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Bluets -
January 1937 |
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[Chimney Rock, cover of "Bluets," 1937],
University Archives, D. H. Ramsey Library, UNCA |
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Bluets. [Cover] |
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BLUETS
A
Literary Magazine Dedicated to the
Expression of Progressive Undergraduate Opinion
BILTMORE
COLLEGE Asheville, North Carolina
January, 1937 |
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PRESENTING YOU A BLUET
Nature has endowed mankind
with blessings which often go unappreciated Beauty lies at every turn of
the way, if only mortals would stop to appraise mother earth and her work of art. Slight, frail
flowers, almost hidden in their own little world, shine in a profusion of
color, daring artists to equal.
Nestling picturesquely amid
a panorama of splendor, these tiny gems of God lift their heads to the
warm spring sun, even as the shy violets do. Swaying on a cool, damp
carpet of emerald-green moss and radiating pure innocence and
quality unparalleled, this timid and dainty masterpiece of nature bends
slightly with the warm breezes that herald the approach of Spring. Hardly
heard of and shunned by poets, this simple beauty, with four pale blue
petals, seldom attaining the height of six inches, goes un-noticed by man.
Yet for all of its insignificance our most cherished possession contains
rarities envied by the mighty.
If, by chance, a person
stumbles on one of the many beds of Bluets spread from Canada south to
Georgia he would gasp in awe. Millions of these wee flowers, scattered
through moist meadows, and by the wayside, reflect the blue and the
serenity of heaven in their pure upturned faces. Often where the white
species flourish, one might imagine that a light snowfall had dotted the
grasslands, or a milky way of tiny, florid stars had streaked the earth.
Thus do bluets grow.
FRANK GLENN |
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Jo
jones
BLUETS
Miss virginia bryan Editor
Adviser
EDITORIAL
COMMENT:
War .........................................................5
Youth In Conflict .....................................
6
The Price of Redemption..........................
Janice Alien and Howard Kahn 7
In a Garden
..........................
.... Jean Alexander 9
Sunset (Poem)
......................
.Mary Catherine Stockinger 9
Whew
................................................ Burton
Kinney 10
The Mother of the Army and Navy
........
Frank Glenn 11
Poems (Poem)
................... .Miles Palls
11
Old and New Russia
..............Pinkney Groves, Jr. 12
Caveat Emptor (Poem)
................ George Smith 13
The Bells (Poem)
....................... .Wilma Dykeman 14
Sea-Cook Sam
....................... George Smith
15
Hunters (Poem)
.......................... Miles Falls
16
A BROWSE
AMONG BOOKS:
After All
...............................Deborah Rubin
White Banners
............................... Mary Jett
The Inquisitor
...................... Deborah Rubin
Steamboat Round the Bend
........
Jo Jones
Journey to the End of the Night
.........
Burton Kinney
Gone with the Wind
................Ida Rosen
Spotlight
.................. Wilma Dykeman
Doors
....................................... Robert
Steele 20
Serenity
................................... Jo
Jones 2 0
Clouds Part
.......................... Deborah
Rubin 21
After Dinner Sermon
...................... George Smith 23
So There! (Poem)
........................ Burton Kinney 23
POETRY SECTION:
24
The One Unseen .................... Wilma Dykeman
Hell Bound Crew
................. Frank Glenn
Mad Murder
.................................... Martha
Wrenshall
A Humble Plea
......................... Jo Jones
Mood
................. Wilma Dykeman
Futility
.............................. Jio Jones
Finis
..................... Wilma Dykeman
Our Problem
........................ Frank
Glenn 80
Through Bus
................... Martha Wrenshall
31
Cold Mornings (Poem)
.......iles Falls 31
My First Shave
............................ Bill Weddle
32
Loftiness
................... Frank
Glenn 33
Character
..................... Miles
Falls 34
Innuendo (Poem)
............
Anne Garrison and Sara Smith 84
A Mistaken Motive
.................... Jean Alexander 35
Friends (Poem)
............... Frank Glenn 35
VIEWS ON RELIGION:
36
Value of Religious Freedom
..........Anne Garrison
A Personal Inventory
........... Mary Jett
Foreign Missions ................
Hazel Carson
Personal Religion
...................... Sara Smith
Religious Toleration
...............
Burton Kinney
Anthony Adverse
.................... Christine Ponder
38
The Things I Love
................... Wilma Dykeman 38
A Viking Festival
....................... Frank Glenn
39
The Gentle Art of Telephoning
.........
Wilma Dykeman 40
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BLUETS
Published by the Students
of Biltmore College
january,
1937
number
I
vol.
X
BUSINESS MANAGERS
DEBORAH RUBIN
MILES FALLS
BILL WEDDLE
CIRCULATION EDITORS
JEAN ALEXANDER
MARY CATHERINE STOCKINGER
FACULTY
ADVISER
MISS VIRGINIA BRYAN
THE STAFF
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF :
JO JONES
ASSOCIATE EDITORS:
POETRY:
MARY JETT
PROSE:
WILMA DYKEMAN, BURTON KINNEY
ADVERTISING MANAGERS
PINKNEY GROVES, JR.
GEORGE SMITH
ART EDITOR
FELICE FLANNERY
TYPISTS
MARY JETT
MARY CATHERINE STOCKINGER
Editorial Comments
WAR!
In these critical days of international
unrest, re-armament, and ruling isms, a most timely topic for
discussion is war, that tyrannical vampire which even in our so-called
godly and civilized world is rending nations asunder, sucking the life
blood of the people and instilling the canker of hatred into countless
millions.
Yet, of all institutions, war is the most
useless, the most futile. But there is still war. Who gains by it? Who is
responsible for it? Not the people, it is clear. Who, then? It is those
who sit safely fortified behind
mahogany desks and dictatorships — grafters, munition makers,
rulers—who, through a complicated system of propaganda, lead the people
to believe that they are fighting for honor, duty, and country. But the
pity of it all is this: How can supposedly intelligent people be thus
duped? One seldom sees those who have
fought approve of war. Why? There is an old but adequate adage, "A
burnt child dreads the fire". The people who have never seen the
horrors of battle are the ones who are
fooled into fighting. They see only the romantic side of battle—the
beating drums, the natty uniforms, the fond farewells. Muddy
trenches, whistling shells, blood—that
is something they write about in novels. But it is very simple to
explain this attitude. Probably the first toy a youngster has is a wooden
soldier; in school he learns the dates of all the important wars, never of
important peaces; his scout troop marches for a military parade; his
father reads him stories about famous generals, while his favorite movie theater features
some handsome Romeo as a famous
war ace or daring spy. Is it any wonder he grows up
militarily-minded? Is it any wonder he and thousands like him are fooled
into fighting thousands of other men whom they do not know or hate
personally, but who, like themselves, have been taught war?
All the nations of the world claim to worship
some higher being who teaches love of mankind, yet they break one of the
greatest commandments, "Thou shall do
no murder". How they can claim
to love anything except themselves, how they can expect world
peace by substituting for their true feelings the motto: "All's fair in
love and war", is indeed a mystery for a master
mind.
But surely the whole population is not
so hypocritical. Surely there are a
few thinking people who can see where the world is heading. I
appeal to the youths who will be
compelled to be the soldiers of tomorrow. In spite of the fact that
propagandists tell us that war is inevitable, any-one can see that if |
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men refuse to fight,
there can be no war. Down with the Hitlers and Mussolinis, down with the
hypocrites of the world, down with grafters and self-centered munition
makers. We must teach the nations of the world to be so conscious of
their neighbors that they will have no desire to murder.
YOUTH IN CONFLICT
I know it is the tendency of adults to
discount the opinions of youth, but I believe if they would listen to
us instead of laughing at us, less heartbreak and disaster would ensue
on both sides. To those who have met the experiences of life we seem
terribly young, but to ourselves we are old, and we resent having our
ideals and beliefs tossed lightly aside as something we must pass
through and then discard. The world
is different today. Speed, specialization, changing ideas have
built up an entirely different universe. Youth is not going to the dogs
as some smug persons would have us believe. We are merely learning to
cope with new situations in an advancing society. These are not horse
and buggy days; these are days of automobiles
and airplanes. Because father was
supporting himself and three younger brothers and sisters before
he was twenty, or because mother was married and had two children when
she was nineteen does not mean that the youth of today could or should
be expected to follow the example set by those who came before them. It
is necessary that we of today have education to better
compete with other young men and
women. Without training we are nothing, and we can never expect
to rise above a stage of mediocrity. The women of today have come into
their own. No longer are they vassels to the opposite sex. Instead of
squeezing their waists to a light eighteen
inches, being shocked at the mere mention of ankles, and fainting
upon even the suggestion of a mouse, women are dressing sensibly,
pronouncing a blush as out-dated, and turning the mice over to Walt
Disney. Women are independent. If they do not marry, they are not
considered objects of pity, or if they are married and lose their
husbands, they are not compelled to accept the charity of disgruntled
relatives; but they may tackle life with clear eyes, intelligent minds,
and keen wit to carve out a career for themselves. And the
men, far-seeing and capable beings
that they are, are accepting their women in a position equal to
their own, considering them as true helpmates, and giving their opinions
the respect they deserve. It is a fifty-fifty proposition instead of the seventy-five-twenty-five
alliance of fifty years ago. We do not mean to replace the older
generation; we are not
disrespectful to them; neither do we mean to disobey them. All we
ask is that they give us tolerance for our ideals, understanding for our
problems, and help in our dire needs so that we may become better and
more useful citizens in the world of tomorrow.
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Price of Redemption
Janice Allen
and Howard Kahn
He was sentenced to be hanged within an hour.
Did he dread it? Here he was facing death, guilty of this terrible crime.
A feeling of horror ran through his whole soul and body. He found himself
almost wishing that he had not confessed his guilt. He whispered a short
prayer as he arose to continue his
pacing up and down his prison cell. His memories of the past were all confused. He saw Theresa
back at home, trying earnestly to take her mother's place. Now he saw the
two men whom he had murdered.
As Mr. Buchanan continued to walk up and down
his little prison, his mind became clearer, and he could distinctly see
the whole thing happening again. He remembered
one evening about twilight when he had found Theresa, his own beloved
daughter, talking with William Lewis, his enemy's son. He could not have
been mistaken, for they
had been talking low and confidentially as none but lovers do. He had then
determined to stop this immediately.
Buchanan and Lewis had been enemies since
childhood. When they were boys, Lewis had accidentally killed Buchanan's
dog. He had apologized for the accident and had even offered to pay for
the animal, but Buchanan had accepted neither the apology nor the money.
"Some day I'll do for that man exactly what he
did for my dog," Buchanan had often told himself. "I'll not regret it
either."
Thereafter he had
crossed Lewis's path at every possible
turn, and he had managed to get his hands on a mortgage which, if
foreclosed, meant his enemy's ruin.
He was walking again up the side of the
mountain to the little home of Mr. Lewis. "Mr. Lewis," Buchanan had said
to the old gentleman, "your son, William, has dared to court my
daughter secretly.
Now this thing has got
to stop. Damned if my daughter is
going to have anything to do with such trash! This thing has got to stop
right now I tell you!"
"Whatcha want me to do about it? I ain't a-goin'
t' have nothin' t' do with my son's courtin'. He's a good boy, an' him an'
his gals is his own business."
Made furious by these words, Buchanan seized
his knife and cut the speaker down. It had been a fatal blow, for he had stabbed
the man right in the
heart. Blood gushed from the wound. It streamed to the floor.
The horrible shrieks of the dying man
pierced through the log house.
"Whatl wrong?" William
had asked asked breathlessly, as he had
rushed in to the aid of his father.
"Not a darn thing!" Buchanan had angrily
replied. "If you don't shut that mouth of yours and get out of here as
quickly as possible, I'll cut your
heart out."
"Not mine," the boy had immediately answered,
"but you'll get what's a-comin to you!"
William had no sooner
finished this statement than Buchanan
had stabbed him in the heart and had laid him beside his
father.
"I guess the world is rid of this whole darn
family now," he had remarked to himself. Here he had stopped to
contemplate for a few minutes. He had asked himself these questions: "Why
did I do it? What shall I do with the bodies? How shall I prevent the
people from finding it out?"
He had soon found the answers to the last two
questions. Very cautiously, as if afraid someone would hear him, he had
carried the bodies to a near-by well and had dropped them in.
While returning down the mountain to
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his home, Buchanan had lost his knife. Although
he had hated to part with it, he had hoped that it had fallen into the
well with the dead men, for his initials had been plainly carved on the
handle. Would someone discover his secret after all?
This prisoner was continually walking up and
down his dismal little cell as these reflections flashed through his mind.
Suddenly he seemed to stop thinking entirely. His stubborn brain refused
to work. For a moment he failed to remember that he was in this detestable
place. He even forgot that he was to be hanged within a few
minutes. His whole past completely
vanished from his mind. For a moment he was even unconscious of the
world's existence. His memory was coming back to him now. He vaguely
pictured himself back at home with Theresa. They were eating dinner all
alone in the big dining-room. They were again talking together on the
porch, as they used to do after Theresa had washed the dishes.
"Father," she had said, "isn't it mysterious
how William and Mr. Lewis so suddenly disappeared?"
"Yes, it is," he had answered her abruptly,
but he had not dared to say any more.
This little scene reminded Buchanan of having
seen Theresa go alone up the mountain side to the log house where he had
murdered the two men. Yes, as William had told him, this was a "cruel and
wicked deed", and the prisoner was thinking more seriously about it now.
He wished that he could blot it entirely from his memory, but that was
utterly impossible. He whispered another short prayer as he walked to the
one little window of his room to look for a last time at the happy world
outside. He could hear a brook tumbling over the rocks just behind the
prison. Birds were singing in the trees. He thanked them for their efforts
to make him happy. He breathed a deep sigh as he turned from this gaiety
back to his dismal little cell.
The gloominess of the room reminded him again
of his past. He remembered having followed Theresa up the mountain. He had
noticed for a long time that she had been going to this house every day,
and he had wondered what she did up
there all by herself. The place was still untenanted, since
Buchanan had succeeded in
establishing his right to it. On reaching the house, Theresa had
dropped to the edge of the narrow porch to rest from her long and tiresome
walk. After a very short while she had gone into the house and had taken a
chair facing the picture of William
and his father, which had been left hanging on the wall of the
front room. He could clearly see her sitting there now, her tear-stained
eyes directly on the picture in front of her. It was then that he had
realized that his daughter was really hurt over the mysterious
disappearance of the Lewises. It had made him sad to see her . -£|
suffering that way. It made him sad now JS^' as he thought of it. To think
that he had been the cause of his daughter's unhappiness was almost more
than he could bear. He was still walking the floor and thinking very seriously about Theresa.
Suddenly reminded of a letter in his pocket, he took it out and
read: "Dear Father,
I'm leaving you. Since William disappeared, I
have trusted and loved you more than anyone on earth, but now that it is
quite evident that you murdered him, I find it impossible for me to live
with you any longer. Father, you cannot know how
disappointed I am. Since mother died,
you and William have meant everything to me. After William died, I
had only you left. Now that I have lost all confidence in you, I have
nothing else to live for.
If you care anything about my body, you will
find it in Mr. Lewis's house.
Theresa".
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In A
Garden Jean Alexander
For ten years Miss Spencer had lived alone in the family home. She
seldom went out and had no visitors. She had only one servant, the old
gardner, who was the only other human being ever allowed to enter her
lovely, secluded garden.
One evening in late
summer the gardener saw his mistress come out of the house and he
stopped to watch her, for he was hidden by the giant shrubs near the
tool house. Slowly she made her way into the garden. As she went down
the leaf-strewn path, the enticing odor of early autumn met her and she
seemed inspired as she viewed the dying reflection of the sunset behind
the distant hills. Then, in an instant, her attention was drawn to a
small brown bird, working busily about a tiny mound of earth
near one of the towering oaks. Miss
Spencer stood very quietly and watched the bird for a few
moments. As she watched its tireless labor, she noticed that the mound
of earth had a small opening, and that a small patch of white was
visible within. "Just an oven-bird", the gardener thought to himself.
"Wonder why she is so interested?" As he stood there watching, the bird
flew into some of the bushes and disappeared. Then he saw Miss Spencer
lean down and touch the nest very
gently. With a look of admiration and amazement on her quiet
face, she turned and walked back to the house.
For many weeks, Miss
Spencer put crumbs on the garden patch each morning. And the birds came
in increasing numbers. Soon the oven-bird finished her work, for her
family grew rapidly and left the garden. As the days grew colder and
winter began, Miss Spencer grew quite ill and came less frequently to
the garden.
When the Spring came once
more and the feathered creatures were again visiting the garden, Miss
Spencer had grown so weak she had to stay in her room, but she could see
the garden from her window. Each day she asked the gardener whether the
brown bird had returned or not but he was unable to answer her question
for the bird had not been seen.
One evening just as
twilight was falling, a brown bird chirped on the sill of her window.
Then, as the twilight faded, Miss Spencer left this world, with the
vision of the brown bird still in her mind
SUNSET
One last golden ray has
slipped Slowly across the sfy. Above the purple mountains,
Pink tinged clouds float by.
The lofty cloud-flecked
heavens, Are filled with wondrous hues. The radiances of a million lights Touch faintly their rose and blues.
Across the mountain's
majesty, This violet cloak is thrown. A glow as light as fairy mist,
Of softest shade and tone.
This magic mantle of color,
Is quick to pass away. And then there comes quiet dark To mark the end of day.
mary catherine stockinger.
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Whew
Burton Kinney
Whew, but my head aches. That noise, driving me crazy. I can't move!
As I regained consciousness I began to realize the predicament I was
in. I had stepped a few paces out of the clearing into the jungle to
investigate a weird, inhuman yell which had thrice rent the air during an
after supper get-to-gether around the campfire. Suddenly, two pygmies had
appeared from nowhere,1! had raised my rifle, but before I could
fire, someone had clubbed me from behind.
Now I found myself bound fast to a rough platform-like affair, scarcely
longer or wider than myself. Close-by a large group of those ugly little
devils were dancing around a fire, singing (if it could be called singing)
and beating their d'ratted drums.
I wondered what terrible fate they had in store for me. Would they burn
me at the stake, torture me to death, or—what? Just then one of them
noticed I was coming to and soon they were all around me, chattering among
themselves. The chief gave an order. Several pygmies lifted me up,
platform and all. I have no idea how far they carried me, but finally they
set me down on the bank of the river. The terrific roar of a large body
of water falling some distance betrayed the presence of a high falls only
a short way downstream. As soon as all the pygmies had assembled on the
bank, they pushed the raft out into the current. I had dreamed of terrible
tortures, but never thought of anything like this. As the current carried
the raft out into the center of the stream, and picked up speed as it
neared the falls, I speculated on my chances of coming out of the ordeal
alive. But even if I should survive the plunge over the falls, I would
probably land on the under side of the raft, and, since, I could not move,
be drowned. In quick succession, fleeting glimpses of many things crossed
my mind's eye. Now I wouldn't be able to collect the dollar I had won from
Jack at poker last evening, or to succeed in my life's ambition to jerk
the ring in the cook's nose.
By this time the water was carrying my raft along at an incredible
speed. The roar of the water was deafening, and I knew that in another
moment I would go over the falls. I cried out against the cruelties of
fate in taking my life when there should have been so much ahead of me.
With a scream, probably more hideous than the ones which had enticed me
into the fiendish pygmies' trap, I started down.
But just then, praise Allah, I awoke to find myself on the floor.
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The Mother of The Army and Navy
FRANK GLENN
With bowed heads and heavy hearts four
hundred and fifty thousand meek warriors kneeled in unison, and four
hundred and fifty thousand tear-stained faces turned to heaven as taps
rang clear over the tomb of the "Mother of the American Army and Navy".
The soul of this beloved mother smiles as she lays a loving hand on each one
of these bowed
heads. Passing down the aisle of kneeling mourners she looks upward
into the sky and sees beckoning to her the fine, stalwart faces of her
"boys"— boys who shed their life's blood in the horror of war. With an
angelic expression beaming on her face, a deep contralto voice rises to
the heavens and tightens the already breaking hearts of those paying
reverance. The clouds float down from the sky and seem to engulf her as
she rises slowly, and her soul goes forth to join her boys. Years pass
swiftly in those few seconds, years when she sang for the boys; hearts
were enlightened and every mother's son forgot the horror of it, when
unconsciously he thought of her. These fleeting moments bring vividly to
mind a stage in the grand finish, amid a flurry of glamour and grandeur;
operas before royalty, here and there she went cheering one with song
and saddening another with memories.
Kneeling doughboys rise and their heads tilt
to the sky where she is looking back and now a great blast issues forth
and trumpets sound; soldiers from every corner are off to the most
beloved personality of all times. Not soon will the tears be dry of
those who knew her, whose hand and voice went out to help them in their
need, not soon will a mother be loved with quite
so much fervor and not soon will
the American Army and Navy forget this immortal soul as it goes
right on marching into the sky and singing its way into the
hearts of the angels.
So passes the "Mother of the American Army
and Navy"—Mme. Shumann-Heink.
POEMS
Poems are sometimes gay and bring a smile;
Poems are sometimes sad and bring a tear;
Poems sometimes mean our life and everything;
Poems are sometimes words and don't mean a thing.
MILES FALLS |
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Old and New Russia
pinkney groves, jr.
In 1917 the people of Russia revolted, but why did they turn to the
communistic form of government? Let us review a little Russian history.
Several thousands of years ago a people
emigrated from eastern Siberia and
the Mongolia region to Europe.
A goodly number of these people settled in what is now European
Russia. It was these people who began Russia. A leader was crowned, called
the "tsar". The people were slaves to him. They owned nothing and knew
nothing. If their subjects became educated, the tsars could no longer hold
their thrones, so they saw that the people got no education. The people
rose in early morning and toiled in the fields all day till late dusk. The
majority of their crops was sent to the tsars, and the laborers had hardly
enough to eat. There were few landowners—mostly those who were connected
in some way with the ruling family. Yes, it was these ruthless, uncouth
dictators who ruined the people. The tsar's religion was the people's
religion. A court with a jury was an unheard of thing as far as the tsars
were concerned. One false move by an individual meant death, either
immediately following the arrest, or slow death in the frozen salt mines
of Siberia.
Finally, the people could stand this ungodly
treatment no longer. They saw how the men were pushed into the front, in
the World War, with no guns and amurti-tion, how the women were out in
front of the men to shield them—to be human targets. The war officials
would buy nothing for the army until they could get bribes to the amount
of almost two-thirds the price of the supplies they were to buy.
In October of 1917, the people revolted and
called their war-torn soldiers from the lines. Tsar Nicholas II was taken
out and killed, and the Kerensky government set up. Kerensky and Lenin had
about the same ideals, but the people saw that Lenin would satisfy their
needs better than Kerensky, so the Kerensky government was relinquished
and the government of Lenin, the George Washington of Russia, begun.
What were Lenin's plans in his communistic
government? Lenin wanted to see his people working to an end, getting
something out of life. He wanted to end war and revolutions for his
country. He was a true son, being born in a small Volga town, a poor boy,
a slave to the tsar, a nobody. He rose to the front at the opportune time,
and his people saw as he did and followed him. What other kind of
government could he have instigated? Capitalism could not work because
property and the right to own could not be turned over to the people at
once. They would not know what to do with it. It took government ownership
to give the people an equal chance, an even start in new life, a
foundation for a better and happier future life.
Let us see just three facts of everyday Russian
life and the government of New Russia:
Anyone the age of eighteen or over who is not
an employer or insane is allowed to vote. He votes on his town leaders,
his state leaders, his representatives to the national government from his
state or district. The only unvoted high office is that of the dictator.
Education is now compulsory. All children
between the ages of five and fifteen are forced to attend school.
Education is encouraged among the old people. Now good literature is put
into the hands of everyone in the form of good books, newspapers,
magazines, etc. Also plays, operas, |
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cinemas, and the radio are teaching and
broadening the minds of the people. Modern day and night schools and
colleges are abundant all over Russia to accommodate the millions of
people who are thirsty for the want of a good education.
"Religion! Ah, they have none. They use the
churches for museums." This is heard entirely too often. It is true that
the churches of the tsars of Russia are being used as museums. These
buildings are too old and Out of date to be used as churches any more.
They are valuable, interesting old land-marks, so why not use them for
museums? There are some modern churches now to fit in with the rest of
Modern Russia. It is true that the government does not foster religion
because it has not proved religion by science, which it hopes to do. But
anyone in Russia may worship how, when, and where he pleases.
Communistic Russia wants peace. The
Anti-bellum displays are just as numerous as the war displays. The
people do not eare to get into wars with other nations
and kill their people foolishly. Stalin's policy is: "We do not covet an inch of
foreign soil. We will not yield an iota of our own.''
It has now been nineteen years since the
Soviet government began. Out of these few years a new people has grown.
They have been given new rays of hope, something to live for. Factories
run constantly, turning out goods for the use of the people, to better
their conditions of living.
Will Russia succeed? They have so far. Bigger
and better agricultural products have been stressed. The people now have
luxuries that were unthinkable to them twenty years ago. Communism is a
stepping stone, a means to an end. Even now more capitalistic ideas and
ways are being instigated in the Soviet machinery. A few years from now,
communism will have done its share in the upbuilding of this nation. By
this time the masses of the now new
generation will understand government, and capitalism will be
the inevitable change.
CAVEAT EMPTOR
Oh, typical slogan of ancient conception, Protector of merchants to buyer's destruction,
Excuse for fat
robbers inflating thin fryers, Watering milk and shaft changing dumb
buyers, False weighings and duping of honest
consumers,
Oh, "Caveat Emptor', your doom is approaching,
You're through with your gouging; you
never were fair. The trend has reversed; now we'll get in
YOUR hair.
Scram! Antique
bogy, "Let the Seller Beware!"
George Smith. |
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THE
BELLS
"To our radio audience
we now present From the top of
the cathedral dome, The temple bells to ring for you As the New Year enters your home." Ding . . Dong ...Ding Phillips grinned as he turned the
dial,
But he paused as he
heard the toll Of the distant bells ringing loud and clear,
How their tones seemed to roll! Yes, '(was New Year's Day, another year,
But what could it hold for him? Hard work an the road for the rest of his
life, And the bells sounded hard and grim.
Ding . . Dong . . Ding . . Dong And out on a small New England farm,
A thousand miles away, An old couple sat and serenely smiled
As the bells began to play.
Their glad old hearts leaped
forward To greet a New Year side by side,
And the bells for them brought peace
secure—
A peace that would abide,
Ding . . Dong . . Ding . . Dong The party had reached the peak of fun,
Bright streamers and wine flowed free,
When everyone heard the
pealing bells And shouted with drunken glee. For the coming of the New Year
Meant fun and hilarious play,
And they greeted it with follies, hope— To them the bells were gay.
Ding . . Dong . . Ding . . Dong
The house was quiet, the children abed,
And she heard as she sat
alone, The melodious bells from the temple tower,
As they pealed forth their rich, sweet tone.
And she prayed for Faith, for Love and
Hope,
For Strength to conquer fear— And she thanked God for her simple life,
To her the bells meant—a New Year!
Ding . . Dong . . Ding . . Dong
WILMA DYKEMAN.
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Sea Cook Sam
GEORGE SMITH Having awakened early
and having nothing to do till breakfast,
I strolled out on the dewy lawn, which glistened in the oblique rays of
the morning sun. As usual on such
aimless jaunts, I eventually approached the water-front. The myriad
waves dancing in the off-shore
breeze, dashing off multitudes
of dazzling diamond chips, the very docks glinting in the sun,
seemed to vitalize the freshness of the new day. There, sunning himself on
the end of a wharf and puffing away at his morning pipe, I met an old
sailor. I paced the length of the wharf and nonchalantly draping myself
on the end, pro-ceded to eye the old salt assiduously, while pretending to
be viewing only the vista of ocean and sky.Presently he opened the
conversation with, "Good morning,
youngster."
Although I deeply
resented his unintended slur on my age,
I cheerfully replied, "How do you do, sir?"
"Well," he observed, "as Sea-Cook Sam would
say, 'I'm better and worse than I could be.' "
"And may I ask who Sea-Cook Sam is?"
"Sure you can ask."
"Well", I prompted.
"Well", he retorted.
We exchanged looks and
laughed. Then seeing he was determined
to be difficult, possibly to arouse my interest, I tacked.
"Tell me about Sea-Cook
Sam, please sir." I asked.
"He was the best cook on the high seas.
Last year he shipped on the Dora
Belle, the fishing schooner in the Grand Banks," he explained,
and without further hesitation he launched into the following descriptive
narrative.
"He was a big fellow like me, and kind of
awkward lookin' but real strong. Most of the men said he was greasy but
that didn't make any difference to him, 'cause they wouldn't say it to his
face. He was friendly but rough, an' he made no bones 'bout kickin'
anybody out of his galley that he didn't like or that got in his way.
Yes'r bossy as a new bos'n was Sam, in his galley, that is, and there
wouldn't nobody dare him out nuther fer fear he'd come. He was cock o' the
galley and king O' the lazaret. "Sam cu'd spin a good, salty yarn, too, on
occasion. O' those rare nights when the men didn't have no fish to work,
he'd let 'em bring their net repairing 'round the galley-stove, and they'd have 'em a
real good time. 'Long in the evenin', he'd haul some extry special
grub out of his private lazaret, doughnuts, cookies, an' pie, an' that
sort o' thing that he'd took a lot o' trouble to make. Sam could sure
cook! And you may lay to that! He'd cook circles 'round these here chef
lubbers. They might beat him at "A La Mud" but he'd sure leave 'em astern
when it come to cookin' real grub. Well, after they'd told a lot o' good
yarns an' Sam'd told one o' his specials, the boys'd tune up an' they'd
shake the beams an' Sam'd shake everything from stem to stern with a
roaring base solo. Sometimes I wonder that it didn't wake everybody in
Davy Jones' Locker. Perty soon there'd be call for Sam to play his violin,
an' he'd tuck it under his chin an' tune it up. An' 'fore you'd know it he
could be off on a toe-tickling jig or maybe a polka or a waltz. He knew
all the old favorites an' if you'd hum a tune he didn't know, he'd listen
an' then play it just like he'd knowed it all his life. I bet Sam c'ud
wring tears out of a stone-hearted old pirate with his violin, or if he
chose, make 'im laugh for all that."But such fun-feasts weren't often possible on
a busy fishin' boat. Most of the |
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time everybody was busy an'
so was Sam. But Sam always fixed it so he would have time every evening
at sunset. He would climb up to the mast-head an'—Eh? Why sure he would,
He'd run right up the ratline as quick as the fastest. Well, as I was
saying, Sam always liked the sunsets. Claimed they was the purtiest
thing to be seen out there on the ocean. It was a relief from smellin',
handlin', seein' an feelin' nuthin' but fish from dawn to dark. What's
that? No, the men never thought of eat-in a fish; if one o' the men had
asked for fish we would o' thought he was crazy. Guess we was sick o'
seein' 'em. Anyhow I don't blame Sam for trying to get a little relief. "One evenin' when we was
all cleanin' fish by lantern light and throwin' 'em in the bin where
others was stackin' 'em up, one of our new men, a tough young feller
named Lafter, made a dirty jibe at Sam 'bout him climbin' up to look at
the sunsets. Well, Sam was never slow to anger and that made him boil.
Quick as a flash Sam threw the fish he was cleanin' an' hit Lafter right
in the face. Soon as he picked himself up he let go a fish, but Sam was
ready an' ducked it an' then dared Lafter to come out on deck an' settle
it with fists. Lafter, thinkin', I s'pose, that he c'ud win easy, jumped at the chance. When
the men saw what was up they followed. "The minute they got on
deck, they was at it. Lafter put his head down an' charged in; Sam stood
his ground swingin' with both fists. Lafter got hold on Sam an' they
tumbled sprawling to the deck; Sam rolled over the top. For a moment it
seemed like Sam had the best of it, but just then Lafter pulled a gun.
Lettin' go his holds Sam grabbed at it, an' they tangled on the deck.
Before the captain could separate
them the gun accidentally exploded twice; Lafter sprawled limp;
Sam got up. "The next day a sea-burial
took place, an' when we put in port two weeks later, Sam packed up,
collected his pay, and went ashore.
Said he was quitting. Said he was old an' tired of the sea. He
moved south an' bought himself a house near here, an' settled down on
what he'd saved up. I reckon that's about all there is to tell." Knocking out his pipe on
the wharf piling, the old sailor
rose, stretched himself, and turned to go. By now I had recovered
from the spell of his saga of the sea sufficiently to call out after
him."Just a minute, sir, you
haven't told me your name." The
old sailor paused, stared at me quizzically and replied, "Oh, my name; why my name
is Sea-Cook Sam, of course." And turning on his heel, he strode away
around the warehouse before I could
catch my breath.
HUNTERS
Horns sound at the
inn, and the dogs Horses prance to the tune and begin to trot;
Hares and foxes flee
to their nest and den; Off are the men for another day's hunt.
MILES FALLS |
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AFTER ALL
By
clarence
day
In After All another group of delightful
informal essays is presented to the public with that fascinating style
that personifies Day's work. Good philosophy is there, but so intermingled
is it with humor that one is never
aware of being taught a lesson. In Day's scope of subjects any
reader can find something of interest to him. He skips with great ease
from how to make ' love to why hens set instead of sit. Because
of his extended illness, Day has been able to read a great deal and
his parodies on many famous works would turn many an author in his grave.
Hamlet scolds his mother for "marrying that dirty shyster". The story of
Humpty Dumpty is shown to be the story of Adam and Genesis with their
love-interest and other non-essential matter
having been cut out by some hard-boiled city editor who wanted the
writer to "stick to the theme". I think he catches the reason for George
Bernard Shaw's lack of universal
popularity when he says that Shaw would be loved if he were
"humorous and wise" instead of "brilliant and witty". Although Day
probably gave no thought to the matter, the words "humorous and wise" are
a splendid description of all Day's work. Each essay should be enjoyed
separately. This book will soon become the worn member on the shelf that
the family reaches for most often.
deborah robin
WHITE BANNERS
By
lloyd
C.
douglas
White Banners undoubtedly is one of
the most inspiring and idealistic novels of this age. The author, Lloyd C.
Douglas, uses quite the same theme as is found in his
preceding novels — that of sacrifice
with no thought of reward.
The author sets the story in a small college
town, and the strongest character, Hannah Bradford, is a
maid-of-all-work in the family of one
of the college's professors, Paul Ward.
Hannah lends to all the characters her magical
theory of doing for others without their knowledge, while Hannah carries
her own banner of sacrifice for her son. The weakness of Hannah's husband
and the strength of character that
Hannah possesses, present a sharp contrast. Thomas Bradford
represents a rich young man who deserts his young wife, Hannah. She
places her child in a good home and goes to work in the kitchen.
Perhaps the
reconciliation of Hannah and Thomas,
supposedly in Asheville, is too much of an anti-climax, for the climax is
reached when Hannah's son calls her "Mother" for the first time, and
marries Sally Ward, the eldest
daughter of the family to which Hannah had meant so
much.
Few people who read this book will put it down
without an inspiring feeling of higher ideals.
mary jett.
THE INQUISITOR
By
hugh
walpole
The Inquisitor
completes the famous
cathedral series of Walpole novels. The
theme is stately; the
prose language is
majestic; the characters
are alive; the work is a modern classic.
The cathedral town is a small world in which the struggle of
the Seatown factor against the
cathedral clique provides an intense drama. |
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People from almost all classes of society live
in these pages. Some are almost saints and some are almost devils. Ampiron,
the artist who had given up a prosperous career of painting, which he did
well, to take up sculpture, which he did poorly, is
intensely interesting — a character
not easily forgotten. The gods conquer many characters, but the
love of Elizabeth Lurze, shy daughter of the miser, and the Reverend James
Bird, a quiet man, domineered by his superior clergymen, carries them to
higher ends.
Michael Lurze, a wanderer in many
lands, comes to his brother's house
in search of peace and a new life. He found a new life that was,
however, the antithesis of a peaceful one. His brother, Stephen, the
money-lending miser, who controls
many of the prominent personages in the town
through their indebtedness to him,
also gains control of the happy-go-lucky brother. Of this seat
novel Joseph Wood Krutch says: "Michael Lurze captures the attention from
the moment he enters an antiquary's shop with his precious crucifix, and
the attention never lathes throughout all the complicated events that
follow" .... We
have here an intensely readable story.
deborah rubin.
STEAMBOAT ROUND THE BEND
By
ben lucien
burman
One of the most unsatisfactory books of the
season is Steamboat Round The Bend. Burman may know the life of the
people along the Mississippi, but he does not have the knack o£ presenting
it intelligibly. The book is very
descriptive — descriptive to the point of insincerity. After the
first fifty pages one discovers that the main characters
are white not negroid. Susceptible Captain John,
frail, out-of-place Miss Robbie, simple Duke, and silly little Fleety
Belle) act as a group of ten-year olds might,
literally jumping from one juvenile
adventure into another
equally childish, building aircastles all the while, eating motto
candy hearts, taking Little Flower Indian Remedies for anything
from dandruff to 'flat-feet, and
believing everything that anybody tells them. Burman has evidently
never studied the china painting which
Miss Robbie seems perpetually to do, or he would have found that
gold, before firing, is brown in color, not gold. The only interesting
things about the book are the humorous sketches by Alice Coddy which break
the monotony of description.
The Greeks may have had a word for
it, but so do I — lousy.
Jo
jones.
JOURNEY TO THE END OF THE
NIGHT
By
louis-ferdinand celine
Journey to the End of the Night
by Louis-Ferdinand Celine is probably one of
the best sellers of the European novels and has been well received by the
American readers.
It is a highly interesting, and at times
shockingly realistic, novel of a young man
who is hurled into the Great War, is
wounded and sent to a hospital (of which his cowardly heart is
secretely glad as it takes him away from the front), goes to Africa and
betrays the trust placed in him by a colonial company, seeks refuge and
peace in America, and disappointedly returns to his native France where
he completes his medical training and
sets up practice in a poor section of Paris. The hero, Bardamu (the
story is written in the first person) lays bare the secret cowardliness
of men and also man's selfish desire to gain his own ends regardless of
the cost to others.
Though the author, whose real name is
Destouches, denies that the book is autobiographical, it is certain that
he went to war, to Africa, to America and finally returned to France and
became a doctor in |
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a small hospital on the outskirts of Paris. Those who read
Journey to
the End of the Night will undoubtedly look forward to the author's
second book which he expects to publish about 1938.
burton kinney.
GONE WITH THE WIND By
margaret mitchell
Gone With The Wind
richly deserves its popularity and title of best seller.
In the opinion of many critics it is one of the
best and certainly one of the most
outstanding books written in modern times.
The story centers about the life and loves of a
southern belle at the time of the Civil War. No doubt, Margaret Mitchell
made a very careful study of this peroid of American History, because she
weaves the plot into this picturesque setting with an accuracy and skill
that would please the most fastidious
reader.
Scarlett O'Hara, the leading character, was
only sixteen at the outbreak of the war; however, her life was in no small
way affected by the battles. She was born in a small town near Atlanta,
Georgia, where the entire story is set. Her search for happiness and her
unsuccessful marriages are the center of the plot until the end. She was
always striving for some thing out of her reach, and the ending is so very
different from the average love story that we are quite startled by the
turn of events.
Melanie Wilkes, one of Scarlett's dearest
friends and a relation by marriage, also portrays a type, and her
influence on the life of the hero and heroine is most noteworthy.
Sherman's march through Georgia is the climax of the story and all other
historic references are equally authentic.
As so many reviews have said, "This is
certainly one of the most readable books ever written." My only advice to
those who start the book is: Don't commence it unless you have some time
to read, because once you start, I'm sure you won't be able to stop.
An excellent setting and fine writing are
combined to make a truly great book.
ida rosen
SPOTLIGHT
By
clarnce
budington kelland
This novel is the usual Kelland type of
story. Outside of being a repetition
of his usual plot, the story is lively, well-written, and
altogether modern in style. It deals with the life of a wealthy and bored
socialite, Nadia Horn, who wishes to
have a career of her own. To
satisfy this desire for personal fame, she launches a career as a
night club entertainer. The various difficult situations she becomes involved in,
and the manner in which she masters
them makes up the action. With the aid of her gruff and
adventuresome grandfather, she comes out on top, marries the hero, and is
happy in the remembrance of her
meteori-cal fame.
Of the numerous
character studies in the novel, I think
the most interesting is that of the
night club manager, Pazzy Mayper.
Although an uneducated and rather uncouth
person, he lives up to the standards of a real gentleman, much better than
some of his supposedly cultured
patrons.
For a light, fast-moving novel done in
the modern style, I would suggest Spotlight
as very good.
wilma dykeman
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Doors
ROBERT STEELE
Although nothing is more common than doors,
very few of us have ever stopped long enough to think of our indebtedness
to them. Perhaps all that some of us can see in a door is the paneled wood
and hinges, but if we were without doors to conceal and separate, lives
would be lived differently, perhaps better, perhaps worse.
Just as an analysis of one's handwriting
reveals his character so might one's technique of opening and closing a.
door be studied. One's temperament, age and motives in life may all be
discovered in this habitual act.
The history of the world has been determined
between doors. Can you sense what the door, leading to the room where the
jury are debating, holds for the accused? Perhaps at the hospital, across
the street, when the doctor emerges from that white-walled room, we shall
know whether that precious life is saved or lost. Tragedy is not all that
is brought through doors, but joy, such as will be wrought when the blue
and red uniformed girl appears at the battered door, away down deep in
the slums, or the joyous child return to his mother after a day at school,
or the tired husband arrives from a strenuous day at the office
Whether one is rich or poor, great or small,
his life is opened and closed along with the mere movement of a door.
SERENITY Jo Jones
It had turned much warmer, but the skies were still a billowy grey. The
log fire shrieked and crackled with wild, gnomic laughter. The slate-blue
cat purred contentedly on the hearth rug. The window seat was deep and
cushioned; the curtains were soft and filmy; the drapes were heavy and
comforting; the window pane felt pleasantly cool to one's cheek. Outside
it was so still one could almost intercept the messages of the wild. The
trees were bare and grim, wrapping their limbs tightly about them to hide
their shame. A squirrel scampered out on a limb, barked and ran back to
his hole, frightened by his own precocity. Late birds fluttered
unceremoniously about a feeder and then flew away in mallard formation.
The puppy whined and scratched at the door. Someone opened it and he
padded softly in, grunted, and sank to rest before the fire. Silence
reigned again.
Suddenly it came—what the world had been expecting. The fairies shook
their downy tresses and tumbled them down to earth—slowly at first, like a
feather in a vacuum, then faster, faster till all that was ugly and sordid
and unhappy was tucked beneath a blanket of priestly white.
God may be in heaven, I thought, but heaven cart be on earth. I |
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Clouds Part
DEBORAH RUBIN
"Good gosh! Does it have to rain all the
time?" This was Jack Perry's chief thought as he looked out into the
night. He was sick of the strong odor ofi oil and gasoline, sick of
grease, greasy hands, greasy hair, greasy clothes. What made it worse was
that his clothes were still wet from the thorough soaking they had
received when he had run to work from the 6:45 bus. Greasy, wet, tired!
Gloomily he tried to remember when he had not felt continually dead tired,
but his memory could not span the time—thousands of years. It was after
eleven, he thought, because the rush from the car-drivers going home late
from work had long been over.
A horn sounded. * Jack started as though he
had been shot. The strain of waiting for the result of his bar examination
was beginning to tell on his nerves. Stepping out of the door, he met the
fragile car as it drove up.
The dyed blonde in the car purred
sarcastically, "You getting some gas, Tom, so you can go places?"
"Naw, I'm just getting one gallon," Tom
Branner answered sulkily, "She's almost empty. You know I have to be at
work early." Looking toward her anxiously he half pleaded, "Did you like
the show Julia?" No answer. "Oh, no matter; I know. You need a limousine
and a ritzy night club. Well, I'm not that curly-headed millionaire."
"Well, Joe Lanford does show a girl a good
time."
Tom mused as he dug into his pocket and
brought up the change. "Is that rijrht. Jack?" Eighteen from twenty-five
left seven cents. Tom still had coffee money for the morning, and had he
not been out with Julia!
"Right, thanks." Jack watched Tom drive
recklessly off. Some day he and that car were going to fall apart. He could not
understand why Tom wasted all his money chasing that Johnson girl. Tom was
worth a thousand Julias. He was a fine fellow, but the dame would ruin
him! Damn! The fire was most out. It was getting pretty cold now. He
wondered that the rain hadn't turned to snow. If he couldn't make that
fire go he never would get dry. How the minutes dragged. It hadn't been
quite so bad when he had his studying to do. Now, though, it was too late
to study.
As the next car drove up, the license plate
caught his eye. Hmm, this was the first time he had seen a car from
Iowa. "Hey you, how much is gas?" "Regular is twenty cents a gallon, sir."
"Harold, it was only seventeen cents at the last stop we made," said the
middle-aged woman who was evidently the man's wife.
"That's right. Haven't you anything
cheaper?"
"We have some for eighteen cents a
gallon."
"Why shouldn't it be seventeen cents?" "Why
not? Indeed!" said the woman with affected refinement.
"Sorry, ma'am, but its eighteen cents."
"Well, give us two gallons and check the oil and water. These filling
station attendants are all cheats," added the man to his wife.
"I already have, sir." J |