Bluets - January 1938

[Cover of "Bluets," January 1938], University Archives, D. H. Ramsey Library, UNCA.

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BLUETS

A Literary Magazine Dedicated to the

                                                                                                                                                     
                Expression of Progressive Undergraduate Opinion

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'Twill not be long before they hear

The bull-bat on the hill, And in the   
         valley through the dusk

The pastoral whippoorwill
 A few more friendly suns will call

The BLUETS through the loam,
And star the lanes with buttercups.
           Away down home.

—john charles McNEILL
BILTMORE   COLLEGE
asheville, north carolina
January, 1938

BLUETS

Published by the Students of Biltmore College

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vol. XI                                                                                    january, 1938                                                                         Number 1
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THE STAFF

BUSINESS MANAGERS                                                                              ASSOCIATE EDITORS
     RAY CRANE                                                                                                      LUCILE TANDY
     IDA ROSEN                                                                                                        GRADY REAGAN, JR.  
                                                                         CO-EDITORS                              ANDREW SUTTON
TYPISTS                                                        WILMA DYKEMAN
     EILEEN SMITH                                                    AND                                    ART EDITOR
     ROBERT CAMPBELL                                  GEORGE SMITH                               BILL HENDRIX

FACULTY ADVISER                                                                                     CIRCULATION EDITORS
     MISS VIRGINIA BRYAN                                                                                       LUCY CARLAND
                                                                                                                                CHRISTINE PONDER
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Editorial Comment

"WHERE THE BLUE BEGINS"

There was once a story written about a little dog who travelled all over the world seeking the place where the blue be­gan. When he could not find the magical spot, he returned home, and there in his own basement amid blue smoke he found what he had been seeking so diligently.

People are like that little dog. They are seeking the line where the blue of happi­ness begins. Each person has his own idea and formula for finding it. He arms him­self with courage and strength, girds him­self with knowledge, and all his life fights a battle to find happiness. What he does not realize is that happiness is not some­thing we find; it is something we create. We do not accidentally stumble upon it as we would some tangible treasure house. It is a realization, a sudden conception, that Life is good, and we are fitted into its pattern.

Around us today we see people increas­ing their bank rolls, striving for knowl-edge, grasping for fame and success. These, they believe, will bring them happiness and peace. But the really happiest people that we know probably aren't wealthy. Or fa­mous. Or even exceptionally well educated. They have drawn on a source within them­selves and found a self-sufficient well of peace. Perhaps these other material things can, and have, brought happiness to many, but within themselves they are cold, fragile, dependencies. When a person builds a happiness dependent on money, it may leave him; on fame it may desert him; on friends, they may forsake him. But when a person has found within himself the ap­preciation of beauty, the depth of emotion, the contentment of solitude, he has drawn upon a source that cannot fail him. When he knows that the little things are the great things, when he realizes that the truly abundant Life is something we create instead of something we find, he is on the road to happiness.

He may find Where the Blue Begins.

When we want a thing very much we put forth courageous and often prodigious efforts to get it; the Revolutionary War, in which our ancestors gave their lives that we might have freedom is a very good example. Also when we have a thing for a long time—a wife for instance—we cease to value it and relax our guard over it. This is our attitude toward freedom now.

Daily our freedom is being encroached upon by many agencies. Crime has long been an offender on this score. The ten­dency toward centralized government and collectivism is also beginning to take its toll of freedom. The faint menace of for­eign invasion is slowly growing and may someday rob us entirely of our liberty. Yet another menace is the abuse of lib­erty by the press with its vulgarity, sen­sationalism, and utter disregard of the right of public people to have private lives. Intoleration has always crimped our free­dom and must be watched closely.

With all these vicious enemies ever ready to take away our liberty while we slumber, it seems advisable, to say the least, that we be watchful. A price must be paid for all good things, and constant vigilance is the only exchange we can make for freedom. It does not taste so sweet to us, who have had it a long time, but its ab­sence would gall us all the more.
   We must guard liberty with eternal vigilance and watch out for gradual in­ternal encroachment especially, because that is not only the most insidious, but also the most likely to overtake us.

A PSALM OF LIFE

Trust   no   Future,   howe'er  pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act—act in the living Present!
Heart  within,  and   God  o'erhead!

*    *

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow prob­ably doesn't mind our borrowing the title and a couple of verses of his famous poem to serve as a theme and example for this editorial to the youth of today, be­cause he wrote it for youth and made it immortal.

"A Psalm of Life." What is Life? We don't know, but we do know that it is a big handful of miraculous power dealt to each player as he enters the game—to be used for good or evil, or just uselessly wasted. Power is valueless, even dangerous, unless it is controlled and put to work with a plan. So,' drawing our conclusions from these two facts, every living person should have a plan, a motto, "A Psalm of Life."

Longfellow's poem is an excellent motto, especially suited to us because it is "what the heart of the young man said to the psalmist." Let the hearts of our young men and women speak in the spirit of that young man and we will have fewer wrecks, more successes, and a better civilization on earth.

If you don't like this motto, you can find thousands of others; they are all free. We are still young. Most of our days are yet before us. Everything depends on the plan we adopt and live by. Now is the time! Make your choice wisely, stick to it, and . . .

Let ms, then, be up  and doing, With a heart for any fate;
Still   achieving,   still   pursuing, Learn to labor, and to wait.

Oh, I’ve Missed You!

james B. keith, jr.

Somewhere out on the mountainside, a dog howled, and on the roof of the little cabin a loose shingle wailed like a lost banshee in answer. Tonight the wind was coming up the valley to play on the harp of the pines and slip its cold fingers into the room through the cracks in the log walls that he had forgotten to fill during the warmer months of summer. This night would be cold, one of those clear, cold nights when the moon forgets to hide behind the deep blanket of fog in the valley, but comes out to make the world a pale, ghostly dream. The trees sang when the wind kissed them and threw long, weird shadows over the land as though to hide the dead clothes they had lost and to cover up their nakedness in shame.

"Is that  all,  sir?"

At the sound of the voice, the old man turned half into the room and frowned.

"Eh!" he rasped, then seeing the slightly bent form of Hong Woo, the Chinese boy he had veritably pulled out of the gutter during a street brawl in the university city of Changsha and made his most trusted servant more than twenty years ago, his handsome aged face broke into a smile. "Oh, yes, Hong, that will be all tonight. Just be near if I want you."

"Yes, sir." Hong bowed lower and slipped out as noiselessly as he had come.

"Blazes, the way that boy has picked up English," he mused and leaned heavily on the cane he carried. It was a queer sort of cane, one that Hong had given him shortly after he had been shot in one of the bandit raids that frequented China during those days after the great war with Japan. A slender rod of bamboo, headed with a little gold Chinese god squatting in prayer, the cane had helped keep him on his feet for all the years since that eventful day.

"China will miss you, Roy," Mac had told him, and he had slapped Mac lovingly on the side of his rugged face and said,

"I'll miss China, Mac, and those heathen devils who tried so hard to get me."

Then he had come here to this little part of heaven and never gone back to the land that had for a time made him forget.

The fire needed another log, and the oil lamps were beginning to flicker out. Hong was getting too careless about filling the blasted lamps. There were not many either. Just enough to give the room an eery sort of look, eery but comforting when the night came, and the cheery log fire fought back at the cold fingers of the wind. He might as well let the lamps go out. He could put on another log himself. No use to bother Hong again.

He managed to make the hobble over to the big chair by the fire. Even after eighteen years, the old wound still pained occasionally, and tonight it was doing its best to kill him. Easing down into the soft folds of the chair he reached for his pipe and tobacco, filled the pipe, and stretched out comfortably. Then he started up. He had forgotten to put a log on the fire. Oh, well, let it go; it looked more cheery flick­ering that way.

The night grew black outside. The last lamp sputtered and went out. Only the fire glowed in the hearth, spurting up little flames that shot streaks of light through the gloom in the room. The little god on the cane bowed reverently in prayer as though afraid to break the still, quiet calm. Old Roy Townsend's pipe dropped from his lips, his head fell forward onto his chest, and the pipe slipped and fell softly into a fold of his jacket.

Gliding through the darkness of the cabin room, as though she were afraid to waken the house, a young girl, hardly out of her teens, slipped toward the chair by the fire. She was beautiful, not a harsh home beauty, but natural with a soft round face, a small slightly curved nose, and full lips. Her figure was taller than natural, but she was well-proportioned.

"Roy," the girl stopped in the middle of the room, almost afraid to go on. Then a young man arose from the chair and faced her.

"Marie! I thought you would never come." The young man resembled the older man who had gone to sleep in the chair a few hours ago, but was taller now that the cane was gone, his hair was brown and waved slightly, and his face was young and almost boyish.

Slowly they approached each other, and the young man drew her close to him and kissed her. The girl smiled as they broke, and the boy lifted his hand and touched a deep dimple that appeared in her cheek.

"It's still there," he smiled.

"It stayed there for you," she said, and kissed him again. "Oh, I've missed you, Roy."

"I've missed you, Baby. Twenty five years. God, I'm glad they're over."

TOO LATE
ida rosen
 

The stream of life welcomes;
It beckons us to  come.
Along its waters peacefully,
Eternally we'd float.

Now here, now there, we'd dock
At any shore we choose.
Why must we wait so long
When all could be gay?

Yet Fate is not so kind;
It will not let us drift.
But makes us wait and hope
Till all we want is lost.

Continue?
Hoyt acker

I mean, freshmen, why should we con­tinue to spend the greatest part of our conscious life and thoughts on books—on learning—for four more years? Psychol­ogists tell us that natural capacity is heredi­tary and that no amount of education can increase it. So, I ask, "Why Continue?"

Let us stop a moment and think. Just what is it we really want in life? Con­sciously or subconsciously we all desire happiness—the ultimate goal of mankind. We each have our separate recipe for hap­piness. Our problem, then, is obtaining the ingredients of the recipe. Under our pres­ent social system education is our "legal tender" for greater happiness.

We need not worry over our "natural capacity"—the fact that we have reached college proves our sufficiency in this re­spect. If we must worry, however, let us worry about our utilization of natural ability.

We might compare our capacity to a powerful automobile. It may be lubricated and have "winter" oil in the crankcase. Seemingly in perfect condition, but it won't go. There is no gasoline in the tank. Likewise we may be blessed with a large natural capacity, but "it won't go." There is no specialized knowledge in the "tank."  We have driven into a "filling station" and have asked the operators, the teachers, for a quantity of "gas."  We have a long way to go

OUT OF THE DARKNESS, WHAT?

                              By

                 CHRISTINE PONDER

Through the sinister blackness, amid the fury of the winds, two shadows, by some
fate inextricably bound, struggle for re­
lease.

Each laments, with moans and shrieks,
the life it might have had without the
other; each vows, with woeful curses, to
get that life it yet can have, each without
the other.

The strivings of the shadows at length
are stilled. The winds and the night are eternal.

I Go Native

Jo jones

I have just finished reading the most interesting article about a lady who has attained the ripe old age of one hundred and four. She has never been sick a day in her life, and what's more, she attributes her long life and good health to the fact that she has lived out-of-doors most of the time, has eaten nothing but raw vegetables, fruits, nuts, and milk, and worn just as little as the law allows. Now I have always loved to have my name in the paper, and I think that I will live out-of-doors, and eat nuts, and raw vegetables, and milk, and fruit, and someday they will write a nice story about my longevity, or maybe it is longitudity; anyway it is something which old people have that other people don't. My boy friend, Clar­ence, told me it was bands which go around the earth from north to south, and sailors tell time or something by it, but since I didn't see any bands, or even a bass horn, going north and south when I was up in an airplane, and since I have never seen sailors telling time by old people, I am sure that Clarence must be a bit screwy.

Notwithstanding, I call Clarence and tell him not to come around to see me for a long time, because I am going out into the woods, and eat raw vegetables, and milk, and fruit, and nuts. Clarence mutters something about my not needing any nuts. I don't understand what he means, but I don't like the tone of his voice, so I hang up.
 

There are no woods near my house ex­cept a few trees in the park, but I decide that they will have to do. I put on my old slacks, my halter, and tennis shoes, and tell my mother that I will not be home tonight. I go to the corner grocery and buy a bottle of milk, some cashew nuts, a can of pineapple, and some green spinach. By this time it is getting dark, so I go out to the park. I start to eat my dinner, but the milk is soured, and the nuts are stale.
 

That leaves only the fruit and the vegetable. I try the spinach, and I am sure that I shall never have the same respect for bunnies, because they can't be very bright since they eat raw spinach. I have nothing with which to open the pineapple, so I break it on a rock, but the juice spills on the ground and dirt gets all over the pineapple. Nevertheless, I brush off the dirt and pop a slice in my mouth, but something starts wiggling and I expectorate a mama ant, a papa ant, and six little baby ants. I decide not to trust the rest of the pineapple.

By this time I am very tired and hungry. I tighten my belt and lie down on a park bench, but a big, brawny cop tells me to move on and punches me in the ribs with his William—Clarence says its a billy, but I think it was too big to be called by a nickname. I then have a bright idea. If Tarzan can sleep in a tree so can I. So I run and give a flying leap like Johnnie Weismuller does and try to catch the lower limb of a tree. But evidently my ancestors lost their tails before his, because I miss the limb and land on my head, plowing up enough ground with my nose to plant a field of corn. Finally I get into the tree and find a nice fork to sleep in, but it seems that a big, hairy spider has had the same idea. Now I've never had any particular love for spiders, but if it's a case of spider-bite-me or me-bite-spider, the spider better watch out. So I mercilessly squash him and settle uncom­fortably to rest. Suddenly and uncere­moniously I am recalled from the arms of Morpheus, which is the way my English prof would say "I woke up". There is shouting; there is clamor; there is turmoil. Then suddenly somebody pops a net over me, and I am on the ground before I can say spontaneous combustion, which is what I get when Clarence kisses me. I unroll myself from the net and see a number of people crowded around me. Everybody

starts laughing. It seems they thought that I was the chimpanzee which had escaped from the zoo. Now I am usually a very good natured person, but even the best natures go sour in extremities. I see nothing amusing, and furthermore, I am not in the habit of being mistaken for chim­panzees or any other kind of pansies. I try to look haughty and make a disdainful exit, but I stumble on my shoe string, which has come untied, and fall on my already abused nose, which makes the common rabble behind me laugh even more.

YOUTH SPEAKS

ida rosen

I fear I would make a very poor spokes­man for youth. Indeed, it is my belief that too much has already been said of youth, its faults and short-comings. And words of praise are not deserved. Youth has nothing to say until it has proved it­self worthy of speech and the attention of the experienced and wiser leaders.

Youth of today wants a chance at life. That chance is waiting. We, ourselves, must have the initiative to leave the safety of the stream on which we are drifting and dare the rougher waters of an un­known ocean. It is unfair of us to sit back and shout to the world that all we went is a chance. We have the same chance that our fathers and forefathers had. Condi­tions have changed, but so has the entirety of the world. The essential things are the same.

In my opinion, the aim of youth should be to act. Let others do the speaking!

End

H. grady reagan, jr.

For weeks the drought had continued. Dust was everywhere, seeping through the smallest openings in buildings, choking the air. No records showed a previous heat wave of such intensity.

Cattle were dying all over the prairies. Trees withered and no green grass existed. Snow and ice melted from the mountain tops and replaced quiet streams with roaring, rushing torrents. An old pros­pector had come out of Labrador bearing tales of dissolving ice packs. Eskimos from Point Barrow, Alaska, lashed their dog teams into Nome and told the populace of disappearing floes, glaciers grinding away mountain sides faster than ever be­fore. Reports from the equatorial lands brought news of men and animals suffer­ing^ intolerable heat. The tundra of Siberia was tundra no more. The ice was melting and the ground, frozen for ages, was be­coming soft.

No one knew the reason for this, except, perhaps, three men in a domed observatory high in the Andes mountains. They had a theory—an inconceivable theory—but possibly true. These words they telegraphed to leading astronomers of the world:

BELIEVE CATACLYSMIC DIS­TURBANCE IN INTERIOR OF SUN IS RESULTING IN DISPERSION OF GASES CAUSING EVENTUAL EXPLOSION OF SUN STOP WIRE OPINION.

Answers were non-committal. It was all so inconceivable. For centuries men had wondered and prophesied how the world would end, and now that it was probably here---well nobody knew what to say.  Words seemed futile.  

MODERN ENDING

"If you love me like I love you,
No knife can cut our love in two"
Yes, my dear, that may be true,
But Gable has done what a knife can't do.

—Jo jones.

Radio Advertising

charles colby

He had climbed over the bridge rail and was just about to jump when I caught him.

"Henry," I called, "You're making a mistake. This is a coward's way out. Come, tell me the trouble. Perhaps I can help."

"Nobody can help me," said Henry, in tones of doom, but he suffered himself to be pulled back over the rail, and I art­fully led him off the bridge.

"This morning," Henry muttered, as if talking to himself, "My wife woke me up to tell me the house had been robbed. I dashed to the dining room where we keep our chest of silver—the only thing of value in the house—but all the pieces were there.

"Not the silver," my wife wailed, "wish he had taken the silver instead of what he did steal. Henry, he took my Heavenly Days' Soap coupons. Twenty-four of them. And I needed only one more to enter the slogan contest with a $10,000, first prize, a $5^000 second price, and a $2,500 third prize, and a $1,500 fourth prize—".

"By that time I was at the phone calling the police station.

"How many coupons did he get?" the desk sergeant asked. "Twenty-four? Did you look to see if he dropped any? Well, don't bother, I'll be around myself."

"But sergeant, I don't care about the coupons, I want to catch the thief."

"Maybe you're not," the sergeant snapped, "But I am. I need only three more of those coupons and I can enter that slogan contest. Man, do you realize there's a $10,000 first prize, a $5,000 sec­ond, and a $2,500—."

"What happened next?" I inquired
gently.                                                                                                     '

"Well, then the man next door rang the bell and asked if I smoked El Moldo cigars. Unfortunate, in the excitement I admitted I did.

"Swell, Henry," he exclaimed, "Look, if you come across any with green strips on the under sides of the bands,  save them for me will you?" If I send twenty of those bands and a limerick ending in El Moldo, I might win a $10,000 first prize or any other prize ranging down  to a $1.25.  I need  only seven  more  bands  and  I  have my limerick all  ready,  Henry, it's a sure winner. Listen:

There was a young girl with a coldo
Who got an idea quite boldo
So her cold went away
One fine summer's day
For you see she had smoked an El Moldo.

Henry paused with sad retrospection. Then he took a deep breath and plunged on.

"He spotted my box of El Moldos from the doorway and before I could stop him he had pounced on them and started to rip off the bands and with each of the bands came a goodly portion of the Havana wrapper. I would have done something about it but just then my wife's kid broth­er came running in.

"Henry," he yelled, "You use Fireproof coal, don't you? Well, look, in every ton there's a piece of coal with Fireproof stamped on it. If I get ten of these, I can get a Fiend Set with a miniature opium pipe and write a slogan and win a Junior Dope hypo needle."

He made a break for the basement door before I could stop him, whistling Lime-house blues and giving himself an imaginary shot in the arm with his thumb and forefinger.

He tramped down the stairs and started to shovel merrily, raising such a cloud of dust that I went down after him. At the foot of the stairs I found my wife and Tillie, her girl friend, dragging a case of wine out of my wine closet.

"Think of it, Henry," my wife cried, "I've been wasting my time on soap coupons when we had $25,000 right down here in our cellar.

"Yes,"  Tillie exclaimed,   "I  wish  my

husband drank Whaler Wine instead of Lavender and Old Lace Bourbon. Just think, $25,000."

"You see, Henry," my wife exclaimed, "Each bottle of Whaler Wine has a piece of whale bone attached to the bottom inside. After the bottle is empty, you heat the bottle and the whale bone is loosened so you can remove it. You send twelve of these whalebones and a true story of how Whaler Wine Saved My Life. Imagine, honey, $25,000 bucks first prize and $5,'000 or an evening in a New York night club for the next ten winners."

"Well," I said, "it will be sometime be­fore that case is emptied. After all that's a lot of wine to consume."

"Well", Tillie declared proudly, "She thought of that too, but I said that she could easily pour the wine into some other bottles. She might as well get that $25,000 as soon as she can."

"I'm going to use this case of empties here," my wife said pointing to an old box filled with dusty pre-repeal gin bottles.

"But they're gin bottles," I protested, "and they haven't been washed. "They'll ruin the taste of the wine. I forbid you to do it."

BRAINSTORMS   FROM   THE   PORTUGUESE

By

robert S. steele

Some  might   think   that   craziness   and popularity were synonyms.

Your good deeds will be discovered and praised, provided you let another do the finding.

Joe  Penner  is suing Alfred  Tennyson for stealing his stuff, "Woe is me!"

The Power of Religion

bill horton

Most of us know religion in one form or another. Some of us, however, do not think about it or act as if we are guided by it as much or as wholeheartedly as we should. Perhaps the reason for this is that we do not fully realize what re­ligion is or why it is so imporant in man's life.

Religion is an emotion. It is an emotion which expresses human love, fear, and awe of God, or in some cases, something or someone who is looked upon as a god. In fact, it is one of the strongest emotions that a human can experience.

Ever since his creation, it has been in man to worship and love and fear that which he thinks is the Supreme Being. Man as a rule knows the difference be­tween right and wrong, and this emotion of religion tends to help and encourage him to do the right. Religion supplies the outlet to the other emotions man feels when he is happy, sad, or in whatever state of mind he may be. When he is successful and happy, religion causes man to be thankful. When he is feeling discouraged, religion causes him to have faith in him­self and others by his faith in this re­ligion.

The word itself seems to be quite self-expressive and defies a very satisfactory discussion of it, especially one of its wonderful power. In many cases it has been the main cause for men to do tre­mendous things which have very often even changed the history of the world.

Did not love, fear, and faith in God cause the Children of Israel to throw off the bonds of slavery of Egypt, one of the richest and strongest nations in the known world at that time? Also the widely-scattered Jewish race of the present day is slowly returning to Palestine from all over the earth as a result of religion.

Even the history of our own country has felt the efects of religion. It was religion and religious observances that caused it to be settled when it was and in the manner that it was. To be exact, this wonderful nation of ours would be very different if it were not for the religion and religious freedom that is ours.

Try, if you will, to visualize the world, or our own country without religion. Yes, it would take a very vivid imagination to form such a picture. Taking this into due consideration, should we still hold in doubt the power of religion? In view of the fact that this force has been an important factor in the making of world history, we can certainly say that it is a strong and powerful emotion.

MILADY

// she happens to be fat, she wants to be

thin
If she looks like Garbo, she wants to be

Sten,
If  you   give  her  five  dollars,  she'll  ask

you for ten.

She changes  her own for platinum  hair,
She never has a thing on earth to wear,
Yet what she has leaves most of her bare.
It  makes no difference what's her lot,
She always wants what she hasn't got.

—Jo jones.

They Speak

H. grady reagan, jr.

I am the bullet. Made in a factory with millions of brothers, I traveled many leagues to the battle front. Put into a rifle, I was sent flying out over Mars' playground, flying onward and onward, over shell holes where men moaned with agony, shrieked in madness, rotted in mud; over barbed wire where remnants of hu­man beings hung in hopeless apathy, suf­fering in silence or groaning horribly un­til they died; onward toward a living, breathing, walking man, to pierce his skin and nestle in a final resting place in his heart, which a moment before had been beating with the excitement and tension of battle, beating with the fire of youth. I had no voice in the matter; I did not want to kill him; I merely did as I was bid.

I am the rifle. I shot bullet after bullet off over "No Man's Land." I killed many men, some old, some just boys. I saw their brains ooze from the holes in their heads; I saw the blood pour from their mouths; I heard the death rattle in their throats; I heard the banshee shriek of a man shot in the stomach. I was no enemy of their's. I merely did as I was bid.

I am the soldier. Given a rifle, I was put into the trenches, the dank, muddy, lice-ridden trenches. I suffered the fear of a thousand deaths, as each bullet made its whispering whistle in my ear, as each shell made its crescendoing descent to earth. I saw men fall before the hail of death from my rifle. I vomited when a man im­paled himself on my bayonet. I bore them no hate. I did not want to kill them. I merely did as I was bid.

I am the general. I sent thousands of men to their deaths. I watched the ever-increasing stream of wounded and gassed as it poured its human dredge into the hospitals. I was sorry for them; I pitied them, but there was nothing I could do. I had a job to do, a war to win. I merely did as I was bid.

I am the munitions maker. I made money out of the war. I sold war materials to both sides, but isn't that good business? As long as there must be war, why shouldn't I profit, if I can? Everyone must make a living. Of course, I was sorry to see so many fine young men kill­ed, but that's war. If I didn't sell guns and ammunition, somebody else would. I did not want war, but, if war must be, there was nothing I could do to stop it. I merely did as common sense bid me.

I am the mother. I watched my boy grow from a naughty, sweet youngster into a fine upstanding citizen. I helped him as much as I could. I wanted him to be a success. What real mother wouldn't? Then, they sent him away to camp, and across the sea. They said it was war. I didn't want my boy to go, but he was full of enthusiasm and went, never to come back. They said that he was killed in action; that he died covered with glory. I don't care about the glory. I just want my boy back.

I am War. I like to watch men shud­der from fear, see them riddled with bul­lets, ravaged with gas. I laugh at their cries of pain and terror. I chuckle with glee to see whole men torn to bits. I like airplanes; they are my favorite playthings. They spread such lovely fear. People stand around paralyzed with horror until the first bomb blows some of them to atoms and then they run about like foolish chickens. I merely do as I like with men.

I am Peace. I love to see men happy. I like for them to build beautiful build­ings, make beautiful parks, write beautiful things. I like to see men love each other, be friendly and considerate. I want young men and women to grow up to become useful citizens; to watch them do good things. I love kind men, gentle men, above all, peaceful men. Oh, if all men would do unto others as they would have others do unto them.

SMELLS
Ray crane

Is your nose very sensitive to different smells? Mine is. I like to test its accur­acy in determining the source of certain odors.

The other day as I was walking along College Street, I came to the conclusion that the street should be called "the ave­nue of smells." Walking westward, all of a sudden I encountered the acrid smell of burning rubber—a tire retreading plant. Next I jerked my head up to discover the source of that disagreeable odor of burn­ing grease—one of our Grade C cafes. In another second the strong odor of leather and shoe polish took the breeze. In desperation I crossed the street only to be greeted by a cool blast of air laden with the smell of fish. In sudden con­trast I experienced being hit in the face with a warm cloud of steam saturated with dry cleaning fumes. A few steps farther J absorbed the odor of grease and glue emitting from a bicycle shop.

While I was in the act of wishing that man had been made without a nose, I pass­ed a bakery shop. I retracted my wish. I finally agreed with myself that noses were a pretty good thing, when I took in the pungent aroma of roasting coffee. Then, as everything was going nicely, I passed by a door leading into a beer and billiard parlor (pool room to some). The stench of stale cigar smoke and beer made me change my mind again.

I went home and thought over the sit­uation, and finally came to the conclusion that since nothing could be done to rem­edy the existing chaotic conditions, I might as well try to make the best of it and ultimately die a martyr to my sen­sitive nose.

DETERMINATION robert campbell

Outstanding among human virtues is that one which we call determination, or perseverance. Without it, one cannot sur­vive the hardships of life, but with it a man or woman can reach the heights of human achievement.

It is only through determination that progress has been made. Many would-be inventors, lacking it, have lived and died— their names unknown today. It was left to men with determination such as Edison, Marconi, Fulton, and Watt to give to the world the inventions which mean so much to us.

In the lives of all great men of history determination to succeed and perseverance have been dominating factors. One of the outstanding examples of the value of de­termination is Abraham Lincoln, who over­came his greatest obstacles, poverty and the lack of an education, to ascend to the highest office the American people can be­stow on any man. Our own president, Franklin D. Roosevelt, through determina­tion, surmounted an obstacle which, to many, would seem unsurmountable, to be­come one of the most vigorous men in the country.

History does not list the names of those who lacked determination. They have no place in the Hall of Fame. It is true that not everyone with determination reached such heights as Lincoln, since, according to human standards, the lives of many de­termined men and women have been fail­ures. However, every man who has made a success in the world has had something of that spirit of determination on which our nation is built.

A Browse Among Books

ETHER AND ME
will rogers

When a plain spoken American gets through expostulating on his opinion of the medical world, you will not only be rolling in the proverbial aisle, but you will probably tuck yourself into bed and call the doctor. No one ever thought that you could be sick and laugh about it until Will Rogers got gall stones and wrote not only a masterpiece but also a classic tale about them. Even doctors laugh at Will's jibes at the medical profession. Kings and queens could not dodge his frank but playful pokes in the ribs, nor did he suffer the white robed "jury" to evade him. In this book, as in all of his writings, he brings in many amusing stories on his political friends and opponents and it seems even the ether could not stop the flow of cutting but laughable remarks. You will thoroughly enjoy reading Ether and Me as told by that most American of America cans.

HONORABLE ESTATE
A  Novel of  Transition  by

vera   brittain

This is the successor to Vera Brittain's Testament of Youth, but is not, as the latter was, autobiographical. Covering the period from 1890 to 1930, it pictures the social changes of these years, particularly the improving status of women. How­ever, the engrossing story makes it easy for one to forget he is reading a delineatory chronicle of that transitory era.

In outline, Honorable Estate is the ac­count of three marriages: that of Ruther-ston, self-centered minister, to Janet, whose interest and participation in the feminist movement, outrage him; that of Stephen Alleyndene, whose wife has been a gover-ness in his parents' household and who chooses him for his position and wealth; and that of Ruth, daughter of the Alleyn-denes, and Denis, son of the Rutherstons.

But this outline leaves out two of the emotional heights of the book—the friend­ship of Janet and Ellison Campbell, wom­an playwright, and the love of Ruth for an American officer, Eugene Meury.

Those who admire Testament of Youth will find Honorable Estate equally as en­joyable, perhaps even more so.

—christine ponder.

OF MICE AND MEN
john steinbeck

One of the oddest and most fascinat­ing books that I have read is Of Mice and Men. The author, whom I consider a most talented person, is John Steinbeck.

The story in this book is exceedingly original and was very appealing to me. The characters are just as strange and interesting as the plot. One, a feeble-mind­ed man called Lennie, plays on the sen­timents of the reader. His actions, his speech, and his mentality are like those of a small child. Moreover, he had a certain passion for caressing furry animals or objects. This led finally to very serious trouble.

George, Lennie's intimate friend who cared for him, had, in my opinion, quite a strong character and in some ways was even more impressive than Lennie.

I like the way the author brings about the climax of the story, and also the end­ing because it is so unusual. The names he uses for the different characters—such as "Lennie" (which is rather a child-like name) for the one who is weak-minded and "George" for the stronger one— seem to suit the characters perfectly.

This book has been criticized for some

of the language used in it, but, had it been left out, I think it would have been much less impressive.

For something new, interesting, and en­tirely different I would recommend John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men.

—lucile tandy.

FIRST TO GO BACK
irina skariatina

First To Go Back is a book which its readers will never forget. It contrasts the life of Russia under the old regime with that of the new.

The author, who was of Russian royalty, vividly points out the contrasts of Russia. She explains the things she used to play with, that are now museum articles for the Soviets to see. She points out the houses and palaces she used to play in, with her mother, who was killed by the Soviets for being of the royal family.

Every where Irina Skariatina went she was shown the vast developments and im­provements of her country over the pre­war days. She went back this time to see happy people, educated people, busy peo­ple, her people whom she loved dearly and who were a new people. At every turn she saw power and modern develop­ment—something she could hardly believe since it was such a great contrast over the Russia of the tsars, and even of that time before her departure in 1922.

This book affords its readers with human interest, a study of one of the most interesting races of man-kind, a con­trast of old Russia with new Russia, and a beautiful and exceedingly vivid and interesting account of travel in the Soviet Union.

—pinkney groves, jr.

My Kingdom for a Friend

george smith

As I wander down the halls passing multitudes of fellow-students, I nod hello and pass on; they do the same; that is all. Occasionally, I chat a while with an ac­quaintance, but I have no friends. Yet in­side me I feel an insatiable need for a friend; one in whom I can safely confide my innermost thoughts and emotions, one whom I can trust, and who trusts me. It doesn't matter whether it be a boy or a girl (although I never had such a girl friend) handsome or ugly, talkative or reticent. Only one such friend has crossed my path, but our mutual companionship, loyalty, and even our quarrels made life so rich and worth living that I would gladly give an eye to have another friend like that.

I try to make friends. Yet I am friend­less. Why?

There are many reasons. Possibly one reason is that I don't have time; now I must work, instead of leading the free life of play I had when I made the friend. Another is the difficulty I find in trying to regard another person as a fellow human being, that is, as simply another frail traveler on this road to eter­nity, as a struggling, puny thing in the mighty grasp of Nature. I can't believe that they have emotions, worries, hopes, and fears as I do, that they feel the need of companionship that I feel. This is be­cause of the baffling covers my associates wear. They all wear a camouflage to hide their real selves; each has a barrier he hides behind, letting only a few or none inside. There are many varied screens which face my platonic efforts. Garrulous-ness, reticence, superiority and inferiority complexes are a few typical ones. But no matter what it is, there is always some protecting hedge or wall around everyone I meet. This seems so universally true that I was almost bowled over when I saw a genuine emotion almost escape into the face of a sophomore girl the other day. However, all that considered, I think there is still another reason why I can't make a friend; namely, that I evidently carry a barricade myself which prevents me from really being friendly no matter how hard I try. If this is true, I have a tough battle to fight in going through my own barbed wire and someone else's, too. Perhaps I can arrange a truce with some­body and make friends with him in no man's land. But, in any case, I am deter­mined to win at least one friend some day.

YOUR SMILES

I make no  claim  to  ownership;
But some day you may miss

your smiles
And want them back again,

so  1
With care, save each, in

memory.

—christine ponder.

The Boy

ANDREW SUTTON
 

HOPE

So I pray
That, in time,
We might be Together
Again.

—ida rosen.

Why Read?

H. grady  reagan, jr.

What's the use of reading? What good does it do you? What do you get out of it? These questions might be asked by one who may have good foundation on which to base his interrogation. There is so much that can be said and has been said against certain types of reading material. But, on the other hand, there is much, too, to be said in favor of the right kind of reading.

What's the use of reading? Well, if one reads the right kind of books, the right kind of stories, the kind which to him seems to give the most useful information, and the greatest pleasure, he will quick­ly see the advantages an average well-read person has. Take conversation and writing, for example. Nothing makes quite the impression that a well-formed, well-used vocabulary gives. To be able to use the English language as it is intended to be used, as the most beautiful, most ex­pressive of tongues, is an accomplishment that none can belittle. Probably the only way to build a utile vocabulary is by reading.

What good does reading do you? To be­come a success takes knowledge, over and above what may be gained in school and college. One must be able to choose from the experiences of others the right thing, the best thing, to do. Of course, some great men claim to have gained success by graduation from the college of hard knocks. But, can it be doubted that they had help in many things from the expe­riences of others? Abraham Lincoln rec­ognized the value of reading. Everyone knows how he read every book he could get his hands on, even by the light of a wood fire. Yet, they say he went through a youth of hardship and adversity, which trained him to become one of the truly great men in our history. There is no de-nying that.  It is true.  But, it is also true that he gained valuable knowledge and experience through reading.

Mice and men

Jo jones

"The best laid schemes of mice and men,
Gang aft agley,

And leave us naught but grief and pain,
For promised  joy."

—robert burns.

A wailing from the night brings an in­effable ache to my heart: you are gone.
—christine ponder.

WAR!

Hellion,
Born  of men, Men's death.

-george  smith.

SOMEBODY'S ATTIC

In the topmost nook of a rambling house
     on the side of a smoky range,
At a place where the earth seems to meet
     the sky and the whole world seems
     a strange
Conglomeration   of all the  things  that  a
     higher mind connived
When he let his creative genius loose and
     by some chance derived
A spot of geometric grace . . . of hills and
     clouds and plain,
Where the world is never old and drab,
     no one seeks worldly gain . . .
In the topmost nook where the rafters hold
     the roof from off your head,
There are no musty, dusty smells; but a
     haven's there instead.
A haven where a man can get away and
     be alone,
Take out an aged dog-eared book, sit down
     a while and bone
At  some  odd problem  that  has  bothered
     scientific minds,
And ponder over what is right in all the
     wrong he finds.
There's no  hurry and no worry  when  a
     fellow's there alone,
And  no  sound  to   break   the  silence  but
     Dame Nature's gentle tone
Of  the North  wind  in   the winter, and
     the South wind in the spring,
Or perhaps some feathered fellow might
     come up a while and sing.
It's a mighty welcome haven for most any
     sort of man.
Would you like to see this heaven? . . .
     If you dream, I think you can.

—james B. keith, jr.

BREAKING   GROUND

They're   breaking   ground   for   our   new
     home;
We'll be moving in, come a few weeks.
I can see it now, all cozy and nice,
The big, wide porch going almost around.
Mary  wanted a parlor, where she  could
    sit and sew,
And I'll have a den, full of trophies and
     smoke.
There'll be bedrooms a-plenty, something
     I like.
When kinsfolk drop in, there'll always be
     room.
When winter comes 'round, a great, big
     log fire
In the fireplace will warm our feet and
     our hearts.
And when summer's light  breath  charms
All of the land, in my garden I'll work,
Next to Mother Earth's bosom,
And  bring in fresh  things for Mary to
     cook.
Then fall will envelope the mountains in
     beauty,
And a-hunting I'll go, over hill and bright
     dale.
Then the house will be filled with aroma
Of duck, and  of deer,  and  maybe some
     quail.
We'll live a great life, Mary and I.
Full of peace and contentment and love.
We'll be happy just as we're happy right
     now.
They're   breaking   ground   for   our   new
     home.

—H. grady reagan, jr.

BEVERAGES

I've written this poem,
It isn't so good.
The rhythm's all shot,
And the rhyme's not so hot.
I hope you'll bear with me;
It's the first one I've done,

Really, I wrote it just for the fun.

Course, an'  there's nuthin'  like a jug
Three quarter' full of corn;
Layin' in th' shadder uv a tree,
Takin' life easy, shore as yore born.

Mien  Gott, but der iss nodding beder
Dan a stein of goot olt schlitzer,
Mitt a rouzing dr-r-rinking zong,
Und delling a fraulein how you mizzed
     her.

My dear chap, of course you know
The soothing qualities of tea at four.
Truly, I would simply die,
If I, perchance, missed my daily chore.

Hoot mon, of coorse, an  ye ken,
Th'   invigor-r-rating  proper-r-ties
O' str-rong Scuttish ale, me lad.
Whie, ye en feel it clean doon to yur
     kilties.

Je t'aime, Je t'adore, my good French vine,
How lovelee, zee colair of zee red du
 vin.
Oo, la, la, la, but, eet, how you say?
Eet heets zee spot, ass nothing else can.

Wit a bottle of bonded
An' a moll on yer kneei
Ya kin mow 'em all down
Same as Charlie McArthy.

Now, Ah'm frum Kaintuck,
A cuhnal I be,
Yuh cain't beat mint julep
As fer as I see.

I'm out for the night,
I'll not go to bed.
So, mix me a sidecar,
Let's paint the town red.

RAIN

Coldly the rain seeps through the earth that holds you entombed. It drips upon your body, into your eyes, and on your hair. Insanely I call, knowing well you neither feel nor hear.

—christine ponder.

GIVE ME THE SEA

You   take   the   mountains   with   all   their
     majesty
And  let   them   watch   o'er  you,   ever   the
     same;
Give me the ocean and its pageantry,
Its azure skies; let me watch the game
The sandalines   play   as   they   search   for
     shell;
Let me hear the scream of the gull in my
     ear,
Hear the sad story the white waves tell;
High in the heaven when the day is clear
You can see the hawk lazily soar and dip,
Like Icarus playing in  the burning sun,
Or whiffs of smoke, from a distant ship
Beyond the dip of the horizon,
Blending with the white of a bulky cloud.
From the north, sometimes the wind comes
     down
And the ocean rises full and proud,
Puts on a silver and jade green crown;
Then, screaming defiance to all the land,
The sea throws spray in sparkling pearls
And   shrills   when   her   lover's   blackened
     hand
Reaches low to stroke her turbulent curls.
Yes . . . you take the mountains and give
     me the sea;
While your sentinels guard you well,
I'm like the driftwood, wild and free,
A child of the sea's enchanting spell.

—james B. keith, jr.

"The sun is brightly shining," I hear you say. There is not a cloud in all the sky, and my heart re-echoes, "The sun is bright."

But you fade with the fancy, and in the darkness no stars gleam.

—christine ponder.

LIFE

in the style of edgar guest.

Life ain't a thing that's built on lots a
     pomp and show,
It takes more'n jest a lot uv empty talk
     and blow—
'N biff things don't count so much as some
     folks like to say,
It's the little homely things that we meet
     every day,
Like sayin'  a friendly "howdy" to the peo­
     ple we pass by,
An    helpin'    some  poor  feller   to   git   up
     agin and try;
It's   rememberin'   not   to   say   the   things
     that hurt another man,
An' it's  tryin'   to  overlook all  the faults
     you can—
It takes the little things like these to make
     life worth the livin' ,
To learn to leave out gittin' and love the
     task of givin'.

in the style of dorothy parker

Life's a bowl of cherries

And I get all the pits—
It's a game—of baseball—

And I've made no hits.

Life's a bouquet of roses,
Ouch! I felt a thorn;
It's a play, mine's burlesque—

Why the heck was I born?

Why Am I Here?

Why am I here?
     What have I done to be in a grave?
I  walk   here   among   the   myriad   white
     crosses,
     Wondering why they are here.
Yes, I remember now,
     It was back in  1917. / was killed.
I was told I was "saving Democracy."
     1 see no democracy.

What is that?
     Sounds  like   the  whistle  of  a  shell
     going by.
It is! It is! Can I have no peace now?
     My eyes are dim; I can scarcely see,
My legs are feeble; my arms are relaxed.
     I can fight no more wars.

What good have I been to the world,
     Dead in the grave these twenty years?
I used to paint pretty pictures—
     Pictures  of life, beautiful life.
My canvases brought joy to all that beheld
     them.
     I tried to make hearts light, not sad
     with  emptiness.

Crosses! Crosses!
      My head is dizzy. I can count them
      no longer.
     This earth  that I tread is red with
     blood,
Red with the blood of innocent souls.
     Souls that went "to save Democracy."

But democracy is not here.
      For   I   hear   the   rumbling   in    the
      distance
Of guns—guns in  1936-7-8 and 9.
I  feel  the  earth   tremble  as   bombs  sail
      downward
     To claim their countless victims.

It has been twenty long black years that I,|
     With my comrades, have lain in these
     cold graves.
     Twenty years of torture and unrest.
Why? Do you ask why?
     Because we were robbed of our lives,
     Robbed by war lords and vain men.
Men who cared not for us,
     Or for you  who  live  these  twenty
     years later.

Oh God, I see my sickly shadow in your
     once warm, beautiful sun.
Let my battered bones fall back into  the
     grave and rot.
And let me have the peace I craved and
     was  denied  on   this  earth.

I pray Thee, oh Lord, to save these men
     of twenty years.
     Save them from the worthless torture
     of war,
That they may become benefactors to the
     world,
     And   not   buried   souls   under   white
     crosses.
Teach the war lords and stay their hands,
For they know not what they do.
—pinkney groves, jr.

A Confession

J. J. LOMINAC

Although I hold a dislike for many things, I believe that the most onerous task in the world is that of writing a theme.

The first objective is to secure a suitable title for my future brain child. There seem to be many topics on which one could write but as I sit and ponder, these topics all narrow down to one thing, my intense dislike for composing a theme.
    When I finally decide upon a title, I begin to write industriously but soon my source of information is exhausted and every word seems to come to my mind more slowly than the last. My thoughts, at this point, become confused and before I realize it, they have strayed off to some far distant subject, and I overwork my will power to force my mind back to the business at hand. After much concen­tration a new sentence pops into my head and I madly dash it down, only to realize that it has no connection at all with my topic. I now try to conceive of some possible method of escape from this terrible task which confronts me. At long last, I sum­mon the courage to continue this burden­some task, but I still can't seem to think of anything which is at all connected with my title. I wonder if I could possibly put it off until tomorrow but that would lower my grade, and it certainly takes a kind heart to give me anything like a passing grade as it is.

Finally, I become so disgusted, that I dash down a few paragraphs in haphazard fashion which I hope will fill the required amount of space and still shaking from the terrible nervous strain of my recent ordeal, I arise from my desk thinking, well, the darn thing is over at last!
 

That Old House On The Hill

H. grady reagan, jr.

There it stands. Austere against the sinking sun. Mysterious, silhouetted by the glowing glory. Watching, ever watching, as it has watched for decade upon decade. Watching the lights materialize in the town below. The town it has surveyed from a tiny village to a growing metro­polis, as a mother sees her child grow from infancy to maturity. Like a sentinel on duty, it stands, that old house on the hill.

Full of memories, full of silence. A silence clamorous with the voices of the past. What stories they might tell, of life and of death, of happiness and of sorrow, of good and of bad, of peace and of war. Great men, great women, once were there, in the shelter of those protecting walls. Great happenings took place there.

But, now, it is alone, alone with the past. !No more will gay laughter ring in its halls, happy songs echo through the rooms, contentment fill the air with the aroma of peace. It is sad, with an in­finite sorrow. But, inter-mingled with the sadness is an intangible majesty, an awe-inspiring omnipotence. It may be called "just a tumbled down old shack", but it is more than that. It is a symbol of all the romance and beauty of the old days, a symbol of the indomitable spirit of the founding pioneer. It is a monument to "those who have gone before".

The old house on the hill.

An Imaginary Letter To A Younger Sister

Asheville, N. C. September   16,   1937.

my dear marianne:

I am very sorry that I was away from home when you left for college, for there are so many things I should have liked to say to you which cannot be adequately written. You have entered a new and different atmosphere, Marianne, and what you gain from it is entirely up to you. Before, you depended upon mother and dad to iron out all your difficulties, but now there is no one to turn to except your conscience and your good judgment.

I should like to say a few words to you about your school work. You have always been a brilliant student, and I hope you will continue with your good record. But, my dear, do not let your lessons monopolize your time. After all, there are other things to gain from college as well as book knowledge. It is here that you learn how to live intimately with people other than your family, you learn dependability, and you make contacts which will be in­valuable to you when you are through college. Join some good club; attend all the athletic events; make friends of both sexes. And, above all, be a good sport. Take the not-so-good with the good, and take them both with a smile.
    
And now we come to boys, perhaps the most important thing to a college girl. You will find, Marianne, that there are all kinds of boys, good boys, bad boys, conceited boys, eccentric boys, "moochers," and a thousand more. Unfortunately, to-day, the yardstick for college popularity is often looks.  Try not to use this measuring rod.  Some of the nicest boys I have known and some of my most loyal and trusted friends have been far from good-looking. Furthermore, do not look on all boys as material for conquest. It's perfectly all right and perfectly natural to like one boy better than the rest, but it is also a very satisfying thing to have several boy friends, whom you would treat just as you treat your girl friends. As to the "best boy friend," I think you alone can work out your relationship. But remember this, two-timing is always unsatisfactory. Be truthful and honest with the boy you love, and if you find you can't do this, be as-sured that you don't love him.

A Letter To A Friend

Asheville, N. C. September  17,  1937.

dear stephen:

In your last letter you asked me to pic­ture for you the life of our American cities. This question I am happy to answer for you now, after just coming back from the largest city of the world, and from our capital city of the nation—the most beautiful city, I believe, of the world.

Contrasting with the quiet little cobble­stone streets, with the small dog-drawn carts slowly wending their way down through the slow moving towns of your beautiful little tulip growing Netherlands, our American cities with smooth surfaced streets have rapidly moving automobiles. The pedestrians walk hurriedly, paying little attention to what goes on around them. You hear the noise of wooden wheels slowly bumping along on the uneven stones, but here you would hear the screeching of brakes, the policemen's whistles, the bells on the stop lights ring­ing, and the brakes along the streets.

At night big American cities are masses of lights—bright lights, colored lights, and myriads of lights. There are as many people, if not more, on the streets at night than in the day, especially in the summer. Where are they going? To the theatres, moving pictures, and gay night clubs.

Of course your cities are rather modern too, but even your Hague—beautiful city as it is—can not and, I hope, will not, compare with an American big city. City people don't live—they exist, though they don't realize it. So don't begrudge a city man his city life—live in your quiet town of rough cobble stones and live—enjoy and love life.

Your friend,

—pinkney groves, jr.

SMALL THOUGHTS IN A BIG WORLD

The only reason that European courts lack jesters today is that there are so many Americans present that the jester is unnecessary.

*    *   *

Some of us are so obvious that we are odorous.

*    *    *

Remember, the stars see you—and, the stars are your friends.

*    *    *

A broken heart is better than a ruined life.

*    *    *

"Six days shalt thou labor and on the seventh rest," said the Lord. Man says, in response, "Six days shalt thou labor and on the seventh . . . Labor."

#    *    *

All work and  no play makes the cash register ring.

*    *    *

Most of us try to profit by mimicking a big man. But how many of us think to profit by his mistakes?

—james B. keith, jr.

My School Days

jack shuford

When I had reached the age of six, my mother started off my school career by sending me to Kindergarten. My year there must have been an enjoyable one because I remember nothing about it.

My first impressions of school life were those of staying in after the rest had gone. I would sit and write such as these: "I must be a good boy in school. I must pre­pare my lessons every day. I must not throw spit-balls." I got in the habit of stay­ing in after school so strongly that I was unable to get out of it until I graduated from high school. Unfortunately, how­ever, there was a variation of my after-school duties in high school. Often, I would sit with my Latin teacher vainly trying to translate a page or two of Caesar.

More often still, I would sit outside the principal's office. I don't think he liked me. He seemed to take great pleasure in calling me in his office and asking where I was a certain period the day before. I changed my excuse every time, but I never could hit on one that would please or sat-isfy him. He would always tell me to come to his office right after school. After telling me this he would walk out of his office, indicating that my interview was over.

AN EXPOSE OF A MOST UNDESIRABLE DISTINGUISHMENT OF MY LITERARY ACCOMPLISHMENTS
H. grady  reagan, jr.

I possess an acquired tendency toward the repetition of manipulating, operating, or conducting a long, pointed strip of wood enclosing a narrow piece, column, or slip of graphite or slate, over, on, or in contact with a thin, broad section of a substance made from fibrous material, with the digits, four in number, and the thumb, totaling five completely, wholly, and alto­gether, which are attached to or fastened upon the extremity of the right upper limb of the trunk, body, or principal part of a human being, allowing the aforesaid ex­tremity to rest, lie upon, or be sustained without undue movement upon the sup­port upon which is committed the act of producing written characters which the aforesaid graphite caused to be made upon the aforesaid sheet of fibrous material, all in extreme variance to the most favorable, most excellent, imparted knowledge or in­struction which claims, maintains, or asserts as to be in opposition to the accepted, acknowledged, or agreed upon manner or method of causing the production of written characters on sheets of fibrous ma­terial. To go into detail, I write with a pencil held in my fingers.

My First Chum

eileen smith

I first saw her when the moving van drove up to the house across the street. In all my ten years of life I had never had a girl playmate of my own age, but I had never quite given up hope. Many houses had been vacated and rented again, but the new people never seemed to have a girl the right age.

However, this time it was different, for, in the back seat of the car following the van, I saw a dark-haired, blue-eyed little girl about ten years old. I could hardly suppress my excitement; as a matter of fact, I didn't, and almost immediately all the boys in the neighborhood were watch­ing the unloading of the furniture with interested eyes from behind the shrubbery.

When the boys saw the girl their verdict was: "Oh Boy, now you won't want to play football with us any more. You and that other sissy can play dolls." But they were very mistaken, for now they had two 'sissys' on the football team instead of one. I soon converted Edith into a tomboy, too. After playing with boys for ten years, I couldn't settle down to a quiet game of dolls.

I was delighted to find another girl who liked the same things I did, namely, tree climbing, baseball, football, and hiking. Of course, the boys finally accepted us. We could climb as high and run as fast as they could and, anyway, they had to have heroines to rescue in the cowboy games.

To .....

Tonight, beloved, I saw you dead.
(My mind plays tricks within my head}
So stilly were you lying there,
So calm in sleep, I did not dare
To stir again lest you should wake.

—christine ponder

A Nurse Looks At Death

ida rosen

I have seen men die, and I am not afraid. Far more than death I fear the gnawing agonies of pain and suffering. Daily I watch them leave this world— some smiling while others whine.

I have seen too much of life—the cry­ing babies, if they only knew the hardships in store for them! Would they struggle so hard to keep the flickering bit of life?

I shall never forget my first experience with death. He was a small person, both' in size and character. But his pain-wracked body was such a pathetic sight. I'm sure he welcomed death, despite his pleas. Then he was quiet, and a restful, serene look crept over his face. All signs of grief and torment were gone. I so wanted to tell his hysterical wife and fam­ily that he had at last found peace.

The little child, unable to breathe be­cause of diphtheria, was more fortunate than her mother would believe. The death of a child is not so pathetic. It is rather a blessing to die before our ideals are shattered, before the sorrows of life are known to us, before we have a chance to err and sin.

I LIKE MOUNTAIN MUSIC eileen smith

The moment that some people hear a mountain fiddle or guitar or the name "Turkey in the Straw" they put on a look of complete scorn and try to be superior. I see no reason for this attitude, although the radio has made these folk songs monotonous at times. But swing affects me the same way sometimes, and it is really an oasis in a desert of jazz to hear a mountain song at these times.

There are different types of mountain music. Some songs make us want to clap our hands or tap our feet or even get up and dance a jig. A mountain jig is one of the most catching of all forms of music. There is another type of mountain song which is like a cool breeze straight from the heart of the Smokies or moonlight on a rippling stream. Many of the ballads sung by the mountaineers in the deep, isolated parts of the Smokies were brought over from England centuries ago by the pioneers and have changed very little.

There is yet another type and that is the kind that makes us want to yodel or sing. Mountain music is one of the best kinds of songs to harmonize. It has rhythm and life. I have heard "Turkey in the Straw" in swing time, and it seemed much more appealing than the usual type of swing music—more originality and not so stuffed with trite phrases, musical and lyrical.

America should be proud of her versatility in folk songs and not scorn them as old-fashioned or out-worn.

A Legionnaire Speaks

ray crane

"Mr. Taylor, would you mind telling me just where you were and what you were doing at the eleventh hour on the eleventh day in the eleventh month of the year 1918?" I put this question up to a well-known Asheville Legionnaire. His answer put me in a quandary.

"I'm afraid I can't help you much, fel­low, because I don't know where I was or what I was doing at that moment ex­cept to this extent: I was somewhere in France unconscious."

"Tell me more," I begged, as he mechanically took a towel and wiped the clean, stained oak counter before him.

The obliging Legionnaire went on and related to me how he had been shot forty-five minutes before that most welcome doc­ument was signed. His division had just reached what was their last "zero hour" and had "gone over the top" for the last time. He was killing his share of the "Hienies" when he was hit in the legs and shoulder with several rifle slugs.

"The last thing I remember," continued the veteran, "was perhaps my biggest mo­ment during the war. I was being car­ried off the field on a stretcher. We were right next to a shell-hole as big as a house when I heard that too-familiar whine of an approaching shell. The Germans had just begun to use sixteen-inch shells filled with poisonous gas, and this was one of them. It hit about fifty feet to my right and exploded with a dull, muffled sound. The gas began pouring out, and I knew that my time had come. I lay there paralyz­ed and watched the poisonous gas roll to­wards me. Then came that big moment: a fairly strong blast of wind came up from my left and blew that gas in the opposite direction away from me, and I began thank­ing my lucky stars. A few minutes later I lost consciousness. You can imagine my chagrin when I awoke three days later and didn't know the war was over. Nope, son, I guess you'll have to find someone else to tell you about the Armistice. Sorry I can't help you."

I tried to impress Mr. Taylor that he had just related one of the most interest­ing stories I had ever heard about the "Big Show." I thanked him and left, real­izing that it was no wonder that Amer­ica "couldn't forget."

SONNET XXXXX

A sonnet it is said that I must write;
     Small room of fourteen lines and nothing
     more;
'Tis hardly space enough to shed a light,
     Or  let  poetic  genius  heav'nward  soar.
So small a room, so narrow is the door,
     So insignificant the gallery,
That but few gems are placed inside before
     Its portals full to overflowing be.
I strive to sing of deeds upon the sea,
     Of ships that skim  the oceans on  the
     foam;
But hardly is the harbor in the lea,
     When I must needs bring ships again to
     home.
But sonnets have such a lovely sort of
     rhyme That I have wish to write a few. . .
     sometime.

—james B. keith, jr.

Doggy Daze

george smith

I lead a dog's life; barking, sleeping, and scratching fleas. And that's no WPA job either—scratching fleas. They call me Mickey at my master's house. Blacky, Pal, Purp, and Jeff are a few of the aliases given me at other places. But I like Mickey the best.
    
    I first broke into print when I was a pup—I am eighteen (months, not years) now. On that occasion I tore up a folded newspaper on my master's porch. Doggy Days, that was fun! It was all over the yard when I got through. Now here I am in print again.

You probably want to know what I look like. Well, I'm a sort of Spaniel— long hair and all that, about a foot high, two feet long, and black all over, and that's that. The first thing I remember was being petted by a baby whose father bought me to amuse him. They called me Blacky, gave me the best of care, and "house-broke" me.

This was alright, but they kept me too clean and wouldn't let me out, so soon ^mY gypsy blood (from my father's side) began to assert itself. One day I broke loose, and after playing all day, I found myself in a strange part of town and very hungry. I was sniffing outside a butcher shop, when a big man came out with a great big package that smelled like it might have an all-day bone in it, so I followed him home. He thought I was following him 'cause I liked him, and be­cause I was still very clean and civilized looking he let me in his little green house. As soon as I entered, I was greeted by two delighted boys, who hugged me and petted me and, most important of all, fed me. Well, Great Dog biscuits! The in-stant I saw them I just knew I wasn't going to wander any more. They were the two best cut-ups and play-fellows I ever hope to meet.

Stalin—The Man of Steel

pinkney groves, jr.

Today there sits a man at a mahogany desk behind the ancient walls of the Krem­lin in Moscow, ruling over one hundred sixty-five million people. He is a man who used to be just one of those people. As a young qjan he studied to be a theologian; he now rules a state that teaches atheism.

John Gunther, who not so long ago in­terviewed Stalin, and who recently re­leased his new book, Inside Europe, has said of Stalin:

"Stalin is the most powerful single hu­man being in the world, and one of the very greatest. He is different from other dictators because he is not only the undis­puted leader of a national state, but of a movement, the Communist Internationale, which has roots in all countries."

Stalin differs also from Hitler and Mus­solini in that he is the second of a line of dictators, having taken over control from his predecessor, Lenin.

Born Yosip Viscarionovitch Dzh-ugashvili, in 1879, of a poor peasant fam­ily, in the village of Gora, near Tiflis, Georgia, he received a good education. Al­though his father was just a cobbler, he got his son, who at that time was only fifteen years old, in the orthodox The­ological Seminary in Tiflis. Here Josef stayed until he was nineteen, studying to be a priest. He had not quite finished his course when his dislike of the ways of the seminary caused him to give up his theologi­cal career. Also he was sick of poverty, and he knew being a priest would not make him any richer. He became friends with some Marxists, and his long revolutionary career began. Since that time (1898) he has labored always to the same end—revo­lution.

Stalin suffered much in his predictator-ship days. The tsar's soldiers arrested him many times for his speeches and writings. He was sent to Siberia several times and each time escaped to come back and con-tinue his revolutionary work.  Unlike Lenin, Moltov, and other big Russian leaders, Stalin had courage enough to stay in Russia instead of living in foreign libraries.

from all parts of the Union. He reads everything, fan mail—which Hitler re­fuses to do—down to the last paragraph of Pravda. His sense of detail is very great.

Although Stalin lacks oratorical qual­ities, his intelligence is wary, slow, and thorough. He rules by efficient organiza­tion, while Lenin ruled by intellect and personality alone. But Stalin has power to handle men.

Stalin has a trait of "personal inter­est," that is, he takes his undertakings personally. For example, one of his friends was murdered in Leningrad. He went there to personally interview the assassin. An­other anecdote told of him was about the time that he was reviewing troops in Petrograd. (This was long before he be-came dictator). When he questioned a sullen soldier for not saluting him, he found the soldier was angry because he had dirty burlap around his legs and feet in the snow and Stalin had substantial boots. Stalin insisted on trading then and there with the soldier and wore the bur­lap leggins until Lenin made him resume his normal footwear.

And so this man of steel, who, as H. G. Wells says of him, "knows more on cer­tain phases of history than I do," leads on his one hundred sixty-seven million sub­jects to build a leading nation of the earth. He has what it takes to bring about the metamorphosis that he has done and continues to do.

LATE DATE

ida rosen

The dark, foggy night suggested murder. Margot thought it was a pretty good idea as she impatiently watched the seconds tick away. Bill was already half an hour late, and there was no sign of him yet. And London plays always began on time.

Margot's quick French temper sharply contrasted with Bill's slow easy-going, American way. It was strange how they had met in London and taken such a fancy to each other. This was Margot's first trip across the channel. She had saved her hard-earned pennies for a long time to make the trip, and since her acquaintance with Bill, she felt well-repaid. She really knew very little about Bill, except that he was from New York and here in Lon­don on some mysterious diplomatic mission.