Bluets - January 1937

[Chimney Rock, cover of "Bluets," 1937], University Archives, D. H. Ramsey Library, UNCA

BLUETS

A Literary Magazine Dedicated
to the
Expression of Progressive Undergraduate Opinion

BILTMORE  COLLEGE
Asheville, North Carolina
January, 1937

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

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

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

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

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

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".            

In A Garden
Jean Alexander

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.

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.

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

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,

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.

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.

Sea Cook Sam

GEORGE SMITH

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.

"But such fun-feasts weren't often pos­sible on a busy fishin' boat. Most of the

"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.

"Just a minute, sir, you haven't told me your name."

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

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.

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

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

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

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." Jack grew red with anger for a moment as he filled the tank. Treating him as though he were dirt beneath their high-class feet. These tourists, he thought, who traveled at leisure! It looks like they would have enough money for a tank full. Pretty swell car. but he guessed that it wasn't paid for. They drove off. Good riddance. How much longer was this life going to go on, serving trash like those who had just left.

SO THERE!

People say that 1 must be crazy
Of which there is no doubt;
They also say that I am lazy,
(There is no need to shout!)
My poems and stories are goofy—
I'm too sentimental; And, oh, the other things about me-
So darn' detrimental!
1 don't care what they say about me.
I consider the source! I have faith in myself, yessiree!
They can go to—of course!

Burton Kinney.

THE ONE UNSEEN

Inside of me there's another me,
One that's tender and true,
It's not loud and gay like the outer one
That I must show to you.

It's made of feathery, delicate dreams,
It dwells in lonely sites,
Walking with God in the daytime
And dreaming with Him at night.
And yet the person that you must know
Will greet you with a smile,
While inside the soul of the truer me
Must dwell, unknown and fragile.
How much more the world would love
The person it cannot see,
The second soul it cannot know,
The one that belongs to Me.

wilma  dykeman.

HELL BOUND CREW

In the wickedness of sin.
Puny weaklings 
Enemy and fan.
Fast we are gaining 
On those before
Quickly, surely
In filth and in gore.
 

Wealth of the rich
Beckoning to all
Ever wandering 
From the light and call,
Tables of chance
Our ever-gleaming God. 
Merchant and tailor,
The bricklayer with hod.  

Casting their pence
In a gambling hall,
Failing to gain
Only the temper of Saul,
Down the path
We step in glee.
To drink our drunk
In one more spree.
The gates crash open,
And all is well.
Till sinners they all
Are seared in Hell.
How may the king
Of Hades rule
The tortured souls,
Of a Godless Crew.

FRANK GLENN

MAD MURDER

He stood by the still all wrapped in fur,
His nose was red as become; a cur,
"Now, Jo Megure," 1 said, "Getcha gone,
Out of my sight or I'll do you wrong."

1 raised my gun, then he raised his,
I aimed at that shiny blockhead of his.
"Contemptible cur" I cried at him,
"Born of the gutter, Psyche of sin."

There was no one near in the forest wild,
And the distance between us had shortened the while.
His head was bare and the sun was hot,
Jo had his share of musket shot.

His eyes flashing fire and his tongue hang­ing out,
First caused me to snicker and then laugh straight out,
I pulled the small trigger of the gun in my hand,
And wicked Megure fell down in the sand.
Blood twisting his tongue and blinding his sight,
He swore he would "keep me from sleeping at night.
He cursed me to Heaven and swore me to Hell,
And said he would haunt me 'till death had me fell.

I thought now with horror of my sorely-taxed plight,
And left him there lying to repent as he might.
I sped thru the forest to escape from my sin;
In the shadows to hide from my

The shadows grew longer; the birds hushed their song.
I lay  in  the  thicket and  dreamt  of  my wrong.
But still there before me his form did arise,
Continually   sneered   at   me   with   weird, story eyes.
I arose from  my bed  of boughs on  the ground,
Once more I had heard it, that horrible sound.
I ranged through the forest and tore out my hair,
I mangled my body, but naught did I care.
I howled at the pale, white light of the moon,
And frightened queer creatures from out the lagoon.
I raced thru the valleys and stumbled down mountains,
I swam in the lakes and fell into fountains.

Then in despair I dropped to the ground,
And  hidden by  grasses,  I  slept—deathly sound.

And when I awoke it was to discover,
That where I lay, there lay another.
The body beside me turned on its face,
And with horror I recognized one of my race.
With the blood from his wound matting his hair,
The man I had murdered was lying there.

martha wrenshali,.

A HUMBLE PLEA...-

 

As I stood by my window    
Overlooking the square,
I saw a little black child
Playing happily there.

His skin was dark as midnight;
His eyes were deepest brown;
His teeth were shining as pearls;
His hair was fuzzy down.

He danced among the sunbeams,
Chanting a negro song,
Swaying with jungle rhythm,
Shuffling gaily along.

Then appeared a band of boys,
Through with school for the day;

Cries of "nigger" and "bastard"
Disturbed the black child's play.

He paused like a hunted hare;
He brushed a tear aside,
As with a primeval cry
He ran away to hide.

I clenched my fists in anger,
And fortwith turned my back.
How could the boys be so cruel,
Because the child was black.

Downtrod ones, forgive my race
That we have mocked you so,
For underneath your dusky skin,
Your soul is white, I know.

JO  jones.

MOOD

A cloud envelopes the city,

A fog that's wet and gray,

And gloominess unsheathes her claws

And takes my heart her prey.

I look down on the loathsome shacks

Where people live and die,

Oh, why must life be drab and dull,

1 clench my hands and cry!

And why must fogs descend on us

To make days wet and chill?

Why can't we drink of sunshine's light

Until we get our fill?

Why must Nature be so hard

And wreak such exacting cost—

In an abyss of hopelessness

My lonely soul seems lost.

But the fog is slowly lifting

And the sun is taking hand,

My heart lets loose its gloominess

And bursts its every band,

For now I know we must pay

For Happiness in store,

So that our souls will cherish it,

And hold it for ever more.

WlLMA DYKEMAN

When I get sick there's always a flock
Of those people known as friends,
Who gather as a dark lone cloud That on me must descend.
These friends are all physicians
Though they haven't an M.D.
Some friends had my illness so
They tell the cure to me.
One 'says that patent medicine
Has cured his Great Aunt Mary,
The second warns me against "such drugs'^
A belief that's quite contrary.
A life-long pal tells me to go
Down South where it's nice and hot,
Another says the North's the place
To cure the pain I've got.
I'm advised to go to Doctor X,
He's the friend of a friend I \now-*
I'm told to leave all Doctors out,
They're just a lot of blow.
One adviser tells me this,
Another tells me that —
1 don't know which to listen to,
1 don't know where "I'm at."
But this one thing I'm sure of,
After all their call and beck,
1 may be cured of the ache I had —
But I'm a nervous wreck

wilma dykeman

OUR PROBLEM

Frank Glenn

America, the land of promise, loomed large in the eyes of millions of foreign peasants in a day now past. Boat after boat weathered the Atlantic to dump on this shore peoples of all nationalities. Cities became areas of seething humanity, wealth flowed abundantly, and gold—gold — GOLD was the goal of every man's son and daughter. A pioneer west sprang up overnight, expansion outgrew itself—every­one became rich and powerful. Years of development and prosperity followed swift­ly until we now stand at a new era of American History.

No more can men go out and chip large blocks of gold from the street curbing, no more should men visualize the "get-rich-quick" policy ,and no more can a man get by without exerting energy. Today we must work and work, we must school our­selves, and above all we must start at the bottom and through the sweat of our brow strive for a living. Those immortal fore­fathers of ours fought for posterity and coded its future, they formulated ideals and cultural patterns and now that the nation enters a new crisis we, their posterity, must reinterpret those ideals. In a changed land we must quit floating in the clouds, come back to the good, damp earth and make our people contented and happy.

Happiness does not wholly consist of monetary conditions, but it is attained by simple and harmonious living with our­selves, our families and our neighbors. We can be happy only when we realize that we must unite with others in a common cause, to aid our unions and employers, to maintain our standard of living and adjust ourselves to present day conditions. We must listen to those people who are more intelligent; we must absorb all and every kind of knowledge we can; we must take advantage of every educational facility we can.

The day has come when we must Samaritanize agents of good-will to delve into the heart of our great cities, to penetrate our isolated mountain regions. These sections need us! They are gradually dying from lack of enlightenment and unless new channels are opened to relieve these people of their intellectual retrogression, they will degenerate. Let us help those agencies who are striving for these conditions, let us encourage them to go into these proverbial "sore-spots" and establish schools, new customs, scientific living methods and bring them into closer contact with those factors which constitute a higher meaning to life.

In the isolated mountain regions of our country we have groups of people who are calling and crying for better things. They live in hovels, scratch the earth for a meager existence, live in filth and slime, ignorant of all external intellectual advances. In our city slums we have people who are begging for life, and help and understanding. These are our own people, they need our educational system, they need the Red Cross, and they need us far above anything else. They want to be normal Americans, but how can they be without aid?

Our problem is not war or economics. It is education, harmony of living, a reawakening of the sane American people to the fact that we must live within our means, in cooperation with our fellow men and give what knowledge we know to those who are less fortunate.

BUS

Martha Wrenshall

COLD MORNINGS

The smoke curls upward in the cold air,
Exhausts steam  on  the chilled  pavement;
Your breath freezes into your hair,
Cold feet plod in a constant movement.
The lake smokes in the city park,
Trees stand still in the north wind;
The loafer takes another sip of gin.

miles fall.

I was at the adolescent age of sixteen. My hands were bothersome things at the end of uncomfortable arms, my voice cracked, and worst of all, a light fuzz had somehow cropped out on my countenance. Inwardly, I felt that I was too young to shave, and I knew that once I had shaved I would have to keep it up. The opinion of other people greatly agitated my doubt­ful mind. Many told me that the worst thing I could do was to let my beard, as I proudly called it, grow out. The razor companies added to my misery. In their advertisements they used little cartoons picturing men losing their girls, jobs and the respect of other people. When I asked my family and closest friends if they thought I should shave, they laughed at me and told me that no young boy my age should shave even if it did look rather bad. What was I to do? I did not have a razor of my own, and I wasn't even sure that I could do a good job. What if I cut myself?

Weeks went by, and still I procrastinated, until I met the loveliest and most beautiful girl I had ever seen. This caused the ads to become more and more directed to me, but minor fears still held me back. One night I took this girl to a dance and to my horrible embarrassment I noticed that she gave me a funny look when our cheeks brushed. To cover my disturbed feelings I said, "I kinda need a shave, don't I?"

Her answer was to be my command.

In a sweet tone she replied, "Yes, I be­lieve you do."

I lay awake for hours after the dance wondering if I had offended her. Would she quit me? I then conceived a brilliant idea. Why hadn't I thought of it before? I could get a shave at a barber shop.

A little stage-frightened, I entered a shop the next day and sat in the chair at the rear. The barber did not say a word except to greet me. I thought to myself, "You see you did need a shave. Even the barber notices it."

His next remark disturbed me greatly, "How do you want it cut?"

I replied nonchalantly, "Oh, I just want a shave."

It seemed that he stropped his razor for ten minutes—I realize now he had to, to get it sharp enough. I felt that everyone in the shop was looking at me. When the barber leaned over me it was all I could do to contain myself, but finally, after a terri­fic struggle, I calmed down and the shave proceeded.

As I rose from his chair, I said in a surrendering tone, "I guess you know that that was my first shave."

The barber replied, "Well, I'd never have known it."

His sarcasm cut me deep, but thank goodness I will never again have to experience my first shave.

LOFTINESS
 

FRANK GLENN
 

Trails Winding
  A Gurgling Stream
  Down Paths of Destiny
  Wandering Aimlessly Amid
  The Handicraft of God

Atop a lofty peak I sit in solitude, near to God in his ethereal kingdom. Scanning across the myriad-colored panorama below, I see spread before me a coverlet of majestic splendor which no king has ever dared to imitate.

The deep scarlet of the dying sun merg­ing with the purple and green of the approaching shadows, challenges the splendor of the aurora borealis. Here and there grey denizens flit and scurry, chased by ghosts of late evening shadows. Behold now! The pool of fire has dipped its head slowly behind a lofty peak, but still lighting the heavens with colors galore. From this lofty pinnacle I gaze on myself in awe; my soul is wandering; in a maze of laby­rinths the God of Creation carries me into depths of dreams, lonely dreams—dreams of sailing, and while—Rolling serenely in the tepid waters of the blue Mediterranean, reclined in the luxuries of a floating oriental palace, I sail into day dreams. Surrounded by quiet solitude, the flickerings from a dying fire lull my waning consciousness into dreams. As I sail on and on, the velvets draped from the ceiling in colorful splendors of all shades—purple, royal blue, and scarlet—close in to engulf me in a blanket of contentment. Gone are the worries and tribulations of the busy world of yesterday, gone are the strife, the war, fatigue and disappointments of a life in­sufferable. The southern moon bathes the scene in heavenly beauty while cool zephyrs ripple the endless blue, crooning the very sails to sleep.

Why, oh, why! Should all this be shat­tered, these dreams, this contentment? Lonliness, what pain—.

A slight tugging at the heartstrings, a longing for something vague, unrecogniza­ble through a hazy mist of tears, a memory perhaps — sweet — intangible; perhaps a dream fragrant and lovely, fading away to nothing. Why, oh, why, all of this spirit-breaking pain in my heart?

Always seeking, never finding—consola­tion and peace.

A few hours of heavenly bliss and then— memories—a few pleasant dreams—and then they fade away into the unending spaces.

As I wake the silver orb has raised its head to continue its lonely way across the star-lit sky. I return down the now-darkened trail to my humble abode where my soul reclines in sleep.

Peace

Night and Rest

The World Is Still and

Solitude Reigns Supreme.

MILES FALLS

INNUENDO

To her he said, "Your dancing is so divine." Then to himself, "If you'd stay off these feet of mine."

"You darling boy," she did reply.
(May heaven forgive me for this lie.)
 But happily for both the dance was ended,
And  out  to  the  garden  their  way  they wended.
He merely held her hand (for she seemed shy), And said, "I'll  never  forget  this  night!

(How could I?)

anne garrison and  sara smith.

A MISTAKEN MOTIVE

Jean Alexander

FRIENDS

When the beautiful hues of sunset Turn to purple, rose, and gold, Making the dreams of loved ones So beauteous to behold, Oh, how the pangs of loneliness Mal(e the heart grow sober still^ How wide has become a once small gap Which only friends can fill.

frank glenn.

Views On Religion

VALUE OF RELIGIOUS FREEDOM
 

anne garrison

Living in the freest country in the world it is hard for us to realize the true value of religious freedom. If we could live as a citizen or visit for some time in one of the countries where freedom of press, speech, or religion is forbidden, we would be more able to estimate just what religious freedom that we have is worth and certainly we would appreciate it more.

Religion, whether it be Christian or pagan, is usually some influence for good. This being true, the unrestrained freedom of it could only mean a step forward in the bettering of a nation. Today, however, we have countries attempting to grow and gain wealth, without any religion — unless you consider that complete obedience, amounting to worship in many cases, to the dictator or ruler, be called religion. If such a plan succeeds it would only follow that religious freedom is without value.

In the United States practically every re­ligion is represented, the greater part being Christian. The people are permitted to worship as they see best. Everyone has the privilege of expressing his opinions as he wishes in regard to religion and to line up to them accordingly.

A PERSONAL INVENTORY

mary jett

To me, religion is and always has been something definitely not to be discussed, and there are few people living in whose presence I would venture to discuss the subject. I have always been brought up in a thoroughly Christian home, but by a mother who forced nothing upon me. No mention was ever made of my joining any church, yet when the time came I made my own decision and was confirmed at twelve years of age.

No restraint was ever placed on me about dancing and playing cards. No re­straint was ever placed on me about any­thing pertaining to religion. People differ so widely in their beliefs as to the Supreme Being and his celestial kingdom. Some people dote on advertising their codes of living and how they are influenced relig­iously. I always feel very reticent about mentioning those things I hold sacred — lest they be uproariously funny to some one.

Family prayer was never a part of my family life. Prayer was always deemed private and partly a part of the subcon­scious mind. While I am not one of the best Christians living, I am positive I am not atheistic in views, and while I would never develop into a fanatic, I am satisfied with my beliefs. As for my way of living, I am not satisfied. No one is living so saintly as to be that.

FOREIGN MISSIONS
hazel carson

I firmly believe in religious freedom, but if one believes in religious freedom how can he believe in foreign missions?
 

I am not sure how churches other than the Baptist feel about foreign missions, but I do know that the Baptist have mission­aries in most parts of Asia and Africa. I do not say that they do not do good, be­cause they go into the backward sections taking hospitals and schools.

My point is, these people are just as convinced that what they believe is what they need for salvation as we are. If some of them were to come here and try to convert us, I fear that we would find some law by which we could throw them out of the country. That would show how tolerant we are in our religious views.

PERSONAL RELIGION

sara smith
 

Religion should be very vital to every person, as it is conducive to a richer life.

Religion, which is the belief in a power stronger than ourselves, is composed of two main things: prayer and faith.

Prayer has been defined by one author as, "the soul's sincere desire, unuttered or expressed", and it is in this capacity that prayer .plays a great part. This is shown in the immortal lives of Tennyson which read, "More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of."

The second element of religion is faith which is, "complete confidence in some­thing open to question or suspicion." This one thing is perhaps the greatest element in religion, for it looks beyond reason to God.

Sir Thomas Browne says: "When I cannot satisfy my reason, I love to humor my
fancy — and this I teach my haggard and unreclaimed Reason to stoop unto the lure of Faith."                             

Thus, we conclude that the individual who possesses a sincere desire and un­questioning faith in God must inevitably lead to a life of service which was the ex­ample Christ set before us.

RELIGIOUS TOLERATION

Burton Kinney

The people of today have much to be thankful for in the matter of religious toleration. Today one can worship as he pleases, when he pleases, and if he pleases. He can belong to any church or any faction of a church in which he believes without being called an infidel by a member of another church. In our country there is no discrimination of any kind of any man whether he be a Protestant, Catholic, or Jew because of his belief in the matter of religion.

Religious intoleration played a large part in the settlement of the United States. The Pilgrims and Puritans left their mother country, England, and set up new homes in America because they were not allowed to worship as they chose in that country. The Hugenots and many others sought refuge in the New World because of re­ligious persecution in their own countries abroad. However, the sad fact was that the majority of these settlers did : not tolerate any religion in their colonies ex­cept their own. Time, of course, has changed this to a great extent but there is still a religious intoleration of a sort in the country.

It is, certainly, a wonderful thing to "save" a man. But how often is the "sav­ing" .of the man the major goal in trying to persuade him to join a church? It often seems to me that the main objective is not to enable the man to see the light but to coerce him into becoming a member of that church and thereby to increase the church membership by one more.

Then, too, long before children are able to think for themselves they are taken into a church. They have no say-so in the mat­ter whatever. They grow up in this church and then, it is not worthwhile to even try to think whether or not their church is the one they would have joined had they thought about it as they would about whit school they wanted to attend or what busi­ness they intended to follow. Every child should, of course, be taught to be reverent toward God, but in my opinion, they should not be coerced into joining any church until they are old enough to decide for themselves.

Perhaps this sounds as though I am a cynic or an atheist. While I am not a mem­ber of any church or religious sect, I firmly believe in the existence of an Almighty Being whom I am content to call God. But I disagree with the religious rites and cere­monies which are being held in most of our churches today. I, for one, am inclined to agree with the writer who said that the woods and forests are God's own cathedral, and that they offer greater inspirations than can be found in the best sermons.

CHRISTINE PONDER

THE THINGS I LOVE
 

I love such simple things in life—•
The everyday ones that are free:
1 love to taste, to see, to smell,
With the senses God's given me.

1 Love the taste of chocolate pie,
With meringue that's light and thick,
Or a glass of sweet, cool water,
When I'm thirsty, or a little sick.

I love to see the fog come down
And wrap the city in gray,
Or I love to see a street at night
All lit up with signs so gay.

1 love to smell the whole outdoors
After a fresh, spring shower,
And 1 love to smell a gardenia —
Or most any kind of flower.

1 love to hear the rain on the roof
At night while 1 fall asleep,
Or to hear someone say they like me
"With a sincerity that's deep.

Oh, there really is so much 1 love
In this world so truly fine,
I guess I'll never get bored with it,
Because you see — it's mine!

wilma dyk.eman.

frank glenn

Gutteral laughter resounding from rafter to rafter; songs echoing with resonance from coarse and burly throats that have for a lifetime been exposed to the harsh, biting sting of gales and salty spray; smoke curl­ing upward from the open, log fire to pass out through a ventilating hole in the ex­treme top of the timbered palace; boister­ous, exultant yells of mirth mingling with the clattering of pans and scolding of cooks; relating a story with vividness, an old war­rior holding the attention of a group of shaggy- haired, wide-eyed youngsters, by pantomimic expressions; in a far off corner reclining among a florid bed of velvets, a group of young boys discussing what they are going to be when they become warriors; giants, all of them, some seated lazily, some standing, and others sprawled out in every conceivable fashion of grotesqueness; walls draped with velvets from far off palaces, colored as only the near Aurora Borealis dare imitate—gorgeous purple, vivid scarlet, royal blue, walls decorated with shields of bullhide, dragons, serpents, and ensigns of battle, designed on them in ghastly, unbe­lievable horribleness; swords in pyramidical fashion, looming out of the darker shadows like demons, with the flashes of action in them as the fire light plays across the razor-like weapons in amazing swiftness; polar skins, deerskins, antlers of a mighty stag whose proud head no more with velvety eyes will scan the barren wastes of the cruel northern wild searching for his mate; the din growing greater as the signal that the feast is beginning peels forth from the kitchen; like a charge on a fortified castle the rush starting, each try­ing to push his neighbor aside and gain the table first, but there is room for all; and as soon as everyone is seated the first semblance of order is shown as a gigantic blonde-bearded warrior stands, and with bowed heads the members of the rough-house become as lambs, the sonorous voice of the leader booming out the prayer of thanks; the last words uttered; the doors swinging out and in troops a procession of girls bearing steaming platters, some requir­ing two to carry them, whole pigs, roasted to a luxurious brown and reeking with savory aroma, ducks, bear steaks, well done, deer, fish and numerous other meats pouring in by the dozen; dishes of every vegetable, berries, pies, cakes, pud­dings, sauces, delicious and appetizing; the mead and wine cups always full and gallons consumed; grabbing with greasy hands, gorging and stuffing themselves, seeming never to fill; gradually slowing down and getting up to stagger over into the lounging room, there falling into the soft masses of furs and velvet to drink themselves drunk from the choice of French and Italian wines; continuing this until early in the morning; with the howling of the gale on the outside striving to penetrate the solidly built walls, the scene is one of great confusion; half naked, hairy bodies strewn grotesquely all over the floor, legs sprawled over one another, snores, deep and long; a servant slipping in to replenish the fire and the drunken brutes sleeping on for hours only to arise and continue this for the whole of a week, after which time the old Norwegian Vikings' festival and home-coming is complete; the summer's voyage into southern seas where battle rages, merchant vessels are plundered and sunk, towns sacked, people terrorized and the lazy southerners, shuddering at the mention of the Viking's name, pile treas­ures high—gold, silver, rings, armlets, necklaces spices, cloths from rich estates, laces, jewels and rare foods—all for the pleasure of these brave stalwart warriors at their feasts.

College and High School Graduates May Earn Degree In Local Institution

Cecil's Business College is accredited by the National Commercial Schools, and is authorized to grant the H. G. B. (Honor Graduate in Business) Degree. This de­gree is conferred directly by the Associa­tion in conjunction with the local school. A graduate of an Accredited school enjoys an exceptionally favorable introduction to the business world on account of the generally recognized excellence of Ac­credited schools throughout the country. Students and graduates enjoy fraternal re­lations with managers of Accredited schools, which are both helpful and valu­able.

There is another advantage in attending an Accredited school that cannot easily be described. It is the spirit of the in­stitution — the fellowship — the mutual helpfulness, and above all, the fine atmos­phere of earnest endeavor.
 

INVESTIGATE BEFORE DECIDING UPON A SCHOOL

Preparation for your business career is so vital a matter that the selection of a school should be made only after a most thorough investigation. You owe it to yourself to guard against being misled by specious statements, whether of flashy ad­vertisements or of persistent canvasser, whose chief interest is in securing a com­mission on your enrollment rather than in the training you are to receive. Visit the school. Inspect the surroundings, light, ventilation, arrangements of rooms, equipment and methods. Observe the per­sonnel and spirit of the officers, instruc­tors and student body. The influences of such associations are lasting and far-reaching.

Cecil's Business College invites any pro­spective student to make such a visit, with the assurance that no one will be im­portuned to enroll, and that in every way one's rights as a guest will be accorded full respect,
 

TRAIN FOR BUSINESS AT CECIL'S

This well-known school keeps in touch with the leading business firms of this entire section. Evidence of the success of this school and the contact it has in plac­ing it's graduates is the fact that almost every leading business organization In the City of Asheville employs one or more of its graduates. Students may enter any Monday;—Ad.