Bluets - May 1938

[cover of "Bluets," May 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
May, 1938

Co-Editors                                                                                                 BLUETS                                                              Adviser

wilma   dykeman   and   george   smith                                                         miss   virginia   bryan
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

EDITORIAL COMMENT                                                                                                              PAGE      
     Wanted:  Men and Women Not For Sale ________________________________       3
     The Last Mental Hurricane of 1938 _____________________________________     4
Gentlemen Preferred __________________________________ ROBERT S.  STEELE     5
To B _____________________________Poem___________________ IDA ROSEN    6
A Letter ________________________________________ ANDREW SUTTON, JR.     7
STUDENT OPINIONS OF WAR:
     They'll Hafta Cum an' Git Me ______________________ H. GRADY REAGAN, JR.     8
     War's Accomplishments _________________________ ROBERT CAMPBELL, JR.    8
     Co-operation ________________________________________ GEORGE SMITH     9
     They Forget ______________________Poem_____________ LUCY CARLAND    10
Southern Saying ___________________________________CLARENCE MCCALL     10
Medicines of the North Carolina Mountain People __________ JUDSON EDWARDS     11
Personal History _____________________Poem___________ WILMA DYKEMAN   11
Spring, 1938 ________________________Poem____________ WILMA DYKEMAN  12
POETRY SECTION:
     Smoke Dream ____________________________________ JAMES B. KEITH, JR.   14
     Alone _________________________________________ CHRISTINE PONDER    14
     Retiary _______________________________________ HURLEY MACINTOSH    15
     Of Colors ________________________________________WILMA DYKEMAN   15
     Gold ___________________________________________ JAMES B. KEITH, JR.  16
     Inconsistency ____________________________________ JAMES B. KEITH, JR. 17
     To My Mother ___________________________________ WILMA DYKEMAN    17
     The Sky Trail __________________________________ H. GRADY REAGAN, JR.  18
     Diverse Effects _________________________________________ LEROY LOVE   18
     The Train ___________________________________________ GROVER ALLEN  18
     Dark Dawn ___________________________________________ GLENN SMITH  19
     Moods _________________________________________ CHRISTINE PONDER  19
     Autobiography ___________________________________ WILMA DYKEMAN  19
Mountain Girl ___________________________________ H. GRADY REAGAN, JR.   20
My Model T Ford ______________________________________ JACK SHUFORD   23
Collegiate _____________________________________________ EILEEN SMITH    23
Are You a Fraternity Man? _____________________________ ROBERT S. STEELE    24
Meditation Upon Poe ______________________________________ LEROY LOVE   25
Silver Pitchers ______________________________________ WILMA DYKEMAN   26
God's Morning _____________________________________ HURLEY MCINTOSH   26
My Pet Hate _____________________________________________ RAY  CRANE   27
On An Alarm Clock ________________________________ ANDREW SUTTON, JR.  27
Fame or Obscurity ___________________________________________ JO JONES    28
The Magic of Music ____________________________________ GEORGE SMITH    28
The Advantage of Total Abstinence __________________ ANDREW SUTTON, JR.    30
Escape ___________________________________________ WILMA DYKEMAN    30
Books That Have Influenced Me __________________ RAYMOND RICHARDSON     31
A BROWSE AMONG BOOKS:
     Saul, King of Israel ______________________________________ IDA ROSEN     32
     Northwest Passage _____________________________ ANDREW SUTTON, JR.    32
     Assignment in Utopia ______________________________ WILMA DYKEMAN   33
     Ascaris _______________________________________________ IDA ROSEN    33
Hands Across the Ocean _______________________________ PINKNEY GROVES   34
To _______________________________Poem___________ CHRISTINE PONDER   34
"Mike" Fright __________________________________________ EILEEN SMITH    35
Two Roads There Are ________________Poem____________ WILMA DYKEMAN   35
The Story of a Tree ________________________________ ANDREW SUTTON, JR.  36
Reality ____________________________Poem___________ CLARENCE MCCALL  36
My Aspiration for a Happy and Successful Life __________________ LEROY LOVE    37
Old Clothes Are Like Old Friends ____________________________ EILEEN SMITH   38
With Others ________________________________________ JOHN CARPENTER    39
Sunrise ____________________________________________ BILL MCCONNELL    39
The Story of a Girl ________________________________ ANDREW SUTTON, JR.    40
Classics or Swing? ___________________________________ BILL MCCONNELL     41
Worship ______________________________________ ROBERT CAMPBELL, JR.    41
Dugout __________________________________________ JAMES B. KEITH, JR.    42
Postscript _______________________Poem_____________ WILMA DYKEMAN     43
First Impressions _________________________________ MARGARET STARNES   44
A Song _________________________Poem_____________ CHRISTINE PONDER   44
The Friendly Mountains __________________________ ROBERT CAMPBELL, JR.   45
The Tragedy, Man _______________________________ H. GRADY REAGAN, JR.   45
Zebulon Baird Vance ______________________________________ RAY CRANE    46
That Jew ________________________Poem_________________ GLENN SMITH     47
Rain ____________________________Poem_________________ GLENN SMITH    48

BLUETS

Published by the Students of Biltmore College

____________________________________________________________
Vol. XI                                          may, 1938                                 number 2
_____________________________________________________________________

THE STAFF

BUSINESS MANAGERS                                                                                                                              ASSISTANT EDITORS
HARRY BELK                                                                                                                                                                             PROSE
PINKNEY GROVES, JR.                                                   CO-EDITORS                                                GRADY  REAGAN, JR.
                                                                                                        WILMA DYKEMAN                            ROBERT CAMPBELL, JR.
TYPISTS                                                                                                AND                                                                            POETRY
EILEEN SMITH                                                                      GEORGE  SMITH                                                     IDA ROSEN 
ROBERT CAMPBELL, JR.                                                                                                                                    CHRISTINE PONDER 
                                                                                                                                                                                                      ART EDITOR
FACULTY ADVISER                                                                                                                                              BILL HENDRIX
MISS VIRGINIA BRYAN
                                                                                                                                                                           CIRCULATION MANAGERS
                                                                                                                                                                                          LUCY CARLAND
                                                                                                                                                                                          HURLEY MCINTOSH
________________________________________________________________________________
Editorial Comment

WANTED: MEN AND WOMEN NOT FOR SALE

Dr. Harry Emerson Fosdick recently concluded a brilliant talk with this phrase: "Wanted: men and women not for sale." If there is one temptation that we of this generation must meet, if there is one chal­lenge that we must face, it is the one pre­sented in these seven words.

Wanted, men and women, boys and girls, who will not sell their ideals, their standards, at any price of the dollar mark; who have comprehended the meaning of the statement: "To thine own self be true," and who have the courage to fol­low it through. These are the people the world needs. The man or woman who never lowers his rules for playing the game, whose honest convictions can be bought at no price, is unbounded by pro­fessional and business barriers. Every re­ligious, political, and professional organ­ization needs him, the realm of business needs him. In short, the world needs and wants him.

The pen of Shakespeare never set down a tragedy more awful than that we see about us every day of someone selling his ideals for a position of fame or a sum of money. Every time a person accepts a job that satisfies only his lower instincts, every time he receives a check for doing some task that calls for the sacrifice of a be­lief, he has sold a part of himself. He has sold something that money cannot buy back, and that is entirely lost, for a man's ideals can never belong to anyone but himself.

This is not some idealistic, pretty phrase. It is a powerful force that is really needed. For if we could be men and women that things could not buy, if we would only see that the real and lasting forces of life are those we possess inside of us and that nothing but ourselves can take away, then we would have grasped a fragment of those things that make mortals immortal.

It is so simple and yet so interwined with all of living, it is so easy to grasp and yet so difficult to fulfill: Wanted, men and women not for sale. —W.D.

We sophomores, graduating this year, most of us leaving Biltmore forever, and a great many planning to pursue a higher education at some four-year college, are completing a substantial step in this Great Adventure called Life. Sooner than we think we shall all be spilled into the ocean of life, lost and scattered in every di­rection. We shall have to swim for our­selves, eventually we shall grow old and die—sooner than we believe, looking at it in the dim distance. But time is in­exorable; it shall cut us down one and all. As Arthur Brisbane once wrote, "Time is a sly old man hastening by; he has a forlock but is bald behind, so one must catch him by the forlock or he is gone forever." Forever—that's a long word. Yet every act, every thought is beyond re­call forever. Let us remember that and act accordingly.

Let us think rather of the things to be done.—Each of us has a handful of power infinitely greater than dynamite; that power is called life. Use it sparingly and well, ere it ebbs away.

GENTLEMEN PREFERRED

robert S. steele

Sixty-five years has elapsed since John Henry Newman gave us his definition of a gentleman. His sageness is manifested in his choice of a perennially fresh subject for discourse—those male beings who know what to do and to say at the opportune time—commonly called gentlemen. New-man's definition is truly the epitome of all that has ever been written or said upon the subject: "He is one who never inflicts pain and is mainly occupied in merely re­moving the obstacles which hinder the free and unembarrassed action of those about him." Matthew Arnold's brilliant definition of culture as "sweetness and light," or beauty and intelligence, expounds "the ingredients" of a gentleman also. One of these attributes, alone, fails to produce that which we strive for. Lord Chester­field excelled in the beauty of a gentleman with his polished manners; however, any rule of etiquette may be broken by a per­son with the right feeling for manners and intelligence. Samuel Johnson, a pre­cocious child and a genius, is excluded from the "Honorary Legion of Gentlemen" because he lacked the beauty of a gentle­man. It is the mellowing of the two from which we are rewarded.

Can you name an immodest gentleman? No one else can. Modesty reigns over the voice and gesture. Remember, people often judge you by your choice of neckties, in fact, your whole attire. Someone has said the secret of smartness in dress, which is indispensable to a gentleman, is dressing for the occasion. One word more about the correct thing in dress: the ever-correct Emily Post has well proclaimed that diamonds on men should be conspicuous by their absence. He never talks loudly in public, creates a scene, or calls atten­tion to himself in anyway. Woe to the man who aspires to the affected, blase, and debonair manner to get what he wants. He's playing his part on a stage which impresses about as long as a good movie. Humility is a splendid synonym for modesty; it is to be cultivated also. His conversation is never wearisome because it is individual in its briefness. He never dis­cusses where he's been or where he expects to go if he can avoid it. The test for the modesty of a gentleman is his ability to put up with bad manners.

fore men. Beauty of speech is certainly to be desired for everyone. A high-pitched or guttural voice gives yourself away. With culture the gentleman forsakes many pro­vincialisms and even more colloqualisms.

     In the midst of the war some French soldiers and some of the non-French fighters belonged to an army that supplied rations plentifully. They grabbed their allotments and stood about hastily eating, uninterrupted by conversation or other concern. The French soldiers took their very meager portions of food, improvised a kind of table on the top of a flat rock, and having laid out the rations sat down in comfort and began their meal amid a chatter of talk. One of the non-French soldiers, all of whom had finished their large supply of food before the French had begun eating, asked: "Why do you fellows make such a lot of fuss over the little bit of grub they give you to eat?" The Frenchman replied: "Well, we are making war for civilization, are we not? There­fore, we eat in a civilized way." The im­portance of table manners can not be over­emphasized. To the French we owe the word "etiquette." Lord Chesterfield has said: "Great merit, or great failings, will make you respected or despised; but trifles, little attentions, mere nothings, either done or reflected, will make you either liked or disliked, in the general run of the world." Doubtless, many men have failed to make sufficient impression to obtain their am­bition in this world because they thought it unnecessary to bother with trifles. To believe that politeness implies all give and no return, it is well to recall Coleridge's definition of a gentleman: "We feel the gentlemanly character present with us," he said, "whenever, under all circumstances of social intercourse, the trivial, not less than the important, through the whole detail of his manners and deportment, and with the ease of habit, a person shows respect to others in such a way as at the same time implies, in his own feelings, and habitually, an assured anticipation of re­ciprocal respect from them to himself. In short, the gentlemanly character arises out of the feeling of equality acting as a habit, yet flexible to the varieties of rank, and modified without being disturbed or superseded by them."

North Carolina Division United Daughters of the Confederacy.

Mr. J. Andrew Sutton,

Biltmore College, Asheville, N. C.

My Dear Mr. Sutton:

Some of your acquaintances at Biltmore Junior college have advised me of the fact that you may have had some ancestors. Looking over my records I can not affirm any such claim and I am asking, even demanding that you either furnish proof of these rumors or see that they cease at once.

Possibly you are a descendant of one of the following Suttons recorded in the glory bound annals of the War between the States; however, there is no record showing that you exist. Henry Wallace Sutton, 34th regiment, company G, served three years under General Lee and two years under Major Wirz; promoted to Private, 1st class, June 6, 1864. Andrew "Mellon" Sutton was Quartermaster for the 3rd regiment, Light Cavalry of the Mississippi Pfherdsteiler. He was award­ed his nickname because of the way in which he could direct raids on the post­war plantations. John Henry Sutton served gloriously as valet for Colonel Wade Hampton throughout the war. He held an honorary captaincy in the United-we-run-negro volunteers. James Legree Sutton furnished the bloodhounds which were utilized in the riverside extinction of Uncle Tom and Eliza. There is only a slight possibility that you are his descendent, judging from his alleged mistreat­ment of his dogs. Jonathan Warwick Sutton of Stokes county, 35th regiment, strug­gled throughout the conflict to furnish the officers' mess with palatable two-weeks' corn. He was wounded and relieved from active duty when his boiler exploded dur­ing a rush hour. Three of his fellow officers were stewed at the scene of the accident; the rest were pickled. General Andrew Sutton served with valor as head of the Georgia Mot heaters and honorary Major of the Toro S. S. (sharp-shooters, of course). He was honorably discharged at the end of four years, but unfortunate­ly, like Stonewall Jackson, was shot by his own men on a hunting trip when they mistook him for an open-season male jigger.

THEY'LL HAFTA CUM AN GIT ME

H. grady reagan, jr.

Wal now foks Im gist a pore mountn boy an I aint had much skoolin but wen that air sity feller cum out heer and asks me wut I thpt bout this heer war bisness an wud I go tu war if thur wiis wun an mi cuntry wanted me to fite I ups and tells film gist wut I thinks about it

    Now War is gist lik a feud a passel uv men gos out and fites an kits wun anuther without noin wut they is a fitin bout Now Ive made mi shar uv corn likker an I aint got no likin fer revnooers an thu law an Id gist as soon shoot wun uv them as anythin cus theyre cumin atter me but I aint got no hankerin tu go out an shoot people gist cause sumbody in Wash­ington says they air enemis uv democrasy or suinthin lik that

Sumbody tol me how all them soljers marched round all day in thu mud wile they wus in that plase called Franse an carried great big paks round with them lorig with a big hevy rifle Now I dont min thu marchin cus Ive walked all over thes mountns wun tim or nuther but I didn't carry nuthin but mi ol squirl rifel an skinnin nife an thur wusnt no riiud her nuthin an I dont hav no hankerin to go tu Franse ner anywhur way frum these heer mbuntns anyways   

WAR'S ACCOMPLISHMENTS robert campbell, jr.

One of the principal arguments we hear today against war is the assertion that war never accomplished anything, citing the World War as an example. I do not attempt to deny that the World War ac­complished nothing, that we are back where we started from in 1914, and that history is repeating and will repeat itself. But I do say that wars have accomplished much for the United States. Every major conflict in which the United States has been involved, with the probable excep­tion of the World War, has accomplished much.

anyone dare to say that we would be bet­ter off under Britain's rule than as a free and independent nation?

The War of 1812, with Great Britain, established, once and for all, the freedom of the seas, a principle which has not been denied since that time. Has not the whole world benefited from that war?

And then the Civil War, bloody as it was, terrible as the Reconstruction Days were for the South, welded us together as a truly united nation. As Edward Everett Hale said in The Man Without a Country, "Out of this conflict has come the greatest union ever known to man­kind." Could this have been accomplished by compromise, or, taking into considera­tion human weaknesses, by anything less than war?

Next we come to the Spanish-Ameri­can War, which, although a less im­portant conflict, still has its accom­plishments. Are not the Philippines Islands, Cuba, and other countries ceded

to the United States following the con­flict far better off than they were under Spanish rule? Yes, this war again proved that wars can and do accomplish great things.

I would not for a moment say that we should have a war now because it might accomplish something great. It may be that we have reached a stage in our civil­ization where wars will accomplish noth­ing. But let us not condemn all wars in our fervent desire for peace; instead, let us remember that all those who have given their lives for their country have not died in vain. And let us hope and pray that those who fought in the Great War to "make the world safe for de­mocracy" shall not have died in vain, re­membering the words of John McRae:

"If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields."

CO-OPERATION
george smith

Human beings are so silly—and yet in some ways at times wise. We continually occupy ourselves in wars, strife, and all sorts of petty quarrels; instead of this why can't we co-operate — make one grand human army, an army for pro­gress ?
 

A magnificent building can be con­structed in an astonishingly short time through the co-operative efforts of the workers—each does his special job accord­ing to the architect's plan. Now suppose each worker had a different plan—a good one perhaps — but decidedly different. Suddenly, instead of good-will and steady, progressive co-operation culminating in the swift erection of a beautiful edifice, we see strife and chaos; each laborer at­tempts to construct his building on the chosen spot, tearing down the work of another either to make room for his own or because of jealousy. The ultimate re­sult of this competition is inevitable; many will be slain and the remaining few will be able to erect only crude, ugly lit­tle huts to house their broken bones. Time, wealth, lives, and human happiness have been spent—to achieve what? Noth­ing. Nothing but waste and desolation.

All, alas, because of the lack of a plan! This is the present world situation. Es­sentially, the interests of all mankind are in the same general direction. So why don't we get together and each nation sac­rifice a little—why not get a world-wide plan? Then we could raise a splendid shining tower of human civilization in­stead of the present little group of huts. This wonder would probably not suit ex­actly the individualistic plans and desires of any nation, but it would certainly come nearer them than the hodge-podge of shacks we now have. And it would result in a saving of wealth, time, human lives, and happiness.

THEY FORGET

Not long ago we went away—

To stay—
We went away from all we loved

and yet
They've   forgotten   us   whom   they

could not forget.

Yes, they've forgotten, but when we went
     they bent
Their heads in grief and promised us
     a lot
Of things they never meant—for
     they forgot—

They set aside a special day—
     to pay
A   tribute—to   us  who   left   them   safe
     at home
And went away to die—across
     the foam

We left our homes to do or die—
     but why
Should we have given up the best
     we had
To be forgotten by those who were
     so sad?

They were sad and wept a little then—
     but when
We had been gone a while—their pain
     was eased
While ours racked on and killed us
     overseas.

They lived on, thoughtless and free—
     while we
Are left to rot beneath a cross
     of white,
They just forgot —we fought to give
     them light.

Yes, that is all, they just forgot
     the lot 
Of us who died that they might live
     to let
Another bunch like us be killed—
     and then forget.

SOUTHERN SAYING

Graveyard   folks  won't   hurt  you,   but they'll make you hurt yourself.

—clarence mcCall

MEDICINES    OF    THE    NORTH CAROLINA   MOUNTAIN   PEOPLE

judson edwards

Persons who have lived their lives in cities, where physicians, offices, and hos­pitals are considered as common and nec­essary things, find it hard to realize that in the mountains there are generations of people who are born, live their lives, and die without the aid of a physician. These mountain people are entirely self-reliant, depending on their knowledge of health-giving herbs to cure their ills.

These medicines, having been used for centuries, are handed down from one gen­eration to another. Old women, who have had much experience in caring for the sick, usually prepare and administer these remedies. When applied steadily and cor­rectly, these medicines are usually found to be very effective.

Some of the remedies used for the more common illnesses are: Butterfly-root tea, or honesit tea, given hot will cure pneu­monia. Bark from the wild cucumber tree soaked in whiskey is good for liver trou­bles. For sore, irritated throat gargle with tea made from bark of the persimmon tree, with alum and strained honey add-ed. Tea made from horse-radish, vinegar, and honey is good for hoarseness. Sassa­fras tea, or sulphur and molasses, is a good spring tonic.

PERSONAL HISTORY

Three things there are that I cant com­       prehend:
Men, fractions, and a treacherous friend.

Three things there be that I'll never do:
Eat carrots, swear, and marry you.

Three   things   there   aren't   that   I   wish

might be:
More beauty, more money, your love for me.

—wilma dykeman.

SPRING,   1938

Oh God, Thou hast made too beautiful a
Spring,
In all the world around me is no imper­
fect thing,

My very heart must leap, burst forth, the
song that it would sing.

I would crush all that  Thou  hast  made
     unto this breast of mine,
And   have   it   breathe   into   my   soul   the
     spark of Life divine,
Until the glory of this Spring should be
     forever mine.

Oh   God,  why   hast   Thou   poured  forth
      from Thy Heavenly portal
Such beauty to inspire and hurt, and made
     me only mortal,
That  I   can   never  show   the   world   the
     loveliness Immortal?

—wilma dykeman.

SMOKE  DREAMS

From an aged amber brier comes a smoke
     of hazy blue,
Mixing dreams of far tomorrows with the
     things we used to do.
There are nights we spent together by the
     black and still lagoon,
Where   the   starlets   twinkled  gayly,   and
     the silver of the moon
Played  across   the   silent   waters,   mixing
     silver with  the trees,
With  the tall and stately  cypress, sway­
     ing gently in the breeze;
Where   the   gurgling   of   the   millwheel
     broke the silence of the night,
As it sang beside the mill house, wrapped
     in ghostly pallid white.
Where we told each  other softly all the
     things we loved to hear,
Where sometimes I said I loved you, and
     sometimes you called me . . . dear.
Then the smoke dreams change to places
     that are rather out of way,
To a hidden mountain valley  or a shelt­
     ered sapphire bay.
There  the  shadows  of  the  evening  have
     just  slipped across  the  skies,
Nightbirds greet the falling shadows with
     the haunting of their cries.
For a while we sit together in the still­
     ness of our world,
Watching   fleecy   clouds   of   silver   that
     across the moon are hurled;
And I'm  happy  when I think  that  this
     is just the place we planned,
As  we  sat   beside  the   river  in   that  far
     off other land:
But, I'm brought back to my room ... my
     pipe has flickered out;
And I find this just another dream  that
     I have thought about.

—james B. keith, jr.

000

ALONE

"These stars are ours;
They guard our dreams

And guide my steps

To you.

The words you spoke
Are all a lie,
For now I am
Alone.

—christine ponder.

RETIARY

1 watched Arachne spin her web—
It glistened in the sun.
She crossed and weaved it in and out.
Nearly an hour she spun.

She finished her web and left it,
Craftily moving away,
And there in the shade of an oak leaf
She patiently  waited her prey.

I watched as an innocent moth fly
Was caught in that gossamer veil,
He struggled and twisted and fought
Till, weary, seemed doomed to fail.

Then out of the shade of the oak leaf
And onto her shining way
The spider advanced quite warily
Up to her struggling prey.

It was the matter of only a moment;
The fly still struggled and fought.
With a sweep of m hand I destroyed
The work that the spider had wrought.

OF COLORS

Blue's  the  color  of  Irish   eyes, Deep still water and lovely skies;

Red's the flame of youth's desire, Valiant blood, a big camp fire;

Yellow is rich, warm, summer flowers, Pale moonlight and sunlit hours;

White's the color of ladies' hands, Fresh  washed sheets  and  ocean   sands;

Purple's for robes of king and queen, Velvet or satin with splendid sheen;

But for a glad, heart-warming sight, Give me the green of a traffic light.

—wilma dykeman.

GOLD!

I've   plenty   of   gold—not   the   kind   you
     think,
The kind that falls with a metal clink,
Or  that's  hard  and  round  .   .   .   or  the
     yellow kind—
My gold is the gold that's in my mind.

Well, how can gold be there, you say?
Did you ever see gold at the end of the
     day
On the long white clouds when the sun
     is low
And the daylight lingers e're it must go?

There's a brilliant gold and a purple hue
In a sapphire setting . . the sky of blue.
Have you seen the gold in a lady's hair?
When the sun glints through, you may
     find it there;

There's   the   golden   splash   of   the   wild
     flame vine
On   the   cottage   roof   inhere   its   fingers
     twine;
Gold is there in the field of wheat,
In the pumpkin, and even the pie you eat.

Old timers worn and wrinkled with age
Have found more gold in the desert's sage
Than they ever found in the rocks or
     hills .  .  .
The gold that  lives;  not  the  gold  that
     kills.

There's a filtered gold in a London mist,
And gold in molasses candy  twist,
And gold in a maple sugar tart;
But the purest gold is a giving heart.

—james B. keith, jr.

INCONSISTENCY

In love there is no  morrow,
Nor yet eternity;
The  things  you  promise  love  today,
Tomorrow will not be.

So love me, dear, and lightly,
Yet love me with a will;
For when tomorrow sees the light,
Out love will have its fill.

I'll promise love and marriage,
A life's foundations laid;
But, soon I'll tell the very same
To yet another maid.

—james B. keith, jr.

TO MY MOTHER

To a person who's strong throughout his
     days
The world for long has heaped up praise;
But here's to a woman who's strong, yet
     kind,
Idealistic without being blind,
Who can lead and push and sympathize,
Flaunt faith in the world's sarcastic eyes;
Who neither writes nor paints nor sings,
And yet sees beauty in simple things.
Here's  to  a woman  the world does  not
     know,
And yet, without her small, steady glow
The world would much less beauty have
     known,
In a wife, a daughter, and a mother—my
     own.

—wilma dykeman

 The sKY TRAIL

Me an old Paint, we've travelled all o'er;
We've been everywhere in the wide, open
     West.
But, now we're headin' for a brand-new
     range;
We're goin' to give our weary bones rest.

We're spurrin   up an   o'er the divide
O' sunset an   clouds an' rainbow bands.
We're signin' on to the Boss o' bosses,
An' soon we'll throw in with  the fly in'
     hands.

We'll herd stray dogies down the Milky
     Way,
An^' I'll break wild broncs in star corrals,
Round up steers on bright cloud mesas,
Sing 'round the fire with my old pals.

There'll be plenty of oats for my ol' hoss,
An' the sun up there will never fail.
We're goin   to live in a cowpoke's dream,
For we're ridin' up the bright sky trail.

—H. grady reagan, jr.

 Dark Dawn

The rainy night gave birth
     to a misty dawn;
The fog enshrouded the naked
    bodies of the forest;
The dark beat little tunes as
     it dripped upon the leaves.

Time stagnates as the black
     bodies of the trees sway
     in the wind, like the slow
Poignant movement of primitive
      man as he danced to the
      monotonous beat of the
      tom-tom.

—glenn smith.

moods

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

/ hoarded happiness as some hoard gold,
And every time I caught a bit I thrust it
     in the cold
Uncertain  future, as a shield from   each
     to-morrow,

In the bank of Time I saved against con­
     tingent sorrow.
It would have been a hard game to pass
     up present joy.
But  for  the   ever-constant   dream   of   the
     future to enjoy.
And so, miserly, I dreamed and did not
     live—
To-day I find my strong-box has turned
     into a sieve.

—wilma dykeman.

MOUNTAIN GIRL

H. grady reagan, jr.

Dark-white dawn was fleeting westward as the sun slipped over the Blue Ridge. Birds, newly arrived, warbled their spring songs; a little gray squirrel ran scoldingly round aand round a rearing pine.

And from a snug log cabin, half-hid­den in a clump of trees, smoke drifting from the chimney, a girl's voice rose, "No, I won't marry him!"

An old man's voice answered, "Now, Lorry, I slept on it all night, an* I've decided it's the best thing to do. We're gettin' old, me and maw, an' we want to put an end to all this feudin'. The boys are still aimin' to shoot any Jackson they set eyes on, but me an' ol' Cy Jackson talked it over yesterday, secret-like, an' we figured that they wouldn't be so likely to shoot their rel'tives, even if they was kin by marriage. Ol Cy is tired of feudin', an' we reckoned that if you marry Sid Jack­son, it'll stop the shootin'."

"Why, I'd just as soon live with a hog as that stinkin' Sid Jackson!" the girl nearly screamed it out.

"Now, now, Lorry," the old man re­monstrated, "you don't even know Sid, never have seen him. He's a right nice boy if you was to come to know him. An' think of your family. The rest of your brothers are goin' to git killed just like Tom an' Eph an' Zeke an' Pete an'— who was that other one?—oh yeah Jake. "Now, won't you change your mind and marry Sid?"

"I'll be blamed if I will!" the girl shouted.

The door of the cabin slammed open, and from it a girl dashed off down a foot path leading to the bottom of the hill. An old man and woman followed her to the door. The old man sadly stroked his heavy, silvered beard as the white-haired woman said, "Naver mind, Paw, she'll be back after while; an' then, when she's cooled down a bit, maybe she'll listen to reason."

hind her, "Well, well, and you seem to be in some kind of trouble. Maybe I can help."

Like a flushed deer she jumped up and wheeled. There, leaning against the bole of a towering pine, stood an equally towering young man, a well-worn rifle slung on his shoulder, a long fishing pole in one hand. A shock of red hair capped a smiling, permanently-freckled, reckless face; a pair of friendly, bule eyes looked down at Lorry. He was square-jawed, clean-shaven and good looking in a rough and ready way, a white scar streak on one temple little marring the general geniality of this young giant.

"Here now," he said, trying to keep his voice down to a more reassuring tone, "don't be scared. I don't bite. I just was traveling up this creek looking for a good trout pool. Didn't know I was up this far till I came to you sitting there moping. Guess you must be one of the Murry family that's going around doing their level best to get rid of as many Jacksons as they can. The feud's been going on for quite a spell, I'm told. Kind of a shame that there's hate between peo­ple on such a day. I took a few days off and came up here to loaf and fish. But, whoa there, I could go on talking all day. But I was wondering if there was something I could do for you. You seemed kind of low."

"Yes — yes, I was," she said, still amazed by this surprising young man.

"Well, then, you just tell all your troubles and sorrows to me. I like to listen to people if they can get a word in edgeways when I'm talking. Don't be afraid to tell me what's the matter. I'm a stranger and probably won't know what you're talking about, anyway, but I always find that when somebody's feel­ing gloomy and sorry for themselves, talk­ing it over with somebody else does a heap of good."

"Gosh," Lorry muttered. "You're not like any other mountain boy I ever saw but you must be one. You're dressed just right and nobody but a natural-born mountain man could sneak up on Lorry Murry like you did.

made her her old-self once more. "I'll be here", she cried as he swung off.

Her father willingly gave her a week to decide. He told her that yesterday Cy Jackson had talked to Sid and Sid was ready to settle down, but he wasn't so set on the idea of marrying a Murry.

Five days later Lorry found herself in love. She had even received a pro­posal. Jim Wright had completely won her heart with his unfailing good humor, kindliness, and friendly, happy chatter. They had met every day down at the creek and at each meeting Lorry had fallen more and more in love. Then one morning Jim said, "Lorry, I'm going to be selfish. I know your family wants you to marry Sid Jackson, but I can't give you up. Let's you and me go up to your folks and tell them you want to marry me and that they'll have to find some other way to end the feud."

Lorry said ,"Why Jim, I haven't even said I wanted to marry you yet."

"Lorry, I can tell it."

"Jim, I do love you, and I wouldn't be happy away from you. I think paw wants me to be happy, so we might as well go tell them."

Lorry and Jim burst into the cabin, slamming the much slammed door back against the wall.

"Sakes alive," Lorry's mother cried, "you'll wake paw up"

But paw was already awake. Pulling himself around in his big rustic chair where he had been snoozing while maw cooked dinner his eyes popped open, but before he could say the words that were on the tip of his tongue, Lorry started, "Paw, I've fallen in love with Jim Wright here, an' he loves me, an' asked me to marry him, an' I'm goin' to do it. I'm sorry, but I won't marry Sid Jack­son. There, it's out."

The old man blinked his eyes, grinned, and then started to laugh. "So you won't marry Sid Jackson, eh? Why, that's Sid right there. Sid, how'd you get her so set on marrying you?

MY MODEL T FORD

jack shuford

The Model T Ford is one of the simplest pieces of mechanism ever made. It is also one of the most troublesome and undependable. Mine is no exception. In fact, there are no exceptions.

In order to understand my Model T, it is necessary to have a description of it. The body is yellow. Not a pretty yellow but a yellow that is definitely not pretty. The tires are black and bad. They are not like the usual run of tires—they dislike to contain air in any quantity. The motor, if one can call it a motor, consists of a few pieces of iron held together by a few pieces of wire and a generous quantity of gum of all makes and flavors. That's my car.

During the Christmas holidays two of my colleagues and I decided to make an all-day trip to the city of Brevard. That was a mistake in the first place. We left at ten in the morning and arrived at our destination at four that afternoon. In our opinion that was good time considering we had a flat tire. On our way back we were the victims of another flat which oc­curred about ten miles from Brevard. After looking over the situation, we drove the car off the road, took the keys, and began exercising our thumbs. Due to this excel­lent mode of traveling, which is back in style these days, we arrived in Asheville at six that night. After making two more trips out into the country we finally per­suaded the auto to come back to Asheville. Unfortunately, it had become attached to that section of North Carolina. Today it is resting quietly but coldly in the back yard where it will probably stay.

COLLEGIATE

eileen smith

Pants, which have never known the feel of a pressing machine, rolled above the ankles; hair that has not been touched by a comb since Junior let go of Mother's apron strings, summer, three years ago; pockets absolutely lacking in cents but overstuffed with nonsense; heads being ditto except that the former is sense in this case; suede jackets with disabled zippers flapping disconsolately in the piercing wind, demons, preposterously shaped girls, and screaming mottoes plastered on the smudged back; big fuzzy letters (alpha­betical) sewed on the fronts of big fuzzy sweaters covering big fuzzy (?) chests; black, smelly pipes clamped fiercely in the corners of semi-cynical mouths; thousand-mile shirts which have already passed the seven hundred mile post with "narry" a cleaning; striped vivid socks rolled to the ankles; in-the-far-away-past suede shoes with numerous shiny spots and squashy rubber soles, the whole saturated with permanent mud; once in a while a red or yellow tie; and if the student is recently escaped or reformed, he may have a pair of horn rimmed "specks" perched on the anterior end of his studious nose (This specimen may be labeled "Rare"). There! There is a picture of the modern collegiate of the male species, in toto!

ARE YOU A FRATERNITY MAN?

robert S. steele

It was in 1776 that the first Greek let­ter fraternity was founded. The Phi Beta Kappa fraternity of The College of Wil­liam and Mary was not only the first or­ganization of its kind in America but also the first of the Old World. It differs from the social fraternity of today in that it is a scholastic honorary fraternity and is not a residential organization. Frater­nities and sororities have provided good fellowship for American college students. This is certainly to be praised. The "little-brother" idea is also to be com­mended; that is, the looking out for a new member by an older member. The "house" dining-rooms are far more desirable than the "commons." The game and recreation rooms are an essential feature of "frat houses"; most recreation rooms are fitted with a bridge table, table-tennis equip­ment, a pool and billiards table, a radio, and a piano. Everyone will admit the many excellent contributions of the fra­ternity in material comforts; but after all, there is much more of more importance in college than a home atmosphere. Many home diversions, even though enjoyable, are certainly not conducive to the purpose of college — learning. Intra-mural athletics between fraternities on the same campus has amazingly grown. Certainly much sport is derived from amateur basketball and baseball teams; but there is another place in college for this, all four-year colleges require a minimum of a year of physical education. Perhaps the time could be more variedly spent. The opportunity for peaceful study is the exception in fra­ternity houses. The fraternity has accom­plished nothing towards increasing scholarship. It is necessary to go a long way before finding a college president or professor who will say, "the scholarship of our college is bettered by the presence of our fraternities."

Let's look at the freshman being "rushed" by several fraternities. For "rush-week" the old members have man­aged to get their families' cars. The house has been painted and cleaned. Everyone is his friend. He's invited to this house for dinner and to that one for a smoker. "They're all a dandy bunch of fellows"; he doesn't know which one to choose. That which is most deplorable is the fact that after the pledge has taken his fra­ternal vows, he has no way of undoing what he has done in case he made a mis­take and chose the wrong group. If he has money, he will no doubt go "Beta," because they're noted for their wealthy members. In case he's an unusually good student, the Phi Chi's will nab him. A few good students in a house are always able to provide a set of well written and intelligently taken notes to be handed along to dumber brethren. That brings up the question of honor among fraternity members. Boys caught cheating are pro­tected by their brothers. It would be hopeless to get any good pledges in case the truth about a member leaked out. Old fraternity men have usually learned by a sad experience to sleep with their valu­ables on their person and to keep their trunks locked! A fraternity man becomes quite well acquainted with, perhaps, thirty-five other students in four years; he doesn't know one of the hundreds of other students of his college well enough to speak to him, or at least prefers not to do so. Fraternity jealousy is not to be called uncommon. A sense of class dis­tinction is aroused throughout the entire

college life of a Greek letter man. Col­lege honors, class offices, and captains of teams are often controlled by an influ­ential fraternity. Non-fraternity men are commonly called "barbarians." They are ostracised from many college social func­tions unless it happens to be an open dance—$10.00 per couple.

One  of  the  first   facts  to  be  learned about fraternities is that they cost money;therefore, they attract the richer class of students, which class does not exclude the indolent or undesirable. Diamond-studded pins and onyx rings work many hardships on parents. If that money were given to scholarship or loan funds, we should have one thing to the fraternity's credit. The remedy? Let us cease to give our support to a clique which accomplishes no worth­while purpose for American education.

MEDITATION UPON POE
 

As I pondered o'er a task, upon my

Mind there flashed a mask,
Of a man whose visage bore, a longing

For his lost Lenore.
I shall ne'er forget his eyes, weak

From sufferings and sighs, But the flame there never dies,
Though the eyes seem sad and sore.

Eagerly I search his face, yearningly

To find some trace,
Of a gentle light that breaks the

Shadow from across his door,
But no power could pierce those eyes

To the depth that sorrow lies,
Or to the soul that often cries, for
Mercy from the burden that it bore.

Yet from this soul so lonely, sprang

Forth poetry, rivaled only
By the rhythmic rolling of the

Surf upon  the shore.
And no mortal e'er shall know of

The mystic dreams of Poe That drifted to and fro
To inspire reverence evermore.

—ler.oy love.

SILVER PITCHERS

wilma dykeman

A few days ago I heard a beautiful synonym for "words." It was from the Bible and referred to words as silver pitchers. Somehow, the picturesqueness of this remained in my mind, and I began to realize how words may be really love­ly, clear, shining, in short, like silver pitchers.

Man has but few ways by which he may convey his thoughts and ideas to his fellow man, and perhaps the most com­mon of these is speech. Like everything else that is free, however, it is often bad­ly misused. It is indeed strange that by the same implements with which man in­spires, encourages, and teaches, he may likewise curse and condemn. In these cases, the silver has turned to tin.

Words by themselves mean nothing, however; for words without thought be­hind them are like pitchers that have no luster. They are merely hollow recep­tacles without design and without beauty. The tragedy is that often the thought be­hind spoken words is mean and small— petty. Someone is hurt, embittered, per­haps made cynical because a few insig­nificant words were spoken. How strange

it seems. Yet the whole solution lies in the fact that a character that is really fine does not thrust his words into eter­nity before thinking. He polishes his thoughts and carefully chooses the polish, as if he were working with sterling— precious sterling that could not be scratch­ed or marred. And then he speaks his thoughts gently, as he would rub the sil­ver, and with each stroke the gloss heightens and becomes more beautiful. When he has finished, the silver pitcher has been transformed into a mirror, and the words have unfolded into a reflection of his soul.

Silver pitchers: Beautiful, glowing, ex­pensive; tarnished, battered, worthless. Words: Fine, shining, beacon lights; tri­vial, thoughtless darts.

A little verse I have always loved, partly because my father taught it to me, partly because I have often truly felt the need for its advice:

"Boys flying kites can bring in their white-
winged birds,

But you can't do that when you're flying
words"

GOD'S  MORNING

God had washed the world and hung
it out to dry. But it wasn't drying so fast
that we couldn't see His priceless jewelry store—precious gems on every tree and cobweb. Each slender pineneedle glinted
like a perfect diamond. The aspen gently shook off emeralds and rubies. The tip of each maple leaf was a marvelous pearl. Indeed, the whole forest bowed with im­measurable wealth.

—hurley mc!ntosh.

MY PET HATE

ray crane

Have you ever hated a word so much that every time you heard it you wanted to commit a nice, quiet, gory murder? To kill in cold blood the person who was so atrocious as to utter the forbidden word? There is a certain word in the English language that affects me in just that way; the sound of it makes me want to do things that they execute people for. I'm a peace-loving, amicable soul, but that word makes me forget all inherent peacable characteristics. I'm almost afraid to say it myself for fear I'll commit sui­cide. It rests in the dark recesses of my brain and taunts me with fiendish delight; it's always there, permeating my every thought. I know its presence has changed my entire outlook on life; it has developed in me a mean, cynical disposition that I will never be able to overcome. I suppose I should tell you what the word is ... I hate to, though. The word is ... is ... cute . . . CUTE! A German never hated a Frenchman, a dog never hated a cat, a Carolina man never hated a Duke man, any more than I hate—that word!

FAME OR OBSCURITY

Jo jones

Perhaps the most discouraging and dis­illusioning thing which the ambitious youth of today has to face is his inability to advance as fast as he feels he should. There is a constant conflict between the old established and the new untried. Es­pecially is this true in the case of artis­tically minded young people. A youth may be gifted practically to the point of genius, and yet at every turn he is baffled, because he has no name, no influence, and no financial backing. His manuscripts are rejected by editor after editor, his pictures are refused exhibition privileges, and his compositions are laughed at as amateurish. But should the same efforts be submitted for approval by someone with a name, they would be accepted at once as master­pieces. It has long been advocated that thost who really have something to give will be received with proper honor. Why then do we see a potential Caruso peg­ging his life away at a corner fruitstand, or a reincarnated Garrick eking out a meager wage behind a counter, or an un­sung Rembrandt selling his paintings for a square meal? Surely these youngsters have something to give to the world. But instead they burn away their lives in po­verty, longing, and fear until all ambition is dead, while others with less to give and less to gain are proclaimed supreme be­cause they had the influence necessary to put their works in the limelight. Khayyam has written, "A hair perhaps divides the false and the true," and no more than the weight of a hair can topple the scales of Fate toward fame or obscurity.

THE MAGIC OF MUSIC george smith

Good music is one of the greatest bless­ings of mankind. Every mood, every emo­tion can be made or matched with music. The wonder of song—the glory of it! Scientifically, it consists of only a series of vibrations in the atmosphere, varying in wavelength or frequency; but how un-inclusive that is, how woefully short of a definition that falls, we all know! Far better call it magic and leave its bare facts for the scientist. Let us remain on this side of the veil of romance that en­circles it.

A band plays, and men suddenly find themselves marching willingly off to muddy trenches—to die. A guitar tinkles softly, its melody humming through the night up and in an open window, perhaps accompanied by an expressive baritone voice; soon a marriage takes place. A tired man struggles under a burden, sings a song and the load loses half its weight. Somebody feels blue, a lively song or two and the world seems bright again. A statesman is pondering in his study, mellifluous tones float from the radio at his elbow and the fate of a nation is de­cided. This magic of melody often turns the course of our lives.

THE  ADVANTAGE  OF  TOTAL ABSTINENCE

andrew sutton, jr.

In presenting a treatise on The Ad­vantage of Total Abstinence I do not at­tempt to present abstract theories, but rather the concrete results of positive and effective experiment. This paper is the outcome of a calm and deliberate, but dispassionate, consideration of the prob­lem, as I understand it.

On all the grave and perilous ques­tions of modern life, none is more por-tentious of the most serious and far-reaching consequences than that which relates to the question of intemperance.

The problem of intemperance involves men of every kind and class, and if we must have laws to regulate the poor, then by all that is good and right let us have curbs to restrain the rich. If our families are to be protected from the vulgarity of a poor man's reeling, drunken steps, let us then have a like protection against the rich nahob who drunkenly drives his fine automobile without regard for a maimed and crippled humanity.

The drink-habit, in its first stage, seeks to win respect; in its second, it seeks to pay respect; in its third, it comes to lose respect; and in its last, it has neither respect nor character. This, in brief, is the situation; all men know it, the majority wink at it, and a compara­tive few strive for its betterment. If a lax indifference, so far as intemperance among the upper classes of society is con­cerned, has characterized the attitude of the Church and the Christian community at large, let an effort strong and unre­lenting be made to cleanse society of this defilement, but at the same time and with the same zeal, let a movement of prevention be instituted, that shall reach out in both directions, touching the mill-hand on the one side and the financier on the other. Without the above-mentioned attitude toward alcohol we will never have abstinence.

We all know that alcohol is a great demoralizing agent. Yet few of us are aware of the harm it (alcohol) can do to our bodies and some of us have been fallaciously informed that it is a medi­cine. Even beer, a drink that contains a minimum alcoholic content, is harmful because of obesity, or excessive produc­tion of fat, which may appear in po­sitions where it is not normally present, the most dangerous position in this re­spect being between the muscle fibres of the heart. The continued use, in excess, of the stronger wines and of stronger beer or porter is a recognized cause of gouty manifestations in those predisposed to this disease. A much larger number of the victims of alcohol die of some infec­tious disease than of the special alcoholic affectations. Persons suffering from chronic alcoholism have their resistance to many infectious diseases markedly lowered, as shown both by the increased liability to contract such diseases and by the greater severity of the disease when it occurs. Physicians generally recognize that pneu­monia, cholera, erysipelas, and other in­fectious diseases in persons who habitu­ally drink to excess are more serious and more likely to produce death than in oth­ers. There has been a common belief that those who use alcoholic liquor freely ac­quire a certain degree of immunity from tuberculosis. Alcohol, if it does not actu­ally predispose to tuberculosis, certainly furnishes no protection against it. The course of tuberculous disease in alcoholic patients is often more rapid than usual.

No one can  doubt  that  the  abuse  of

alcohol constitutes a threat to our civili­zation, and that the history of mankind would have been very differently record­ed had it been possible to eliminate all the crime, misery, and disease directly or indirectly traceable to alcoholic excess.

*    *    *

In   composing   this   paper   I   have   en­deavored    (1)    to   show   that   abstinence can be brought about only by treating everyone alike; there is no respecter of persons where alcohol is concerned: (2) the evils of alcohol; therefore the ad­vantages of total abstinence (3) the blessing that total abstinence would mean to civilization and all humanity to follow us.

ESCAPE

wilma dykeman

The day was hot with a sultry, sluggish heat that intensified the apathetical state of the convicts. Their heavy pick-axes rose and fell in a simultaneous rhythm to the muscles on their brawny arms, and they appeared like so many machines. In the foreground, near the guard, the eyes of "Slim" Johnson were wary and alert. He glanced at his buddy, "Trig" Williams and nodded his head imperceptibly. Trig shifted his position — sidled nearer the guard.

For two months they had contrived the method of their escape—the method that Slim had suggested and meticulously planned. They had watched with wary eyes and remembered the habits of their foreman, and had laid their plans for his murder. The model conduct of Slim had made the guard become more lax in his watch over him, and he had become more or less of a "trusty". So they had planned for Slim to speak to Watkins, the guard, and divert his attention. Then Trig was to attack him with the pick-axe. After that their escape into the woods near which they were working would be assured, and they could either hide out there or escape into the next state. In the brief moments when they had time to talk they decided to carry out their plan on a day when the humidity and the heat had combined to put the men in a state of impassiveness. They hoped that this would have caused the guard to slightly relax his alert vigilance.

And such a day had arrived.

That morning Slim had passed Trig the high sign, and both had been on the look­out for a moment when the tension was eased, the watch relaxed. The afternoon had brought the perfect setting—the pris­oners were working with the stupor that heat and fatigue and pain brought on. And Watkins, the foreman, was tired too. Slim moved forward and spoke to the guard, who eased the grip on his rifle, let it slip to his side, and mopped his fore­head with a large handkerchief. From the side there was a terrific lunge—a pick-axe flashed in the air—and the man lay on the ground with blood streaming out onto the hot earth.

Slim said, "I just saw him making a spring at you with the pick in his hand, so quick-like I grabbed mine, and downed him before he got you."

The guard wiped his sweaty face, fear and relief mingling in his eyes. "I—It was so sudden. I guess he was going to knock me out with the pick, then try to get away. He'd never have made it, though, with those woods full of houses."

"The fool! I didn't tell him that, though," Slim muttered.

"What say?" queried the guard.

"Oh, nothing. I just said you could be thankful you're alive."

"Don't I know? And thanks to you, Slim. You've been a pretty model prisoner all along, and I'll see that this means your freedom, Slim."

BOOKS THAT HAVE INFLUENCED ME raymond richardson

When all your life you have loved one thing, reading, above all else, and when you have managed, by assiduously neglect­ing your studies and society, to get in about three hours of reading every day for eight or nine years, you find that you have gotten through quite a number of books. And when you think back it is sur­prising how very few of them you re­member at all. And when you think a little harder it is even more surprising, perhaps even depressing, to find that of the few books that you do remember there have not been more than twenty-three or four that have really influenced you at all. Not that the time spent in reading them all was wasted; for of all the joys of our human lot—wine, friendship, eat­ing, or making love—there is not one that will compare with reading, "this joy not dulled by age, this polite and unpunished vice, this selfish, serene, life-long intoxi­cation." No, it was not wasted, I only wish that I could again experience that keen sense of discovery and delight that I felt on first reading Kim or The Pickwick Papers, or A Farewell to Arms.

Robert Louis Stevenson, who once wrote a fine essay on books that had influ­enced him, made the statement that the most influential books, and the truest in their influence, are works of fiction. "They do not", as he goes on to say, "pin the reader to a dogma which he must afterwards unlearn. They repeat, they re­arrange, they clarify the lessons of life; they disengage us from ourselves, they constrain us in the acquaintance of oth­ers; and they show us the web of experi­ence, not as we see it from ourselves, but with a singular change—that monstrous, consuming ego of ours being, for the nonce, struck out. To be so, they must be reason­ably true to the human comedy; and any work that is so serves the turn of instruc­tion." A long quotation, but one well worth repeating. I am quite sure that Crime and Punishment, The Magic Mountain, and War and Peace have had a more profound effect upon me than any three non-fiction books that I could name off hand.

For no particular reason I made a list of those works of fiction that have pro­foundly influenced me. As my reading has always been desultory in the extreme, and actuated by motives no more inspiring than those of seeking pleasure and enlighten­ment, I may have missed many of the best novels. None of my selections are included in President Elliot's five foot shelf. Never­theless, I think that about ten of these books are the supreme literary master­pieces of all time and if they are not, well, never let it be said that we did not tell you that we liked them.

Alice in  Wonderland
Kim

Far Away and Long Ago
Way of all Flesh
War and Peace,
Pickwick Papers
A Farewell to Arms

Anna Karenina
Crime of Sylvester Bonnard
Thais
The Magic Mountain
Buddenbooks
Crime and Punishment
Brothers Karamazov
Penguin Island
Grimm's Fairy Tales
Huckleberry Finn
Moby Dick
Typee
Lord Jim

A Browse Among Books

SAUL, KING OF ISRAEL

victor starbuck

For this story of Saul, King of Israel, Victor Starbuck will probably be remem­bered as one of the outstanding poets of our times. The well-known Bible story is here presented in a manner so excellent and readable that it rivals many popular works of fiction in entertainment value.

Especially significant are the problems and temptations, by which God tests the character of the king and his obedience. With his increasing power, Saul soon for­gets his dependence on the aid of God and attributes his victories to his own wisdom and judgment. He fails again at the crisis of his reign by using his position to further his own selfish end. With his failure God sees fit to have David anointed in Saul's stead. The enmity of Saul towards David, the everlasting friendship of David and Jonathan, together with David's supreme sacrifices and hardships, hold the interest of the reader until the last page. The story ends with the death of Saul and Jonathan, and with David securely on the throne.

One of the outstanding features of the book is the varied verse forms the author uses. The rhyme and meter schemes are changed to match the tempo of the plot. Even a child could comprehend the swing of the story although the words might be beyond the scope of his vocabulary. The rhythm of the lines rivals music in effect.

Had this plot been woven into a good prose selection if would be quite note­worthy. As an excellent long narrative in verse, it easily takes its place among the best of American poetry.

—ida rosen.

NORTHWEST PASSAGE
kenneth roberts

Author Kenneth Roberts evidently likes to write historical novels. His Northwest Passage opens at Harvard College in 1759; whereas Arundel, The Lively Lady, and Rabble In Arms, all of which are products of Roberts, center around the year 1812.

In Northwest Passage there seems to be a mild suggestion of debunking great men. At the outset we are presented with a Major Robert Rogers who seems to be the hero because of his magnetic power with his men ... his indomitable spirit for the spirited ... his gusto for his ad­ventures. However, after failing many times (naturally he succeeded in many things also—but his great goal was never achieved) the reader decides that it isn't the Major, but young Langdon Towne that steals the show.

At first Towne, an unknown artist, is infatuated with Elizabeth Browne, daugh­ter of a clergyman . . . Insomuch as Eliza­beth's family does not approve of him, Langdon leaves home to make his fortune with Major Rogers, who is busy fighting the Indians and, French. After hardship and inevitable success with Roger's Rangers, Towne decides to pursue his art in London.

While in London he is assured that he has a future as an artist. But intrigue sets in and he is destined to rescue a seem­ing waif Ann Potter, who is the daughter of a dipsomaniac. Langdon returns to America to paint Indians and joins up with Rogers. While he worries over his paints and Indian squaws, he begins to think more of Ann Potter. However, in order to help Rogers find a Northwest

Passage (by water) to the Pacific and to find more Indian subjects, he leaves Ann in the care of his one-time love Elizabeth Browne, who has married Major Rogers.

He returns after many hardships with the desired sketches; . . . finds Rogers a victim of politics and in chains and Ann gone, because Mrs. Rogers thought she (Ann) had tried to steal her husband.

Rogers seems to be immortal—He leads a charmed life . . . but age and whiskey go hard with him. He goes to a debtor's prison but has never forgotten his dream of a Northwest Passage and talks in­cessantly of it. The last that is heard of the indomitable Rogers is that he is a General in some remote Foreign Legion, whereas Langdon Towne has become a definite success as an artist and is considered con­temporary to Sir Joshua Reynolds. He marries Ann Potter and remembers Major Robert Rogers in moods of sentimentality; but never forgives him advances he at­tempted on Ann Potter.

—andrew sutton, jr.

ASSIGNMENT IN UTOPIA
eugene lyons

When Eugene Lyons was assigned to go to Russia as a newspaper correspondent in 1927, it was with high hopes and bril­liant visions that he sailed to the tangible land of his dreams. The last day of Janu­ary, 1934, Mr. Lyons left Moscow, prob­ably never to return. , During the inter­mittent years he had known the stages of first, buoyant exhiliration to a cause; second, doubt as to the worthiness of that cause, and finally, disillusionment. In America came the rededication for which these stages had been preparing him.

The story of an eager newspaperman in Soviet Russia during these pregnant years could hardly keep from being in­teresting, but the picture that Mr. Lyons has drawn is more than interesting. It is enlightening, vivid in its intenseness as an expose of the rule of Josef Stalin. The author has been sympathetic with both the people and the government that is allegedly for these people. It is significant that he aligns himself with democracy. As he has said, the people of Russia are a "people trapped."

Each step of the author's disillusion­ment in Soviet principles is careful and logical. His conclusions are governed by both emotion and logic. The realization that man does not live by bread alone is strengthened by each farcical trial and each burlesque outburst of mob enthusiasm.

In his book, Assignment in Utopia, Eu­gene Lyons has written a work that every alert and intelligent American would do well to read. He may or may not agree with the ideas, he may or may not enjoy the style of the author, but he will cer­tainly pause and think when he has fin­ished a careful reading of this Russian ex­pose.                                      —wilma dykeman.

respiration, digestion, sex, heredity, the nervous system, sight, hearing, touch, taste, and smell are quite fully and com­pletely discussed. These are only a few of the many essentially important discussions the author utilizes in explaining life's cycle and workings.

HANDS ACROSS THE OCEANS pinkney groves, jr.

Have you ever known people from far away countries, and had them tell you their feelings, and the manner in which they lived, then compared them with your own feelings and modes of living known only to you? It is certainly a cultural and exceedingly interesting study.

Life is just a little different on every continent. The Zulus, dark men of South Africa, the gay Spanish-speaking people of South America, the toiling peasants of Central Europe, the East Indians, the Wild Afghans, the Caucasians of beautiful South Russia, the yellow rice growers of China, all think, speak, and act differ­ently. There is a spice to every life, though, however humble it may be.

It is through correspondence with these people whose customs, habits, and thoughts are so different from ours, that we learn to understand and appreciate them. It is pleasing that there are many kinds of people on this earth. If everybody were alike we would have a very uninteresting, maybe not so highly developed, world. We like variety. It is essential to our being.

A Northerner can read and study about the South and the Southern people, but he doesn't truthfully understand the Southerner until he has had personal con­tact with him. Felt his pulse, so to speak. It is this personal touch that means so much in understanding a people. It is in this way, then, that we can learn about our brothers across the seven seas.

TO__

Through  night, through  night,
Beloved we came
Down the mountain from the stars.
Your hand, your hand,
Outstretched to me

'MIKE"  FRIGHT

EILEEN SMITH

So called "Mike" fright is much the same as stage fright. On the occasion of my first radio broadcast there were several fellow "greenhorns" on hand who virtu­ally trembled in every limb and swal­lowed their hearts at a rate of sixty wig­gles of the Adam's apple per minute. I was being very calm and superior and carried on a dignified conversation with one of the "old timers" until the standard "stand­by" call was given. The beginners had only a few lines each on this first program so I stood by the microphone to wait for my turn. As the pages were turned I watched with hawk eyes for the page at the bottom of which my lines were situ­ated. As fatal page six appeared, I was shocked to find my calm disappearing with page five.   My heart gave a twitch and hopped nimbly into my esophagus and somehow became entangled with my Adam's apple. So, unlike the others, it didn't wiggle, but it clogged and when my first line was due to be vocalized for the pleas­ure of the waiting multitudes (?) no sound materialized—not even the smallest squeak. For the eternity of three seconds there was a dead silence. Then someone threw a line into the void and the play went on as if nothing had happened. Im­mediately my heart resumed its natural position and my next line came out of my throat in a well modulated voice with­out a trace of the fear I had just experi­enced. That was my first and last experi­ence with real "mike" fright. I am cured.

TWO ROADS THERE ARE

Two  roads  there are that  I may  take—
One winds and dips and rises;
The other, straight and shadeless, ending

Offers greater prizes.
Two cups there are from which to drink—
One sparkles, shimmers, bubbles;
The other, clear and very still,
Does not disguise its troubles.
Two songs there are by which to dance—
One sways and lilts and drifts;
The  other, sweet  but  melancholy,
Buoys up and lifts.
Two  people  there  are  that  I  may   be—
One sees and hears and sings;
The other, lonely, happy,
Feels the beauty of all things.

—wilma dykeman.

THE STORY OF A TREE— OR DON'T TRUST A HEN

andrew sutton, jr.

As you have probably already observed by local papers, and the one in Cullowhee, I won a prize at the recent county 4-H club meeting for cultivating, designing, and packing a different type of English Walnut. Now this feat is not as easy as it sounds, even if I do say so myself. In­cidentally, since receiving the afore­mentioned honor of manufacturing, with the aid of Mother Nature, an entirely new type of nut, I have been forwarded the keys to Brazil and Morganton. It all came about in the following manner:

I was inspired by a chicken that I had clucking around the yard. Now, I know that this is going to be kinda hard to be­lieve, but it is the truth, so help me. This chicken, which I had named "Little Maud" after an old mule named "Maud," laid an average of two eggs a day as long as Rexford Tugwell had the Government and the farmers working for him. If you think laying fourteen eggs a week is easy, why just try it some time. But still this ain't explaining why I devoted my time to nuts.

It was a balmy day in spring when I went out to collect my two eggs from "Little Maud" that I observed just to the left of my patch of "Tobacco Road" a tree, not just an ordinary tree, but a tree that only fools like you would read about. This particular tree looked like an oak, had leaves like an apple, and smelled like a cedar and yet it had wal­nuts on it. I had been spending all of my spare time for the past four months read­ing "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs." Therefore, at first I figured that maybe I just imagined seeing that tree, but after finding the two eggs in "Little Maud's" nest, I knew that the tree was actually there.

When I reached the house I took a basket and headed for the tree, and I don't think I would have been very sur­prised to find it gone, but it was still there. I plucked one of the nuts off a twig and cracked it on my head, being unable to find any other flat surface thereabouts. It was even better than the coconut cake with chocolate icing Mother used to make. Without further ado about the matter I saddled up old Maud and rode clean into Weaverville and told Jed Cooke about it; and I gave him one of the nuts to eat. It was he who suggested that I tell everybody that I caused the tree to grow that way myself; and to marry Lucy Jane because she could pack things to make 'em look so nice. I told Jed that I was grateful for all of the good advice he had given me and that I would like to reciprocate by giving him some present. He mentioned "Little Maud," and in sight of all the good ideas he had presented me with, I just felt it my duty to be benevolent so I gave him "the chicken," and do you know that darn hen ain't laid but 29 eggs in the last 15 days for old Jed.

REALITY

// all seems familiar and real to me, When I see that God's best work can be, The magical, marvelous wonder of a tree.

—clarence McCALL.

MY ASPIRATIONS FOR A HAPPY AND SUCCESSFUL LIFE

LERoY love

The things I am yearning for in life are very limited. If I set my sights too high and the things I aspire to are not obtained, I might be disappointed, and I detest disappointments. They are so un­necessary.

Hoping to avoid disappointments, I wish to enumerate a few modest require­ments I deem vitally important before I could experience a pleasant and successful domestic life. Now let me think, Hum-m-m. I shall have to possess two very palatial homes: one in the city and the other in the country. Yet upon second thought, I don't believe I'll need the coun­try estate, for I thoroughly abhor the su­burban sections, so dry—so uninteresting, hardly any scandals or murders in the country. You know, they are so essential to one's existence nowadays, since foreign affairs have become so restful and peace­ful; one must have something interesting to talk about . . .

On third thought, I believe I will have to maintain a country estate, but I'll never spend any time there myself. Just keep it for my friends to enjoy, but it will come in handy as a place to throw parties that are too wild for Park Avenue. Yes, and it can also serve as a place to keep my horses and hounds! You know one just must ride after the hounds if he expects to get his name in the Blue Book, and I certainly want my name in the Blue Book. A gentleman with a town and country estate without his name in the Blue Book would seem very misplaced, and besides, he either must have his name in the Blue Book, or have an accent, title, and mo­nocle, if he ever expects to marry a five-and-ten heiress. Oh, goodness, I nearly overlooked something. Before anyone's domestic life can be successful he must have scads of servants. I'll never use mine either, just place them around for atmos-phere. You know, I can think of nothing that creates an air of "well-to-doishness" more than a bald-headed butler with squeaky shoes.

Next, I must be tremendously famous. It keeps one's ego from becoming dis­concerted to be swarmed by autograph hounds, and to have one's clothes torn off by them. And a famous person can always endorse "no-scratch" razor blades or "anti-halitosis" toothpaste to raise a little extra cash. If he is famous in an artistic way, he can be as Bohemian as he pleases, and society will just sigh and say "an artist's privilege — poor devil." Or if his fame comes from athletic achievements, he can appear on the radio and advertise "Lung-Rot" cigarettes or "Snappy-Brat" break­fast food. Yes, sir! Maybe I'll become a famous G-man. Then I could start my own Amateur Detective Club all over the country, and pick up a few dollars by selling toy pistols, handcuffs, and badges to the kiddies. And if I am a celebrity, how nice it will be to observe other peo­ple imitating the things I do, and that I know are absurdly silly. Yes, I guess I'll have to be very famous to be happy.

The last and most important thing that I look forward to in my happy and suc­cessful career is having desirable associates and friends. It is essential that my ac­quaintances be classified into two groups: the intellectuals and dumbsters. When I am sitting in on the conversations of the intellectual group, I will look very crit­ical, be very quiet and reserved, and they will think I am wise. By doing that I can gain a knowledge of all current events without having to read the newspapers. I can also hear discussed book reviews, philosophy, astrology, and all the things that cultured people are supposed to know about, without doing any reading myself. Now when I'm with the "dumbsters" I can expound all the knowledge I have learned from the intellectuals to them, and they will also think I'm very brilliant. There! You see, I won't really have to be smart at all!

OLD  CLOTHES  ARE  LIKE OLD FRIENDS

eileen smith

In lists of requisites for the ideal wife or husband, given in the leading periodicals and pulp magazines, you often see the statement that for a happy married life a wife must not wear her old clothes around the house. This statement is true to the extent that no one likes to look at a mobile rag bag across the breakfast bacon, but old clothes are like old friends in that you are at ease in them as you are in the presence of familiar friends. Speaking from the woman's point of view, I would say that one reason for this feel­ing is that you are not continually worry­ing about the pleats in your skirt being mashed out or the bows on your collar dangling askew, just as with old friends you are not afraid that they will take any statement of yours the wrong way. Therefore, you can express more freely before them and drop your impenetrable party manners and be yourself. Often you hear authors or painters state that they work best in their work clothes, and you have also, no doubt, observed people with really charming personalities who never show them in a crowd but only when in a small gathering of close friends. Of course, there are always those women who hate to wear a dress twice, but you will usually find these same women seldom bother to acquire a true friend either. They meander from one ultra-smart clique to another, never staying long enough in one to make even a close acquaintance.

WITH OTHERS

john carpenter

When two or more persons are together, in the sense of being relatively near one another and being with a purpose some­what in common, there exists a mind sep­arate and distinct from the minds of its components which may be termed the mass mind.

Especially with respect to the emotions does this mass mind differ from its indi­vidual components. There is usually pre­valent in the mass mind an over-balance of emotion, which overshadows and sub­ordinates the faculties of reasoning. This is due to the fact that the emotions of the individual in a group are more easily ex­pressed than the products of his reasoning. Also the mass emotions correspond more closely to the individual emotions than does the mass reason to that of the indi­vidual. An individual usually puts forth more resistance to a non-conforming mass reason than to non-conforming mass emo­tion. The emotions of the individual are more likely to conform to those of mass than his reason.

There   are  two   kinds    of    conspicuity which may be indulged in by an indi­vidual. One of these he thoroughly en­joys, namely, the impressing of his indi­vidualities upon. From the alternative, however, he tries to abstain. This is ridi­cule. In the mass he is prone to lose sight of the difference between the two. Ac­cordingly he may do things which he would never do without the influence of the group. We can not condemn the indi­vidual too severely in such a case, but he may bear in mind that he himself is defi­nitely influenced by others and need take more caution in the presence than if alone. The mass mind is similar to the mind of the individual in that it is quick to per­ceive its aggregate strength and prone to over-estimate the same. In a group, col­lectively, there seems to be far less regard given to morals than is given to them by the individuals. In other words, the con­science of the mass or the mass conscience is definitely weakened by the impeded rea-ason, for, after all, the effectiveness of one's conscience depends to a great extent upon his ability to reason.

SUNRISE

bill mcconnell

Sunrise—the arising of our solar fur­nace—technically, the appearance of the sun on the horizon, due to the rotation of the Earth, causing the refraction of the longer radiations of solar light; abstractly, the coronation of a new day, performed amid a fanfare of light. At first the sphere sends out raylets of color, illuminating the low lying clouds. As the sun rises higher, the brilliant oranges and reds of the ho-rizon gyrate madly into the magentas and deep blues of the zenith. The rim appears and the landscape is cascaded with myriad colored light. As the sun ascends, man goes about his affairs, never knowing what will transpire during the day. Many men will die, many will be born. Who knows what the next ascension of the sun will bring?

THE   STORY  OF  A  GIRL

andrew sutton, jr.

Some things are inlaid in your soul with care, and gentleness; and some things are dammed in your soul with hardness and an ugliness.

Virginia Richardson was inlaid in- my soul and mind with a tenderness that has never been surpassed in my own little world. To me she was something that you would not be surprised to see stand­ing before the altar in a church with a halo around her head. Why I still carry that opinion after all these years is beyond explanation because I do not understand it myself. Her very presence could inspire me to forget the cold, if I was cold; or hunger, if I was hungry, and I am sure that I was both many times. In years Virginia was not old, ten was her age if my memory does not deceive me, yet to a boy of five, and I assure you that I was all of five, Virginia was older and more under­standing than either of my parents, and even now, I think of her as you would think of a sunset, or beautiful flowers or a green forest with big trees with a wisp of wind skimpering through.

She could not bear to hurt anyone, and the only time that I can ever remember seeing her in tears was once when her Moter had to punish her for something and her idea of punishing a child, especially one of Virginia's type, was extremely cruel, although at the time, I found myself wish­ing that my Mother would use the same method in disciplining me. Mrs. Richarson produced a switch, told Virginia why she was going to punish her, then handed the girl the switch and commanded the girl to strike her mother. At first, Virginia refused to hit her parent, but finally the verbal lashing her Mother gave her re­leased the switch for one horrible mo­ment; then the girl fell to the floor deathly ill.

Most of them were crying. I didn't. It wasn't that I wasn't sad like the rest . . . it—it just didn't make sense to me. I felt tired and sat down on the curb­stone, and as I did I heard someone say, "Take good care of the bunny, because I will be back for him". Elizabeth Tar-rington was standing next to me and I asked her if she had heard anything. She said "No!" and started crying.

They buried her, and for a while I was sad. Then time erased a lot. Weeks passed into months and it was Eas'ter morning again. I went out to feed my rabbit and it was gone. The lock was still on the cage. I heard Virginia's voice say, "Good­bye, and thanks for taking care of my bunny; now I will always watch over you." I ran to the house terrified and told Mother. She said that I was just imagining things, but she could not explain where the rabbit was.

CLASSICS OR SWING?
bill McCoNNELL

Will we have the classics or swing? Both modes of expression are judged to be the antithesis of music by many ex­ponents of either type. While a Goodman "skat" chorus may not resemble Bee­thoven's "Moonlight Sonata," some of the most "Savoy" brass choruses strongly re­semble certain phrases in "The Ride of the Valkyries". All showing the connec­tion of swing to the classics are some of the swing classics, so recently arranged by T. Dorsey. "Liberstraum" is one of the least rearranged of the "swing classics", only having a drum chorus added, a pickup tempo, and a "swing" background. "Song of India", by Korsakoff, required the same amount of arranging. Many people would abolish the classics, while an equally large number would put the axe down on swing. I say, let's keep them both! Between the two, any mood may be set to music. For restful music, the "Sonata" is superb. The antithesis I suggest is "Dipsy Doodle."

DUGOUT

james B. keith, jr.

Eight men of the fifty-first huddled silently in the cold interior of the dug-out, somewhere in Southern France. No one ever knew exactly how they got to this position in the lines, except perhaps the major who was inclined to be rather secretive about such things. Most of the men, when they remembered to write back home, just put 'Dear ma' or 'Dear Sadie' and forgot to say where they were stationed because they could not find out, and if they did put something down it meant practically nothing because they would not be there much longer any way.

MacTavish and Jones were sitting in one of the board bunks that lined the sides of the dugout and talking in muffled tones that one could hardly hear. Occasion­ally Mac said something that sounded like 'Marie' and Jonsey chuckled almost audibly and bowed closer into the huddle. Lawrence, Bidalph, and Couch were ar­ranging the only box in the place to serve as a table while they played cards. Moore lay in his hovel scribbling at a letter he hoped would reach 'civilization' someday; and, Graham stood near the door, leaning against one of the supports that kept the slush from tumbling into the place. The only member of the squad that seemed to know that there was a war going on was Perrywell, the new man who had been sent down from Tours the previous morning.

The last mentioned was a slight lad hardly out of his teens, one of the many youngsters who were now being sent into the lines as the man power of England was beginning to dwindle under the relentless fire of the Huns. He had had his first taste of real war just as he entered the front lines and had been thrust into im­mediate action with the squad. Since com­ing up he had acquired a bad case of jitters which seemed destined to remain for some time unless men stopped tumb-ling to the ground around him in such unexpected fashion and unless the constant rumbling and nasty barking of guns ceased to chatter in his ears.