over and over, while the operator ad- 
justed the wire so that it would come 
off in the proper loop, the proper length. 
Near the wall on one side stood six tall, 
concrete blocks which contained electri- 
cally heated pots of melted sulphur. The 
yellow steam hung in a haze over the 
sulphur pots and the women beside them. 
With excellent precision, each woman 
filled her mold, and, after stirring a 
ladelful of the hot sulphur until it was of 
the right consistency, poured it slowly 
but deftly in the top. At one end of the 
room, a stoop-shouldered, middle-aged 
woman dipped the stripped ends of one 
loop after another into a pot containing 
solder. The inspector plodded from one 
box of finished work to another ; no im- 
perfect work could get past the hawkish 
scrutiny of his faded blue eyes. As he 
laid aside each piece of poor workman- 
ship, the operator saw her chances 
of earning a little extra on piecework 
diminish. 

The only thing which did not conform 
with the apathetic, monotonous atmos- 
phere of the place was the fountain. 
Situated at one end of the room on its 
white pedestal, it gurgled and bubbled, 
trying in its inimitable way to suggest to 
these people that freedom from monot- 
ony lay within themselves. To prove its 
point, the fountain would punctuate the 
murmuring talk by emitting gushes of 
sparkling water into the sticky air. At 
times the gush would be strong enough 
to touch the low ceiling, and little drop- 
lets of water would cling to the wall, 
momentarily cooling it. 



[1] 



An American Sport 



Gordon Davis 
Rhetoric 11, Theme 17, 1937-1938 



TT WAS a warm June day. Crowds 
^ dressed in their Sunday clothes 
thronged the Mall, lazily strolling down 
the long walk and breathing in the sun 
and fresh air denied them six days a 
week. Here and there were groups of 
men and women gathered around a stand 
on which some speaker was exhorting 
the merits of Socialism, Townsendism, 
Labor Unions, or religion. Cries of 
"Workers, unite!" mingled strangely 
with the soft strains of some old English 
hymn that was being sung fifteen feet 
away, and the grotesque scene was 
completed by the noise of the traffic in 
the back ground and the cries of street- 
hawks selling candy and ice cream to 
passers-by. 

People moved slowly from one throng 
to another and let warnings of eternal 
damnation fuse with the warnings of 
socialists against communists, commun- 
ists against fascists, and fascists against 
capitalists. In some groups there were 
loud arguments going on, with three or 
four people taking different views on a 
question. Victory seemed to be obtained 
by vehemence of speech and gestures 
rather than by sound arguments and 
good logic. One group was especially 
noisy. About thirty men, with a few 
women here and there, clustered around 
a lone figure. He was not visible 
from the edge of the circle unless one 
stood on tip-toe and looked over the 
heads of the others. He was a small 
man, no more than five feet tall, and he 
was telling the people in a broken accent 
of his religion and how he "had seen 



the light." His head was bald save fo: 
a ring of hair around the tops of his"! 
ears. His forehead, now wrinkled in his 
seriousness, seemed plain in contrast to 
the bunchy appearance of the rest of his 
face. Thick, black brows hung over his 
dark, penetrating eyes, and a short, broad 
nose led down to a wide, cavernous 
mouth, which, when opened widely 
enough, displayed black, white, and gold 
teeth. A flush on each unshaven cheek 
showed how excited he was, and the 
perspiration streaming down his face into 
his open collar, from which the tie had 
long since been loosened, left dirty 
streams on his thick neck and reduced his 
shirt to a lifeless mass of saturated cloth. 
His suit hung limply on him as if he had 
thrown it on more to cover the laws of 
decency than to cover himself. Heavy, 
thick-soled shoes seemed to hold him to 
the spot where he stood. 

It was obvious that the man was 
uneducated and that his religion meant a 
great deal to him. The crowd around 
him, however, were not listening for any 
message he might give them, but instead 
they were asking ridiculous questions 
and laughing and jeering at him. One 
fellow in particular, his straw hat perched 
on the back of his head and a toothpick 
dangling insolently out of his twisted 
mouth, seemed to consider it great sport 
to insult him and to push him when his 
back was turned. After he thought he 
had scored a point, his eyes would dart 
around to ferret out the dirty snickers 
and glances of approval. The entire 
crowd was jeering and laughing, but 



i 



[2] 



i 



poor Tony, as they called him, bore it 
all patiently. 

He was sincere and with the generosity 
characteristic of his race wanted to share 
his experiences with others. His arms 
thrashed about him ; his face flushed with 
enthusiasm. The English language 
meant nothing to him: he cold-bloodedly 
ripped it to bits and constructed his own 
idioms and figures of speech, liberally 
sprinkled with his native Italian. The 
crowd would not let him alone, however. 
They hurled questions at him and began 
to taunt him more loudly and boldly. He 
tried to answer their questions, in his 
ignorance not knowing that they were 
making fun of him. He grew more and 
more excited as the crowd began pressing 
in closer, squeezing the small man in the 
center. 

"Wait a minute," called the tall man 
with the straw hat on the back of his 
head; "give Tony a chance! Eh, Tony?" 

The crowd spread back. Tony stood 
in the center wiping his brow. 

"Now tell me, Tony," the man con- 
tinued, "if God is all you claim him to 
be, why the devil are all these men 
bumming around the park without any 
jobs, or money, or clothes? Answer me 
that!" 

"All I know is-a thees," answered 
Tony deliberately as if explaining to a 
child. "My-a God is-a my Father ; I'm-a 
his bambino. He's-a good to me if I'm-a 
good to my fellow-man." He raised his 
arms and shrugged his shoulders as if 
that definitely settled the question. 

But of course it didn't in the minds of 
his hecklers. Back they came with more 
questions and more wisecracks. Tony 
was standing it well, but it was evident 
that he was tired and that the spectators 
were beginning to bother him. Someone 
gave him a push. Tony stopped in the 
middle of a speech about the glories of 



Heaven and turned around quickly. The 
crowd laughed and Tony continued. A 
group of boys had eased into the inner 
circle and had surrounded him. Sud- 
denly, the man with the straw hat gave 
Tony another push. The street-kids, en- 
couraged by the action of the older man, 
also pushed. Before long, Tony was 
bouncing around the inner circle like a 
rubber ball. Grown men pushed and little 
boys kicked until he suddenly fell on his 
face. With a loud cry, he was on his 
feet again, his religion forgotten, and 
with a dive, he hurled himself into the 
mob, his fists hitting anything he met. 
The crowd dispersed quickly before him, 
and anxious eyes kept on the look-out 
for the police. 

Uttering strange Italian phrases, Tony 
scrambled after the man with the straw 
hat. The pursued unceremoniously 
ducked behind trees, benches, baby-car- 
riages and anything else that he could 
find. There was still a slight smile on 
his face as if to assure spectators that he 
was not at all afraid, but this was belied 
by the anxious look in his eyes and his 
scurried glances to see if the police were 
coming. 

The people hooted and hollered. This 
was sport! They yelled at Tony, en- 
couraged him, and laughed at him when 
he was tripped and fell to the ground. 
At the same time, they surrounded the 
intended victim if Tony got too close. 
They didn't want to be pulled in for 
starting a riot, — just a little Sunday 
afternoon fun, that was all ! 

Tony suddenly tripped and fell. This 
time his head glanced off the edge of a 
bench before he hit the ground and a 
thin trickle of blood soon appeared on 
his forehead. It was a good blow but he 
had received only a small cut and he soon 
got up. Yet the enthusiasm of the crowd 
had been dampened when they first saw 



[3] 



him hit the bench, and the noise and 
laughter had stopped. Tony pulled out 
an old, red handkerchief and began 
dabbing at the cut on his forehead. He 
said nothing. His face still showed 
anger. A few tried to help him wash 
the wound but he impatiently shoved 
them aside. About fifteen feet away at 
a safe distance, the man in the straw 
hat was laughing to himself. 

Suddenly Tony fell to his knees. With 
hands clasped before him he raised his 
head to the skies and with eyes closed 
began to pray violently in Italian. He 
swayed on his knees and his face 
twitched with deep emotion, anger or 
remorse, one could not tell. The people 
who had begun to crowd around again, 
stopped, embarrassed. Sheepish grins 
were exchanged. This was something 
unexpected, something they didn't know 
how to cope with. They shifted uneasily 
waiting for him to finish. 



Through Tony's loud prayers there 
came loud laughing and shouting. The 
spectators looked up. Coming down the 
Mall was a man dressed in old, black 
clothes, tall, broad-shouldered, his face 
covered by a thick, black beard. An old 
hat rose to a peak on the top of his head 
and in one hand he carried a book. The 
crowd following him was yelling at him 
that he was crazy. 

"In the Catholic Church," he cried, 
"you don't worship god, — you worship 
the Pope!" 

This was greeted by loud cat-calls and 
jeers. The people around Tony joined 
the crowd and the man in the straw hat 
hurried forward to the man in black and 
began to argue with him. Their enthu- 
siasm returned as they realized that there 
was still some sport left to fill out the 
afternoon. Tony sat alone on his knees 
with his hands still clasped piously before 
him and prayed in Italian to his God. 



Grasshoppers 



During the third week of my stay came the dreaded grasshopper plague. We 
had cut a fair-sized swath in the wheat when newspapers reported that grasshoppers 
were coming our way. I had never seen more than just a few hundred at a time, 
and so looked forward somewhat to this feared spectacle, especially when the 'hopper 
masks were brought forth. The masks were made of dark, coarse silk. They fitted 
over the head and shoulders and were held on by a hat. We were out in the field 
rumbling monotonously along in the glaring sunlight when a premature darkness 
suddenly descended. I thought that clouds were simply passing before the sun, but 
when John pointed to the sky, stopped the tractor, and put on his mask, I realized 
that the 'hoppers had come. When his mask was securely on, and we jerked away 
again, I slipped on my mask. The "clouds" lowered, and a peculiarly whirring fog 
settled to the ground, covering everything. Thousands of 'hoppers were ground to bits 
in the combine and crushed beneath the wheels. Hundreds sizzled on the hot tractor 
engine-hood. They crawled up my arms despite my vicious slaps, until I pulled down 
my sleeves. We passed by some woods which now, being covered by insects, had 
changed to a sickly greenish-brown hue. We continued our work, though, and 
returned home in the late evening. I jumped from my platform and felt the ground 
give way beneath me. I peered closer in the twilight and saw a solid carpet of 
'hoppers. The only bare spot for thousands of yards was the chicken yard, whose 
inhabitants had gleefully bolted the marauders. By the next noon, there was nothing 
green on the surrounding hundreds of acres, and the 'hoppers had migrated on in 
search of more food. — Willis Ballance 



[4] 



R. O. T. C 



Charles Schiller 
Rhetoric I, Theme 18, 1937-1928 



" A LL NEW students, unless exempted 
'^*' for special reasons, will be required 
to take four semesters of military train- 
ing." The very words "all" and "re- 
quired" struck a discordant sound upon 
my ears, and I immediately began to dis- 
like the army. Being a pacifist by nature, 
I had already a cynical at- 
titude toward everything 
militaristic, and now I was 
appalled at the thought of 
being forced to become a 
member of an organization 
I had heretofore ridiculed 
and despised. 

My dislike turned to hate 
when I found that I would 
have to attend drill at eight 
o'clock on Saturday morn- 
ings. This feeling was not alleviated in 
the least upon my being asked to deposit 
ten dollars for a uniform, and being told 
that I would be responsible for its con- 
dition and upkeep. The thought of play- 
ing soldier, walking around for two hours 
inside an overgrown garage, made the 
first session an event to be feared and 
dreaded. That session came and went, 
and to my surprise I found myself a little 
pleased with the outcome. The uniform 
wasn't so bad after all, and it did give 
me a rather proud feeling to wear it. 
The drill itself wasn't so bad, either, 
except for the action of one impudent 
student officer. What right did he have 
to tell me that I ought to spend a little 
time shining the brass on my uniform? 
I took the admonition philosophically, 




however, as just another part of a bad 
bargain. The day before my second drill 
I found myself unconsciously shining the 
brass, and taking pride in the glisten that 
the polish produced. The next day, when 
I was dressed in my carefully groomed 
uniform, I automatically held my should- 
ers a little straighter than 
usual, and I was rewarded 
with a merit for my neat 
appearance. Marching went 
along smoothly, and instead 
of being bored and tired at 
the end of the two hours, I 
was interested and eager to 
learn more. As the weeks 
progressed, the thrill of 
doing things with a unit in- 
creased, and drill became no 
longer a burden but a pleasure. Rifle prac- 
tice offered an interesting diversion ; the 
range, with its incessant cracking of gun- 
fire, humming of bullets, and spattering 
of lead, was a fascinating place to work. 
In the weeks that I spent in mili- 
tary training, I learned its advantages. 
I realized the errors of pacifism and re- 
molded my attitude to fit the more patri- 
otic ideas of an adequate national 
defense. I cannot now define the stages 
through which I progressed from dislike 
to like. Maybe it was the uniform, maybe 
it was the old thrill of marching feet, but 
most likely it was the natural evolution 
to a more progressive attitude which 
made me realize that military training for 
all young men not only possessed 
advantages but is a necessity. 



[ 5 ] 



Evening Nap 



Marjorie L. Greider 
Rhetoric I, Theme 18, 1937-1928 



ONE darkened elbow rests heavily on 
a cleaned space between a cluttered 
plate and an empty cup. Against the 
work-reddened hand is pressed a lined 
brown cheek. A tired old woman has 
fallen asleep over her precious cup of 
coffee. 

The table in front of her is stacked 
with dirty dishes ; the remains of the eve- 
ning meal have been only half cleaned 
away. The worn cloth is white save for 
a purple blot of raspberry jam. The 
chairs are vacant; two of them stand 
just as they were hurriedly pushed back 
from the table; one of them is in its 
place against the brown stained wall. 

Behind the woman crouches a dusty 
buffet loaded with books, letters, ironed 
clothes, and pictures carelessly placed 
by a hand too tired to bother about the 
effect. In the opposite wall beside the 
scarred door is a window filled with 
potted plants; the bloom of one large lily 
is a spot of bright orange in the dull 
room. The curtains of limp, white lace 
are piled in a corner to be washed, and 
the windows seem gaping black holes in 
the brown walls. 



Against the side of the room stands 
a green covered couch sagging uneasily 
from years of heavy use. The evening 
paper is spread on the linoleum floor and 
beside it an old pipe has spilled its ashes 
in a gray-black smudge. The only "easy" 
chair in the room is a battered rocker 
placed in a cramped position between the 
buft'et and the couch and at present 
draped with an old black coat. 

The woman stirs restlessly as if even 
in sleep she sees the muddled room, the 
work yet to be done. Slowly she opens 
her deep-set, tired, blue eyes and, push- 
ing back a lock of her braided gray hair, 
yawns. She has a large mouth with pale, 
thin lips. There is a slight suggestion 
of sag in her chin line which is hardened 
by the light from the one glaring bulb. 
Her shoulders covered with soiled green 
paint are broad and only slightly bent by 
the worries traced in the lines around 
her e3'es. As she yawns her arms stretch 
stiffly above her large, solid body, and 
she utters a long sigh. 

"I guess I'm getting old," she mutters, 
and rising she begins to finish clearing 
the table. 



The Blackberry 

The last of our berries is probably the most reliable. Whether there be flood or 
drought, heat or cold, the honest blackberry is sure to make its appearance. Straw- 
berry, raspberry, blueberry — these may come or not — but the blackberry never fails. 
Not as fragrant as the strawberry, nor as sweet as the raspberry, it still has a good, 
honest taste of its own, and it never disappoints. The lady of the house may have on 
her shelves a few glasses of wild strawberry jam, probably twice as many of wild 
raspberry, but she is sure to have an ample supply of blackberry jam. True it is that 
they are difficult to gather; it is necessary to don boots and thick clothing. But 
riches are heaped upon whosoever will gather them. — Eusabeth Baldwin 



[6] 



Joe and Jerry — Bosses 



George S. Amsbary 
Rhetoric I, Theme 18, 1937-1938 



npHE "L" rattles on through the misty, 
^ morning air of the city. "Qickety- 
click, cHckety-cHck, clickety," it goes, 
when suddenly out of the uproar comes 
the nasal twang of the conductor's voice, 
"Ahdams and Wawbaysh." The clickety- 
clicks slow down their tempo, and amid 
the screeching of wheels and the 
"swishshsh" of air brakes, the "L" comes 
to a jolting stop. Several passengers, 
myself included, rise and force their 
way to the door. "Watch youah stepping 
— all out for 'Ahdams and Wawbaysh,' " 
warns the conductor. We get out, and 
with the clinking of starting bells and 
a grunt, the "L" goes "clickety-click" on 
its way. 

Another long day of work in the mail 
department of the Rock Wool Com- 
pany has started for me. I walk a block 
to our office-building, go up the elevator, 
and upon landing on the twelfth floor 
am greeted by four large, inanimate, but 
potential-looking United States Govern- 
ment mail-sacks, strewn haphazardly 
about in the foyer. With an air of resig- 
nation T drag one of the Hghter ones into 
our mailing rooms. I am early, so I turn 
on the lights, open the bag of mail, and 
proceed to sort the contents into the 
different departmental bins. Soon Joe 
comes stalking in with his quick, short 
step, and the quick, nervous puffing of his 
cigarette complementing it. I greet him 
with the usual "Good morning, Joe," and 
he returns my greeting with some unin- 
telligible, guttural reply. We silently — 
and with a seeming hostility to each other 
— sort one bag of mail after another. Un- 
consciously, as I sort, I analyze Joe. 



Joseph C. Rovaminsky is Polish. He 
is excitable. His hair is blond and oily; 
his face is pock-marked. He is shabbily 
dressed, with dirty shirt, wrinkled tie, 
and unshined shoes. The curious nervous 
twitching of his mouth, and his uncon- 
trollable excitability truthfully brand him 
as the "Wild Polack" that he is called. 
Although he is assistant boss of the de- 
partment, he has no organizing ability. 
As a result, the same mistakes occur day 
after day — mistakes that could be easily 
avoided. Yet, I cannot condemn Joe. He 
is only a grammar school graduate, and 
is living in a very poor environment. 
What can one expect? While these 
thoughts are pursuing their way about 
my mind, the rest of the eight o'clock 
shift is dribbling in, one by one, until, 
at last, Jerry Kutak, the boss, comes 
striding in, looking neither to the right 
or left. As he is coming close enough for 
me to see his cynical expression I think, 
"Here's Jerry, an unshaven, black-haired 
Bohemian, with even less initiative than 
Joe. He pays absolutely no attention to 
the condition of the mail department, and 
yet — he is boss !" No one greets Jerry as 
he comes in. We have had experience 
with his surliness in the morning. 

Now the routine starts. The three 
"floor-boys" take their wire baskets, load 
them to capacity, and deliver the mail we 
have sorted to the various departments 
on each of the company's floors. The 
task of sweeping up after the mad whirl 
of sorting is delegated to another. Still 
another and I sort the left-over mail, 
while Joe and Jerry go about their tasks 



[7] 



with executive mien, hostilely ignoring 
each other. 

At eleven o'clock there is a sinister ring 
of the telephone. Joe answers it and 
finds that the New York office received 
the Boston Office's mail from last night, 
and they want to know why. It seems 
as though a powder-charge has been set 
off ! Joe slams down the receiver, tips 
over the desk chair, and with his charac- 
teristic short, quick steps rushes over 
to the one who was undoubtedly respon- 
sible—a rather small, meek boy of not 
over eighteen. "Whatsa matta wid ja, 
all ready yet? Jis fer dis yer gonna go 
right down ta Art, see!" Joe yells at the 
top of his lungs. (Art is the head of our 
division.) "An an oder ting, yer goin' on 
da floor for da rest of da week — yeah — 
an none o' yer lip, idder," he adds. The 
offender doesn't say a word, but I know 
he has a half-smile on his face. This 
anger will pass over and Joe will prob- 
ably be buying him a "coke" this after- 
noon. 

A number of violent outbursts such as 



this on the part of Joe, and a number 
of quiet, sarcastic shots on the part of 
Jerry, occur during the day, but no one 
pays the slightest heed. Finally the day's 
work is ended and we all — wearily, 
but good-humoredly — make our nightly 
exodus. 

The "L" rattles on through the glaring 
electricity and the silent darkness of 
night in the city. "Clickety-click, click- 
ety-click, clickety," it goes, and while the 
rest of the passengers read their news- 
papers to the soothing, swaying rhythm 
of the "L," I think, "Why does a big 
corporation hire this quick-tempered, 
slow-thinking, unskilled help as heads of 
important functional departments? Why 
do they hire help that commands as 
little respect as this type does? Why do 
they permit mistakes of the nature of 
those that occurred today?" Suddenly 
the nasal twang of the conductor's voice 
arouses me from my thoughts. "Howard 
Street — Citeee Limits," it calls, and the 
clickety-clicks slow down their tempo and 
the "L" comes to a jolting stop. 



Little Facial Expressions 

The hard-of-hearing person figures out most of what he fails to hear from facial 
expressions and little gestures the normal person often does not notice. For example, 
if there is a look of expectancy characterized by intent eyes and a slightly opened 
mouth one can be sure that a question was asked, but if the eyes are glowing and the 
mouth is softly set in lines of satisfaction one knows no answer is expected and 
what was said was probably not worth hearing in the first place. The satisfied ex- 
pression is sometimes misleading, though, because I have seen it on an instructor's 
face many times after he has asked tricky questions. Then too some interesting and 
important things are lost by passing unheard sentences over rather than asking for 
repetition .... 

Little facial expressions give many away and watching them, added to a slight 
ability to read lips, which comes naturally to many hard of hearing, gives the power 
to find out just what the other person is up to. Then on days when hearing is a little 
better than on others, things are heard that are not meant to be, and some good acting 
is called for. Thus, a hard of hearing person has to be something like the three little 
monkeys that hear no evil and see no evil, yet get a great deal of amusement. Next 
time you see someone who you know is hard of hearing laughing quietly to himself, 
don't get too curious because, remember, the third little monkey is the one that won't 
talk. — Anonymous 



[8] 



Street Car! 



Robert Kimbrell 
Rhetoric I, Theme 12, 1937-1938 



/'^HICAGO has many schools. Many 
^-^ of the schools are large. Many of 
the students of the schools ride to and 
fro on street cars. Some of the large 
schools are for boys only. I went to a 
boy's school. 

Chicago has many street cars. Many 
of the street cars are obsolete. All of 
them make noise. Many, many people 
ride the street cars daily. Many people 
harass the conductors. Students don't 
harass them ; they cheat them. 

Chicago's street cars represent quite 
a number of conductors. Many of the 
conductors are shrewd, deliberate of 
movement — hard to cheat. The majority 
of them are easily excited when con- 
fronted by a howling mass of humanity 
that demands their utmost speed and at- 
tention — easy to cheat. 

When the bell rings, denoting termi- 
nation of the school day, pandemonium 
breaks loose. Students speed to their 
lockers. Lockers are hastily opened. 
Wraps are hastily donned. Lockers are 
hastily closed. Students speed hastily 
away. They speed toward the car-line. 

I usually arrived at the car-line later 
than the majority of the students. Here 
is what I would see: 

A solid mass of humanity packed on 
what is known as a "safety island," but 
where an amoeba would be in grave 
danger. This solid mass was on an island 
— yes, an island in a river of traffic, 
covered with boys as a sweet-roll is with 
flies. Amongst the boys bulged the forms 
of two or three women; short, fat, un- 
gainly, foreign creatures, quite clumsy in 



their movements, pouring forth a con- 
tinual stream of curses in their guttural 
mother tongues. When a street car would 
finally slide to a stop adjacent to the 
"safety" island, a great roar from the 
students, topped only by the curses spat 
out b}^ the foreign creatures, would greet 
it. There would be a mad rush toward 
the rear platform. The larger boys would 
shoulder their smaller fellows away from 
the door. The smaller fellows would 
shoulder the women away. The women 
would pour forth more curses. I would 
wait. When the vehicle had taken on its 
maximum load, it would whisk away, 
leaving many to wait for the next. 

The first students to enter the car 
would either rush into the most remote 
corner, or slap six pennies into the eager 
hand of the conductor, and push on into 
the car's interior, dump themselves into 
the farthest seat, produce a worn dime- 
novel, and become seemingly engrossed 
in it, meanwhile hoping that the con- 
ductor neglected to count the pennies. 
The boys in the remote corner would 
wait until the crowd diminished and then 
tell the conductor they had already paid 
their fare, hoping that the conductor 
didn't remember them. 

I would wait. I would get on the 
seventh or eighth street car. I would pay 
full fare (the conductor was no longer 
hurried). I would get a seat. I would 
ride in comfort. I would hear behind me 
two or three women ; short, fat, un- 
gainly, foreign creatures, quite clumsy 
of movement and mouthing foul curses 
in their guttural mother tongues. 



[9] 



The Sketch Book — I 

(Material Written in Rhetoric I and II) 

A Bushel o! Apples 

They really are not such bad apples. There are seven layers of them, a different 
brand in each layer. In fact, about the first six dozen apples I ate tasted very good. 
But the fourth day, starting on the seventh dozen, I began to wish I'd never see 
another pretty, shiny, big, red apple as long as I lived. Every place I went I saw 
something that reminded me of my apples. That fourth day in particular everyone on 
the campus seemed to be eating taffy apples. When I went home, every girl in the 
house was in the drawing room dancing the Big Apple. For lunch we were served 
fried apples. But the last straw, the final blow, came when someone told me that 
my cheeks were so rosy they looked like apples. My roommate tells me I fainted; at 
least I wasn't thinking of apples for the short time that I was unconscious. 

— Elizabeth Hudson 

And Baseball Players 

Where but in America are there people who speak of presidents, kings, poten- 
tates — and baseball players in the same breath? Where but in America is the auto- 
graph of an Indian rajah exchanged for the illegible scrawl of Lou Gehrig? The 
National Game has so completely won the American people that from mid-April to 
early October metropolitan newspapers get out extras, and radio stations choose to 
broadcast play-by-play accounts of Sunday afternoon double-headers rather than the 
music of Leopold Stokowski and his Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra. — Carl Pihl 



Shakespeare in High School 

When I was fourteen I entered high school and nearly ceased to enjoy literature. 
I had loved the fine cadence of Shakespeare and the colorful figures of the histori- 
cal novel without knowing why. Shakespeare read alone while one's imagination 
sets the stage is a fine thing. But Shakespeare in the mouth of a nasal-voiced spinster 
who is wrongfully employed as an English instructor is quite another. I have not 
yet recovered from the beatings my youthful mind took from my high-school instruc- 
tors. My family encouraged my enthusiasm; my instructors throttled it. 

— Frederick Pope 

The Doctor, The Lawyer, The Engineer 

A doctor can make mistakes and even bury them; the lawyer can make mistakes 
and allow his clients to go to prison or to their death, and yet his ability as a lawyer 
is questioned by no man. The engineer, however, is completely torn from his life- 
work by one mistake. He will not be recommended for engineering projects, and 
consequently, he must follow some mediocre occupation for the remainder of his 
life. — Donald Rader 



Farmer's Social Liie 

His social life during the summer consists of several Sunday dinners with Aunt 
Mary and Uncle Claude; a series of community "socials"; and a trip to the state fair, 
where he sees more corn, wheat, horses, cattle, hogs, and sheep like the ones he has 
at home — unless he is lucky enough to be there exhibiting some of his own. 

— Dorothy Fehrenbacher 



[10] 



The Paths of Memory 

For almost a week I have been trying to find a way into the dim recesses of 
my childhood memories where my earliest impressions are so well hidden. I have no 
trouble in going back over the road of memories until I reach my fifth year. But at 
that point the road seems to divide into two different, yet very closely connected, paths. 
One path — dark and forbidding, but intriguing — leads to real memories. The other — 
light and easily traversable — leads to "memories" which are, in reality, formed from 
the stories I have heard my parents tell. At this fork in the "road back" I become 
confused. The bright road tempts me to forsake the darker one, and I am sometimes 
blinded by the many lights along its path. Then I bring myself back and start down 
the other route. I gradually force my way through the darkness in search of a 
memory to form a ray of light. So far I have been able to find only one. Beyond 
that, all is darkness. Yet, this track shouldn't be without light, for I remember find- 
ing in that same passage the material for a high school theme. But now I can't even 
recall the theme. — Betty Coleman 

A Mind of Her Own 

Dilly-dallying" in milking simply does not work; the cow has a mind of her own, 
and if she decides the milker is an amateur or too slow, the flow of milk stops almost 
instantly, and — there you are ! Nothing but the feel of experienced, rhythmic hands 
slipping over her udders can induce her once more to "let down" the milk. To add 
to your general discomfort, your arms and hands tire almost to petrifaction. Once 
you begin to milk a cow, you have to finish, and as I said before, there can be no 
dilly-dallying. The milker has to pump as though his life depended on it; otherwise 
the cow may have an attack of temperament. — Margie Engelbrecht 

Undoubtedly a Professor 

He was undoubtedly a professor. A bushy, white beard, a curious, pointed cane, 
the inevitable brief case, and a great, black pipe first attracted our attention to a 
quaint, stout little man ambling down the broadwalk. — Madith Smith. 

Mexican Scene 

Then you enter Mexico. You see dusty roads, with bones bleaching in them, 
adobe huts built at crazy angles, dirty children and fat women. But over all is an 
effect of cleanliness. The huts are whitewashed; every home has a washing on the 
line; and even the bones show white in the roads. — Peyton Breckenridge 

Blondes in Particular 

In that awful moment of pain, frustration, and embarrassment the only words I 
could think of were "Aw, nuts !" These words, my philosophy on life and blondes in 
particular, were my one and only stand-by for the rest of the school year. 

— William Paris 

Beginnings of the Depression 

I am no economist, but my private explanation of the present panic is that Coca- 
Cola started the crash when it fell after the board of directors heard one could get 
a seat at Hanley's at any time. — Allan Adams 

The Smells of Spring 

The smells of spring are fresh paint, perfume from flowers, musty attics invaded 
for cleaning, mothballs from ravished trunks, green onions from the new garden, 
and sassafras. — Anne Worland 

[11] 



Nothing but the Best 

Edwin Lampitt 
Rhetoric I, Theme 16, 1937-1938 



"/^NE on the rack, Ben," Cassie called. 
^^ Muttering to myself about the 
thoughtlessness of people who have their 
cars greased early on Sunday mornings, 
I raised the doors of the lubritory to let 
the big new Oldsmobile in. 

"Good morning," I said, and handed 
one of our advertising suckers to the 
little girl who sat in the seat beside the 
driver. "What can I do for you this 
morning, sir?" 

"Oh, you can grease it and change the 
oil," he answered in a pompous way. 

"Will you have PennsA'lvania or — ," I 
began. 

"Give me the best. Always use the 
best on my car, and don't worry about 
the cost. I'll worry about that." He 



sounded as if he were buying the Brook- 
lyn Bridge for a toy. 

"Daddy," called his little girl, and I 
was surprised that such a timid child 
could be the daughter of such an over- 
bearing fellow. 

"Yes, dear." He sounded as if he were 
talking to his wife. 

"I don't have my money for Sunday 
School." 

He beamed at me with a smile that was 
as false as his upper plate, and moaned, 
"That's where the money goes." 

He reached for his pocketbook and 
said to his little girl, "Just a minute, dear, 
until I get some change." 

He turned to me, handed me a nickel, 
and said, "Here, give me five pennies." 



Figures of Speech 

In my short stories, my imagination runs a trifle wild. Being an extreme idealist, 
I invariably make my heroes visions of perfection and my heroines creatures of flaw- 
less beauty. About half way through a story, though, my senses of humor and of 
reality come to my rescue, and my endings are usually a trifle on the Mack Sennett 
side. The whole story then resembles a mongrel pup who started out to be a collie, 
changed his mind half way along, and turned out to be an airedale. — Betty Ivey. 



She walked along the broadwalk in her ski-suit like a duck dressed in rompers. 

— Ted Morse 

• • • • 

The evening has boiled itself out like coffee in an old tin pot. — Herbert Levinson 



Above us the moon, like a single headlight, seeks its way through the fog to the 
earth and casts a ghastly pale light; it looks as though one were seeing an electric 
light bulb through milk. — Frances N. Tuttle 



She licked the stamp like a small boy taking his second bite of spinach. 

— Phylus WrrzEL 



[12] 



These Women 



Robert Haynes Green 
Rhetoric II, Theme 16, 1937-1938 



npHE night was cold. The heart was 
'■ warm. She was waiting. Hoping. 
It was the last night. Her parents were 
moving away. 

"Mother, what shall I do? I don't 
want to move away. I know father must 
move because of his new job. I would 
rather stay here. I know so many peo- 
ple, and I hate to think of going away 
and leaving them all behind." 

"Martha, I am so sorry. I did not 
think that you would not want to move. 
All the other children think that it is 
best to move. They think that they need 
the change. But you are older and more 
set in your ways." 

"It would not be so bad, but there I 
would be slow meeting other people of 
my age. I know how it is to go into a 
town as a stranger. Look at Betty. She 
is very nice, but no one seems to want 
her in the crowd. She is so much differ- 
ent from the rest of us. I would feel the 
same as she does. I wish I could stay 
here." 

"You could stay here, if we had the 
money for your keep. But I can't see 
how we can. It is going to be hard for 
us as it is. I will speak to your father 
tonight and see what he says. If there 
were only some other way — ." 

"Let's not talk about it any more. We 
cannot do it, so let's forget it. I will get 
along some way or another." 

"Martha, isn't Richard coming over 
tonight?" 

"Yes, I believe he said that he would 
come to say goodbye to us." 

"If you would only fall in love with a 



person as nice as he is, I would be 
willing to leave you here." 

"I think that I do love him, but he 
has never been romantic to me. I wish 
that I could do something tonight that 
would be a test of love." 

"You mean that you are going to flirt 
with him?" 

"Yes, mother, I am. Don't be shocked. 
You can help also. Please make some of 
the candy like you said you made for 
father, the night that he asked to marry 
you. I will hurry and dress, while you 
make the candy." 

Mother hurried to the kitchen and 
made the candy. It was just cool enough 
to eat when the door bell rang. 

"Hello. Is Martha at home?" 

"Yes, come on in. Go into the fire 
while I go up and tell Martha that you 
are here." 

She hurried up the stairs, for her mind 
was young again. She was thinking of 
the night that she became engaged to be 
married. 

"Is he here, mother?" 

"Yes. And the candy is perfect." 

"Do I look all right?" 

"Yes. Now remember — this night is 
the night of nights." 

"Xow, mother, don't be shocked if I 
do become engaged tonight. He is nice, 
even though he has never been romantic." 

"Let luck be with you. I will pray for 
you until he leaves." 

He was sitting in front of the fireplace, 
staring intently into the flames. Some 
thought seemed to bring pleasure to him, 
but his face was not whollv smiles. Oc- 



[13] 



casionally a shadow of doubt would cross 
his face. 

Softly through the doorway came 
Martha. She was all smiles. She placed 
her hands over his eyes. 

"Martha, you scared me." 

"Me scare you? Is that all I do to 
you?" 

"Well, I don't know. Come around in 
front where I can see you better. That's 
better. Say, to see you now, one must 
think this must be your coming out party, 
instead of just a farewell to a friend." 

"Such a man," softly. 

"Here, let's be seated by the fire." 

"Just a minute. I think mother made 
some candy. I'll see." 

She returned with the candy and 
placed it on a small table before the 
couch. He took a piece. 

"My, but this candy is good. What 
kind is it?" 

"Mother calls it 'Lover's Delight.' " 

"Some name, I must say. I wonder 
where she could have found such a good 
candy?" 

"She wishes to keep it a secret, so I 
cannot tell you about it." 



"By the way, when does your furniture 
leave?" 

"The movers will come tomorrow to 
pack and cart away our things." 

"And you are leaving also?" 

"Yes, I am leaving on the train with the 
rest of the family, late Sunday evening. 
We are staying at Betty's until then." 

"Do you wish to leave?" 

"No. I wish that I could afford to 
remain here, but it is impossible." 

"How I will miss you from the 
crowd." 

"And how I will miss my " 

"Oh! Martha! What has happened?" 

"I I'll be all right in a moment. 

Just hold me awhile. Too much candy 
I guess." 

"Martha, let me hold you forever." 

"You don't mean it, do you, Richard ?" 

"Yes, I guess I am love-struck." 

"Oh, honey." 

"You knew that I came over here to 
tell you goodbye forever, but I can't let 
you step out of my life that quickly. 
You'll be mine forever, won't you, 
honey ?" 

"Yes, dear." 



All Done 

The rusty iron range was at her back, its oven door gaping open to heat the 
enormous kitchen. She was dwarfed by the mountainous pile of sheets and the iron- 
ing board that came almost to her shoulders, but then, she was only five feet tall. At 
first glance, she seemed ill, the sickly green of the high walls reflected to her face by 
the glimmer of the solitary light bulb, almost lost in the recesses of the old-fashioned 
chandelier. Her bird-like activity contradicted the first impression, though, as she 
grabbed a huge sheet, smacked it down, and slammed it viciously with the iron as 
though she hoped to remove its wrinkles for all time. Her face wore an expression of 
everlasting surprise. A close observer would have noticed that her hair, severely 
parted in the middle, was drawn back so tightly to the knot at her neck as to cause 
the extreme arch in her eyebrows. Her spectacles gleamed as she moved, dropping 
down along her nose as she thrust her head closer to the ironing board. As the iron 
cooled she would snatch another from the range with one wrinkled, brown specked 
hand, while the other traveled to her mouth and a sharp hiss bounced from her moist 
thumb as she tested its temperature. As the pile of sheets became smaller, she 
worked faster and faster until, at last, a huge sigh, almost over balancing her slight 
frame, billowed forth with the words, 'All done — thank the Lord !" — Dan Sitzer 



[14] 



Lucy 



Albert Braviak 
Rhetoric I, Theme 17, 1937-1938 



WHEN school starts in the fall, I 
know Lucy will be just as unhappy 
as I until another glorious summer rolls 
around. She is a real pal, and I prize 
every ounce of her forty-seven pounds. 
Lucy doesn't get temperamental with me, 
because I understand her. If she doesn't 
feel like playing I know she isn't well. 
Understanding her as I do, I carefully 
take her apart and remedy her ills. Then 



enough for me. As we circle and whip 
around corners, she snarls at the water 
and tries to chew it to shreds. 

In the evening when the sun disap- 
pears behind the cliff, we swing out of 
the bay and head back toward the west. 
We have just enough time after that to 
get back to the cabin before it gets too 
dark. 

Lucy and I never go out on moonlight 




when she is well again we take our boat 
out on the lake and Lucy sings with 

joy- 
Lucy and I like to go out when the sun 
is just beginning to peek through the 
leafy sycamores on the east shore. The 
lake seems to be too sleepy to do any- 
thing but lie undisturbed, an unrippled 
surface before us, except when a fish 
may bob up only to dive back again into 
the center of a dilating circle. We plow 
noisily through, leaving a furrow of 
foam on either side of the boat. 

At noon we chatter along over choppy 
waves under the scorching sun. We can't 
compete with the speed of Mr. Craig's 
Cris-Craft, but when I sit in the middle 
of the boat where I can just reach Lucy, 
she does her very best — that's good 



nights any more because I've learned my 
lesson. We were out with Bitsy one eve- 
ning, just easing quietly along. Since 
Bitsy and I were sitting together at the 
back end of the boat, it seemed only 
natural that I should put my arm around 
her. Suddenly Lucy jumped straight up 
and tried to do a half -gainer into forty 
feet of water. Fortunately my grip on 
Lucy was the more secure of the two, 
and I saved her from her intended fate. 
Of course Bitsy warned me that I 
should be careful to get Lucy more se- 
curely clamped in the future, but I knew 
better than she what had caused it. And 
now I don't give my little Lucy occasion 
to get so blindly jealous that she wants 
to commit suicide. After all, she cost 
seventy-five bucks. 



[15] 



The Sketch Book — II 

(Material Written in Rhetoric I and II) 

Election Day 

Election day arrives, usually in a fog or rainstorm. In the early morning rail- 
road workers stop to vote at the gas office or at the engine house on their way to the 
depot. About 7:30 or 8 o'clock Main Street is waking up. Office people rush in and 
out of the election buildings, while the judges inside are already a little bored. Then 
about 8:30 "Mama" takes Junior to school in the car, comes down town and votes, 
pastes Republican stickers on her car, and goes off to stalk her prey. People are 
brought in to vote until about noon, when all the "Mamas" remember that they are 
wives and mothers and must prepare lunch at home. The only activity within the 
ballot rooms between 12 and 1 consists of the hurried entrances and exits of most 
of the school teachers, who have come in a body to vote. They come together because 
they want the superintendent of the school, a radical Republican, to know that they 
appreciate the honor of teaching in his school. In between customers the judges 
comment on this one's coat, that one's hair, and the havoc caused by the present ad- 
ministration. None of the six judges in each voting place needs the job he has for 
the day. They are all retired or about to retire from their professions, but it is a 
novelty to earn eight dollars by sitting and checking names. Anyway, that money 
will come in handy for bridge or for a new cigarette holder. What's more — they 
all have, at one time or another, thrown generous contributions in the "Ole Boy's" 
hat and are entitled to whatever he can offer them in the way of diversion. All after- 
noon transformed housewives zealously pull old ladies and crippled men from their 
beds and take them to vote for a "truly worthy man." At 5 o'clock, finally, the doors 
of the gas office and engine house are locked. — Loraine McCabe 

Just as a Diversion 

In my early years, I believe I read all the books that most boys of pre-high 
school days usually do. One after another, in a never-ending procession, I read the 
numerous tales of adventure. I imagined myself in the boots of the daring hero 
and rescued many a fair maiden from the tomahawk of the savage Indian. I captured 
scores of Spanish brigs, made every captive walk the plank, and at times killed sharks 
with my bare hands — just as a diversion. — James Westwater 

Character and Golf 

As a revealer of hidden traits, golf remains unparalleled. After playing several 
rounds of golf with some of my friends, I found that I knew much more about them. 
I often played golf with my high school principal, a Jekyll-Hyde sort of a fellow. 
From all appearances he was an upright, clean-minded, agreeable person, but with 
a midiron in his hand he was a changed man. He would stride around the golf course 
hitting the ball savagely, puffing heavily on an evil-smelling, black cigar, and swear- 
ing under his breath. He hated to be defeated, and would resort to cheating in order 
to win. After every hole some one would ask him whether he took a seven, a six, 
or whatever it was that he shot. His answer would always be one or two strokes 
lower than the number of strokes that the person had figured, and when the scores 
were totaled, his came out just one or two strokes under that of anyone else. I also 
know a business man who works hard all day, driving both himself and his employees. 



[16] 



However, on the golf course he becomes the most genial and good-natured man one 
ever met. Sooner or later golf discovers those discourteous people who talk, or walk 
across greens, when one is putting, who shoot out of turn, or who play too close to 
golfers ahead of them. There are also those annoying people who pick up their golf 
balls from the green, wipe them off, and set them down two feet closer to the pin; 
those who kick their golf balls out of sand traps; and those who kick their golf balls 
onto the greens from the fairways. Everyone has bad habits or hidden traits, and 
golf is the game to make a person show his true colors. — Robert D. Critton 

The Duck Season Opens 

The eastern horizon is hazily outlined against the dull morning light, and the 
huntsmen are proceeding cautiously, on foot or in boats, toward their respective 
blinds. Here and there we see a man with a star and a revolver, examining guns and 
hunting licenses to make sure the law isn't violated. Far down the lake, a quacking, 
flapping flock of ducks leap out of the water, startled, no doubt, by some unwary 
hunter, and leave for places unknown. Seven-thirty. All the blinds are occupied, 
all the decoys set out, and as the strong light of morning floods the scene, a roaring, 
deafening silence descends upon this unnaturally natural spot. Seven forty-five and 
the soft click, click of guns being loaded fills the air. Only fifteen more minutes. 
Trigger fingers become nervous as a flock of early rising mallards investigate a 
bunch of decoys. Suddenly, from the far end of the lake, a single shot rings out, 
followed instantly by a stentorian bellow from the game warden, "Cut it out, you dam' 
fool. Don't you know what time it is?" Seventy fifty-five. That cruising bunch of 
mallards had better be somewhere else in a hurry or there are liable to be a few, 
mighty sorry birds. Eight o'clock ! A sudden report from the warden's boat, followed 
closely by a very vivid imitation of a Chinese New Year, and the 1938 migratory 
waterfowl season is opened, literally with a bang. — Craig Lewis 

Saddling a Horse 

The horse stands quietly, looking deceptively meek. Do not allow yourself to be 
swayed into misjudgment by his soft, intelligent-looking brown eyes and chastened 
mien, but rather let this serve as a warning — a weather barometer, so to speak, which 
forecasts storms and thunder clouds. Approach him with wary eye, cautious tread, 
and a great deal of determination. Never allow "friend horse" to understand you are 
a novice at the art of saddling. With the saddle in one hand, you stand at his left 
side. Forgive me if I seem to stress "the left side," because he is brought up to 
respect anyone who approaches his left. There is a saddle blanket which is used to 
prevent rubbing and chafing of the leather saddle on the horse's skin. This, with 
practiced hand, you throw across his back. He submits to this act peacefully enough, 
and you gather courage to place the saddle carefully in its correct position, just in 
the slight hollow of his back. Daringly, you reach underneath his belly for the strap 
which hangs from the further side, preparing to draw it through a ring on your side. 
The horse takes all this with calm, unruffled serenity, lulling your suspicions into a 
false security. By this time, you have grown quite bold. The leather strap slides very 
easily through the iron ring, almost but not quite in place. The horse, a veritable 
fiend incarnate, nickers softly to himself as he takes a deep breath, making it im- 
possible for you to draw the saddle taut. You finally realize this is to be a battle 
betwixt brains and brute strength; it is also a question of which one has the most 
patience and endurance. After all, the horse can't hold his breath forever. Just as 
soon as he expells his breath, you renew for the onslaught, quickly pulling at the strap 
before he has time to inhale again. Your little ruse is successful, to the horse's utter 
chagrin. Patiently, you continue your little strategem until finally your objective is 
realized; the horse is saddled. — Dorothy Nelson 



[17] 



Stars May Fall 



D. Curtis 
Rhetoric II, Theme 15, 1937-1938 



BUT the day of the Lord will come 
as a thief in the night, in which the 
heavens shall pass away with a great 
noise, and the elements shall melt with 
fervent heat, the earth also and the works 
that are therein shall be burned up." 

There was not a sound in the little 
church as the minister slowly read this 
closing prophecy. 

I moved closer to Lorraine. From my 
seat in the children's choir I looked down 
on the handful of men and women in the 
hard, uncomfortable pews. The air was 
hot and sticky like a suffocating blanket. 
The doors and windows stood open to the 
black pit of the night. The people all 
looked very strange and unreal with the 
glare of the lights on their white, tense 
faces. A little boy was asleep with his 
head on his mother's shoulder. She held 
him tightly to her as if she feared he 
would be torn from her arms. 

After the minister had pronounced the 
benediction, everyone rose and began 
talking in low voices. The mother tried 
to awaken her sleeping boy. Lorraine 
and I slipped out of the church and 
turned toward home. We walked swiftly 
and silently. When we came to the corner 
Lorraine said, "See you in the morning," 
and we parted. 

Behind me I could hear the sound of 
her feet as she ran down the walk. I 
looked up at the sky and the friendly, 
winking stars that were thick across it. 
Then through my mind flashed those 



words, "The heavens shall pass away 
with a great noise. — " The stars weren't 
friendly; they were poised in the sky, 
waiting — waiting to fall and crush me 
and the earth. They would come hurling 
through space toward me, crashing into 
each other, and burying me as they beat 
the earth to bits with an unearthly roar, 
the noise of infinite destruction. "The 
elements shall melt with fervent heat, 
the earth also and the works that are 
therein shall be burned up." The earth 
was waiting to burst into flames, flames 
that would lick up trees, mountains, 
writhing and screaming people, even 
rivers, filling the universe with their red 
glare and stinging odor and noise. Fear 
was upon me. I ran. My legs could not 
move fast enough and my lungs and 
heart were bursting with the effort. 
Those last yards to home were like an 
eternity, home was an unattainable goal. 
I dashed up the steps and in the door. 

Father looked up from his paper. 
"Something scare you?" 

"No, I was just running." 

I looked at him sitting there so com- 
fortable and ordinary as he read the Sun- 
day papers. The bald spot on his head 
shone. Mother went through the room 
with her cheerful, energetic stride as she 
gathered up the clothes for Monday's 
wash. I picked up my geography book 
and sat down. This was home, warm and 
secure with Father and Mother near. 

I was safe. 



Epigram 

Sleep, like many other things in life, is something you must have and don't want 
in youth — but want and can't have as you grow older. — Charlotte Conrad 



[18] 



Alms 



Mary K. Grossman 
Rhetoric I, Theme 5, 1937-1938 



'npHE meal had progressed painfully 
•^ through the first and the main 
courses — when it happened ! I was care- 
fully maneuvering a plate from in front 
of a formidable-looking madame when 
she squirmed around dexterously in her 
chair and dropped something in my 
pocket. There was a loud clatter as this 
something struck my compact and lip- 
stick. It seemed to me that everyone in 
the dining room must have heard it. I 



me. I wanted to throw it as far as pos- 
sible and then run all the way home to 
my parents, where life was normal and 
money not a thing to be hated. I thought 
that I could not possibly go back into 
that dining room and face the woman 
who had made me feel as no one else had 
ever quite been able to — inferior. Finally 
I forced myself to go back to my tables, 
with an air of detachment that I felt 
must be convincing. However, I doubt- 



Q 











fear I must have started rather visibly, 
for a knife fell to the floor, adding to my 
general confusion. I hurriedly gathered 
up my dishes and tried to walk as grace- 
fully and unconcernedly as possible 
kitchenward. Safely behind the swinging 
portals of my haven, I investigated the 
source of my trouble. It was a very 
innocent-looking quarter. Actually, it 
was no different from many quarters 
which had passed through my fingers 
before, without a thought, but this one 
was not the same. I stared at it dumbly, 
and then suddenly it became repulsive to 



less looked exactly like the embarrassed 
and scared waitress that I really was. I 
had received my first tip. 

Afterwards I often thought about the 
money and wondered why she gave it to 
me. Did she feel sorry for me in my 
inexperience ? Or was she paying me for 
being polite, courteous, and eager to 
please? That I could not understand. 
All my life I had been taught to be polite 
to everyone, simply because I wanted to 
be a lady. Why should this woman, who 
had regarded me with a decidedly vulgar 
stare from behind her pince-nez, put a 



[19] 



quarter in my pocket because I had been 
a lady while I served her? The only 
answer that I could find was a most dis- 
illusioning one: there is no kindness in 
a money-minded world, and courtesy, 
like any commodity, can be bought and 
sold for a few cents. Perhaps if I, like 
so many of the other waitresses, had 
been dependent on my tips for a good 
part of my living, I would have felt 
differently. Certainly, there is nothing 
wrong with the mere act of tipping. It 
is simply the way and the spirit in which 
it is done. 

I may never be able to reform the 
"tipping" world. In fact, these fortunates 



who happened to be born on the right 
side of the tracks would probably not be 
interested in hearing advice from an ex- 
waitress. Nevertheless, that first experi- 
ence from a thoughtless tipper taught me 
how I shall thank the girl who next 
serves me for her prompt and efficient 
services. I will never hand money to 
her or put it in her pocket. When I leave 
money, it will be under the plate, where 
she will not find it until after I have left 
the dining room. ]\Iy waitresses will 
never feel that I am throwing them 
alms. My tip will be only a little "thank- 
you" from an appreciative guest and 
friend. 



Geology Field Trip 



As the bus turned off the pavement onto a narrow, gravel road, Mary and I 
began to have real misgivings. The bus went as fast as ever. Didn't the driver know 
how slippery the gravel was? Couldn't he feel how the bus skidded along the road? 
Was he crazy? 

Then, relief. We were in the ditch. A car had come around a bend forcing us 
off the road. We slid to such a smooth stop that no one was hurt. There wasn't a 
bumped elbow or a skinned knee in the crowd. Not a bone was out of place. Mary 
and I felt it to be a lucky accident — one of those that prevents some worse happen- 
ing. Also the jiggling had stopped; nor did we have to grasp the backs of seats to 
keep from crushing each other, for all of us were now piled conveniently on one side 
of the bus. 

A scared silence had pervaded the bus during the entire accident. Now a normal 
chatter began. We were wondering whether to get out or stay in. Mary and I got 
out after a few braver souls had first pulled themselves up to the emergency door 
and had jumped the three or more feet to the ground. Then began a game of getting 
in and getting out again. It rained a little, and we got in. When it had quit, we got 
out. Then we got cold; so we climbed in again. 

Soon the bus driver had rounded up a couple of tractors and a dozen or so 
farmers. Mary and I got out of the bus lest something happen as the bus was being 
pulled. However, we did not need to be so hasty because the tractors could not budge 
it. With farmers giving advice and tractors pulling, the bus remained stubborn. 

Mary and I remained cold, and our last vestige of delightful anticipation was 
blown away by a cold wind. As it started to rain, we started to expect the worst. We 
were out in the middle of a country road waiting for mind to show its superiority 
over matter. At last it did. One of the men ran to his house up the road and came 
back with a shovel. The farmer then dug the bus out of the ditch much as one digs 
out a car stuck in a snowdrift. 

Finally, wet, bedraggled, and unhappy, we were on our way home. Mary and I 
then drew a few conclusions of our own about geology field trips. They were awful, 
and the only thing you learned was how to get a bus out of a ditch. 

— Jean McJoiinston 



[20] 



Faithful to Thee 



Wanda Little 
Rhetoric II, Theme 6, 1937-1928 






'OU would have understood me had 
,'ou waited." Dowson in that Hne 
from his poem of the same name writes 
the story of his life. He brought his 
poems — delicate spider webs of verse 
with an occasional line or phrase in them 
sparkling with genius as the drops of 
dew on a web sparkle in the morning 
sun — to a world which neglected them 
heartbreakingly. He did not, like Keats, 
even suffer from the barbs of critics. All 
manner of recognition was denied him, 
and he died too young, not knowing that 
his meagre offering would attain an 
obscure but real immortality. There is a 
small minority who, from time to time, 
have paused to give to his works the slow 
and sympathetic attention necessary to 
their appreciation. To take that volume 
of two hundred pages which includes all 
his original works, both poetry and 
prose, and to run through it in one sitting 
is useless. Such a procedure is as un- 
satisfactory as taking a glass of fine 
sherry and swallowing it hurriedly and 
with closed eyes. Take a single poem, 
hold it up to the light and admire its 
color as does a connoisseur with a glass 
of wine, inhale its elusive bouquet, and 
then slowly sip it, tasting it and prolong- 
ing enjoyment to the last syllable. Then, 
if you have found pleasure in this experi- 
ence, turn to his life to add under- 
standing to enjoyment. 

Ernest Christopher Dowson is an enig- 
matic figure. All that is known of him, 
outside the self-revelation of his poetry, 
comes from the pen of Arthur Symons, 
who was his closest friend. In Symons's 
memoir the outlines of Dowson's life and 



character are shown. It is no more than 
a sketch, for the details necessary to a 
complete portrait have been obliterated 
by time as effectually as a sponge effaces 
the words on a slate. He was born in 
England, on August 2, 1867, but the 
greater part of his childhood was spent 
wandering around the Continent because 
of his father's poor health. This weak- 
ness of constitution he inherited, along 
with a vague but cherished tradition of 
literary talent. His great-uncle, Alfred 
Domett, who was Browning's "Waring," 
wrote Runolf and Amohia and a number 
of other poems. His father dosed him- 
self well with literature, but without 
result except so far as he influenced 
Dowson. After three years at Oxford, 
Dowson returned without a degree to the 
only mistress who was ever faithful to 
him, his beloved France. It might be 
that in his hasheesh dreams which started 
in college he found a truer one, but cer- 
tainly his love in this world was disap- 
pointing to a soul which searched for 
someone who would be to it as a goblet 
of crystal wherein it might see reflected 
its own sensitive image. 

Hasheesh was not his only weakness. 
Symons says of him, "I have never 
known him when he could resist either 
the desire or the consequences of drink."^ 
He haunted the most sordid and squalid 
places he could find, in London and on 
the Continent, especially in Brussels. He 
attempted to drown the bitter taste of 
frustration with the strongest dregs of 
the cup of life. 

'Symons, A., "Ernest C. Dowson," Fort- 
nightly Review, 73 (1900), 949. 



[21] 



The Rhymers Club knew him at this 
time, and his contributions were the 
outstanding features of their pubUshed 
volumes. His small income, also a herit- 
age from his father, was supplemented 
only by the mone}' received for trans- 
lations from the French which he did as 
hack work and the two novels written In 
collaboration with Arthur Moore. 

He was highstrung, nervous, irritable, 
emotional; his life was a chaos to the 
end. Unaware that Fate was closing 
her shears upon the thread of his exist- 
ence, he lay in the home of a poor friend 
on February 23, 1900, in the England to 
which he had just returned six weeks 
before. Consumption had weakened him 
but he was cheerful and full of plans for 
the future, when, to quote Symons again, 
"he tried to cough, could not cough, and 
the heart quietly stopped."^ 

His poems are as delicate and feverish 
as he himself was. It is a debatable 
question whether he indulged in hash- 
eesh to any great extent after leaving 
college, but the hasheesh visions haunted 
him all his life and recur in one form or 
another in many of his lyrics. That in- 
ability to forget the sensations experi- 
enced is one of the queer features of the 
drug. The dreams themselves vary enor- 
mously; some are unbelievably beautiful, 
while some are more agonizing than any 
physical torment of the Spanish Inqui- 
sition. Dowson, I believe, experienced 
mostly somber-hued fantasies. He seems 
filled with the "agony of despair for his 
own fate"^ which is mentioned by others 
who have contracted the habit. In Cease 
smiling, Dear! a little while he sad, he 
cries, 

"Fear is upon me and memory 
Of what is all men's share."* 



And in Amor Profanns his lament is that 
". . . . all too soon we twain shall tread 
The bitter pastures of the dead."* 

One of the peculiar characteristics of 
hasheesh, which under the name of mari- 
huana has become a much discussed 
modern problem, is the way in which 
it prolongs the sensation of time, stretch- 
ing out a minute to eternity. Dowson 
must have "experienced that vast change 
which hasheesh makes in all measure- 
ments of time."^ How else is one to 
understand his reference in Amor Pro- 
fanns to a time in his own life "beyond 
the pale of memory," and his cry "that 
time was distant as a star" ? 

There is a faint flavor of seventeenth 
century France in many of his poems. 
He was technically a master of the vil- 
lanelle, and each one of the small number 
of them he produced seems like a dainty 
and stylized figurine of fine porcelain, 
Verlaine's writings also had some influ- 
ence on him. Villanelles and Verlaine — 
both start with the letter he loved. Again 
and again violets, vines, and viols sound 
their soft music in his poems. The letter 
V was to him what the adjective white 
was to Rupert Brooke ; he would have 
been lost without it. 

One feels a sort of surprise when first 
reading On the Birth of a Friend's Child. 
It is soinehow a misplaced note. The 
style is a faithful copy of the English 
writers of the eighteenth century, and the 
expressions are purely objective. He is 
not in the poem as an active figure and it 
loses thereby. The poem was written on^ 
the occasion of the birth of Arthur' 
Symons's daughter. That friendship was 
a strange thing; Symons's character was 



'■Ibid., 952. 

'Ludlow, F. H., The Hasheesh Eater, 190. 



'Dowson, E. C, Poems and Prose of Ernest 
Dowson, 65. 
'Ibid., 31. 
"Ludlow, F. H., op. cit., 22. 



[22] 



the antithesis of Dowson's, but each was 
benefited by intimacy with the other. 

Dowson's lyrics are erotic in the strict 
sense, and one wonders, thinking of 
femininity as it existed during his life, 
how the shadowy figures of his poems 
achieve their classic beauty. Smelling 
salts are so closely related in my mind 
with the period in which he wrote that 
their actual presence could not affect me 
more strongly. Bustles, whalebone stays, 
and false fronts for female coiifures also 
did their share to reduce the illusion of 
unrestricted grace, and Dowson was fully 
aware of all these aids to beauty, but his 
pen, thank heaven, wore a blindfold. The 
result was pure poetry without contempo- 
rary fetters. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch 
has said of him, "There is scarcely a 
single poem in his scant one hundred and 
sixty pages of large and loosely printed 
verse which, when one has read it, one 
does not want to read again, and which 
does not leave an echo of poetry, fainter 
or less faint, in the mind's ear." 

"But the greatest of these" is Cynara. 
It has an irresistible fascination for me 
and I have found that many people who 
do not even recognize Dowson's name 
are well acquainted with it. It gives you 
the sensation of restlessness and unap- 
peased desire which is the essence of 
Dowson. It is as wistful and as lonely as 
a single seagull at dusk. His passionate 
cry is echoed in the heart of everyone 
who has ever loved with all his being 
once and then gone on, never forgetting, 
though his love was unavailing. Non 
Sum Qualis Eram Bonae Sub Regno 
Cynarae is the voice of all those faithful 
though inarticulate. 

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips 

and mine 
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath 

was shed 
Upon my soul between the kisses and the 

wine ; 



And I was desolate and sick of an old 

passion, 
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head: 
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my 

fashion. 

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm 

heart beat, 
Night-long within mine arms in love and 

sleep she lay; 
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth 

were sweet ; 
But I was desolate and sick of an old 

passion. 
When I awoke and found the dawn was 
gray: 
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my 

fashion. 

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the 

wind, 
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng, 
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of 

mind ; 
But I was desolate and sick of an old 

passion, 
Yea, all the time, because the dance was 
long: 
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my 

fashion. 

I cried for madder music and for stronger 

wine, 
But when the feast is finished and the lamps 

expire. 
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara ! the night is 

thine ; 
And I am desolate and sick of an old 

passion, 
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire: 
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my 

fashion. 

Though his poetry seems at first to 
weave a tapestry of a single color, one 
eventually finds many threads of scarlet 
and gold among the shades of gray, and 
they are of such richness that one is well 
repaid for the time devoted to it. 

Bibliography 

Dowson, E. C, Poems and Prose of Ernest 
Dozvson, New York, The Modern Library. 

Ludlow, Fitz Hugh, The Hasheesh Eater, New 
York, Harper and Brothers, 1857. 

Symons, Arthur, "Ernest C. Dowson," Fort- 
nightly Revien; 72> (1900), 947. 



122^ 



Debussy's Suite "Iberia" 

Grace Hantover 

I am alone 

Slowly taking my way 

Over the winding cobbled streets. 

I feel all Spains wine laden breath 

Upon my cheek. 

The air is powdery blue. 

Moist. 

Houses that I pass, 

With knockers that keep fingers 

On the lips of the gates they own. 

I stand still now. 

Oh ! the quiet 

The winds dry two tears upon my cheeks. 

Oh! love, 

The pigeons cry quietly in the 

Quiet of the eaves. 

Oh love ! 

My heart cries. 

I am alone. 

Three streets down, 

The flower boys' mules 

Are returning to the city. 

Flower laden. 

The women of these streets 

Sleep alone. 

The servants are astir 

Within the bodies of these houses. 

Thru the narrow streets 

I can see the familiar gleam of 

The sun. 

I hear the matin sounding, 

Misty on the morning air. 

The water boys sigh, 

Shoulders bent by constant weight, 

Bend again under the water skins. 

Soon their cries shall fill the streets. 

The sun is Up ! Up ! Up ! 

Up! 

Astir ! 

Clip clop ! mules. 

Earings jangle. 

The bells of every steeple ring! 

Olive skinned dancers fling shawls to 

The twists of the Jota ! 

The slow brown cattle driven through the streets, 

A V shape through the crowds, 

Bellowing. 



[24] 



The police on horseback 

Sharp lines, sharp mouths, gleaming accoutrements. 

Riotous color, flowers, skirts, shoes ! 

Passive mules, ears horizontal, dreaming of their past glory. 

The gypsy fiddler plaintively sings again of the lost dawn. 

All is color. 

Reds of lips, dresses, trappings, ribbons. 

Black hair, black boot. 

I am yet alone 

Amidst all this. 

I walk alone with the ghost of the dawn. 

In the midst of that carnival. 

Alone with the sobbing, remembering violin 

The violin that remembers the dawn. 

With me. 



Ancient Ruins in Old Mexico 

Red wild flowers blaze upon the crumbling tomb 

Of glorious kings from ages long forgot. 

Like ballerinas clad in bright costume 

They dance, effacing the cold stone where rot 

Fragmented bones. Unconscious of their doom — 

Unwary of their incongruity — 

They mock their hidden nourishment of gloom 

By dancing to the wind's wild melody. 

And dimly through the flowers' lavish face 

Loom shady forms of kingdoms desolate. 

Dusty, decayed bones of a mighty race, 

These hidden tombs and temples their remains. 

And on those mounds of Death, and Past, and Gloom, 

A transient life will never cease to bloom. 

— Eugenie Meeker 



October 

When goldenrod is dusty-gold. 
When aster flowers' blue unfolds, 
When autumn tints adorn the sky, 
I know October's going by. 

When apple trees with fruit bend down, 
When golden leaves begin to brown, 
When mellow autumn's moon is high, 
I know October's going by. 

— Lois Ann Dallenbach 



[25] 



What's Wrong With Me? 



Glenn Wiegel 
Rhetoric I. Theme 8, 1937-1928 



I AM in no way a psychic. But once I 
dreamed that I sat, in my best clothes, 
which I do not wear often, one in a 
crowd of similarly dressed people, in 
some vast, dimly lighted hall, floored 
with rough- jointed stone slabs. There 
was a musty, stale odor to the atmos- 
phere; everyone sat motionless, listening 
to and viewing some kind of ceremony. 
Strange statues stood in niches in the 
walls. I knew not what had brought me 
to such a remote and strange place, for I 
seemed to be miles and miles from home 
and acquaintances. I was awed by the 
architecture and the peculiar mud-like 
building blocks which formed the walls. 
I wondered if I were not in one of the 
ancient buildings of Rome. Even the 
people about me were different. Finally, 
while I was still admiring my surround- 
ings, the ceremony came to a close, and 
everyone began to move toward the en- 
trance at one end of the hall. As I was 
moving along with them, a man came 
up behind me, slipped his hand beneath 
my arm, and said, "I want a word with 
you." 

It was a perfect dream, and it stuck in 
my memory. 

Six months or less later I was fortu- 
nate in having an opportunity to make 
my first trip to the west coast. While on 



my tour along the coast, I visited several 
of the missions built by Spanish priests 
during the pioneer days of California, 
One Sunday morning, after passing 
through the old historic town of Monte- 
rey, I came to the Carmel Mission, which 
is supposed to be the first of the missions 
built in California. It was constructed 
under the supervision of Junipero Serra, 
a Spanish priest. I thought nothing 
would be more interesting that morning 
than to attend services at this mission. 
So I entered the court yard and hesi- 
tantly walked toward the entrance. I 
entered and seated myself in the rear of 
the hall-like chapel. I felt strange, and 
I wondered whether I was even welcome, 
since no attention was paid to my en- 
trance. Upon entering, I was so curi- 
ously aroused that I did not dare to 
leave. I looked at the stone flooring, 
then I said to myself: "But here is 
where I have been!" After about three 
quarters of an hour, mass was over, and 
everyone arose and began to leave. As 
I was about to depart, a man from 
behind slipped his hand under my arm, 
and said, "I would like a word with you, 
please." It was the caretaker who had 
mistaken me for someone else. 

How and why had I been shown an 
unreleased roll of mv life-film? 



The Owl and the Chicken 

"Early to bed, early to rise, etc." Who follows this more closely than the 
chicken? It goes to bed with the sunset, and is up before the dawn, and eventually 
ends up in a frying pan. But the wise old owl who stays up all night and sleeps all 
day, usually lives to die of old age. — Robert Kimbrell 



[26] 



My Greatest Enthusiasm 



Donald B. Agnew 
Rhetoric I, Theme 2, 1937-1938 



I HUNTED ducks last Sunday. I left 
the city about four o'clock, strug- 
gled through the weeds that grew knee 
high in the pasture, dodged about fre- 
quently in the corn fields to miss the 
twelve foot stalks that nearly fell in 
Friday's rain, crossed forty acres of oats 
stubble that was damp but not muddy, 
floundered through wild grape vines at 
fence rows, pushed through horseweeds 



and diving. Four of them, three mallards 
and one black duck, saw me, too, and 
left the pool with great splashing. They 
did not come back. Three more mal- 
lards, the most common of our wild 
ducks, flushed, but I stood still. They 
circled about and, regaining confidence, 
leveled into a smooth, sharp glide to the 
pond. Here they applied the brakes by 
extending their feet on the surface of 




i^'^'i 



ten feet tall and brittle as glass, fol- 
lowed the corn rows north where the 
high stalks caused constant flickering in 
the rays from the low hanging sun, and 
where dry leaves stung the face, passed 
a hedgerow where each leaf stood out 
sharp and clear because of its afternoon 
shadow, crossed a graveled country road 
which scrunched loudly underfoot, crept 
through a short field of alfalfa to its 
fence, and saw the pond. 

I walked slowly to the edge of the 
pond, and saw fifteen ducks splashing 



the water. This act splashed water sev- 
eral feet to each side and made quite 
a bit of noise, but it retarded their 
speed. 

I find that ducks which return to a 
pond while a man is there are spring 
ducks — hatched the preceding spring. 
They are curious but cautious, and keep 
the pond between themselves and the 
man. Ducks which have lived through 
even one hunting season shun man when 
the first frost comes. Apparently the 
four that left were at least a year and a 



[27] 



half old, and the rest were spring ducks. 

The mallards swam about with their 
heads low between their wings. Then I 
noticed three smaller ducks, bantam 
ducks if there are such fowl, with short 
bodies, straight upright tails, and long, 
straight necks, swimming about in the 
weeds near the shore. They splashed and 
dived, showing no fear of me. I identi- 
fied them later as the blue-winged teal, 
a drake and two ducks. 

Ducks were not the only birds on the 
pond. I walked within fifty feet of that 



rare game bird, the woodcock, probing 
in the soft earth for a meal. And I saw 
killdeers and sandpipers, doves and pig- 
eons, and starlings feeding and drinking 
near the pond. 

Soon I returned my field glasses to 
their case, shelled some corn near the 
water to tempt the ducks to stay another 
Sunday, and left for the hike home. No, 
I didn't shoot any. I hunt ducks be- 
cause I enjoy hiking, and because I like 
to watch the web- footed fowl feed and 
play unmolested. 



Seven to Eight 



The Dorm 

The icy winter wind creeps through the window like tafify. Figures of unknown 
persons huddled in beds everywhere. An early riser's alarm clock booms forth — the 
figures squirm like the segments of an ancient reptile. A frigid tranquillity reigns. 

"Hey, get up there. Seven o'clock. C'm'on, get up, Joe, it's seven." The man on 
bells is at work. Joe may be heard to say, "Eh, Jerry — Jerr3% roll me out at s — vn 
fif—n— thanks." 

It might be the same story again at seven fifteen, but usually with resolution the 
braver proceed to roll from their Utopias and clamor out of the dorm. It is this 
clamor that is so interesting. The place is suddenly alive — the icy air cracks like a 
massive plate glass struck by a brick. Life is everywhere. Laughing and jesting 
fellows dart from the dorm on one another's heels. The atmosphere is warm. The 
day has begun. 

The molten plate glass oozes until the edges meet. The cold air steals in again 
and the mass once more becomes whole. A few figures are still huddled here and 
there — seven thirty. Some grouch disperses a damn and drops from his bed. It's a 
very cold day. — H. H. Levinson 

Getting to Class 

A typical day is one when I have an hour quiz at 8:00. I invariably oversleep, 
rush out of bed at 7:11, dash madly downstairs and gulp down a cup of black, taste- 
less coffee in the hopes it will wake me up, remember suddenly that I forgot to brush 
my teeth, notice it is 7:25, and stumble upstairs again to my room. I then throw on 
the first thing my hand contacts in the closet, notice disgustedly that it is a blouse 
with three buttons ofif, pull on a pair of stockings only to find they are not only two 
different kinds, but are also full of runs, break my shoe-laces in four places, and, 
looking more like an accident about to happen than anything else, I stagger to the 
mirror at 7:39, and start combing my hair. The night before my 8:00 class is always 
the one when I decide to go on strike, and let my hair take care of itself, and after 
breaking two combs and using my entire vocabulary of words that shouldn't be said, 
I jam a hat on over my crowning glory, smear some lipstick on my mouth, smudge 
my powder on my nose, see that it is now 7:49, trip over a box at the top of the steps, 
and after a succession of thumps land much the worse for wear, and start for campus. 
I arrive panting in my classroom at 8:01. — Genevieve Kline 



[28] 



The Owls of Edwards Gulch 



Cedric King 
Rhetoric 11, Theme 16, 1936-1937 



THE letter's first line transported me 
to the Western mountain country 
again, from whence it recently, and I a 
few years before, had come — a country 
of timber-line firs, hills and valleys, and 
a certain brooding loneliness, all of which 
are walled ofif from the rest of the world 
by great, crooked-backed mountains of 
the Continental Divide. In spite of 
its general unfriendliness — its unkind 
winters and lack of companions of my 
own age — it must have exercised some 
kind of charm that penetrated my blood, 
for as I read, old familiarities jumped 
forth from hiding and surprised me with 
their still-virile nature. I heard the wind 
come again down the long meadow by 
the ranch; and I saw it whip the silver- 
bottomed willows until the light played 
on the two-toned foliage as though it 
were whirling folds of an adagio dancer's 
cape. 

"Things ain't changed much since you 
was here. Exceptin the depression had 
its effect on the ranches. Bill Weeks had 
to sell out. Rideout bought his stock, 
exceptin the buckskin that was a colt 
when you was here. I bought him and 
broke him last spring. He's a tough 
animal and shows his heels to all of 'em 
at the end of a hard day. Regardin the 
sun which you asked about, it still sets 
a quarter turn to the right of that big 
pine on the ridge west of here, that is 
in summer it does. A couple of owls live 
in the tree now, I think them from 
Edwards Gulch " 

Owls ! Edwards Gulch ! I had nearly 
forgotten those famous birds and that 



long gulch that had once combined to 
give me an outstanding experience: 

Charlie Fry and I were companions in 
a way, that is to say, as much com- 
panions as a rather simple, large Nordic 
man and a lonesome boy can be when 
the man is close to fifty. He had red 
hair, and a moustache of the same color 
stuck out to either cheek from under a 
cavernous nose. In spite of its shape- 
lessness, he took a great pride in it, and 
he was tweeking it gently one late after- 
noon as we rode down Edwards Gulch 
toward its western end, where he and 
his mother, an old crone with a feeble 
mind, had their cabin. Suddenly a 
stranger loped out from a side draw and 
pulled up with us. In typical western 
fashion, we started conversation without 
asking either where he came from or his 
destination. If there was anything 
mysterious about him, as Charlie Fry 
afterwards swore there was, I must 
have mistaken it for its direct opposite, 
for he spoke without discretion or re- 
serve, and I at once conceived a strong 
dislike for him. He talked on and on, 
as though he had a certain number of 
words to get out of his mouth by dark, 
regardless of whether there was any 
sense behind them or not. As he droned 
on, two owls, one on the ridge to the 
right and one on the left ridge, began 
hooting to one another. They seemed to 
follow us, moving from tree to tree as 
we progressed down the valley, project- 
ing their weird cry intermittently across 
the space above us. Even from this safe 
distance, I still remember those cries as 



[29] 



being greatly discomforting. In a dull 
monotone the stranger gave us of his 
vast knowledge of bird-lore, which, as it 
conveniently happened, was mostly owl- 
lore. He assigned to them the power of 
seeing into the future and vowed they 
were continually trying to warn mankind 
of impending danger. 

"Mark my words, sirs, them owls is 
followin' us right now for a purpose. 
They got somethin' to tell us if we'd 
lissen." 

With my accustomed bravado I chal- 
lenged him to explain what it was they 
wanted to impart to us, but he only 
looked at me as though hurt and replied, 
"There are lots of things young bucks 
like you got ter learn." 

When my path finally loomed up in the 
dusk, leading up onto the left ridge and 
on over the divide to the ranch, I bid 
Charlie and the stranger goodbye, loping 
off with mingled feelings of heroism and 
uneasiness at the prospect of my journey 
alone through the dark. But I arrived 
home with nothing of note having hap- 
pened except the scurrying of a rabbit 
from under my horse's very hoofs, which 
all but caused me an undelightful walk 
the rest of the way. Once home, and 
having failed to bring any steers home 
with me, the object of my day's riding, I 
ate quietly and went to bed, thankful for 
the soft mattress and woolly blankets 
that held off the bite of the dry Western 
night. 

Somewhere in the early morning 
hours, I was awakened by activity in the 
kitchen. There was a light there, and I 
faintly heard the unmistakable voice I 
had been riding with most of the day 
before. Charlie Fry was mumbling 
something to Father in exciting, agitated 
tones. I heard Father say, "Take some 
of that coffee, Charlie, and then we'll 
hitch up the buckboard." There was a 
loud sipping, followed by an occasional 



nervous sigh, and I knew all was not well 

with the big Norwegian. In a few min- 
utes the door slammed and the two men 
went to the barn with a lantern ; the fol- 
lowing quarter of an hour brought the 
sound of the vanishing buckboard creak- 
ing through the night air. Having been 
early imbued with the lesson of not rush- 
ing headlong into such occasions, I con- 
tained myself until the sound disap- 
peared: then I stepped quietly into the 
kitchen where the light still burned. I 
was startled to see Mother sitting by the 
cook stove, drinking coffee and looking 
more alarmed and uneasy than I had ever 
before seen her. "What's happened?" I 
asked. 

"Charlie Fry's cabin burned down 
yesterday while he was out riding with 
you." 

Without Mother's finishing, I knew 
what had happened. The old crone that 
was Charlie's mother, being a semi- 
invalid, had perished in the flames. I 
caught my breath. For the first time 
since I had known of her existence, I 
thought of the old lady as having been 
human^Charlie's mother. 

"I suppose they went after her body," 
I said, to break the uncomfortable 
silence. 

The coroner from Cripple Creek de- 
cided, to his own satisfaction at least, 
that the case was one of "successful 
suicide," inasmuch as the crone had been 
thwarted a time or two before in an at- 
tempt on her own life. Father assigned 
the cause of the fire to her habit of 
feeding an incompetent, light-metal 
heater with pitch knots from dead pines 
near the house, even though her son had 
warned her time after time that the 
practice was dangerous. Charlie himself, 
to whom the country looked in the main 
for an explanation or opinion, said noth- 
ing. He seemed never to emerge from a 
stunned state of mind the tragedy had 



[30] 



inflicted upon him. Since it was well 
known where he was on that day, many 
vicious tongues that eagerly looked for a 
chance to implicate him in some sort of 
murder w'ere frustrated. With the story, 
the riddle, still unsolved, we moved from 
the country a few weeks later, leaving 
behind what Father thought to be a clear 
case of accidental death by fire, what the 
coroner thought to be, beyond a doubt, 
suicide, and what the settlers through- 
out the country still thought to be some- 
thing mysterious, unsolved — perhaps a 
clever murder, perhaps ? ? ? 

Having reached the end of that vivid 
recollection, I looked again at the letter. 
". . . . I ain't been over to the gulch for 
a long time. Neither has anyone else that 
I know of. Half the people in this liere 
country wouldn't ride over there at dusk 
for love or money, but it ain't that bad 
with me. I just get sort of a queer feelin 
over there, rememberin about Charlie 
Fry and his mother burnin. Makes me 
kind of uneasy, so I just ride out around 
the darn place when I can. Charlies still 
livin with the old trapper he went to 
when his cabin burned. He's teched good 
and propper now, and can't here an owl 
hoot but what he goes ravin, mumblin 
mad. Got half the country scared of 
owls and the other half ready to spook 
if anvthing show up favorable to his 
ideas. Not that they actually bother me, 
but if them two owls up in that big pine 
tree don't move out and quit their hootin 
at night, Fm going up with the rifle one 
of these evenins and pull 'em down. I 



just don't like the memories they put me 
in mind of. Since youre a studyin 
anatomy or somethin there at college, I 
might send them to you in an air tight 
box. You ought to be the one to identify 
them, seein you are the only one left with 
any sense that was there that evenin 
when, as Charlie raves, they was trying 
to warn him that his cabin was burnin 
as you and him and the stranger were 
ridin down Edwards Gulch." 

"So poor Charlie is raving mad," I 
mused aloud, as I folded the letter. It 
had never before occurred to me what 
his feelings must have been when he 
came upon the remains of his cabin and 
his mother, a black mass of near-dead 
embers smoking in the still night. In 
those intense moments of emotion that 
dissolved his reason for all future time, 
he must have been most acutely conscious 
of the horror of the inhuman silence 
about him and the cruelty of material 
things. It is little wonder that he linked 
the three inseparably, the tragedy, the 
owls' hootings, and what the stranger 
had said of them. Nor is it hard to 
imagine what thoughts arise when the 
cry of that bird is heard drifting across 
darkened valleys at nightfall. In the 
fertile ground of ignorance, and strength- 
ened by minor coincidences and the lone- 
liness of that unenlightened section, this 
embryo superstition may assume propor- 
tions and twists that will reach out to 
touch upon the lives of many yet unborn, 
who are predestined to life in the 
mountain country. 



Brazen swaths of light. 
Stabbing into the black. 
Making the shadows untidy. 
The gloom of the night is slack, 
Tired of fighting the Dawn. 
Raises his hand to defend, 
Looks back in silent alarm. 
Retreats, for his legions are gone ! 
— Grace Hantover 



[31] 



Rhet as Writ 



Few are immune to the disease of cat- 
tiness. College is an excellent place for 
the germs — especially in a girls board- 
ing house. That is where the germ lays 
its first eggs. Jealousy and thoughtless- 
ness are the foods for these eggs. Here 
they thrive. 

It is a friendly little town situated 
snugly in a wooded valley. The hard- 
working, honest people of the community 
conjugate here for their recreation. It is 
the amusement center for all the nearby 
farms. The people are born and raised in 
this community and usually remain there 
until death. The simple ways hold a 
certain attraction which the people hate 
to leave. 

• • • • 

I am here to learn how to meet the 
problems of unfortunates who are 
brought into the world without even a 
beginning. 

• • • • 

The six beds, neatly made, looked ap- 
petizing, and I could hardly wait to be 
told which one I might "drop" into. 

• • • • 

You cannot erase the effect of drinking 
mothers on future generations by re- 
establishing prohibition, but you can stop 
the drinking of mothers now. 

Liars should have good memories be- 
cause too often a liar tells a fib which he 
had told before in the presence of an in- 
dividual who has already heard him for 
the first time and then upon hearing him 
tell it for the second time knows that it 
is not true due to it being told different 
during the first time that he heard it. 



Then about 1924 Professor Wright 
photographed Yosemite Valley from 
Mout Hamilton in California which was 
120 miles away using infra-red films. 

• • • • 

Among the diseases which may be in- 
herited are the size of the body, diabetes 
Mellitus, feeblemindedness, mental 
power, color-blindness, and the trait of 
having more than the usual number of 
toes or fingers or thumbs. 

• • • • 

In the opening scene of the pla}' where 
Leslie Howard and Olivia deHaviland 
were acting in the Shakespeare play the 
theatre rang with laughter when Leslie 
Howard was giving Olivia de Haviland 
a fairwell kiss and she woke from the 
dead and told Leslie Howard that he 
had been eating garlic again and he in 
return bit her chin from which she gave 
a surprised look. 

• • • • 

Everyone in this valley feels boyant 
and invigorated as they walk over the 
ground, clothed in pine needles. 

c • • • 

Radio broadcasts were frequently 
punctured by an announcement concern- 
ing the British situation. 

Mussolini in his paper, L'populi, and 
Hitler in his mouth organ, have been 
razzing the United States over the recent 
Panay incident. 

• • • • 

Moving pictures of the sinking of this 
boat stir up a considerable amount of 
sediment against Japan for this black 
deed. 



[32] 



Honorable Mention 

Lack of space prevents the publishing of excellent themes written by 
the following students. Some of these themes may be published, in part 
or in entirety, in future issues. 



Allen Adams 
J. Arndt 

Helen Bittermann 
Tom Chittenden 
Pearl Jean Cohen 
Cherie Fenwick 
Robert Gatewood 
Sidney Gooze 
Betty Jean Gray 
John Hanson 
Irwin Horwitz 
Sarah Houghton 
Robert Howe 
William Hutchinson 
Raymond Isenson 
Edward Kamarit 
Edwin Lampitt 
R. Marschik 
Harold Massie 
Loraine McCabe 



Grace McAllister 
Leon Messier 
Reone Rasmussen 
Charles A. Roberts 
R. L. Ropiequet 
Robert Roussey 
E. L. Rucks 
Joseph Sachs 
Florence Schnitzer 
Irma Shields 
Ellsworth Show 
Fay Sims 
Dan Sitzer 
Richard Thorsen 
D. Todd 
Ruby Watson 
James Westwater 
Helen Whitehead 
Elisabeth Young 



Vol.8 



OCTOBER, 1938 



No. 1 



1^ PUBLISHED BY THE RHE' 




TABLE OF CONTENTS 

I LOOK AT THE PRESS 1 

Frank W. Smith 

TIME OUT 2 

Cliff Tichenor 
WASHING CLOTHES IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL 3 

Frances Atwood 
ON BEING "BROKE" 4 

John F. Dowdall 
SUBSCRIBE FOR— 5 

Bernerd Johnson 
BOOK REPORT ON "A PASSAGE TO INDIA" 6 

Frances Atwood 
CORONATION 7 

Eleanor Anderson 

THE BRITISH LION— 1938 9 

James Tyron 

N.H.S 10 

Anonymous 

INTERLOCHEN, THE NATIONAL MUSIC CAMP 12 
Lawrence Gougler 

SYNCOPATERS 14 

R. Marschik 

SKETCH BOOK 16 

GROWING DAHLIAS 18 

Sarah Houghton 

BLUE-PRINT BOY 19 

George Phillips 

GOLF 21 

Tom Chittenden 

PERCY GRAINGER 22 

Clinton Cobb 

ALL'S NOT WELL 25 

D. Todd 

THE PRIVILEGE OF BEING AN AMERICAN . 26 
Margery Wilson 

TRANSITION 27 

Robert Gatewood 

BEHIND THE BIG TOP 29 

Betty Jo Donahue 
RHET. AS WRIT 32 

(Extracts from themes written in Rhetoric I and II) 



RHETORIC STAFF, UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS. URBANA 



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

The committee in charge of this issue of The Green 
Caldron includes Mr. E. G. Ballard, Dr. Robert 
Blair, Dr. Walter Johnson, Mr. Gibbon Butler, 
Mr. Stephen Fogle, and Dr. Charles W. Roberts, 
Chairman. 

The Green Caldron is for sale in the Information 
Office, Administration Building West, Urbana, Illinois. 



I Look at the Press 



Frank W. Smith 
Rhetoric I, Theme 2, 1937-1938 



I WANT to be a newspaper publisher. 
For six years I have looked toward 
that goal. I may never attain it, but if 
I do, it will be with my eyes wide 
open. My first impression of the press 
came from a book — one of the most 
popular pieces of fiction in the bookcase 
which our small-town junior high school 
termed "the library." The book was 
called The Newspaper Game and related 
the story of a young man who inherited 
a nondescript daily paper, built it into 
a thriving financial success by numerous 
thrilling escapades, bought out his deadly 
rival, and presumably went on to more 
and bigger success. Such a piece of 
fiction was my introduction to journal- 
ism. So impressed was I that I decided 
on a career in the newspaper business. 
Within a year from the date of that 
decision I obtained another — perhaps I 
should say an actual — insight into my 
desired profession. My father, his part- 
ner, and another gentleman decided to 
combine their forces and publish a 
weekly paper — the third in our small 
city. With the advent of the Democrat — 
that was the new paper's name — I was 
introduced to a behind-the-scenes part of 
the newspaper game which I had never 
dreamed existed. First and most shock- 
ing of my discoveries was the disclosure 
that murders, scandals in the business 



dealings of public officials, and other 
sensational material are not the most 
plentiful or desirable part of the contents 
of the weekly paper. Second in impor- 
tance was my discovery that instantan- 
eous financial success does not always 
follow sincere and applied efforts to 
reach such a goal. The Democrat is the 
youngest paper in a town which, while 
it can comfortably support one paper 
and can conceivably struggle along under 
the load of two, should never be asked 
to sustain a third. 

It is because I have looked at the 
newspaper profession under such condi- 
tions that I believe I am entering that 
field with my eyes open. I do not 
expect to find a fortune awaiting me 
there. I do not imagine I will find the 
press in actual life as Lee Tracy so ad- 
mirably pictures it on the screen. I won't 
be looking for romance, adventure, and 
excitement, for I don't believe they exist 
for the average journalist. I expect to 
find dull, routine work as in almost all 
other fields of human endeavor. There 
is but one thing I do look for. I hope to 
find some measure of satisfaction in 
bringing to my fellow men that which 
makes them happier and better citizens 
than they would otherwise be. If I can 
find that, then I will have received from 
journalism all I asked of it. 



[ 1 ] 



Time Out 



Cliff Tichenor 
Rhetoric I. Theme 8, 1937-1938 



EVERYONE knows that he is unable 
to work incessantly wtihout spend- 
ing a few minutes of the day in fresh- 
ening relaxation. I have a roommate 
who says that he has no time for relaxa- 
tion ; yet I have seen him stare blankly 
at a page for as long as half an hour, 
while his mind refused to function until 
it had the rest it required. Instead of 
cooperating with his mind by allowing 
it to relax, he fights against a natural 
phenomenon and prolongs what could 
be a short time of rest into long periods 
of listlessness. Another very good friend 
of mine feels that one show a week is 
sufficient recreation. A show leaves him 
in high spirits for two days, but then his 
spirits fade, and he is left in a slump 
for the rest of the week; I think that 
these two examples show clearly that 
there is need for refreshing the mind 
daily with some form of relaxation other 
than necessary sleep. 

More important than relaxation itself 
is the method of recreation employed to 
gain relaxation. Wally, another of the 
boys in our house, spends five dollars 
each week-end dancing. He spends 
Saturday afternoon awaiting evening in 
a fever of anticipation. He comes in 
early the next morning and spends all 
day Sunday in bed ! Upon waking Mon- 
day — if he does — he has little or no 
homework done, and he carries a prize 
grouch with him the rest of the week. 
Dave, the third member of the house- 
hold, seems to think that women consti- 



tute all the relaxation necessary in his 
life. It is pitiful to watch him try to 
do homework ; he cannot seem to con- 
centrate on anything. He was all right 
when the semester began, and he went 
around with a fairly respectable girl at 
that time. But she was too "slow" for 
him, and now he is not particular whom 
he goes with. At least every third night 
he curses, slams his books down, and 
goes out, a wolfish look in his eyes, in 
search of a "pick-up." These two meth- 
ods of relaxation, in excess, could hardly 
be called recreational activity. 

Whatever advantages you may see in 
the methods of relaxation cited thus far, 
for myself, I have found that a moment 
spent lying upon the cool grass under- 
neath the stars will both clear my mind 
and relax my nerves — or, if it is cloudy 
or raining, a walk in the early evening. 
Watching heavy clouds swirl overhead 
or listening to the whisper of rain is 
tremendously satisfying. Although 
everyone's taste for relaxation in nature 
may vary, over me the pure, restful 
beauty of the night has always held a 
peculiar sway. There is something 
magic in the night — magic as elu- 
sive as the secret of life, yet as 
evident as life itself. I know it is there, 
for I have seen the dark fingers of trees 
groping to capture it. I have set a defi- 
nite time, seven o'clock each evening, for 
my relaxation period ; and I find that I 
soon make up for lost time, when I re- 
turn home, in the increased enthusiasm 



[ 2 ] 



[lat I find for my work, and the result- 
ig speed. It is a precious asset, to be 
ble to return to my work, after half 
n hour, with my eyes brimming with 
he beauty of the night sky, and with an 
xuberance in my heart that constantly 
pills over, making me gay. I don't sit 
round during the day in such eager 



anticipation of this time that I impair 
my afternoon's study. I don't have to 
neglect a necessar}^ book or meal to be 
able to finance this simple pleasure. But 
when the time comes, the night is wait- 
ing for me, ever changing, ever fasci- 
nating — effective, adequate relaxation. 



Washing Clothes Is Good for the Soul 



Frances Atwood 
Rhetoric I, Theme 18, 1937-1938 



,\ 7ASHING clothes is fun! How do 
W I know? Well, I have washed 
lothes for different families during the 
ist three years. I do their laundry work ; 
1 return they give me my meals and a 
lace to sleep while I am pursuing the 
vasive imp, education. It is a very 
imple arrangement. 

The laundry room isn't very beautiful 
r modern. It contains a groaning wash- 
ig-machine, which I affectionately call 
Annie," a shelf grown round-should- 
red from carrying a twelve-years' accu- 
lulation of magazines, a laundry stove 
—1915 model — and a drain which always 
logs at crucial moments. Hesitatingly 
he sun shines in through cobweb-cur- 
ained windows. 

! You might think this a very dull, de- 
Iressing occupation ; really, many excit- 
hg things occur. Each wash-day I 
f-^onder whether "Annie" will hold up 
jnder the terrific strain, for she has a 



pathetic asthmatic wheeze. Then, too, it 
is fun to change the limp, anemic sheets 
into fresh, crisp ones ; to see whether 
Mary's red hankie will fade on Johnnie's 
best shirt, and whether I can remove the 
ink I spilled on the best lace tablecloth. 
It is also interesting to notice white 
shirts smeared with lip rouge, and good 
towels on which someone has shined his 
shoes (every nickel helps!). 

Washing clothes is good for my soul. 
I recite poetry to myself, sing soprano 
accompanied by "Annie's" snoring bass, 
and develop plots for best-selling novels. 
There is no one to bother me or to criti- 
cize my actions. I can be myself. So, 
when soap gets in my eyes, and steam 
reduces my new finger-wave to strands 
of marcaroni, I just smile sweetly, re- 
cite more poetry, and desperately hope 
I can acquire an education before I lose 
my temper ! 



[ 3 ] 



On Being "Broke" 



John F. Dowdall 
Rhetoric I, Theme 8, 1937-1938 



TODAY has been another typical 
school day for me. I arose at seven 
o'clock, shaved amid the colorful lan- 
guage bestowed upon me for not having 
shaved last evening, dressed, and had my 
breakfast of rolls and coffee. I went to 
my morning and afternoon classes 
grudgingly, for I did not care to be in- 
doors on such a beautiful day. At noon 
I had a "Mac's Special," and for dinner 
I had a "Charlie's Special." Somewhere 
I "sandwiched" in the time and found 
the money to mail my laundry case, to 
buy a ream of paper, to have a rip sewed 
in one of my too-ancient shoes, and to 
buy a Saturday Evening Post. I did 
nothing spectacular, but I did have 
enough money to do these small things ; 
without money I would have been unable 
to do so. 

Have you ever been "broke"? I do 
not mean merely without spending 
money, but without any money at any 
time when you needed it desperately. If 
you have been "broke," you will know 
that to be absolutely without finances 
is a part as black and hopeless as any 
which you will ever fear to play ; if you 
have not, perhaps a short account of a 
personal experience will help to show 
you what I mean. 

I spent the greater part of last winter 
away from home roaming in the far 
southwest. I could not have been called 
a traveler, for I was not. I was simply 
a "bummer." I rode freights, I "hitch- 
hiked," and when I could not ride, I 
walked. Odd jobs gave me the little 
money I needed for food and a bunk at 
night. In this fashion I covered the 



greater part of California and Arizona, 
until one day in October I took a job 
washing dishes in Williams, Arizona. I 
resolved to "stick it out," but after three 
seemingly endless weeks, I knew that I 
must either leave or have my lungs per- 
manently grease-coated. I quit the job, 
and left Williams with five silver dollars 
clinking musically, yet forlornly, in my 
corduroys. I had to "hitch-hike" and 
"hitch-hiking" in northern Arizona is 
very slow even in the spring and summer 
months. The first day I traveled forty 
miles to Ash Fork, and the second day 
covered fifty additional miles to Wyck- 
enburg. The third morning I caught a 
ride from Wyckenburg out into the great 
American Desert. Forty miles from 
Wyckenburg we stopped at a filling- 
station, the only building we had seen 
since leaving town. The driver said that 
he turned off there, and explained that 
he had a dry ranch thirty miles south in 
the desert. I am sure that it must have 
been a very dr}' ranch. 

There I was, stranded in the middle 
of the desert with $1.50 left in my 
pocket. Cars stopped at the station regu- 
larly, but they were all headed for Cali- 
fornia and were loaded to the "n-th*" 
degree with a wide assortment of hu- 
manity, animals, and baggage of every 
kind, baggage from the tiniest suit case 
to beds strapped on the side. For four 
days I tried to "hitch" a ride, and for 
four days I waited in vain. I could not j 
leave afoot, for to walk into the desert i 
would have been foolish and very^ 
dangerous, for thirst is as impartial as ? 
time. My ephemeral $1.50 disappeared^ 



[ 4 ] 



like confidence before an examination. 
Prices were "at the limit." A glass of 
milk and a candy bar cost ten cents each, 
and one lone hamburger was said to be 
worth twenty- five cents. At the end of 
the second day I was "broke," and at the 
close of the fourth day I was desper- 
ately "broke." I had nothing of value 
that I could trade for food, and the pro- 
prietor was unusually callous ; so I went 
hungry. Money was the magic password 
that I needed, money with which to buy 
food, money with which to pay my fare 
on one of the transcontinental buses that 



roared by several times each day. Never 
before had I realized just how precari- 
ous my position could become without 
that one thing, money. 

On the fifth day I finally obtained a 
ride, a ride of 570 miles into Pasadena, 
California. I immediately went to a 
restaurant and washed dishes for a meal, 
and the next day I found a part-time 
job working at a rooming house for my 
room and board, and a dollar a week. 
Pitifully small wages, but I was no 
longer "broke" ; I had money. 



Subscribe For — 



Bernerd Johnson 
Rhetoric I, Theme 1, 1938-1939 



PREVIOUS to my arrival at Illinois 
I was told that it was a very large 
place with many things about it that 
differed greatly from high school. I was 
informed that there were many extra- 
curricular activities that would attract 
me, some of which would be not only 
interesting but also complicated and 
bewildering. 

However, I was not told about the 
number of things that I would have to 
subscribe for. I SQon found that if I 
was to talk intelligently on the campus 
I had to subscribe to the Illhii, that I 
was actually losing two dollars and a 
quarter if I didn't subscribe for my 
Illio immediately, and that only barba- 
rians neglected taking the Star Course. 



These and many, many others were ab- 
solutely essential for a well-rounded col- 
lege life. 

For a while I tried to keep up the 
pace set by the subscription sellers, but 
soon I realized that before long I would 
be left fav behind with a well-rounded 
college life, a forlorn look, and an empty 
wallet. So I decided to sing in the bath- 
room and to listen to my own voice 
reverberating against the four walls in- 
stead of listening to Richard Bonelli's 
filling the night air; I'll read the Satur- 
day Evening Post instead of the Illini; 
and on the whole I'll be almost as happy, 
just as healthy, and a whole lot 
wealthier. 



[ 5 ] 



Book Report on A Passage to India 



Frances Atwood 

Rhetoric II, Theme 15, 1937-1938 



I HAVE before me the character of 
Aziz from E. M. Forster's book, A 
Passage to India. He is a fleeting and 
elusive character. There is nothing 
paper-dollish about him. He cannot 
easily be dissected, and his different 
characteristics are difficult to analyze 
separately, as can be done with many 
characters. In short, he is complex and 
very human. That's why I like him. 

Aziz is an upper-class Mohammedan 
doctor in the English hospital at Chan- 
drapore — a small, almost daintily put- 
together man with a gift for surgery, 
and a gift for dreaming and writing 
poems. Just an Indian somewhat West- 
ernized but never enough so to live hy- 
gienically, he resents the English officials 
who govern his people. He dislikes their 
chilly austerity and their lack of sym- 
pathy for India. 

The relationships which Aziz has with 
three English characters bring out his 
complexity. The first is his relationship 
with Miss Omsted, a serious, priggish 
English girl who wants to see the real 
India so that she can tell the folks back 
home. Aziz believes that women are put 
upon the earth to give birth to strong 
sons, and that the greatest sin a man can 
commit is not to marry and leave sons to 
carry on his name after he is dead. But 
Aziz likes beautiful, full-breasted 
women. When he is wrongly accused of 
making improper advances to the 
homely, flat-chested Miss Omsted. even 
stronger than his hatred of the English 
for the humiliation of being thrown in 
jail, is his hatred of them for thinking 
he would lower himself by even wanting 
so poor a specimen of young woman- 



hood. After the trial, he becomes the 
court doctor for the Hindus at the palace 
of Mau. His instruments rust, and he 
resorts to Eastern charms and native 
remedies. He writes saleable poetry and 
believes that if India would free her 
women all India would be free forever. 

Aziz's relationship with Fielding, the 
forty-five year old English educator, 
shows us much about him. Aziz loves 
Fielding, reveals many of his intimate 
thoughts to him, and yet he mistrusts 
him. The two men are friends and want 
always to be friends, but there are too 
many patterns in both their lives. Aziz 
can deviate only so far from his native 
customs and traits. Fielding can never 
forgive Aziz for reverting to native doc- 
trines of medicine. Kipling's too-often- 
repeated phrase, "Never the twain shall 
meet," must be repeated again. 

Mrs. Moore is a third English charac- 
ter who influences Aziz. Theirs is a 
strange friendship inasmuch as she is a 
middle-aged English woman. To Aziz, 
however, she seems always just right. 
In some strange way she seems to under- 
stand his oriental mind, and he feels at 
ease with her because she seems to be : 
almost oriental. With her he is always ^ 
animated, talkative, and poetic. They 
never really know each other well, and! 
perhaps this is the reason he likes her so 
very much and remembers her after her 
death. 

So we have Aziz — a doctor, a poet, a 
dreamer, a wronged Indian, and a be- 
liever that someday India will be free — 
a complicated person, yes, and such a 
very interesting one ! 



[ 6] 



Coronation 



Eleanor Anderson 
Rhetoric II, Theme 9, 1937-1928 



AMID the greatest world publicity 
accorded an event in recent years, 
George and Elizabeth Windsor were 
crowned King and Queen of England 
on May 12. 1937. Over one and a 
half million people witnessed their pro- 
cession through the streets of London 
after the event. Among them were three 
tired American tourists who had stood 
for twenty hours to see this magnificent 
display of pomp and circumstance. They 
had had a wonderful time ; they had seen 
a glorious circus parade — much bigger 
and better than exists in America. As 
they wended their weary way home on 
the "Underground," they were so dazed 
by fatigue and hunger that they didn't 
have the time or the inclination to reflect 
about what they had seen, but they 
since have wondered whether what they 
witnessed was worth the price they paid. 
They have come to the conclusion that 
the value of the Coronation Procession 
itself w'as not only its marvelous possi- 
bilities as a story to "tell the folks back 
home." but also the cross section of 
British life and opinion, that they saw^ 
and heard. 

It was a warm summer night about 
eight o'clock when we arrived at our 
chosen spot near Hyde Park Corner, 
and, aside from the unusual crowds and 
the air of excitement, it might have been 
any night in any May. We tried to con- 
centrate on the reading matter we had 
brought with us, after we had settled 
down on the curbstone, but concen- 
tration was impossible. In front of us 



on the street was passing a continual and 
colorful pageant. Taxis streamed b3% 
filled to overflowing with people out to 
see the fun. They all were partially 
drunk, and they all were shouting and 
singing and waving British flags. Groups 
of street musicians strolled by, singing 
and playing and catching the few stray 
pennies thrown at them. Earnest people, 
armed like us, with pillows, thermos 
bottles, wraps, and lunch boxes, hurried 
b}', trj'ing to find the few front positions 
left on the curb. Some enterprising sales- 
men were already out selling newspapers, 
ice cream, candy, sandwiches, and even 
the good old American "hot-dog." The 
gay red, white, and gold banners on the 
lamp-posts waved gently in the evening 
breeze. The rows of bleachers across the 
street from us stood bare and desolate, 
waiting for their $25-a-seat occupants 
who would not arrive until ten the next 
morning. The crowds became thicker 
and thicker, and the noise increased 
until it was almost unbearable. The 
traffic policemen at Hyde Park Corner 
(comparable to Times Square and 
Broadway in New York) became frantic 
in their efforts to handle the tremendous 
volume of reckless traffic. England 
hadn't had a Coronation for thirty years, 
and she was making the most of this 
one. At one o'clock in the morning, the 
din subsided. The taxis full of people, 
the street musicians, and the idlers all 
disappeared, leaving the grim and de- 
termined few to wait for the coming 
Hour. 



[ 7 ] 



The dawn, five hours later, was hag- 
gard and gray as we were after our long 
vigil. During the hours of waiting, we 
helped the time pass by with song and 
conversation. The favorites up and 
down the line were The Music Goes 
Round and Round, Rule Britannia, and 
A Bicycle Built for Two. 

Next to us on our left was an entire 
Cockney family from London's East 
End, out to see the fun. There were 
Father and Mother, two babies, three 
older children, an aunt, and Grand- 
mother. We found out that Grand- 
mother had seen every great event since 
Queen Victoria's Jubilee, and she wasn't 
going to miss this Coronation for any- 
thing, even if she was seventy-eight. 

On our right was an entirely different 
group — as different from the left as Eng- 
lish class distinction could make them. 
They were a radical young economist 
and his wife, university educated and 
brought up in upper-middleclass fami- 
lies. On our left were representatives 
of the unthinking, stolid laboring class 
of England, while on our right were the 
most well-informed and clear-thinking 
English people we met during our two 
months stay there. Both groups were 
out to see the procession for the mar- 
velous spectacle it was, but what dif- 
ferent reasons they gave! 

The Cockney family said, "Miss the 
Coronytion? Not on yer life! It 
wouldn't be right — livin' right 'ere in 
London an' not seein' it." The}' were 
definitely shocked. The young economist 
laughed when we put our question to him 
and then said. "Well — I think it's all a lot 
of foolishness, myself, but you can't 
deny it's a grand show, with all the uni- 



forms and silly robes. I know we all 
like to see a big parade. Besides, I want 
to get some pictures with my new 
Leica." 

After it began to get light, time didn't 
pass so interminably. There were the 
policemen and soldiers to watch, as they 
marched from their camps in Hyde Park 
to their station. There were the berobed 
and bejewelled participants in the cere- 
mony, who sped by us in their limou- 
sines on the way to the Abbe}'. And 
finally, at eleven o'clock there was the 
Coronation itself to listen to from the 
radio loudspeaker across the street. 
When the crown was set down, with 
much ceremony, on the King's head, the 
crowd raised a cheer, and started God 
Save the King. Far away in .St. James 
Park the 101 -gun salute started booming 
out. After this flurry we settled back, 
shifted our weight from one weary foot 
to the other, and continued to wish we 
hadn't come. 

The procession, when it arrived at 
3:30 p.m., was a distinct anticlimax. It 
was glittering and magnificent to the last 
degree. After a mile of tall, handsome 
men with uniforms as many-hued as the 
rainbow, came the carriages. All the 
people we had seen in newsreels came 
to life and passed before us in review. 
The King and Queen, when they came 
by in their State Coach, drawn by 
beautiful Windsor Greys, looked very 
bored and tired and rather silly with 
their new crowns perched awkwardly on 
their heads. 

It began to rain hard. We waded 
through the muddy, foot-deep debris 
left all over the streets, by the all-night 
army of occupation, and went home. 



[ 8 ] 



The British Lion— 1938 



James Tyron 
Proficiency Examination, 1928-1939 



THE British Lion of 1938 is not the 
British Lion of years ago. The 
British Lion of the past was a clawing, 
roaring ''touch-me-not" beast. Perhaps 
he has had a change of heart, but I 
think not. 

In Africa the Lion drove the Boers 
from their homes — but only after the 
Boers had made the place habitable and 
only when the true value of South 
Africa Avas ascertained. In North 
America the British Lion drove the 
French away and subdued the Indians. 
Here, it is true, his tail was trimmed, 
but by one of his own offspring, sud- 
denly grown, equipped with just as sharp 
claws, just as dangerous teeth, and just 
as much stubbornness. All in all, how- 
ever, the Lion came off well. In India 
he once more romped kittenishly, but 
victoriously. Many other choice posses- 
sions he acquired by force, some by dis- 
covery, some by financial pressure, some 
by trickery. 

In the World War, the Lion fought 
again, and again it was for possessions. 
This time, however, he threw up a 
camouflage. The Lion had suddenly be- 
icome alarmed over the fate of our civi- 
lization; he would be the savior of the 
[world! Of course, the mandates he ac- 
cepted after the fracas were in the in- 
Iterest of civilization ! He borrowed 
[America's money because America had 
Ino place to use it ! 



And now, in 1938, what of the British 
Lion? He has become suddenly indig- 
nant over the threatened military enter- 
prises of Germany and Italy. Either his 
memory is bad, or this is a brand new 
Lion. Sir Anthony Eden, a Lion of the 
old lair, was blunt and to the point in 
his treatment of the threatening nations. 
He told them that Britain would fight in 
the interest of the small democracies. 
Eden desired peace and perhaps (who 
knows?) was following the right course. 
The Prime Minister, however, withdrew 
him from his office and replaced him 
with a pro-Nazi and a Catholic. Italy 
and Austria are Catholic, and the ap- 
pointment was expected to solve the 
problem. Since then, Britain has made 
no definite statement of policy, no 
definite promise to aid any oppressed 
people. The Lion is pussy-footing. His 
foreign policy is strange and wonderful 
to behold. It seems, however, to be 
working. To-day, peace is at least pos- 
sible in Europe, almost probable. Is he 
to be condemned for this? Of course 
not. However, I'm still not sure of his 
motives. Has he become pacific, or does 
he see nothing to gain by war? Perhaps, 
too, he still wants no other power strong 
enough to challenge his position as King 
of the Beasts. At least, he is shadow- 
boxing with gloves on, but let no one 
forget that he is still a lion. 



[ 9 ] 



N. H. a 



Anonymous 
Rhetoric If, Theme 16, 1937-1928 



IT WAS late Ma}', and the sky and 
the earth reveled in the beawty of the 
springtime, and the sun shone pleasantly, 
and the breezes soothed The Great Mid- 
west, and all seemed well with the world. 

Inside a certain building: "Hell ! I 
don't give a damn." With certain upper- 
classmen in a certain high school in The 
Great Midwest, all was far from well. 
You see, the day had finally come when 
the National Honor Society was to hold 
its annual induction of new members 
chosen from those students ranking 
highest in scholarship, leadership, char- 
acter, and service. Although some pre- 
tended not to "give a damn," all the 
juniors and seniors — including one boy, 
a junior — hoped with all their hearts and 
souls that they, too, might be among 
the favored few to receive the highest 
honor the school could confer. The cere- 
mony, terrible in its impressiveness, was 
about to begin, and the halls were alive 
with students waiting breathlessly for 
the orchestra to begin playing as a signal 
for them to pass into the great 
auditorium. 

During such moments, time ceases to 
be measured objectively. At last, when 
time seemed to have stopped altogether, 
the students, with nerves strained to the 
utmost, heard the prelude to Pomp and 
Circumstance, and the processional be- 
gan. The boy was in agony. Would he 
make it? 

The auditorium, large when empty, 
seemed even vaster when thus filled to 
capacity with students, faculty, and 
townspeople. On either side of the stage, 
on the wall, so turned as to face each 



other, were busts of Diana and Apollo, 
watching with interest the ceremony 
which was about to take place. The 
stage, though but dimly lighted, im- 
mediately attracted everyone's atten- 
tion, contrasting as it did with the rest 
of the auditorium, which was in almost 
total darkness. In the center of the 
stage, towards the back, steps led to a 
platform above which, effectively lighted, 
was the symbol of the society, the key- 
stone and flaming torch. Kneeling beside 
the platform v>ere four members, each 
holding a torch and representing one 
of the four virtues to be found in 
qualifying students. Dressed in white, 
they made a strikingly beautiful picture 
as, one by one, they rose and presented 
short, carefully prepared discourses on 
the qualities required to satisfy each of 
the four standards of the society. In 
front of the platform were two rows 
of seats, on which sat the principal, the 
old members, and the speaker of the 
day. 

By the time the white-robed figures 
had finished speaking, the boy had be- 
come almost faint from the suffering 
he was going through. Never before 
in all his life had he been so emotionally 
upset. His heart was pounding in his 
breast until he thought he would surely 
die. 

Then the principal stood up, turned 
to face the president of the society, 
whose throne had been placed on the 
platform under the great golden symbol, 
and said: "Mr. President, I nominate 
the following students to membership 
in the National Honor Societv." 



[101 



"Richard 



Yes, Dick should 



have made it. He had been captain of 
the basketball team, had had an excellent 
scholastic record, and had been active 
in an activity-minded school. Besides, 
Dick was one of the boy's best friends. 

"Florence ." The boy v^^as glad 

"Flo" had been selected. He thought 
she deserved it if anyone did. Pretty, 
ambitious, intelligent, she had distin- 
guished herself in her work during the 
eleven years she had been the boy's 
classmate. 

"Edward — ." This time the boy 

wasn't so sure he would have made the 
same selection. Undoubtedly Ed was 
smart — there was no getting around that ; 
but — well, the boy thought himself defi- 
nitely superior to one whose selection, 
presumably made on the basis of his 
service behind the footlights, was rather 
questionable. 

And so on, through a list of fourteen 
or fifteen juniors, all of whom the boy 
knew and most of whom he considered 
fully eligible for the honor. But, with 
each name which was called, his heart 
sank down lower, lower, lower, lower, 
lower. 

"This concludes my nominations for 
the year of 1936." Why, what did that 
mean? It meant that — that he hadn't 
been called at all, that he'd been left out 
entirely ! 

The speaker of the day, a veritable 



Cicero who had been imported from a 
neighboring village for the occasion, be- 
gan his address, but the boy did not — 
could not hear him. His gaze had 
strayed from the golden symbol of the 
keystone and the flaming torch and had 
become fixed upon the bust of Diana on 
the wall before him. Strange — he'd 
never before noticed it, but Diana was 
certainly no "crock" ! Back to the flam- 
ing torch. So now, after eleven years of 
steady hard work, he had failed to 
achieve the goal which his idealistic soul 
had set before him as the one thing in 
life worth working for. But v.hy had 
he failed to achieve it ? The boy couldn't 
understand it. His scholarship had been 
as good as that of any of the chosen 
candidates. Character was something 
subjective, not to be measured in ergs 
or feet or pounds. As for leadership 
and service, he had been elected advisory 
reporter on his school paper, and a mem- 
ber of the Student Council, on which 
he had worked hard and successfully. 
Well, then, maybe these hadn't been 
sufficient to qualify him for the honor. 

Diana and Apollo no longer observed 
the ceremony, but now seemed instead 
to be regarding each other. Funny — 
these gods. 

Later in the afternoon, when the boy 
passed from the building, he noticed 



that the sun was still shining 



/ ' / 



m 



Taxi-Drivers and Pedestrians 

I can imagine a taxi-drivers' meeting starting with their slogan "Down With 
Everyone" and ending with their yell, "Get That Man !".... Every time I cross 
the street safely, I feel as if I should shake hands with my fellow pedestrians and 
hold a short prayer service. — Ruth Mann 



[11] 



Interlochen, the National Music Camp 



Lawrence Gougler 
Rhetoric II, Theme 6, 1937-1938 



FROM five o'clock in the morning 
until five o'clock in the evening, 
when we finally pulled off of a sun- 
blistered Michigan highway into the 
shade of the comforting pine trees sur- 
rounding Interlochen Hotel, I did not 
enjoy one of the hottest and most tiring 
rides of my life. With cramped legs 
and aching back I dragged myself, my 
instrument, and my suitcase out of the 
car and gazed about me at what were to 
be my surroundings for the next eight 
weeks. A hotel, a lake, trees, cars from 
all states in the Union, several other 
gaping newcomers, and — but time for 
gazing was brief, for immediately I was 
hustled by a pompous foreigner (I 
found out later he was the singing in- 
structor) over to the headquarters at the 
Boys' Camp, about a ten-minute tramp 
from the hotel. There I was put in line 
with a hundred or more other bewild- 
ered arrivals, stripped to the skin, hur- 
riedly examined, weighed, and whisked 
into a dark blue shirt and a pair of dark 
blue corduroy trousers. In less than half 
an hour after my arrival I was a 
stamped product — to the last signature 
on my identification tag — of Interlochen, 
the National Music Camp. I felt like a 
cog in the wheel of a machine, a machine 
unlike any other in the world — a ma- 
chine which I found provides three 
hundred boys and girls of America a 
perfect summer for the study of music 
in the most educational, entertaining, and 
recreational manner possible. 

The beauty of the natural surround- 



ings alone provides an inspirational set- 
ting for Interlochen's musical program. 
The tall, virgin pine trees of Michigan's 
Grand Traverse region gracefully scal- 
lop the sand beaches of the twin lakes. 
Wahbekaness and Wahbekanetta, be- 
tween which the camp is situated. Ad- 
ding to this natural arrangement the 
various camp equipment — a hotel, two 
beach houses, two sets of tennis courts, 
thirty-two dormitories, a broadcasting 
control building, seventy pianos, a music 
library of more than four thousand 
titles, the famous Interlochen "Bowl," 
and over one hundred other cottages, re- 
hearsal buildings, faculty homes, and 
practice studios, one begins to appreci- 
ate how thoroughl}' Interlochen takes 
care of the campers who go there to 
study. 

Realizing that this half-million dol- 
lars" of equipment would not pro- 
duce a music camp by itself, the found- 
ers, Joseph Maddy, world-known music 
educator, and Thaddeus P. Giddings, In- 
structor of Music at Minneapolis, have 
assembled some of the finest musicians ^ 
in America to serve as instructors. They 
include soloists and concert players fromi 
the outstanding symphony orchestras ini 
the country. More famous are Inter- 
lochen's guest conductors, who draw the- 
interest of music lovers from all parts of 
America. Among them are Dr. Howard 
Hanson, who was inspired by Inter- 
lochen's enchanting beauty to composei 
his well-known Forest Theme, now used 
as the camp's musical signature on the 



[12] 



Sunday evening broadcasts over NBC; 
and Edgar Stillman-Kelley whose latest 
symphony, Gulliver, was presented for 
the first time by the Interlochen orches- 
tra. Also as guest conductors have come 
Ernest La Prade, director of musical re- 
search for the National Broadcasting 
Studios. John Phillip Sousa, the "March 
King," and Walter Damrosch, greatly 
loved composer and conductor. 

But best liked the past summer of all 
these famous men was Percy Grainger, 
the pianist and composer. His tuft of 
sand-colored hair, his fiery flashing eyes, 
his captivating English accent, and most 
of all, his undying patience through 
hours and hours of tedious rehearsing, 
marked him as a close friend in the heart 
of every young student. While telling 
jokes at the table, or playing sax in the 
camp dance orchestra, or marching in the 
band ranks on their trips to nearby cities, 
"Perc," as he was called, was just like 
one of the campers. On the tennis courts, 
playing in hob-nailed hiking shoes and 
shorts so long they resembled "sa wed- 
off" trousers, he played with fury in 
spite of his fifty-six years. Always 
the center of attraction, on the concert 
stage especially, Percy, his long graceful 
fingers rippling over the keys at terrific 
speed, commanded the focus of every 
pair of eyes present. 

The daily program at Interlochen is 
hard but interesting. The bugler sounds 
reveille at seven o'clock, and the camp- 
ers, still half asleep, stumble out of the 
cabins in their pajamas to the tennis 
courts for a ten-minute round of "set- 
up" exercises. Following these, cabins 
are cleaned and prepared for inspection, 
I which is conducted as a contest ; the 
' cabin that wins most receiving a cake, 
eaten in front of, and to the envy of, 
everyone else in camp. Immediately 
after breakfast a strenuous two-hour re- 



hearsal period begins on the stage of the 
"Bowl." There the guest conductor for 
the week grinds the orchestra through 
the broadcast numbers, repeating difficult 
places over and over again, and pointing 
out passages needing improvement. 
From ten till eleven, sectional rehearsals 
are conducted, during which the instruc- 
tors help smooth out the rough parts 
pointed out by the conductor. At eleven, 
optional classes, which include conduct- 
ing, drum majoring, harmony, and com- 
position, are attended. Music schools 
throughout the country accept hours 
spent in these courses as credits for 
entr}'. 

Lunch is a much welcomed rest 
period. Meals are served cafeteria style 
in the hotel overlooking the lake. There 
the morning events are discussed — per- 
haps Gorsky had a fight with his wife, or 
Langenus dismissed the clarinets from 
rehearsal fifteen minutes early. There 
also mail from home is read and reread, 
and often it is in the dining room that 
romances, strictly warned against, blos- 
som forth. 

The afternoon is simply the morning 
routine repeated — a two hour rehearsal, 
optional classes, and private lessons — 
but at five o'clock all studying is pro- 
hibited. At that time most campers en- 
gage in tennis, swimming, canoeing, or 
horseshoes. No baseball or basketball 
is allowed for fear of damaging fingers. 

Probably the most interesting of all 
Interlochen's programs are the evening 
presentations. Sometimes there are mov- 
ies in Giddings Hall, or perhaps a lec- 
ture in the "Bowl," or a student or fac- 
ulty concert. One night each week the 
campers have a dance under the lights 
of the boys' tennis courts, and twice dur- 
ing the summer an opera is presented by 
the students. 

At the close of the evening program 



[13] 



the campers in groups amble back to 
their cabins through the pitch-black 
forest which magnificently silhouettes 
itself against the star-flecked purple sk>-. 
If the moon is full, the sandy i)ath, dim- 
ly outlined, resembles a silver carpet, 
and the lakes, seen intermittently through 
the blackness of the trees, reflect thou- 
sands of shimmering shadows in black 
and silver. At the cabins lifetime friend- 
ships are woven, simply by bragging 
about home towns, or discussing girls 
back home, or telling stories, or writing 
letters ; or, more daringly, toads are put 
in beds, buckets of water are tied in the 
rafters above where the counselor sleeps, 
ingenious string devices for ''after taps" 



pranks are worked out. The penalty, an 
hour or two on the rake squad, only 
makes the risk more fun. After taps 
slumber music is played by a group or 
soloist from one of the cabins. Its 
effectiveness cannot be overemphasized. 
A strain of Home, Sweet Home or The 
Rosary does strange things to a young 
person as he lies in bed wondering what 
Mother or Dad is doing. But soon a 
deep and restful sleep comes, accom- 
panied with a silence, well-rounded with 
the satisfaction that another day, tiring 
but interesting and filled with happiness 
is ended at Interlochen. the National 
Music Camp. 



Syncopators 

R. Marschik 

Rhetoric I, Theme 18, 1937-1938 



THERE were four of them. And 
they could really play, even though 
there were but two genuine musical in- 
struments among them. And how they 
could play ! I used to think hell was hot, 
but that was before I heard them. Odd 
that they should have got together at 
all, being so utterly different from each 
other. But then that's beside the point. 
They could play. Yes, sir ! There was 
Harvey, the clarinet virtuoso. Not a 
note in the entire musical scale existed 
that he couldn't strike — and hold. Long, 
shrill, loud, piercing notes : low, drawn- 
out, wailing, blue notes. All depended 



upon the occasion, of course, and as yet 
there hadn't arisen an occasion which he 
hadn't met. How swiftly those thin, 
slender fingers flew back and forth over 
the individual keys ! According to all 
existing rules, those fingers should have 
got tangled with each other. W^hy, at 
times they were but an indistinct blurr! 
But then he managed to keep them 
going uniterruptedly. How? I don't 
know. And he made a fine picture, too, 
bodily movements accompanying the 
swing of the music, head high, clarinet 
up on the shrill notes, down on the blue 
notes, ever going, never ceasing. 



[14] 



Next in line came Danny, with his 
banjo. Danny inclined to rather raucous 
harmony at times, but there was no de- 
nying his full possession of real and 
varied rh3'thm. What Harvey could do 
with notes, Danny could do with chords 
— maybe more. It did seem almost im- 
possible though that those thick, short, 
stubby fingers could find so many differ- 
ent chords at so many different times — 
but they did. His range included every 
harmonious combination of notes ever 
recorded in the annals of music — plus a 
few extra. Down and up, up and down, 
down and up, up and down went those 
continuously-moving fingers, searching, 
finding, and giving forth musical plinks, 
planks, and plunks. Up and down .... 

A cleverly improvised bull-fiddle gave 
the quartet its necessary throb. Of 
course there were times when you 
couldn't hear it at all, but there wasn't a 
minute when you didn't feel it. After 
all, it was such a simple — but effective — 
instrument. Just a ruler ! Yes, one of 
those very prosaic rulers which you'll 
find on any Woolworth counter. Sam 
was its master. He had a peculiar way 
of holding it flat upon the seat of a 
chair, a portion of the ruler protruding 
over. This end he literally "picked " 
with his right hand, whereas the re- 
mainder of the ruler, slid by his left 
hand, traveled back and forth over the 
chair, assuming a different position for 
each different note. Naturally Sam had 
full control over this flexible stick, and 
the throbbing tones he produced there- 
from blended beautifully with the ac- 
companying music. He was the featured 
attraction — Sam and his "rhythmic 
ruler." Why don't you try it sometime? 
I'll Avager you'll be surprised to discover 



what an effective "Zoom" you too can 
produce. 

The percussion section of the four 
was also improvised. An ordinary double 
cigarette ash-stand, with the tin trays 
loosely attached, created a realistic set of 
trap drums — in sound as readily as in 
appearance. This contraption was ma- 
nipulated by the foot, a heavy thump 
upon the base of the stand bringing 
forth the combination clang and clatter 
of a trap set. Mike was the engineer in 
charge here. He further enhanced and 
accentuated this rattle by creating a 
novel snare drum, a fairly stiff piece of 
cardboard paper scraped with a sweep- 
ing motion across the woolen fabric of 
his trouser leg. You've heard the "swish" 
of the genuine snare drum brushes, 
haven't you? Then you know what 
Mike's card sounded like. Don't think 
for a moment though that it was merely 
a rattle and a swish, because it wasn't. 
Mike had technique. He had swing. 
When he wanted those "drums" to du- 
plicate the percussion section of the New 
York Philharmonic, why he just did so. 
When he wanted them to sound like 
those of Benny Goodman, it was the 
same story. Mike knew how, that's all. 

Of course they were popular. Maybe 
that's why the band broke up. You see, 
Harvey flunked the first semester; 
claimed he couldn't get any studying 
done. Dan got married, to a girl he met 
at their first dance job. Sam took to 
studying ; he was always the more or less 
earnest type. Mike moved; claimed he 
didn't like the environment but couldn't 
discover just what it was he didn't like. 
And the band? It went to hell, of 
course. 



[15] 



Sketch Book 



Humor in the Funnies 

One of the greatest benefits derived from the "funny papers" is the world of 
knowledge gained from the advertisements. From them we can learn the reasons 
why we are social pariahs. These reasons range from inability to gyrate gracefully 
on the dance floor to personal uncleanliness. The products advertised promise to 
correct these flagrant faults. They are even illustrated with case histories showing 
how Mr. Z., by the use of a certain product, soon had men admiring him and women 
throwing themselves at his feet. These advertisements are the nearest things to 
humor we have yet found in the "funny papers." — Tom CHrrrEXDEN 

The First to Go 

"What the hell do I care how I come out in my exams? My head will be blown 
off a year from now, anyway." 

Have you heard any young student on campus utter these words? The statement 
may be just a good excuse for not studying, but it may be so true that we hate to 
think of it seriously. However, if we do stop to ponder over the matter, we realize 
that the youths in our class rooms, on the broad-walk, and crowding the gym on 
game nights are to be among the first to go to war when it is declared. 

Why should the cream of the crop be taken? Why can't we get rid of the aimless 
vagabonds, idiots, and voluntarily unemployed? Some people commend war on the 
basis that it cuts down the excess population. Others go further by saying that a 
smaller population would settle our unemplo>TTient problems. That is true, but do we 
want imbeciles, idiots, and physical cripples in the responsible positions ? After a 
war in this modern age, I am afraid there would be nothing but these "unfortunate" 
creatures left. — Charlotte Conrad 

Restaurant Reform 

Let there be built, through the magic wave of some benefactor's pocketbook, the 
most popular building ever conceived, a "Campus Coke Center." Let there be soft 
lights, sweet music, smooth floors, glamorous girls. Create the environment desired 
by the lounge-lizard, the "coke"-dater, the downtown quarterback. Let them gargle, 
giggle, gurgle, over their cokes. Ban books ! Ban sobriety ! Ban serious talk ! Let 
mirth, merriment, and politics run wild. Give vent to those long-repressed peals of 
laughter. The waiter won't throw you out. He'll probably be laughing louder than 
you ! 

But wait ! Only on one condition can you have all these. Give food back to the 
restaurant, and clean out the coke element. Then cook me up a big juicy porterhouse 
steak, smothered with onions. I'm hungry ! — Harold Hubbard 

"Not Bad. Not Bad!" 

One of the greatest aids to mannish vanity is to be cast in a play. It's the grease- 
paint that lures them on. A little while before the first curtain you may hear them 
exclaiming. "Oh, you go next for make-up. I hate the stuff. How do girls stand it? 
You go on. I'll go last." But all this is merely a subtle cover-up. The real reason 
they all want to be last is to have more time spent on them. As each one gets his 
paint applied he dashes to the mirror. What he says aloud is, "Gee, will I be glad 
to get this stuff off! I look terrible." But inwardly he's thinking, "Not bad, not bad! 
Say, wouldn't I be a Don Juan with this on all the time ! I guess I'd better put a 
little more on after the first act." — Bud Gillis 



[16] 



The Beauty of the Campus 

Our University campus has a definite type of beauty — a beauty that is found in 
bigness, in grandeur, and in simplicity. This is emphasized by the many stately 
buildings, massive but plain, surrounded by huge trees of many varieties and many 
shades of green. Strong elms predominate, stretching their leafy arms over the 
broad sidewalks, forming a triumphal arch for marchers for learning. Rounded 
clumps of shrubs in varying heights and hues dot the grounds, lending that soft 
loveliness which transforms a scene of severe plainness into one of magnificence. 
Beds of rich, red geraniums, topped with tall cannas, here and there brighten the 
campus. Beneath it all, forming a soft, green carpet, stretches the vast expanse of 
lawn, cool and inviting. 

While I gazed on this scene of lovely grandeur, its beauty sank deep into my 
soul, as it must have done for thousands of other marchers to learning. Man needs 
the beauties of nature to help him live in this busy, work-a-day world, where so 
much value is placed on mere material things. He needs the influence of natural 
beauty for inspiration, for joy, for peace. Man's very surrender to this influence 
raises him above the beast. It heals the wounds made by a thoughtless world; it 
elevates man above sordid, unpleasant, discouraging, heart-rending things; it makes 
him live on a higher plane. From this height he can better judge relative values. 
The very things which to him may have loomed in importance may now dwindle 
into insignificance. He is able to see the finer qualities of his fellowmen after having 
seen those of nature. His life has become more abundant. Does not the beauty of 
this campus help to enrich the lives of each student marcher? I believe that it does, 
but perhaps in a very quiet, subtle manner. — Sister M. Mercedes Crane 



Reading Dimnet 

Ernest Dimnet asks the reader, in easy conversational language, '"Have you ever 
stopped to think? Have you ever done anything on your own initiative?" At this 
point you automatically stop reading and mentally inform the author that you have 
done so many times. But he continues, "Consider a specific incident, now did you — 
etc., etc." You pause again. Well, you can't think of an incident right this second, 
but there have been thousands of times when you've absolutely made up your own 
mind. Then, suddenly, right in the middle of the next page, the author asks, "What 
are thinking of this second? What have I said in the last four paragraphs?" Your 
thoughts fly about wildy for a few seconds, and you realize that you are still trying 
to think of a specific incident in which you made up your own mind — and that you 
haven't the slightest idea of what has been said in the last four paragraphs. 

— Reone Rasmussen 



Forced Feeding 

It must be obvious that nothing of value can be crammed down a student's throat 
against his will, or if it is crammed down by dint of much labor, that it must be 
immediately regurgitated with all the usual accompanying nausea. — Philip Brewer 



[17] 



Growing Dahlias 



Sarah Houghton 
Rhetoric I, Theme 4, 1937-1938 



AS THE warm, lazy days of May 
progress, bringing definite promise 
of summer, the dahlia lover looks to his 
treasured store of brown bulbs which 
were so carefully laid away in the fall in 
a cool, damp corner of his cellar. Per- 
haps a week previously he has spaded 
and raked his garden in preparation for 
planting. Out of the musty dark he 
tenderly carries his insignificant-looking 
dahlia tubers. The balmy sunlight as- 
sails him, prophesying the glories that 
are to be. Eagerly he strides toward the 
garden where stakes have been driven 
into the soil about a yard apart. Near 
one of the stakes he digs a deep, oblong 
hole, the bottom of which he covers with 
peat-moss. X^ow he sets the bulb down 
carefully with the sprout about four 
inches from the stake. He sprinkles 
another layer of peat-moss over it. Fil- 
tering the earth through his fingers, he 
fills the hole until it is almost level with 
the rest of the ground. With equal pre- 
cision the other bulbs are planted. 

For two or three weeks our poor 
dahlia enthusiast has nothing to do but 
keep the weeds pulled and the ground 
loosened. Unless the weather is ex- 
tremely dr}-, the plants need very little 
water. Our friend anxiously surveys 
his plot of rangy stakes for the first 
signs of a sprout. At last one pokes 
through. It seems to take a long time 
for the plants to grow a foot high. After 
that their growth is quite rapid. The 
large, coarse, dark green leaves are 
slightly curled around the edges. Usually 
there is onlv one main stalk, but occa- 



sionally there will be two or even three. 
The stalks should be tied to the stake 
to keep them straight. When the plant 
is about waist-high, buds begin to ap- 
pear. The process known as disbudding 
is perhaps the most important detail of 
growing really fine flowers. It seems a 
indeed strange that one should remove I 
buds in order to get larger, more per- 
fectly shaped flowers, but that is exactly 
what should be done. Buds tend to 
grow up between the stalk and the main 
stems which branch out from the stalk. 
Buds also grow up between the stems 
and their leaves. If these extra buds are 
nipped and only the top ones left, there 
will be fewer but far lovelier flowers. 

At last the day comes when one of 
those large top buds opens into full 
bloom, bringing forth the magnificent 
flower. Here is the reward for which 
the dahlia lover has waited nearly three 
long months. At last the fruits of his 
labors are realized. He and his flowers 
have come together through wind, hail, 
scorching sun, cutworms, and grass- 
hoppers to emerge at last, triumphant. 
Until the frost ends the blooming sea- 
son, flowers of almost every conceivable 
shade deck the garden. 

The frost comes. The dahlias have 
lived their da}'. With infinite care, the 
enthusiast digs up the tubers and washes 
ofif the dirt. Back they go to their winter 
shade ; only they have increased during 
the growing season, and now, after they 
are divided by our friend, there are 
mauA' more. 



[18] 



Blue -Print Boy 



George Phillips 
Rhetoric II, Theme 10, 1937-1938 



ALL THE chief engineer said was, 
"You'll do, Phillips," and I was 
hired. 

Doug broke me in. It took three days 
for me to learn the duties of a blue-print 
boy. After five days, I was trusted to 
run the machine alone. 

The blue-printing machine was a huge, 
steel, humming monster with rollers, 
switches, handles, and gears all working 
together to guide the print paper under 
the carbon lights, through the water, 
through the potash, over the gas driers, 
and finall}^ under the cutting shears. 
The machinery was very complicated 
and needed continuous attention. The 
company used such a large supply of 
prints that the blue-printing machine had 
to be in operation twice daily. 

Aly first day to make a "run" alone 
came soon enough. Doug had been in- 
structing me on how to run the blue- 
print machine. After five days of in- 
struction he asked, "Do you think you 
can run it alone today, Phillips?" 

"Guess I can." 

First, I had to collect all the tracings 
that were to be printed. Some were 
standard tracings which had been used 
for making prints for more than a 
quarter-century ; others were fresh from 
the draftsmen's pencil points. The older 
tracings had to be hunted in the files. 
The new tracings had to be gathered 
from the draftsmen. The office boy 
brought up an order for prints, as did a 
stenographer and a shop-helper. 



By ten-thirty in the morning I had 
collected nearly fifty tracings, which 
were neatly stacked near the feeding 
rack ready for printing. I heard a buz- 
zing sound come from somewhere (I 
had been taught to hear the difference 
between the chief engineer's buzz, the 
chief draftsman's buzz, the stenogra- 
pher's buzz, the mail-chute buzz, and the 
telephone buzz). The buzz sounded 
again from somewhere. It sounded like 
the mail-chute. I ran over to the chute — 
nothing there. The chief draftsman was 
busy. He wouldn't have rung. The 
stenographer was out. I surmised it was 
the telephone, which had already been 
answered, and went back to the blue- 
print room. There was the chief engi- 
neer with his hands on his hips. 

"Didn't you hear my buzz?" 

Ouch! 

Soon I was ready to start the machine. 

"Let me see ; which switch goes first — 
oh, yes, this one. There goes the motor. 
Now switch this one. No, no, that's the 
electric light switch. It must be this one. 
Ah ! the rollers are turning. Run around 
to the back of the machine now and feed 
the 'leader' through. Paste the roll of 
print paper to it. Turn on the gas. Open 
the water valve. Turn on the potash. 
Open the drains. Anything else? No, I 
guess not. What's that smell? Oh me, 
the paper is burning; I turned the gas 
on too soon." 

A tire extinguisher was a handy thing 



[19] 



to have around that blue-printing 
machine. 

Ben came in and told me to quit stink- 
ing the place up. 

"Here I go again. Don't light the gas 
now until the paper has gone through 
the water spray. O. K., snap on the six 
carbon lamps, and throw in the gears. 

"This first tracing is O. G. 17923, and 
must be run through five times for five 
prints. Place it on the print paper, and 
feed it through the machine. Careful, 
not upside down. Mark one in the tablet 
for O. G. 17923. Here are two small 
tracings ; feed them in side by side to 
save paper. ]\Iark them in the tablet. 
Next feed this one, mark it ; now these 
two, mark them ; and then this one. 
What's that crackling noise? Look! the 
leader is going through crooked. Hurry 
and straighten it before it tears, or you 
may have to run the prints all over again. 
Don't waste paper; shove a tracing 
through. Here comes O. G. 17923. It 
has gone through once. Send it through 
again, and mark two in the tablet. Now 
you can turn on the gas. Hurry so you 
won't waste paper. Where's a match? 
Don't turn it up too high. Run back and 
send a couple more prints through." 

After five minutes, the first print had 
reached the shears and was ready to 
be cut. 

"Cut the leader off. Run around the 
front and feed in some tracings. No ! 
not O. G. 17923; it's been through five 
times already. Too late — it's caught in 
the roll now. That's wasting prints ; 
don't do it again." 

"I guess the gas is not hot enough, the 



prints are coming out damp. Hey ! where 
are the prints? The paper is blank. I 
must have forgotten to turn on the jj 
potash. No, the leader went under the ^ 
wrong roll. Hurry and do something; 
don't waste paper. That carbon lamp is 
sputtering. Catch that tracing; it's fall- 
ing to the floor. I smell something burn- 
ing. What the heck, the floor is wet ; 
the water tank is flooding over. Number 
five light is going out. Oh ! oh Doug." 

I had made quite a mess of things. 
With Doug's help, I straightened things 
up and completed printing before 
noon. I had to work over into the noon 
hour, however, in order to distribute the 
prints. The mailing department force 
had to stay over into the noon hour in 
order to mail some of the prints. The 
shipping-room men had a fit. The chief 
engineer had to stay over into the noon 
hour because of an air-mail special-de- 
livery letter which had to be mailed im- 
mediately. The janitor had to mop up 
the floor, and the electrician had to fix 
the number five lamp. I wasn't making 
friends very fast. Doug said, "You'll 
learn." 

I did learn in the days that followed. 
At first I lost some sleep because the 
job worried me, but I soon grew ac- 
customed to responsibilities. After I had 
been with the company a few weeks, my 
work became more efficient. I learned 
how to make the maximum number of 
prints in a minimum amount of time. 
Sometimes I got through with my work 
so soon that I had to practice the art 
of bluffing, and look busy even though I 
w as not. 



[201 



Golf 



Tom Chittenden 
Rhetoric I, Theme 7, 1937-1938 



GOLF is a form of work made ex- 
pensive enough for business men to 
enjoy. It is what letter-carrying, ditch- 
digging, and carpet-beating would be if 
they all had to be performed on the same 
hot afternoon. This is the impression 
of golf which I shall carry to my grave. 

One July afternoon a friend dropped 
into my office, supposedly on a friendly 
visit, and proposed playing a game of 
golf. I didn't realize what I was letting 
myself in for when I assented. The de- 
sire to see just what mysterious fasci- 
nation there was about the game that 
made men, to all appearances intelligent, 
desert their business, neglect their wives, 
and jeopardize their health, was too 
great to overcome. 

I cannot recall any other experience 
in my life so vividly as that first game 
of golf. An outsider would not think 
that such an apparently simple game 
could be so difficult and fraught with so 
many hidden dangers. The game is 
played on carefully manicured grass, 
with little white balls (elusive as quick- 
silver) and as many clubs as the player 
can afford. A golf course has eighteen 
holes, seventeen of which are unneces- 
sary. I think they are put in just to 
make the game harder. A hole is a tin 
cup sunk to the brim in a green. A green 



is a small parcel of grass costing about 
$1.65 a blade, and usually located between 
a brook and a couple of apple trees, or 
a lot of unfinished excavation. These 
things are called hazards by the profes- 
sional players and unprintable things by 
the "run-of-the-mine" golfers. 

The idea is to get the ball from a given 
point, called a tee for no reason at all — 
I often wonder who named the parts of 
a golf course; some inebriated person no 
doubt — into each of the eighteen tin cups 
with the fewest number of strokes and 
the greatest number of words. The ball 
must not be thrown, pushed, or carried. 
It must be propelled by about $200 
worth of curious looking implements, 
especially designed to provoke the owner. 
Each implement has a specific purpose, 
and ultimately some golfers get to know 
what that purpose is. 

After the final, or eighteenth hole, the 
golfer adds up his score and stops when 
he reaches 87. He then has a shower, a 
pint of gin, sings "Sweet Adeline" with 
six or eight other liars, and calls it a 
perfect day. 

There you have the great game of golf 
as I found it. As for me, I shall stay in 
my office during the day and play ping- 
pong at home at night with the wife and 
children. It saves the soul. 



[21] 



Percy Grainger 



Clinton 

Rhetoric II, Them 

A SHORT, though not stocky, rather 
foreign-looking man stepped briskly 
to the rostrum. He unconsciously ig- 
nored the applause which greeted him, 
like one who is boredly accustomed to it, 
yet he did not intend to be rude. To the 
young musicians who anxiously awaited 
his first words, he smiled for one short 
instant. Then in a forced, husky voice. 
made distinctive by a strong English 
accent, he said: '"Good morning," Such 
was the procedure five mornings a vveek 
last summer as Mr. Grainger came to 
the stage at the National Music Camp 
at Interlochen, Michigan, to conduct the 
daily informal rehearsals of the band, 
of which I was a member. 

In Grainger there is no outv.ard sign 
of the great artist that he is. His appear- 
ance is not striking, but "different." He 
might easily be mistaken for an ordinary 
member of the laboring class. He has 
thick, bushy, sandy-colored hair, through 
which, despite his age, the graying 
streaks can hardly be distinguished. His 
features are rugged: there is no hint 
of delicacy about them. A ruddy com- 
plexion set oft" by his sandy hair, his 
bushy eyebrows, his twinkling, deeply 
set blue eyes, high cheek bones, and 
prominent nose add to his appearance 
of ruggedness. 

During his eight weeks' stay at the 
summer camp, Mr. Grainger dressed 
always in the informal attire customary 
at such a place. Most of the time he 
wore the dark blue corduroy trousers 
and the light blue shirts of the camp uni- 
form. At other times he dressed in 
light, short-sleeved shirts, old and soft 



Cobb 

e 10, 1937-1938 

from years of wear. His trousers many 
times were old and of a homely English 
style, supported by an old leather belt 
worn several inches below the waist 
band. Comfort, not convention, gov- 
erned his dress. 

During the first few weeks of our 
association with Mr. Grainger, we were 
more or less in awe of this great artist. 
I had heard of this man since I was a 
small child. One of the first piano 
pieces I learned to play was Country 
Gardens, which this man had arranged 
and published. I had since played and 
heard many other pieces of music writ- 
ten by him, I had heard him as a solo 
pianist with great symphony orchestras 
over the radio, I had seen him conduct, 
and I had read many articles about him. 
My impression of him had been that 
he was a great genius, possessed of a 
mind the inner workings of which would 
startle the average scholar. I had thought 
that he would be too "great" even to 
talk to a young boy, that he would find 
it impossible even to converse with a 
person such as I. But such was not 
Grainger, 

Although at times he wore an expres- 
sion of one unconcerned with what was 
going on around him, or of one in deep 
thought, a casual remark made by him 
later would often tell us that he was 
keenly aware of his surroundings. Those 
intimately acquainted with him feel that, 
were it not a social impossibility, he 
would be likely to invite a friendly 
road-mender or bus-conductor to a din- 
ner party attended by his more socially 
distinguished friends. As we grew to 



[22] 



know him, we found him very lovable, 
big-hearted, and truly democratic. 

I have noticed that if, when a man 
was introduced to him, the stranger had 
some interesting comment to make, 
Grainger was always ready to continue 
the conversation. But he never took the 
initiative in starting it, and if the person 
had nothing to say, Grainger would 
smile congenially and move on. His man- 
ners were at all times gracious and 
pleasing. His whole personality was that 
of a cultured, congenial gentleman. 
While working with the band he had an 
attitude of genuine kindness and ex- 
treme patience, far beyond that of an 
average person. If one of the boys was 
unable to play a certain solo part in the 
music being rehearsed, Mr. Grainger 
would stop the band and sing the part 
a couple of times, or if a piano was 
handy, he would play the part. Some- 
times, when the group could not seem 
to get the feeling of the music, he would 
tell the story of it, or do a little jig to 
demonstrate the dance the music was 
to portray. At other times he would 
stamp his foot as loudly as possible 
while clapping his hands in the rhythm 
of the music. From his long career as 
a musician he could draw many anec- 
dotes through which he could convey 
to his audience the point he had in mind. 

Mr. Grainger, in his daily associations, 
is straight- forward. His taste for the 
eminently practical is shown not only in 
his methods of rehearsal, his relations 
with other people, and in his dress and 
manners, but also in his musical com- 
positions and arrangements. Apparently 
following his instinct to be straight- 
forward and practical, Grainger scored 
his music in his own language, instead 
of in the commonly used Italian phrase- 
ology. Frequently he has been forced 
to place in brackets, after his own in- 



terpretative suggestions, the Italian 
words to explain the slangy obscurity 
of his English. On his published music 
may be seen such words as "bumpingly," 
"louden lots," "hold till blown," and 
"dished up for piano." He explains the 
tempo of the Irish Tune from County 
Derry thus: "Slowish, but not dragged, 
and wayward in time." At other places 
in his music are such comments as 
"linger ever so slightly," or "in time, 
don't drag," usually followed by the 
Italian terminolog}'. 

Still more interesting are the titles 
of some of his pieces, which one writer 
describes as the "acme of antiartistic- 
ness." Perhaps the most antiartistic of 
them all is the Arrival Platform Hiimlet, 
which is a tune one hums when standing 
on the station platform awaiting the 
arrival of a train. No other modern 
composer has so let himself down from 
the stilted customs and conventions of 
the nineteenth century classical masters. 
And perhaps no other composer has 
appealed to so many people of all classes 
as does Grainger. 

Through his friendship with Edward 
Grieg, who had a great interest in the 
folk songs of Norway, Grainger was 
possibly led to study the folk songs of 
his native race, in the countries of Eng- 
land, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland. His 
arrangements of the folk-songs of the 
Scottish and Irish Highlanders have 
long been favorites of people all over 
the world. These songs seem to be an 
expression of the "life" or spirit of these 
peoples. In recording these folk-songs 
Grainger realized what he was trying 
to do, and so did the people closely 
associated with him. In an article en- 
titled "The Impress of Personality in 
Unwritten Music," he told the following 
incident. "H. G. Wells, who was with 
me on a 'folk-son? hunt' in Gloucester- 



[23] 



shire, on noticing that I noted down not 
merely the music and dialect details of 
the songs, but also many characteristic 
scraps of banter that passed between the 
old agriculturalists around us, once said 
to me: 'You are trying to record life,' 
and I remember the whimsical, almost 
wistful, look which accompanied the 
remark." 

He has been unconventional not only 
in the scoring of his works but in their 
composition as well. When thirteen 
years old, Grainger had been composing 
pieces for the piano for some time. His 
earliest works were influenced by, and 
written somewhat in the style of, Han- 
del. At sixteen years of age, Grainger 
had developed a style of his own, in- 
fluenced not by another composer, but 
by a man of letters, Rudyard Kipling. 
From Kipling he received inspiration 
for a great deal of his musical compo- 
sition. €3^11 Scott said that Grainger 
"becomes Kipling in a manner which 
nobody else in the musical arena can 
approach." 

That there was genius in this young 
composer became apparent when he used 
the whole-tone scale long before he had 
heard of Debussy, w'ho was the first to 
make it well known. At first his har- 
monies were so modern that they were 
painful to the ears of the people who had 
not yet become accustomed to such mu- 
sic as that of Debussy. Of Grainger 
it has been said that he did not trouble 
to learn the rules in order to know how 
to break them — he merely broke them 
from the beginning. The unconventional 
new harmony, the unique scoring w^hich 
bordered on vulgarity, and the homely 
tunes which he chose to use, led some 
people to doubt his talents and artistry. 
But for all this his music gained great 
popularity. It has been said that "Grain- 
ger appeals to the unmusical as Kipling 



appeals to the illiterate. ' His composi- 
tions are not limited to the light and 
frivolous works for which he became 
especially famous, although his heavier, _ 
more meaty, original compositions have I 
suffered in popularity because of them. 

The nature of his most popular music 
and of the music which he likes most to 
play and conduct reflects his own demo- 
cratic attitudes. He is one without social 
prejudices. He likes to be with the com- 
mon people and mingle with them. He 
has spent weeks at a time on hikes 
with his wife through the Scottish high- 
lands, living with the people and re- 
cording their music, which is a true pic- 
ture of their life. Another characteristic 
which shows his democratic spirit is his 
scorn of affectation and pretense, his un- 
willingness to pose. This last character- 
istic sometimes proves embarrassing tc 
his friends. As C3Til Scott said, "He 
did not know w-hen to swerve from the 
path of his natural inclination to 'pose^ 
at the right moment." 

During his eight weeks' stay at Inter- 
lochen last summer, we who were at- 
tending the camp grew to like him foi 
his unaffected ways. Early in the morn- 
ing, as we would pass the tennis courts 
on our way to breakfast, he would be 
awkwardly swinging a tennis racketj 
dressed in a baggy shirt and shorts 
which reached below his knobby kneesj 
Instead of tennis shoes he wore huge 
hob-nailed clod-hoppers, probably his 
hiking shoes. As a crowd gathered tc 
watch this amusing scene, he seemec 
not to notice them or an3rthing unusuc 
about the garb he wore. His bathinj 
suit, which he wore with equal disregarc 
of modern convention, was of the vei 
peculiar style of twenty-five years agoj 

Though he is now fifty-six years olc 
he is still athletic. Many times he woulc 
come running out of the hotel afteJ 



[24] 



dinner and take a flying leap down the 
five or six steps off the porch. There, 
if he did not have to wait for his wife, 
he would start off on a jerky lope, jump- 
ing over a bench which stood in his way 
and vaulting a fence rather than using 
the gate a foot or so away. It was 
amusing to see him put his shoulder to 
the end of a big upright piano, only a 
foot or so above the floor, and shove 
with all his might. He seemed always 
to be moving a piano to some other part 
of the stage and usually had the feat 
accomplished alone before anyone could 
get to him to help. 

When the whole camp went to the 
Cherry Festival in Traverse City, Grain- 
ger went along and marched with the 
band in the big parade. He was to be 
the main attraction as a conductor at 
a concert to be given later in the day, 



but no amount of persuasion could keep 
him from marching ten blocks in a hot 
sun and carrying a saxophone which he 
played very artlessly. Later I saw him 
mingling with the crowds, laughing, 
drinking pop, and enjoying the spirit 
of the festival with all around him. 

He obeyed all rules of the Camp, 
which were meant especially for the 
young people. He always wore a white 
shirt on Sunday, and rubber-soled shoes 
at concerts, just as we were all required 
to do. He ate in the cafeteria where we 
ate, refusing the service of the dining 
room reserved for the faculty members. 
Such simple actions as these caused the 
young people of the Camp to love him, 
and we found that Grainger, whom we 
had imagined so unapproachable, was 
trulv one of us. 



\ 



All's Not Well 

D. Todd 
Rhetoric I, Theme 5, 1937-1938 



X TEXT to that damned milkman's tap- 
^ ^ dancing horse (he does a Suzy Q 
down South Mathews at precisely two 
a.m.) my pet pique is with the clashing, 
unchiming chimes of the Law building. 
Nothing could be less soothing to the 
freshman whose nerves have been pulled 
taut by conflicting "X's" and "Y's," with 
cosine imps and tangent devils rolling 
each brain cell in a barrel of trigo- 
nometric functions, than to be serenaded 
nightly, just as relaxation seems near, 
with the crashing "How Dry I Am" aria 
by the law school brasses. Every fifteen 
minutes the thing has a partial relapse 
and drops a disconnected measure over 



the campus, whereupon the sleeper 
worries himself awake trying to connect 
the measure to some song. Those bells 
have probably kept more students awake 
than the professors ever will. 

Aside from its insomnia-provoking 
qualities, the noisy carillon is irritating 
in other ways. The best that can be said 
about it is that it works hard and long. 
The notes emanate from the old bells as 
slowly as though traditions of the 
funerals for which their ancestors prob- 
ably tolled have induced in the bells an 
attitude of respectful restraint. "Auld 
Lang Syne" does sound like a hang- 
over from a funeral march, especially 



[25] 



when it's played on the occasion of our 
loss of the homecoming game. But I 
would like to bribe the custodian to 
swing "St. Louis Blues." Or "Nola."' 

The most serious indictment facing 
the offending chime (as with most 
criminals) has to do with its behaviour 
by date. Why can't the thing be satis- 
fied with a union dav, or at least a stand- 



ard eight hours and overtime for cur- 
few? After midnight such nuisances 
should be suppressed. It's embarrassing, 
after (jue has told the girl friend that the 
night is yet young, to be contradicted 
by millions of sound waves proving to J 
the world that it's three a.m. The C.I.O. ^ 
ought to do something about this inter- 
ference with labor rights. 



The Privilege of Being an American 



Margery Wilson 
Proficiency Examination, 1938-1939 



XTOT enough propaganda is being 
■*• ^ spread these days on Democracy as 
America is carrying it out. We are a 
people who are essentially superstitious, 
I am convinced. W'e go about crossing 
our fingers, knocking on wood, so afraid 
to mention any of our blessings for fear 
they won't last. If we were not afraid, 
how \tvy many of them any one of us 
could hst ! The obvious ones — freedom 
of speech, opportunity for advancement, 
a chance to make our political opinions 
felt at the polls, relativel}^ low taxes, 
food of good quality — people so take 
these for granted that we are jeered at 
for even mentioning them. Recently I 
heard a speaker mention several of them 
to his audience. He was a foreigner and 
was congratulating us on having so many 
things for which to thank God. The 
faces of the audience were a study in 
mixed emotions. Their "taking-it- for- 
granted" Americanism wanted to say to 
their neighbors, "How trite!" But down 
underneath, their latent superstition was 
urging them to cross their fingers or 
their knees, or to rap furtively on wood 
because all might disappear. 

No. In America we must not count 



our many blessings. If we have no Ges- : 
tapo system, say nothing about it. One ■ 
might rise out of the earth and envelop ; 
us. If our poor are slowly and surely 
being discovered and redeemed we must . 
not call attention to the fact. It may ' 
be just a turn of the wheel of fortune 
for them. If we have no leader inciting 
us to war, no overpowering military ma- 
chines, no unfriendly nations menacing 
our borders, why, we're in luck, but the 
less said about it the longer the situation 
is likely to continue. 

W^e need people in this country to tell 
us over and over that it has not been 
all pure luck. Favorable circumstances 
we have had from the start. But behind 
those and working them to best advan- 
tage have been many years of careful 
planning. This form of government did 
not grow from the wilderness by itself. 
Someone planned it. Someone, gene- 
ration after generation, has seen that it 
was carried out. And that someone is 
the individual American who knew how 
he wanted to live. He need never depend 
on luck or chance to keep him living 
that uay. 



26] 



Transition 



Robert Gatewood 
Rhetoric I, Theme 11. 1937-1928 



T TE LIVED just two blocks down the 
■^ * street — red-haired, thin, freckled, 
with eyes that bespoke a grim deter- 
mination. He was several years older 
than I, and had graduated from high 
school before I entered. I heard about 
him, a boy with a deep artistic sense. I 
determined to follow him ; I would be 
his disciple in an aesthetic way. He 
struggled ahead, searching the great in- 
stitutions of learning for that which 
would give his work finesse — to the Chi- 
cago Art Institute, where he drew over- 
proportioned figures with large biceps, 
flabby breasts, and firm unclassic stature, 
and was reprimanded in his anatomy 
class ; to the Yale School of Fine Arts 
where the Beaux Arts Institute bestowed 
prizes on him for fairy tale interpreta- 
tions, sympathetic with tradition. But 
when he threw tradition into the fire 
and from the smoldering ashes molded 
an individual interpretation of what he 
saw, he was immediately censured. 
Then he became interested in a visiting 
professor, Eugene Savage, who did not 
admonish him for his rebellious beliefs 
on contour of human form. When the 
artist-professor was commissioned to 
design and execute the Buffalo Memo- 
rial Fountain, and left the school, the 
student, ever searching for the truth in 
art, packed up his baggage and traveled 
posthaste to Buffalo. 

In the interim between his entering 
the Institute and his exodus from Yale, 
I was in high school, interested in art 
and writing. I painted frivolously, in- 
exact, pretty calendulas in a blue vase, 
an old pottery pitcher against a thin 



veil and green velvet. Flowers were 
brought to be arranged ; flowers were 
arranged pursuant to the standards ; 
flowers were painted according to those 
standards. My pieces were shown in ex- 
hibitions where fat ladies, and little 
children with lollypops would gather 
and chatter incoherently, where slender 
ladies with lorgnettes gazed haughtily 
and discussed museum pieces like con- 
noisseurs, only the pieces and their re- 
spective authors were more than once 
confused — an eighteenth century babble 
in a modern show. The society pages 
of the dailies camouflaged the pictures 
with pretty words. (\V'ho said the so- 
ciety editor wasn't an art critic ; didn't 
she describe the gowns at the Charity 
Ball?) 

I steadily became sick of such crowds. 
I wanted freedom. Should I stick for- 
ever to these standards? Would I be 
content to paint conventional pictures 
and write conventional stories? Could I 
live in the twentieth century and paint 
sixteenth century? Was I proud of my 
paintings that hung on the wall, or was 
there something greater? 

Years passed. The student was still 
struggling for recognition, and I was 
still just friendly with him. Then he 
went to Mexico and there studied under 
Diego Rivera. Later he returned to 
paint a mural in a local high school. 

I went to see him. I was searching 
for a new outlook on art and life. I was 
disappointed vrith that life I had seen 
and was thirsting for a more satisfying 
one. 

I learned from him that all art should 



[27] 



flow upward from the people ; there is 
useless money thrown into museums. 
Art is an embodiment of a spirit and 
should tell a story of suffering, derision, 
scorn, and exaltation. It should be joy- 
ous when the people are joyous. It 
should teach the horrors of war — the 
grim battlefield with its slaughtered 
flesh and its stinking, rotting blood. The 
whole gory mess should be translated 
into clashing bayonets of yellow pig- 
ment held in thin skeleton-like hands 
and controlled by a thing without body, 
without form, but with such qualities 
that those who look upon it feel a swift, 
chilled breath of air strike their cheeks, 
feel a guilty yellow streak climb their 
spines, and feel little beads of perspira- 
tion form on their foreheads. 

Make it powerful. Make the critic 
cringe; make his hands tremble as he 
fears to clench them. Make the patriot, 
in humility, feel the sting of swift bul- 
lets, the sharp point of a blade; give to 
all of them the deafening clash, the in- 
glorious end. Paint in blood if necessary 
— but paint so terrifyingly that anyone 
will get the meaning of such a message. 

That afternoon my ideas of art and 
writing changed. Instead of writing 
Booth Tarkingtonish, I would write 
powerfully, perhaps, as Dreiser or Hem- 
ingway. I would not write mere words. 
T would live ; I would pour out my soul 



fully; I would write of feelings, not of 
persons. I would work — work — work 
and eventually, perhaps, my feelings 
would be felt by others. 

A letter from this artist I here quote 
in part: 

"Work your way through Harvard. 
Such are the only people whose work 
has guts. 

"Get interested in proletarian litera- 
ture. It is the only thing living today — 
and learn something about the coming 
revolutionary writers." 

I have talked with him since, and 
every time I receive more that is good 
to live by. Every chance I get I shall 
go to view his works, for he forces one 
to believe what seems hard to believe. 

}kly frivolous flowers die under the 
tramping feet of soldiers and lie on a 
barbed-wire-entangled field, without 
power to say they have lived. One 
single leaf on a single tw-ig is placed in a 
mural ; a huge boulder approaches men- 
acingl}' and all that is left of humanity 
seems deserted, lonely, and doomed to 
be wiped from the slender ledge of hope 
and cast forever into the canyon of 
nothingness. 

My opinion has been changed con- 
cerning propriety in art: the stilted, the 
insignificant has become the alive, all- 
powerful presentation. 



1 



Steel Mill 

He leaps back, and from the spout rushes forth a substance that looks like liquid 
light. It falls into a ladle with a terrifying "splunch." 

As the ingots pass through the yards at night, they are impressive things, look- 
ing like bloody tombstones. — Willum V. Colbert 



[28] 



Behind the Big Top 

Betty Jo Donahue 
Rhetoric II, Theme 15, 1937-1928 



LA-DEEZ and gen-teel-men — I give 
you — The Greatest Show on 
Earth ! ! !" The ringmaster gracefully re- 
treats. The roll of the drum! The blast 
of the band ! The show is on ! 

Everybody loves the circus. From 
freckle- faced Johnny, who sits three 
hours with wide eyes and a dangling 
jaw, to Felix Farmer who punctuates 
each act with a murmured "Gosh," they 
love it. But few people know the circus 
for what it is. To most people the circus 
is a shell of glittering tinsel ; they fail to 
appreciate that, behind the scenes, it is 
an efficient business with a definite eco- 
nomic technique, the success of which 
might prove a good example to many 
business men. 

The average fan's reaction is "if people 
can do things like that, they aren't like 
you and me." The graceful aerial ar- 
tists waft through the air with twists 
and turns like mysterious winged ghosts. 
To the audience below, they are like 
fairies. When the animal trainer defies 
death and danger to compel the jungle 
kings to perform, gasps of terror choke 
the crowd. Here, too, admiration of 
his skill is lost in calm acceptance of the 
fact that "they are different." Even the 
clowns are regarded as unreal. The 
children roar with laughter at their every 
antic, and their elders join them in ap- 
plause. But the audience regards the 
clowns as it does the other performers 
— as puppets appearing for a brief time 
to perform their bits and then to vanish 
until next time their act is on. It is 
human nature to love the glitter and to 
applaud the excitement — but not to see 
beyond the spangles ! 



Behind the scenes, the circus is a 
practical business and, in population, a 
traveling city. In the season of 1936 the 
personnel department of Ringling Bro- 
thers and Barnum and Bailey Combined 
Circus was responsible for the welfare 
of 1,608 employees, 897 of whom were 
the actual performers. They traveled 
16,370 miles in 218 days, visiting 
137 cities in thirty states for 394 
performances.^ 

Naturally, to supply comforts for this 
enormous caravan was not only a tre- 
mendous task but an expensive one. In 
S3^stem and in expense, the food problem 
was complicated. The cook tent arrives 
in an exhibition stand before dawn, and, 
at 3:30 a.m., it is being unloaded from 
the seventy-foot steel railroad cars. 
Within a very few minutes, the tents 
are up, the chef and helpers are busy at 
the ranges and steam tables, and the 
odor of steak, bacon and eggs, coflfee, 
and oranges or melons is arising on the 
morning air. Half of the tent will be 
given over to the hundreds of working 
men or "roustabouts," who drive the 
teams, raise the canvas, and "plan out" 
the lot. The other half of the dining 
tent is for the stafif and performers. 
The two are separated by a canvas drop. 
Flanking this dining tent, in which 1,608 
people are served, is the kitchen. Here 
seventy-four waiters and chefs function. 
Every person of the big show has the 
privilege of ordering from a variety of 
foods. Each has an assigned seat at a 
table. Families and acts sit together. 
The side-show people have a place to 

^Ringling Brothers Circus Statistics, 1936, 
p. 62. 



[29] 



themselves. Small talk and shop talk 
prevail. Circus people, while cheerful 
and courteous at table, are not picnick- 
ing. They eat as if they were in their 
own homes. This is their home. The 
waiters are attentive and clean ; they 
are tipped at each week-end. A maitre 
d' hotel moves about as in any select 
dining room. Nothing is second-rate, 
and everything is in season — fresh food 
for sixteen hundred meals three times 
a day. The steward's list includes daily: 
226 dozen eggs, 2,470 pounds of meat, 
2,220 loaves of bread, 285 pounds of 
butter, 30 gallons of milk, 1,800 pounds 
of vegetables, 200 pounds of coffee or 
tea, 110 dozen oranges, 2 barrels of 
sugar, 36 bags of table salt, 50 bushels 
of potatoes, 3,600 ears of sweet corn, 
350 pounds of salad, and crates of car- 
rots, bananas, etc." Contracting agents, 
five or six weeks ahead of the show, 
look after ordering locally. The steward 
is responsible for fresh supplies. The 
last meal of the day is served from 
4:00 to 5:30 p.m. for, after that, the 
tent is razed, loaded into its wagons, 
and hauled to the runs, where it is 
again ramped up on the flat cars of the 
first section. Breakfast tomorrow will 
probably be served in another state, 
some 140 miles away. So efficient is this 
teamwork that the German general staff 
studied it to revolutionize its troop move- 
ments, and the shelter and feeding of 
troops in the field.^ 

Transportation is second in complex- 
ity and expense. There is great dis- 
tinction in the circus world between 
"rail" shows and ignoble "wagon" shows. 
The larger circuses all employ railroad 
service. In 1936, forty railroads were 
used to transport the four railroad 
trains of Ringling's 16,370 miles. The 
longest run of the season was Great 



Bend, Kansas, to Denver, Colorado, — 
a distance of 454 miles ; and the shortest 
run was from one corner to another 
corner in Detroit, ten miles away. There 
were 119 one-day stands, and one twen- 
ty-five day stand in New York City.* 
Each family boasts its own car, and 
acts, if possible, share one. Meml^ers 
of the caravan are transported by one 
steam engine, and are free to use any 
of the club cars strewn throughout 
the train. Advance men or general 
agents contract for each run months 
before time. Now, in the month of May, 
1938, contracts are complete for 1939 and 
w^ell under way for the spring of 1940. 
In their car, performers are free to 
decorate as they please. It is their home 
and their castle. In their sleeping quar- 
ters, as in their eating quarters, every 
effort is put forth to afford them com- 
fort and convenience. In both it is 
a practical routine which provides 
efficiency. 

American business men might study 
the circus economic technique with 
profit. In 1929, the depression hit nation- 
wide organizations — and it hit them 
hard. But the Big Top took it on the 
chin and came through smiling. Early 
in the spring, business got the jitters, 
trade fell off, advertising almost ceased, 
and sales efforts were curtailed. It was 
a period in which the wolf at the door 
opened it and came right in. With over- 
flowing bread lines and too frequent pay 
cuts, American budgets had to be slashed, 
and the first to suffer was the entertain- 
ment budget. Occasional movies were 
treats, and circuses became a luxury. 
They were the first to feel the dollar's 

"Butler, Samuel, Hotel Ringling, p. 93. 

'Hagenback-Wallace, Circus Nezvs and 
World, July 12, 1937. 

*Ringling Brothers Circus Statistics, 1937, 
p. 12. 



[30] 



tightening. It cost as much for the en- 
tire family to see a circus as it would 
for a good meal — and good meals were 
might}' scarce. From their side of the 
fence, circus heads found it impossible 
to slash prices. In desperation, managers 
were forced to seek "gold where they 
could find it." It was their business 
to find the spots where people had money 
to spend, to route the show into those 
spots, and to avoid the communities 
where money was tight. They did not 
await the dictum of some armchair eco- 
nomist, who said conditions were going 
to be bad, and Podunk would not be in 
the market for refrigerators, shoes, or 
circuses. The agents dropped into Po- 
dunk in person to find out. They fever- 
ishly studied crop production, and, for 
the first time in years, the really big 
shows "hit" the sticks. It was sheer 
desperation, but by radical methods they 
weathered the depression. When others 
cut advertising, they increased 20%. 
They made the public see some amuse- 
ment as a necessity; and then they said 
the circus was that amusement. One 
ingenious agent even secured the opinion 
of an eminent psychologist that the cir- 
cus was an excellent insurance against 
depression discouragement, and then 
blasted this expert's statement over the 
country.^ Their success was measured 
by the fact that four or five years ago 
there were but three major circuses 
touring the country. The biggest of 
them was heavily mortgaged to the 
bankers ; the others were frequently one 
jump ahead of the sheriff. Last year, 
five railroad shows "put out." They all 
made money.' 



"But," says the business man, "the 
circus is different." Yes, it is different. 
It is up against keener competition and 
greater hazards than most businesses 
could endure. Every day it has to con- 
tend with apparently insurmountable 
obstacles and weather conditions. Nearly 
every night it must tear down its gigan- 
tic plant, load it, and transport it. Nearly 
every morning it must rebuild on another 
lot miles away. The average business 
man may think he is beset with manifold 
difficulties, but he "don't know nuthin' " 
about difficulties unless he is in the cir- 
cus business — and too often he doesn't 
know about the circus as a business. 

Too often, the circus is a glamorous, 
exciting unreality with a vague back- 
ground. Too often, the performers are 
puppets — talented puppets, but not folks 
like "you and me." Too often, it is ig- 
nored that the circus general agents are 
the best practical economists of today. 
Too often, all John Public thinks of as 
the circus is the barker's "La-deez and 
gen-teel-men — I give you — The Greatest 
Show On Earth!!!" 



Tellow, William Dexter, Mv Life, 1936. 
p. 362. 

'Cooper, Courtney Riley, Big Top, 1934, 
p. 108. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Butler, Samuel, Hotel Ringling, Ginn and Co., 

1936. 
Cooper, Courtney Riley, Big Top, D. C. Heath 

and Co., 1934. 
Chicago Daily News, "Spring; It's Circus 

Time," April 9, 1937, p. 32. 
Fellows, William Dexter, My Life, Doubleday- 

Doran, 1936. 
Hagenback-Wallace Circus, Circus News and 

World, July 12, 1937. 
Ringling Brothers Circus Statistics, 1937-38. 



[31] 



Rhet. as Writ 



(Extracts from theiucs written in Rhetoric I and II) 



The localism of the banks broke down 
into a national scale. 

The cards in a card index are usually 
catalogued according to the disimal sys- 
tem, the aphibedical system or both. 

I had been looking forward to the 
time when I w^ould be allowed to take 
Civics for a long time. 

• • • • 

The room is divided by three aisles ; 
one horizontally and two vertically. 

At this time practically every home 
has a radio or phonograph or can go to 
the movies. 

• • • « 

Our library contains two unabridged 
and several bridged dictionaries. 

• * • • 

Our library also needs some equipment 
for those who go to the library to seek 
knowledge on which to seat themselves 
comfortably. 

My legs, feet, and arms were numb 
from standing on them all day. 

From the soap boxes of Washington 
Square, from the picnic grounds of the 
Middle West, from wheat fields and 
orchards, from brothels and seminaries, 
America today is wondering. 



interments were not as fine as we have 
today but they made music which every- 
one enjoyed. On holidays the people 
would come into to town from the near 
by farm and a big time was had, games 
of different types were played, contests 
of various kinds were held, and folk 
dancing, along with many other things. 
People who lived far from a town could 
not go or bad roads kept them home, 
later the radio w^as invented and now 
they have them to such a high degree 
of perfection that one may listen to 
your radio in a car. 

• • • • 

Numerous charts, grafts, diagrams, 
and the like were to be found in our 
library. Our library was equipped with 
efficient librarians. 

• • • • 

Vulnerable means unerring and is used 
with names of religious persons as "The 
Vulnerable Cardinal Mundelein," etc. 

• • • • 

The Hebrews follow the Ten Conda- 
ments. 

• • • • 

How could I have a good time run- 
ning around the picnic grounds and 
looking like an Egyptian dummy? 

During the fourth semester I began 
the peculiar chanting, specifically, known 
as the scanting of poetry. 



A girl that has all the ensembles she 
could ask for, and isn't careful about 
her personnel, might as well have none. 

Let us go back to the beginning of 
our country and we shall find that they 
had many musical interments. These 



The house and yard was full of people, 
both relatives and friends. 

I and my companion carefully notched 
our arrows and then bent our bows. 
What if we did not kill him with our 
first shouts? 



[32] 



??:•■ 



Honorable Mention 

Lack of space prevents the publishing of excellent themes written by 
the following students. Some of these themes may be published, in part 
or in entirety, in future issues. 



Eleanor Anderson 
Elizabeth Baker 
Elton Berry 
B. Bourgeois 
James Bumgarner 
Bill Case 
John Davis 
Eleanor Ewing 
Paul Foxman 
Clarence Glenn 
Bill Guyton 
Carl Halbak 
Donald Haney 
Joe Hedge 
Dorothy Koenig 

LyDIA KllRKPATRICK 

Arthur Lehde 
June Markert 



Wayne Moore 
John R. Mueller 
Logan Muir 
Robert Nagel 
Hideo Niiyama 
Woodrow Patton 
William Petersen 
H. W. Reusch 
Magdalene Schoone 
Wolfgang Schubert 
Janet Smaltz 
F. H. Starr 
Bernice Swerinsky 
A. C. Thomas 
Virginia Whitton 
Roberta Wilson 
W. C. Wolf 



'i'Z 






Vol.8 



DECEMBER, 1938 




No. 2 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

TONY WADDELL 1 

Logan Muir 

I SAW YOU 2 

Pearl Jean Cohen 

"THE UNIVERSE OF LIGHT" by Sir William 

H. Bragg S 

Anonymous 

A NIGHT OF SWING 6 

Allen Cannon 

THE MUSCLE GRIND 8 

Raymond Cesalctti 

I AM AN ANTI-ANTIVIVISECTIONIST .... 9 
Anonymous 

HARD LESSON 10 

K. L. Compton 

ONLY THE LUCKIEST SURVIVE U 

David Mosiman 

MEN AND ANTS 13 

Charles A. Roberts 

A HUMAN BUSINESS MAN 14 

Arlie Parker 

SKETCH BOOK 16 

(Material written in Rhetoric I and II) 

HERONRY Ig 

D. B. Agnew 

HIGH FUN 19 

O. Balchen 

ON WORKING ONE'S WAY THROUGH COLLEGE 22 
John Olson 

OPEN YOUR MOUTH 24 

W. C. Wolf 

OUCH I 26 

H. W. Reusch 

A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE 27 

William J. Furbish 

ENLIGHTENMENT 29 

Bernice Swerinsky 

RHET. AS WRIT 32 

(Extracts from themes written in Rhetoric I and II) 



^^^-LAM 



( 



PUBLI SHED BY THE RHETORIC STAFF, UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS, URBANA 



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

The committee in charge of this issue of The Green 
Caldron includes Mr. E. G. Ballard, Mr. Charles 
Shattuck, Mr. Walter Johnson, Mr. Stephen 
Fogle, and Mr. Charles W. Roberts, Chairman. 

The Green Caldron is for sale in the Information 
Office, Administration Building West, Urbana, Illinois. 



Tony Waddell 



Logan Muir 
Rhetoric II, Theme 13, 1937-1938 



(To the Dean of Men) 

pvEAR SIR: 

With this letter I wish to intro- 
duce Anton Waddell, one of our gradu- 
ates of last semester. I was Tony's Eng- 
lish instructor during his senior year in 
Maklin High School, and because of this 
contact I believe my understanding of 
him is correct. 

Tony is an easy-going, gentle boy with 
an honest love for beauty in nature, 
music, and art. A tendency toward 
tardiness, procrastination, and "dreami- 
ness" is merely the outward manifesta- 
tion of a bona fide creative ability. He 
has an undeniably attractive and half- 
humorous manner of expression both in 
his speech and in his written work. His 
work as a member of our poetry club 
and his drawings for our year book are 
proofs of his ability. Last semester he 
composed a song which, while never 
completed, was not inharmonious. Here 
is a boy who, with proper understanding 
and sympathy, should go far. God speed 
him ! 

Sincerely yours, 

Cecelia Watts 



(From his roommate) 

.... and. Ma, this roommate of mine 
is the limit. The other chaps in the 
house are more than anxious to take him 
apart to see what makes him do the 
things he does. On St. Valentine's day, 
he had no money to buy flowers for his 
girl, so the boys said they would give 
him a dollar and a half in advance if he 
would walk downtown and around the 
main block in his pajamas. And he did 



it! The night before last the boys tried 
to put some ice down his back, but he 
scurried up a tree — took to the tall tim- 
ber, as it were — and stayed there for two 
hours. When he came back he had writ- 
ten quite a number of poems in his 
pocket notebook. He is forever going 
about in a daze, and is apparently quite 
thoughtless of the other fellows. He 
will leave the hot water running till it 
is all gone; he sings and whistles late 
at night and early in the morning; he 
kicks open doors so as not to get germs 
on his hands ; and he slams them shut 
again with his foot. I really like the 
kid and I try to straighten him out, but 
he just forgets everything I tell him. 
Well, Ma, guess I'll try to get some rest 
now. So long, and love to you and all 

the family. Charlie 

• • • • 

(To a friend in the college town; 

.... And as Tony's mother, I am quite 
worried about his being away from 
home. I am somewhat consoled by the 
fact that his association with other boys 
will be profitable, but I am frightened to 
think they will be a little hurtful. Tony's 
father died, you know, when he was six 
years old, and while I have done every- 
thing I could to teach him and bring him 
up, I do realize that he lacks a father's 
strong, strict love and influence. I know 
Anton Waddell would have supplied just 
that. Oh, God bless them both! 

Won't you please drop in and see me 
the moment you arrive in town? Noth- 
ing would make me happier right now 
than to see you again. 

Your affectionate friend, 

Ruth Waddell 



[ 1 ] 



I Saw You 



Pearl Jean Cohen 
Rhetoric II, Theme 6, 1937-1938 



FROM the flunker to the five pointer, 
from the ambitious student who is 
working his way through college to the 
indolent one whose father is working 
his way through college, from the 
chunk}', breezy "I" athlete to the frail, 
plugging Greek scholar, from the crudest 
to the finest — all come to the library at 
one time or another. Surprisingly, these 
thousands of library users lose the classi- 
fication of stupid or brilliant, rich or 
poor, ambitious or lazy, crude or fine, 
and resolve themselves into compara- 
tively few types with entirely different 
standards. How Moliere or Dickens 
would have reveled in this "Grand 
Hotel" of material for caricature that 
they provide ! 

Of them all Mohere would have had 
the jolliest time making the dude meat 
for his hungry pen. At ten of ten, after 
a peaceful, unruffled sleep, brisk shower, 
invigorating breakfast, complimentary 
study in the mirror, and a short walk to 
the library, he swings out upon his social 
round of the day. A fashion editor, ac- 
customed to writing for feminine con- 
sumption, would run an account of the 
promenade like this: 

"For the occasion, Mr. chose 

a sport outfit of precise casualness, using 
brown as his basic color. His soft 
brushed moccasins were of buck. As he 
sauntered along one caught sight of 
checked wool socks, adding just that 
touch of forest colors so fashionable this 
season. Topping perfectly creased gab- 
ardine slacks was a tweed jacket of non- 
chalant cut. Arrow's prize morning 
shirt, a tie in harmony with the socks, 



a sack topcoat, and a porkpie hat com- 
pleted his outfit." 

As he approaches he scans the 
gathered human props, considering with 
which smoker he should light in. Pass- 
ing one group to answer the beckoning 
of another, he comments, "Out to class 
so earl}^ Just a slave to your better 
half, eh?" 

To a thirty-niner's subtle request, 
"Say, can I borrow you for my magazine 
rack? I didn't buy my copy of Esquire 
this month," he has no answer except 
to move to a more appreciative, feminine 
audience. After circulating about eight 
minutes, talking stereot}^ed chit-chat, he . 
strolls off to class. I| 

At about the same time the sorority 
pledges begin their retreat to the general 
reading room. "Picked up" by a Camel, 
"satisfied" by a Chesterfield, or "re- 
laxed" by a Luck}% they are ready to 
concentrate fifty minutes on sharpening 
pencils (for the necessitated walk down 
the length of the library they have a 
more relishing audience than that of the 
Atlantic City Boardwalk), whispering 
important messages, exchanging lip read- 
ing with the boys facing them at the 
next table, impressing impressionable 
fraternity pledges, and playing the game 
of slow advance and quick retreat with 
the more skeptical upperclassmen. 
They're cute, each with her page boy 
coiffure, perfectly blended make-up, red, 
merry mouth ready to laugh, and pleas- 
ing form slightly rolling in soft sweater 
and skirt. Here, the broken, pierced 
clamor of their table at Prehn's smooth- 
ens to a steady buzz and hiss. Yet what 



[2] 



unappreciative killjoys there are in this 
world! The priggishness of that libra- 
rian, actually threatening to forbid them 
the use of the room if they cause any 
more disturbance, however slight ! 

Such banishment would greatly dis- 
tress one species of the library user. 
Either amateur scientists on the campus 
are loath to trouble themselves, or are 
ignorant of the presence of this group; 
so, stretching my scientific vocabulary 
and knowledge to their utmost, I shall 
introduce them to this find. 

The members of the species I am 
going to discuss prefer for their habitat 
the middle aisle at any of the tables, but 
they may distribute themselves down the 
entire length of the table. Commonly I 
call them head-bobbers, but scientifically 
I term them those qui capita tallant et 
demittant. In personal appearance they 
vary greatly except for the eye, which 
has an occupied gaze in it. The species 
is domestic not foreign. I consider it 
especially valuable to the scientific world 
because it serves as such a striking ex- 
ample of the principle of reflex action. 
The feminine clicking of a heel brings 
instant reaction from the male. He lifts 
his head, focuses his eye, retains that 
position for a period allowing disap- 
proval or approval, and then relaxes his 
head. Similarly, the female responds to 
a brush of a thick crepe sole, the clomp 
of a military boot, or the clank of plated 
heels. Development in the species seems 
j arrested, though I feel sure it has not 

reached its highest point. 
j In the reference room across the open 
hall, the bespectacled thesis writer, wear- 
ing a lived-in, eaten-in, slept-in suit of 
I scratchy wool, perches on his high 
' wooden stool, much resembling the 
I heart-rending picture I carry in my mind 
I of Bob Cratchit, taskmaster Scrooge's 
clerk. His own legs twined around those 



of the stool, his head and back in a con- 
tinuous convex curve, his hair mussed, 
he mechanically draws out long drawers 
packed with neat cards the contents of 
which he scrutinizes. 

His feminine counterpart is the plump 
figure in shaggy, brushed wool sweater 
whose shedding fuzz collects on her 
twisted tweed skirt. Her hair she wears 
in the style which assures the least 
bother, either chopped oflF at the ear, or 
loosely drawn and loosely knotted. 

Concentration is intense. Their future 
degree looms higher than all else and 
usurps their minds. Their unity of pur- 
pose is splendid to see, difficult to attain. 

But — just as strong in purpose, though 
directing his efforts toward a different 
end, is the sacrilegious fellow who comes 
to the library with the wholehearted in- 
tention of sleeping. Though he may 
harangue in a four a.m. bull session of 
fitfully dozing brothers that sleeping is 
not living, may denounce the snorers and 
whizzers who rock the dorm above as 
unappreciative of Nature's dark ro- 
mance, he himself prizes nothing more 
highly, provided it is done in accordance 
with his own distinguished dictates of 
style. 

Cursed morning after the session, with 
its dazzling sparkle, its briskness, its 
yellowness intolerable to squinty eyes, 
lumbersome body, numb toes and fingers. 
Along the broadwalk he scuffles, ignor- 
ing hullos and winks of misinterpreting 
friends. He wins against the resistance 
of two flights of stairs and the seem- 
ingly lengthening reference room, and 
makes a U-turn into the browsing room. 
Extending his hand, he draws it back 
with a book in it. A chair of sombre 
brown leather yields to his mold. Deep, 
deep relaxation in an isolated paradisiacal 
corner, free of the clutter of pledges, 
unhung suits, wet washcloths, strewn 



[3] 



shoes and socks, scattered books ; free 
of the ringing of telephones, free of the 
treasurer's loud demands for payment 
of past due house bills, free of noise, no 
noise, no ... . noise .... no ... . 
he sleeps. 

Less culpable is the sleeper who at 
least starts to study in the general read- 
ing room. Too soon though, the words 
and lines become blurred and begin to 
jump about the page. He inches toward 
the book, closer, closer yet, closer still — 
until he is on the book — asleep. At other 
times he dangles his feet over the side 
of the chair with his body in a sidewise 
position, or assumes the sprawl of the 
relaxing big business man, feet on the 
table, head thrown back. 

How the timid soul could use the 
strength of purpose in which both the 
thesis writer and the sleeper abound ! 
On entering the reading room, he hesi- 
tates at the fascinating magazine shelves 
but steels his hand against reaching 
toward them. In spite of himself he 
chooses a seat providing a teasing view 
of them. Uninterested, he contemplates 
the dull pages before him, too often 
letting his contemplation hop to the peri- 
odicals. Finally, he rebels against rou- 
tine, slaps his book shut, enclosing in it 
his timidity, strides to his victors and 
snatches some without discrimination. 
Zip — down the length of the table he 
shoves his texts to make way for the 
conquerors. 

Perhaps the profoundest disciple of 
our library cherishes most its orphan, 
the browsing room. Here, entirely free 
from ridicule, he finds an outlet for his 
delicate and deep fineness. He revels in 
the writings which surpass, irritate, com- 
fort, tease his brilliance. No, he is not 
a five-point student, but through simple 
absorption in class and cramming before 
exams he manages a three-point average. 



He submits himself to a great amount 
of self-analysis. Uncertain that the at- 
titude he has taken toward education, 
that he can learn more from reading 
wise and cultured authors than dry pro- 
fessors, is maintainable under the pre- 
vailing educational system, he tells him- 
self that he doesn't belong here, study- 
ing the description of the fragments in 
which a machine gun bullet leaves a 
man's chest. He belongs in a steaming 
boiler room stoking coal, dripping sweat, 
exhausting himself, experiencing him- 
self. Deep wells within him gush up 
their streams. 

Do you dismiss him with the explana- 
tory sigh, "Ah, youth" ? That's what the 
library theorizer does. He has watched 
our browser; indeed, he has watched all 
our other friends too, for he is a watcher 
of passing humanity. He sits, inspect- 
ing, analyzing, philosophizing. Though 
excellently comjx)unded of common 
sense, tolerance, understanding, humor, 
and congeniality, he feels nothing but 
disgust for the dude, and wonders if he 
doesn't tire of being just Joe College 
hunting for Josephine College. The 
pledges he can see still talking ten years 
hence — this time about the merit of a 
new product, Roly-Poly baby food. His 
sense of humor stands him in good stead 
in considering the head-bobbers as he 
muffles a guffaw at the funny picture 
they present. He tingles at even the 
thought of gathering together about six 
of the thesis writers for a round-table 
discussion in which he knows he would 
be woefully outdone. About the sleeper 
he cannot decide; if these sleepless 
nights continue he himself might in- 
dulge. The timid soul he would like to 
shake and order him either to select the 
magazines right away or to study reso- 
lutely, but not to be so darned indecisive. 
Last of all he laughs at himself for sit- 



[4] 



ting and inspecting, and analyzing, and 
philosophizing. 

Would it not make an ideal ending 
to take some pulp from each of these 
nine types, send it through a press, and 
set up the resultant pasteboard figure as 
the typical library user ? Ideal, yes ; but 



veritable, no ; for each type is a separate 
entity not able to be consolidated, each 
an everlastingly absorbing and intriguing 
study, each a living offering from our 
library from which we can learn more 
than from its inanimate benefaction. 



The Universe of Light by Sir William H. Bragg 



Anonymous 
Rhetoric I, Theme 7, 1938-1939 



SAY, what book are you gonna re- 
port on?" he asked me. 

"The Universe of Light by Bragg," I 
answered. 

"Oh," and his voice implied a desire to 
lift one eyebrow, "it's a sort of text book, 
isn't it?" Then, as he saw my surprised 
look, "Well — you. know what I mean — 
that scientific stuff." 

A sort of text book! That scientific 
stuff ! That's unfair to Sir William. 
Far from writing a text book, he has 
written a book which I think anyone 
would enjoy reading. 

The book gets off to a good start by 
concerning itself with an interesting sub- 
ject. Psychologists tell us that, of all 
the impressions our five senses give us, 
eighty-three per cent come to us through 
our eyes. Light is the mind's most fre- 
quently used contact with the world. It 
is no wonder that most of us are curious 
about light and the manifestations of its 
various phenomena. The book. The Uni- 
verse of Light, satisfies this curiosity by 
answering some of our questions about 
light. It tells just how we see, why it 
is that objects seen through cheap lenses 
seem to have fringes of color about 
them, what causes the colors in a rain- 



bow or soap bubble, and why it is that a 
setting sun looks red and a mountain on 
the distant horizon looks blue. 

For those who have had high school 
physics, the first part of the book is a 
pleasant review. But Bragg does not 
stop there. He goes on to discuss the 
conflicting theories concerning the nature 
of light. He explains the photo-electric 
effect and even includes a discussion of 
the determination of crystaline structure 
by use of x-rays. 

But an interesting subject does not 
necessarily make an interesting book. 
The subject must be clearly explained; 
new ideas must be presented in terms of 
the older, more familiar ones. The Uni- 
verse of Light is full of drawings, 
photographs, and word pictures (Bragg 
is a skillful user of apt analogies.) A 
difficult point is presented in several 
different ways, and one soon forgets 
that the point was difficult. It is not until 
one stops to reflect that he gets the feel- 
ing of really having learned quite a bit 
about light. It is like taking halibut oil 
capsules instead of a spoonful of cod 
liver oil. One gets full value without 
any bad effects. 



[ 5] 



A Night of Swing 



Allen Cannon 
Rhetoric II, Theme 16, 1937-1938 



HOW would you like to attend a real 
'jam session' at a typical New 
York 'dive,' Bud?" 

"I'd like nothing better," I replied. 
"When do we start?" 

It was my last night in New York, and 
my aunts decided to show me a real time. 
We made up a party of eight and set 
out for a small night club quite well 
known to swing devotees. 

Eleven p.m., down a narrow stairway 
west of Broadwa}^ At the foot of the 
stairs, a low-ceilinged, subterranean 
room. We get a table up by the band- 
stand. There are perhaps fifty people in 
the room ; they have come here not to 
dance, but to listen. We must remember 
that being here as "alligators" we must 
not applaud. The musicians will jam the 
way they like and for their own fun. 
Applause reminds them of their com- 
mercial work. 

On a foot-high platform half a dozen 
musicians are lolling in their chairs. 
Other musicians have drawn their chairs 
close to the stand to "sit in." Their 
postures indicate extreme relaxation. 
Nowhere do we see a sheet of music ; 
"papermen" are not welcome amongst 
jammers. 

Without any outward sign, one of the 
musicians begins to play. We notice 
that there is no leader. The muted, 
mellow notes of a clarinet are picking 
out the faint thread of a familiar mel- 
ody. The other musicians seem to be 
arousing themselves from letharg}\ First 
one, then another, puts his instrument 
into play and begins to fall into the lead 



of the clarinet. The full battery of 
instruments comes by stages into action. 
By some unspoken consent the clarinet- 
ist continues to predominate, setting the 
rhythm and the melodic trend. I 

Soon we notice that the melody we 
are accustomed to is no longer discern- 
ible. The clarinet is soaring above it — 
below it. We feel the original melody 
still strangely present, but only by infer- 
ence. It persists through its very 
negation, on through a long series of 
brilliant counterpoint and obbligato that 
would earn an "A" in any counterpoint 
course ! By these intricate variations we 
recognize the superb command this 
player has over his instrument. We are 
not surprised later when we learn that 
he is one of the greatest living masters 
of the clarinet. But the playing has just 
begun. The piece is young yet. There is 
much more to come. 

The clarinet subsides and melts into 
the supporting music. Without signal, a 
Negro trumpet player assumes the lead, 
and soars into an unbridled improvisa- 
tion. It becomes almost impossible for 
us to detect any further semblance of 
the original melody. Up and on the 
trumpet rises, brilliant, startling se- 
quences tumbling one upon another. 
The effect upon the other players has 
been electric. They play as though 
possessed. There is no music to guide 
them, no longer any tenuous thread of 
melody to which they may hold. Nothing 
but that mad trumpet rushing and swerv- 
ing down fantastic scales and galloping 
up different arpeggios. And yet the 



[6 ] 



players are not a split second behind the 
Negro; it is as if they know just what 
he will do as soon as he himself knows ! 

The big Negro is standing up now, his 
trumpet at a forty-five degree angle 
upward. His eyes are closed tightly and 
great rivers of perspiration are coursing 
down his face — his whole body is in a 
state of profound agitation. None of 
the "cats" are as relaxed as they ap- 
peared when we came in. Out of that 
seemingly tired group of men, music, the 
like of which I have never heard before, 
is coming fast. 

Out of sheer curiosity I turn to our 
waiter and ask whether he knows who 
that trumpet player is. 

"Yes, suh, boss. That boy is Louis 
Armstrong." 

Louis Armstrong! Well, of course; 
we have heard that trumpet on the radio 
many times. We have heard of his 
triumphal tours of Europe, of his com- 
mand performance before the King of 
England, of his world-wide following. 
We stumble into a "jam session" and 
hear one of the very men who brought 
swing into being, perhaps the greatest 
trumpet player of our generation. We 
really are lucky tonight! I turn to our 
waiter again: 

"But Armstrong — does he belong to 
this band?" 

"No suh ! No small place like this 
could pay that man. He takes in ova' a 
thousand dollars an hour when he's in 
his white suit. But he just comes in heah 
once in a while because he likes to jam. 
Why he's been a doin' that since he was 
a kid back in New Orleans. Yes suh, 
that's Louie Armstrong all right !" 

We were so taken by that jam session 
that we didn't leave until the manager 



announced closing time. As soon as we 
arrived home, my uncle, who always 
enjoys a good joke, walked up to the 
phonograph, fixed a record on the 
spindle, and walked away. A moment 
later the room was filled with the beau- 
tiful, heart-rending melody of the Love 
Death from Wagner's famous opera, 
Tristan and Isolde! What an extreme 
contrast that presented to our ears, which 
only a few hours ago had been saturated 
with the wildest of swing music ! 

To Wagner, a jam session would ap- 
pear to be a gathering of insane people 
with instruments in their hands, and to 
Louie Armstrong the Love Death would 
sound, no doubt, very much like the last 
moans of a dying cow ! There you have 
music in its extreme forms. You can't 
deny, as some "musical intellects" do, 
that jamming is music, nor can you con- 
clude that it is much more difficult to 
play a classic than it is to jam a popular 
tune. Swingsters will tell you that swing 
music is destined to go far — that it will 
bring forth a deeper and finer American 
music. They point with pride to the 
indisputable fact that its ranks now 
include many of our finest musicians. 
They see no reason, they tell you, why 
the principle of free playing should not 
be extended to fields far beyond jazz, 
even to the classics. That I doubt very 
much, for our symphony orchestras will 
not be changed for some time to come. 
However swing music has come a long 
way, and if it does nothing more, it does 
provide an interesting way in which to