Leisure

Anton Semnovitch had a holiday. And this is what he
said: "All my life I have wanted a little leisure so I could
write a great story, for I have it in me."

His wife only laughed. "If you had leisure you would
waste it away," she said.

"But no," said Anton Semnovitch. "I have ability and
I have something to say, but I am so busy that I have never had
the time."

"Yes," said his wife thinking it better not to argue
with him on the matter.

But the first night Anton Semnovitch was at home in
came some friends to play cards. "We know that you do not play
cards often, Anton Semnovitch," said one, "but we thought that
now that you have some leisure you might like to play."

"Yes," said Anton Semnovitch and they played till mid-
night.

The next morning Anton Semnovitch stayed in bed till
late. His wife called him several times. But he only drew the
covers closer around his ears. Finally his wife came to him and
said, "Anton Semnovitch, my cousin, Clara Simeonova has invited
us to dinner. She thought since you had a holiday-" Anton Semnovitch
was annoyed but he went to the dinner at Clara Simeonova's
and stayed half the night talking about old times.

"I am tired," said Anton Semnovitch when they reached
home.

"But we had such a good time," said his wife.

"I cannot afford to lose so much sleep," said Anton Semnovitch.

2

"I'm not young anymore."

The next day Anton Semnovitch thought to sleep late and get up and work on his story. But before either was up the door bell was ringing. It was Anton Semnovitch's brother Alexey who had come to the city on some business. He wanted brother Anton to show him the town.

When Anton Semnovitch came home after brother Alexey had gone he said to his wife, "I can't write a thing now; I am so worn out. I am going to bed."

His wife did not reply at first, but finally she said, timidly, "Peter Gregorievitch has asked us to the theater tonight. We can't refuse. It might mean a better position for you."

Anton Semnovitch gave his wife a withering glance. "Isn't that why I'm writing this story?" he asked. "That's just why I'm writing this story," he reassured himself."...so that we can have wealth and position." Anton Semnovitch inspired to eloquence by these abstract pictures continued. "We will have a fine house and many servants, We shall attend the Imperial Ballet regularly and shall have a box at the opera. We can go to the German springs in summer, and everyone will look and say that is the great Anton Semnovitch and his wife."

"All the same", said his wife, "I think we ought to accept Peter Gregorievitch's invitation."

Anton Semnovitch cast a deprecating glance at his wife. "If you like", he said.

The next day Anton Semnovitch had to keep to his bed; he was so weary. But the following day a message came from brother Alexey inviting Anton and Vera to the country for a day. "It will be just the thing for you," said Vera Ivanova. "The fresh air and the country food will do you good. And you can

3

rest out there. Maybe Alexey Semnovitch will ask us to stay the week out."

So they went out to brother Alexey's. The day was mild, and the air was warm and filled with the scent of new mown hay. Anton Semnovitch relaxed and breathed it all in. "I didn't realize what an ideal place this was," he said to his brother.

"Yes," said Alexey Semnovitch, "I thought it would be a nice place in which you could spend a day of your leisure. God knows you have little enough."

But before the day was over, it was evident that Alexey had planned quite a party. A crowd of people had come who wandered over the place saying empty things. Anton Semnovitch was disgusted. "You have such little time for this sort of thing, I know," said Alexey Semnovitch, "that I thought it would be nice to surprise you on your holiday."

At dinner everyone was hilarious. It was like a birthday party or wedding celebration. In the midst of it all Alexey Semnovitch said to his brother, "Vera Ivanova tells me you're writing a story. How does it happen that you didn't tell me about it the other day when I was there?"

Before Anton Semnovitch could answer a half-dozen people excalimed, "O-oh, Anton Semnovitch an author!"

How's it coming?, asked Alexey Semnovitch.

Anton Semnovitch put down his fork. He had lost his appetite. "I am still collecting material," he said.

Alexey asked them to stay the week out, but Anton Semnovitch refused. Home again, he said to his wife, "For the rest of my holiday I am going to see anybody or I'll never get my story written."

4

So Anton Semnovitch arranged a room for his study and ordered that all his meals should be brought to him there. And he set about to write his story. The

The days passed. Anton Semnovitch kept to his room. But his writing table was by the window and as he sat there trying to work his attention was constantly distracted by the passers-by in the street. And too he could look out and see Vera Ivanova and her friends going in and out. He wondered where she went so often. He had supposed that while he was away all day she was busy with housekeeping. He moved his table away from the window, but the doorbell rang so often and the sound of laughter floated up to him so frequently that he wondered what was going on in his house. And although he would not leave the room to find out he would be so curious that he could not concentrate on his story.

One night Vera Ivanova came home very late. Anton Semnovitch got out of his bed to demand an explanation. She had been to the theater, She and Clara/Simeonova and some friends. How perfectly harmless! He sat down on the edge of her bed. "Forgive me, Vera Ivanova," he said. "But I can't help it. Sitting cooped up in that room I get so curious about everything that's going on. I wonder what the laughter is and where you've been, and I can't write; I get so curious."

"Well," said Vera Ivanova, "I'll go away for a few days and leave you to yourself. The serving girl can tend to your needs all right."

But after Vera Ivanova had gone Anton Semnovitch was so lonely for her that he wondered what he could do to divert his attention. From the lonely empty house. Finally he took a room in a hotel and settled himself down to write his story. But he had just gotten in the mood when the priest came to see him.

5

Pamela Lass

He wanted to know if it were true that Anton Semnovitch and Vera Ivanova had separated. Anton Semnovitch was indignant. He explained coldly that Vera Ivanova had gone to her sister's for a holiday and he couldn't stand the house without her.

Yes, that was what people had said, that Vera Ivanova had left him and that he couldn't endure that house since she was gone.

Anton Semnovitch shouted that it wasn't so, but it was did not evident that the priest didn't believe him.

"Just to prove it," exclaimed Anton Semnovitch, "I'll go home tomorrow."

"Better tonight," said the priest, "And may God be with you Anton Semnovitch in your trouble."

Anton Semnovitch ordered a bottle of wine. He drank it. "What do I care for what people say?" he asked aloud. He ordered another bottle of wine. He drank it. It was delicious. "The truth remains in spite of what people say." He ordered still another bottle of wine. He went to the mirror and pouring glass he extended himself a bottle-of-wine it to his image. "To Anton Semnovitch, story at any price," he said. But most of the wine had spilled from the glass before it reached his mouth, and when he placed it to his lips it slipped from his hand to the floor. He looked at the pieces and laughed and sank onto the bed.

By the time he had gotten rid of his terrific headache the next morning he could think of nothing except the idle rumours the priest had brought. It worried him to think that people should be talking about him. He was too upset to work on his story. He checked out of the hotel and went home. But he was still unable to concentrate. So he decided to go to the matinee.

The play was not a universal piece.

6

The play was not an unusual piece. It concerned a man who fell in love with his wife's maid. When Anton Semnovitch met reached home he rang immediately for the serving girl. He had never noticed her before. But she was impossible: ugly and a dud.

Night came on. He remembered the pleasure the wine of t
he previous evening had given him. He forgot the morning headache.
So he sent for wine and got drunk. It was a terrible thing for the
serving girl; he made him sick and she had to clean up the mess.
But it was all the same to him. He got drunk the next night and
he got so that he could stand more and more. He went about unshaved
and he cursed the maid so cruelly that she finally left.

His wife came home when it was time for his holiday to
end and found him in his cups. At first she didn't know what to
think. She put him to bed and tried to straighten up a little.
Her house was topsy survey and Vera Ivanova was a model housekeeper.

The next morning Anton Semnovitch was terribly ashamed,
but Vera Ivanova said nothing. She simply put her house in order.
she asked about his story.

"Story! Story! "My God, Vera Ivanova" exclaimed Anton
Semnovitch in an agonized voice."Why don't you leave me? I'm no
good. And you knew it all along. You said I wouldn't write anything.
Ah, Vera Ivanova, I might have lain the world at your feet if I
had only taken my pencil and written, written, written...... All
this leisure! .... But I have written nothing."

His wife came over to him and pressed his head to her
bosom. "Anton Semnovitch", she said, "Anton Semnovitch, you have
had a fine-holiday vacation. Be thankful for it. Leisure is to
do nothing in...... And as for writing Anton Semnovitch, living
is more important."

THE WINDOW

The ends of our cigarettes gleamed in the gloom of
my room. My throat was bad and cigarettes were forbidden me,
but life is short at most and one may as well enjoy it to the
end.

Suddenly through the window stepped Albert. He walked into the room and stood looking at me. I was startled immediately and I became panic stricken. He had never walked into my room like this before. What did he mean to do? I could not see the expression on his face, but I could feel something in the air that chilled and warmed at the same time. I rose up and leaned my elbow on my knee. "Albert", I said in a low voice, "why do you come into my room like this?"

Never a word from him, but slowly he turned and went out through the window again. And as he disappeared the burden of all the sorrow I had brought him seemed to be usually erect rounding his shoulders.

I jumped up frightened and ran to the window and looked
out to see if I saw him in the garden. In the garden? Why there
lay the city a thousand feet below! At that moment my companion
came over to the window. And the light of the moon that had
burst through that dismal sky fell full on his face. It was
drawn and pale and he was trembling. I was no longer frightened.
The harmony of our fear calmed me. I feasted on the wild eyes
that had seen this same strange thing that I had seen.

Suddenly he was on the sill. I reached out to hold
him back, but the window was between us. Frantically I tried too
open it but could not. How did he get through that window?! My
confused thoughts went blank for an second. Then I saw him leap
from the ledge. I smashed the glass and a scream that rose to

me through the night air told me that a man lay crushed below...

........

Now I look through bars that somberly pattern the sunlight and
the moonlight that enter my room only stealthily. I haven't much
longer and yet they never grant me a cigarette that might brighten
the periods of sanity that are fewer and farther between.

PRELUDE MACABRE

It is raining terribly. The wound within her is burst-
ing with pain. She foresaw this evil but she had not the
strength to prevent it. Now what can she do? "Perhaps tomorrow,"
she says. "Tomorrow" but no! There will be no tomorrow for
her. The wound is unbearable.

She had loved living. And it is within her power to
go on living. Power. What a wonderful thought that. Power? When
yesterday all was happiness and tonight there is nothing-
but rain, and the darkness. Power! The throbbing wound will
not permit illusions. But it will reinforce her madness: a step
and there will be no pain; no tomorrow. She grows tense at the
thought of such a destiny. If there were only a star in the heavens
then she might pray. But tonight the only stars are on earth
lighting the dismal blackness in which the city lies. And they
are twinkling and beckoning and fascinating her. . . .

A door slams and shatters the delicate relief of her
mind. The wound is killing her. ONE STEP. DARKNESS. Darkness.
darkness. The stars are on earth. It is raining terribly.....

Perhaps tomorrow evening there will be stars
in the sky.

MOVEMENT FOR A MARIONETTE TRAGEDY

Come quickly! Quickly! The show is about to begin. Do
you hear? The music has stopped! We are late! Ah, the curtains
have already parted.

On the stage a man is seated on a bench under a blossom-
ing tree. He seems to be brooding. His face is brutal. He has a
sensuous mouth, and he wears a monocle (in one eye.) He is sitting
erect, his hands resting on the gold head of his cane.

Soft music like a soul singing- and in a stream of
sunlight a vision appears. It is a woman almost transparent in
her loveliness. She moves slowly downstage and stands before
him. His head has sunk onto his chest but her presence compels
him to raise it again and his lips part; the monocle drops from
his eye. He jumps to his feet. The cane falls with a clatter and
shatters the exquisite music. She smiles benignantly. He takes
off his hat. His closely cropped head is white. She indicated
the whiteness with a motion of the hand.
Then she speaks to him,
and the music begins again. She sits down, but he remains standing
awe-struck. She bends her head a trifle back as she talks and
he watches the rhythmic movements of her lips. Behind her the
petals are falling.

As she speaks he forgets that so recently he has been
lamenting the loss of her and an insolent expression spreads over
his face. The music stops. She looks at him pityingly, but he is
not at all abashed. He makes a passionate movement to take hold
of her. She moves away and laughs half-mocking, half-bitter
laugh. Ashamed he covers his face with his hands, wearily she

reproaches him, and when he looks up the sunlight falls on his
face and softens its cruelty. He pleads. The music flows limpid.
The petals are falling. He falls on his knees to kiss her hands.
A tiny smile hovers about her lips for an instant, but she moves
away from him. He rises to his feet embarrassed. She speaks to
him again. He grimaces. With an impulsive movement he reaches in
his pocket and draws out a little pistol. He examines it to see
if it is loaded. The woman smiles as if she recognizes it. But
the music stops. She moves closer to him and with a gesture of
impatience she chides him. He compresses his lips bitterly and
longingly gazes at the pistol. A little smile of triumph flits
across her face. A crescendo of music- he sinks onto the bench.

She gazes at his huddled figure as thought reviewing
the past. An involuntary shudder passes over her body. She flings
out her arms with sudden abandon and tosses her head back and forth.
laughs. Music comes like a rush of water. He has raised his
head and is looking at her with stricken eyes. Convulsively he
picks up the pistol. The madness on his face reads: You are
laughing because you are free of me, but it shall not be for long.
She shrugs her shoulders and makes a tiny gesture of helplessness
with her hands. She moves up the sunbeam and out of sight and
the light follows after her. The music in a faint wail like the
sigh of an autumn wind fades.

Desperately the man plants the pistol against his head.
The shot sounds. He sinks. Only the white of the tree can be seen
in the heavy dusk. The silent fall of the petals emphasizes the
awful stillness.

Slowly the curtains draw together.

"Lord, did you' all hear the news", Aunt Matilda asked in a jubilant and gossipy manner as she joined the rest of the gossiping party under the old oak tree. (These parties are characteristic of Sleepy Hollow, a little village in Alabama. As a matter of fact, this is the *whisk* could be older folks' chief recreation. What was more refreshing than a nice group assembly in the cool of the evening under the old oak tree with a good, live piece of local news and a fresh box of Garrett's snuf. Nothing.)

"Child, aint we a here discussing it now, Maria answered, as she rose to give Aunt Matilda a chair.

"Em, I didn't know what them improper distributions of them chromosomes all meant, but I thought twas some improperness there somewhere when she and John first came struttin' down here some eighteen years back with that white baby", put in Aunt Liza rocking in a manner of self-assurance.

"I just knew that Marina wasn't no kin to them other children," chimmed in Aunt Amanda. "Anybody could see that even though Mary is yellow, herself...Child, that chocolate coat of John's offsets all that bright color."

"Shuh", laughed Aunt Sally, that tale they brought down here wouldn't hold water on a duck's back for me. I thought something funny all along. I kind o' figured this way, that how come if them "zones" got distributed improperly up there in that white woman's house, how come they to be so proper down here in the colored folks house. Look at her Sue, she aint got all that silky hair--it aint no wad of kinks 'tis true--and she aint got all that bright color, and graceful actions neither. Take Her Jack, he's as pure brown. Common sense ought to have told them that they couldn't get away with that tale for ever. The truth is bound to out."

-2-

"I think it's a pure sin for them to bring that white child up like this. She sure must feel strange and queer going into a white world even though she is white."

"Mary tried to give her the best of everything though, you saw that all along. You see she sent her off to that big white college down East, and sent Sue and Jack to Fisk."

"Well, she had to treat her different, that was in the money-bargain with them white folks."

"Lord, aint white folk something. They'll do anything to keep up that social standing. I couldn't no more buy my child out than nothing."

"She must have come from unusual stock to put up with all this colored folks life all these years. How old is she now?"

"Eighteen."

"They say she aint particular about leaving Mary and them, and Jane."

"I don't believe she'd go if it wasn't for that she's so gone on that rich white fellow she met up there at Columbia University."

"Lord, I know they going to have Jake's Paul to bury. He just worshipped Marina. Everybody looked for them to marry some day."

"Yes, and I don't know what my Jane's going to do either. You know, she and Marina were like two peas in a pod." She's been over Marina's every since the news got out. In fact before the news got out, because Marina called Jane the next day after she had been gotten the truth of the thing and told her to come over she had a secret to tell her."

"How come the news to get out any way, they're so secretive over there. It's a wonder they hadn't said that Marina was going back to Columbia to Summer School or to study in Europe, or something like that and let it end there."

"Child, you know they aint told it. You know Hettie's Sarah was doing some cleaning over there this day, and it happened that Marina's been act-

-3-

ing kind o' droopy ever since she been back home from Columbia, and Mary
sort o' noticed it at first, but she was kind o' waiting thinking that she
would come and confide in her like she always does, but she was kind o'
slow at doing it. Well, to make a long story short, Sarah went into Marina's
room to noose around thinking that she/was out, and she would get a chance
to borrow a couple of so bon bons without their being missed, and there
she found Marina crumpled up on the bed crying fit to break her heart
with a picture of this boy in her hand. Sarah got scared and thought she
better call Mary. Mary just knew the child had been up there and got into
some wrong. Well, I guess you know Sarah was outside the room with her ears
cocked. Well, Marina bluttered out her story to Mary, after much persuasi-
ion. She was ashamed to let Mary know she had been up there "passing" and
running around with white boys, and worst of all had fallen so deeply in
love with one. She wondered what her mother would say, I reckon. But
she finally let it out. Mary was cooked. She knew Marina loved this boy,
He was rich, handsome and *intelligent* brilliant, so was she. There was
a Trust Fund for her that she would never live to spend. She had a right
to this boy and to this love. She couldn't deny her this happiness, but
still it hurt her to see Marina go out of her life. She had loved her all
these years, and felt that she was of her flesh and blood. She had kept
this secret all these years, and had hoped that this day would never come,
but it had; she had to tell Marina the truth.

"Come Marina," Mary coaxed in a sweet, understanding voice. Let's
don't cry any more. The world isn't as cruel as you think. Everything is
not always as it seems. You may have your love after all. Promise me that
you will forgive me for something that I've kept from you all these year.
Will you?"

"Mother, you're so dear and understanding, I could forgive you for any-
thing, for I know you wouldn't do anything that you didn't think would do

Davenport

-4-

someone some good. I promise with a big kiss."

"There is someone else that you must forgive too, Marina."

"Mother, I'll forgive everybody, anybody, I'm on tènterhooks; do out with it," *please.*"

"It's a long story, Marina, but I must start from the beginning; it will be easier for us both."

Mary began with the time when she and John left Married and left Georgia to take a job up North in a private family that her sister had secured for them with Mrs. James Craig--the multi-millionaires. They left Georgia telling everybody that they wouldn't be back until they had gotten their hands well in the money.

"For five years we worked conscientiously in the Craig family, and were termed ideal workers. Mrs. Craig often boasted to her friends of her superior colored couple. It was the first time she had employed colored help, and she was surprised to know how far superior they were to any other help she had had formerly. She often asked if all colored people were like we were. She had implicit trust in us, and often told her friends that she could even trust her life in our hands. She went to California, Florida, Europe, just any where leaving her only daughter, Dorothy, in our keeping, feeling perfectly satisfied that everything would be well. However, she was severely criticized for this. Her friends thought it was terrible, so she sent Dorothy East to a wealthy Co-ed school--she just couldn't afford to let Dorothy cramp her style, so to speak. Mrs. Craig still was/young, charming and beautiful, you couldn't blame her. Dorothy was a mimature of her, and I see them both when I see you."

"Can I believe my ears, Mother!" Do I understand that _________?"

"Yes, you do."

"As I was saying, one evening about two years after she had been away, Dorothy appeared on the scene just after we had finished serving the evening meal--all unannounced, and frantic. I never shall

-5-

forget the event, nor shall I ever forget her; she was such a chaste, sweet girl; I don't know how it all happened. She wasn't the blame, though. Poor thing, she never lived to see you.

"Well, to come back to my story. A closed family conference was held; then the family physician was summoned. There were sprinkling of tears, and battling of words, and much thinking done. Finally, John and I called John and me in. It was agreed that the whole family, including us, would sail for Europe as soon as plans could be made, passports obtained, etc. It would be more feasible to have the baby born there, the doctor thought, and then we could bring her back with us as ours, and they could remain in Europe indefinitely. Dorothy didn't think much of this, but she had to condescend to the arrangements, feeling that time could alter all plans. At first, John couldn't see this. He wondered what the people down here would think if we came home with this white baby that would without a doubt have blue eyes. I don't think anything worried him quite so much as the "blue eyes"; they would be completely out of the question.

They had to stop and laugh at these eyes.

"After the doctor explained that because I was light, even though he was brown, it would be following the natural law of random distribution of the chromosones for us to have a white or a black baby, John agreed to the bargain throwing in--"provided you didn't have blue eyes".

"The hours that followed, were hectic ones, as well as exciting ones for John and me. We had always considered Europe as a place for rich folk. Never had we dreamed of ever going there. All of our friends had plenty of advice and tips to give us. John and I nearly came to blows on several occasions. One, I shall never forget: He just knew he would be sea sick, and someone had told him that lemons were good preventitives, so he insisted on taking a peak of lemons in our trunk.

Butty

-6-

The ocean voyage was a pleasant one, and a great experience for us, and John didn't take his lemons either. All of our plans were perfected to the letter, but Dorothy, poor child--she couldn't survive. She was so young, frail and delicate. She sent for me before the end, and said

"Mary God will always love you and John for what you are doing. I love you for it. I needn't ask you to be kind to her, for you have always been so to me, and I know you will be even more so to her that you have a definite claim on her. I do wish God had spared my sight to see her just once."

"She pulled the little diamond, that you wear on your little finger, from her finger and kissed it--she was so fond of it; she had received it from her mother on her tenth birthday. She said, "Mary, use your own judgement about the whole affair. What if anything Please give this to her on her tenth birthday with all a mother's love. If you ever decide, or the occasion arises to tell her the truth, be sure to tell her all."

"I promised, and I have kept my promise. Have You?"

A faint yes, was audible. Marina was speechless, thoughtless; her mind was a complete chaos.

They kissed and wept.

"I love you for it all, Mother. I know how hard it must have been for you to tell me."

"There is onething, Marina, that is much harder than that. It's seeing you go out of my life as unexpectedly as you came into it, but it makes me happy to know that you have found one who can make you happy, and give you all the fine things that you deserve. Always feel worthy of the highest and the best; it's in your blood. You will have plenty of money to do what ever you wish, or go wherever you desire. Decide soon, for it will be better for all of us now that we know."

"Mother, this is all too sudden. I feel for the first time like a motherless child turned out into the dark night. I do love Harold, he has such sterling characteristics--he's so loveable--but how can I leave

-7-

leave
you, who have been so dear to me, and all of my other lifelong friends for
one who is so young in my life. Life is so strange. Oh, I can't, I just
can't think of it, mother."

"We must take life as it comes, and as it is needed out to us, Marina.
You must go to Harold. There's where your ultimate happiness lies."

"All right then, I'll leave Wednesday. I'll go back to Columbia to
Summer School. Won't Harold be surprised? I know it will seem strange for
~~I~~ feeling of
to see him with a clear conscience~~ feeling, and not shivering in fear that
he will find out that I'm colored. This all seems a dream. Pinch me, am
I really awake and sane?"

"So that's the story of Marina. I shall tell Marina Thomas."

"This must be terribly hard for Mary, though, after all these years
of devotion showered on Marina."

"Look, isn't that your Jane coming, Clara?"

"It surely is, Aunt Matilda."

The Conductor cries, "ALL ABOARD", the engine chuckles, the wheels
revolve, and Marina is fast conveyed into the white world.

The Venetian Study

Ting-a-ling-a-ling, rang the telephone.

Bip--Pat Warner's tiny feet hit the floor as she snatched her thin
but graceful body abruptly out of bed.

Just nine o'clock--Will Senorita have her breakfast served in bed--I
suppose. Would that I had hung this little sign on the door knob--as she
glanced at the words "Sleeping late, please do not distrub". All of these
things were running through her mind as she stretched and languidly cross-
ed the room to the telephone.

"Pronto", came the pleasing voice from the other end. "Questa es Italiano
Reginey. Did Senorita have pleasant rest her first night in Venice? I think
yes? This is a brilliant day we have in Venice, and there are many places
of interest that you should do this morning that cannot be done later. It
is time that you should get out", he concluded.

"Gracias, Senor Reginey", Pat replied. "It is so thoughtful of you to call. I shall see Venice under the spell of the morning brilliancy", she said in her light manner.

"And if Senorita desires, we shall lunch at Thirteen o'clock in the
Hotel de Excelsior, Lido, and then take a bath in one of the world's most
interesting bathing spot. Does it hold interest for Senorita?"

"I shall be delighted to expect you at one past noon, Senor", was Pat's
thrilled but charming response.

She hung up the receiver, threw back the balcony portiers, and viewed
Venice from her window which overlooked the Lake. The sun beams were
gallivanting from place to place spreading dabs of colorful paint on what-
ever they touched; the gondolas were gliding smothly along--the Gondiliers
were busily conveying their passengers to their uncertain destinations;

-2-

trinket vendors were hopefully displaying their wares, and St Marks stood out in bold prominence.

I'm convinced she thought, that Venice is a most beautiful place, and that this is too glorious a day to idle inside--I suppose the thing to do is to sleep on the ocean.

In a few seconds, her toilet completed, she was walking out of the and doors of Hotel de Londres/into the famous St. Marks Square that she had read so much of in her Geography and Italian text books.

As she perambulated through the square for several minutes, casually observing her surroundings, she saw people filing in and out of Doge's Palace. I suppose I just as soon begin here, she thought, as she turned rather suddenly to enter , almost falling over a little boy of about ten years. She had seen this little pungent face on every corner she had turned for the last ten minutes. Can this kid be following me?, she wondered. I suppose he's thirsting for a guide's tip. These Europeans think we Americans have so much gold that we come over here to spread it around, and they wait for us on every corner,-even the little urchins. I don't know though, it might not be such a bad idea at that. The poor devils do have to live. He's a cute little chap,she discovered as she took the second glance He was rather lean and low in statue, and meticulously clean.

"Pardon me, Senor", she said in apologetic tones.

"Certamente, certamente, Senorita", came the most manly response.

"Bello giorno, Senorita!, he advanced.

"Sì, Senor, molto bello giorno," (A most beautiful morning) she replied.

"Sono Lei Inglis, Senorita," he asked.

"Non, Senor, Io una Americana", she answered. (I am an American.)

"Oh! Americana, Americana," he repeated with face fairly beaming.

"Far, far away. Mi ensenare palare Inglisa Senorita?", he asked, stammeringly, with great anticipation.

-3-

My, My, My, she thought. How in the world am I to teach this boy to speak
English in an hour when it is all I can do to guess his Venetian dialect--
to say nothing about his impediment in speech.

"I shall at least try", she said smilling and interpreting what she had
said.

"Como se diche in Inglisa porque Lei parla Italiano, gracias, y bella
Senorita?"--eager to get started on his lessons.

"Why do I" speak Italian, than'you, and (smilling--I suppose she was
slightly flattered) beautiful Miss.", she interpreted.

"Ah! -thank you beautiful Miss", but why?, he wanted to know.

He really had the first requisite of a good student--just brimming full
of curiosity.

"First, because I like the language, and next, to be able to teach you to
speak English, and to talk to the other nice people of Italy."

"Do the people in America like the Italian people? Are they kind to them.
I understand not so good to the Africans"---And a half a dozen other
questions he asked on a stuttering string.

"Why do you come all this miles to Italia - to Venice?"

"To see, to study and to love nice little boys like you; to see the palaces,
the Campanile, the canals, the Bridge of Sigh, the gondolas--yes, the serenades
too; Venice with her beauty mirrored in her waterways, and of course the
carnivals, and the pègeons of St Marks Square that I have told "my children"
so often of, and all the other things that I hope you will show me this
morning.

He could hardly wait for her to finish her little speech, so eager to ask
about all these children of which Senorita spoke.

"You children", he asked surprised.

"She smiled, "You see, I'M a Social Worker (of course there were a million
and one questions to answer in defining this position) in America, and we
just love the persons with whom we work so that they become a part of us and

-4-

we speak of them as "ours".

Comprenda Lei, Senor?

"Si, Senorita. When a man I get and come Americano to, will you add me help."

She answered, laughing, "Of course." "My, how beautiful you say that sentence all up-side-down."

"Oh, Senorita, bubbling with curiosity again, "You say you tell you children about pigeons in St. Marks Square. What tell you them?

"It's a long story about why you have pigeons in Venice."

"Do tell me", he begged, perching on a nearby bench,"And then I show you all the things you come Venice to see. I love stories."

She took a deep breath trying to recall the Italian translation.

"All right - all set - ready - let's go", and she started in pleasing and emotional nuance.

"About five hundred years ago, in the upland valleys of Italy, shut away from the rest of the world by high peaks, there lived a little boy named Leonardo. He didn't have a nice house like yours; he lived in a tiny little hut, and every day he had to feed the pigeons, lead the geese to crop grass, and milk the goats for his mother. His only recreation was to lay under the plum tree at eventide and dream inxthaxg about his brother who was a soldier down in the great city of Venice. His brother had always told him such wonderful things about the city that some day he hoped to grow up and be a soldier too.

One afternoon as Leonardo was putting his goats to bed his brother, Vittorio returned home from Venice and they talked into the night of great lords and ladies and presents given to the Doge; of how beautiful the gifts were--sometimes of gold and silver, imported silks and oh, so many things.

Leonardo sat silent for a minute. He had never heard of gift-giving. The people where he lived had barely enough money to buy food and other necessities of life. But he remembered that when he presented his mother

-5-

with flowers on her birthday how happy it made him and her. It must be
wonderful to bestow gifts to the Doge. "I should like to send a present to
the Doge", he told his brother. "It would seem like doing something for
Venice. But I have nothing to give."

of
All night he lay awake thinking/what he could send the Doge, for his
brother was leaving at noon on the morrow.

The next morning he was up at daybreak; Vittorio had promised that he
might accompany him to the edge of the village if his daily chores were
finished in time.

When Vittorio got up all the tasks had been performed but to feed the
pigeons. Leonardo had but to whistle and the pigeons gently flew up to him.
As he scattered crumbs to the, he thought again of the great carnival at
Venice and the gifts that would be made to the Doge. He wanted so much to
join the host of givers, but he had nothing but his pigeons, and a bird was
a poor gift for a ruler. He suddenly thought of his teacher once telling
him that it is not the cost of an offering that makes it precious, but the
good will of the giver and that a beggar's portion may be a more lovely
gift than that of a Prince. This memory brought an idea to him.

He asked his brother to take a pair of pigeons to the Doge. The birds
were so gentle, he knew the Doge would like them, and too, they were such
good carriers. Vittorio was pleased.

Months passed and no word came about the pigeons and the Doge until
one day Vittorio returned to say good by. War had been declared and the
soldiers of Venice must sail to Candia for fighting. He was pleased to tell
Leonardo that the Doge had ordered the Captain to take the much prized pig-
dons along to bring back the news, for there was no telegraphic service at
that time.

One day while the Council of Ten sat pondering in this splendid Palace
of the Doge of the absent army, they glimpsed two flying pigeons with missi-
ves strung to their feet.

-6-

When the news got to Leonardo that his pigeons had brought the word
that the War was over, and the Venetian army had been victorious, he was
happy to know that after all he had done something for Venice. After all,
the humble gift had meant more to the Doge than all the fine silk stuffs
from the Indies, and his gold and silver.

The lawmakers of Venice declared that they would never depart from the
birds that had flown all these miles to bring joy and ease to the hearts
and minds of the people of Venice. They and their young, and their child-
ren's young should ever remain. And today, hands from all over the world
feed the offsprings of Leonardo's pigeons."

"Marvelous, Senorita! Gracias, gracias, Senorita", he/exclaimed. "I mean, thank you beautiful Miss", he corrected, his eyes fairly dancing with delight, hat.

"Do you like flowers, Senorita", he asked, feeling the lone coin in his
pocket. "I buy you one flower."

"They went on their observation tour, stopping occasionally to have a
refreshing drink and arguing as to who should pay for it. Of course, the
Senorita won. She couldn't deny herself of this one precious flower—that
she was to get—for a mere drink. Just as they had about completed their
itinerary, a cloud came. It meant rain. Senorita must get back to her hotel before her pretty frock gets wet.

On reaching the hotel she thanked him graciously, handing him a/guide's
tip. His little face flushed in offensive defiance.

"No, no, no", shaking both head and hands, stammering, "Me no - ah, -
me no ah-- ah - gr-- gre- (After seemingly two minutes he finally got it out.)
Me no greedy. Just promise, Senorita that you will write me often from
Americano," presenting her with a little scrap of paper that read "Mickele
Zanin, S. Camicano - 5912 - Venezia, Italia. S

She promised, extending her hand that held her name card. He looked at
the card and then the hand and wondered whether it was the Americano custom

Story of the Dark Girl

A Dark Girl dwelt with her people,
Far, on the high hills,
Where the sun is near, is a red, red ball,
And the moon is a lump of silver, hung on a dark veil,
Where the moon is molten silver, hung high, in a dark sky;
Her people where dark, as she,
And they dwelt alone;
Their women worked in the fields,
Their men labored in the forests,
The young girls weaved,
Their strong lads hewed wood and strained young muscles,
The Dark Girl labored among them, happy.
Their homes were solid against the rocks of the hills,
Their fields were fertile in the low valleys,
And the paths down the hill-sides were well-worn,
For they had dwelt long;
The dark people were righteous;
They asked for blessing of their laden tables,
They praised the Highest for rich harvest,
They prayed to him at sunrise and at sunset,
In turn, they were happy,
Happy among the trees of the forest,
Happy to labor in the golden grain-fields,
To toil, toil,
Their work their life,
Their life their work;
No wonder that they praised God,
Happy, happy.
The Dark Girl and her people stood
With raised arms at sunset, praising God,
Work done, Happiness abundant, Faith strong, Love vibrant.

As the Dark Girl toiled in the fields,
Strained to the labor with her people,
One day, a restless spirit entered her mind
And soul, so long peaceful,
"Why should you labor, Dark Girl?
Do the people over the hills labor so?"
The Dark Girl answered,
"IT is a sin to say this, Spirit,
A sin, a sin,
Have I sinned before?
No, yet I answer you,
Have I sinned before?
No, though I have seen my people suffer,
Suffer as much as they have been happy,
Women in travail, men crushed by logs, children smitten by disease,
And I have longed to, curse the Spirit that made them so,
But did I do so then and sin against my God?
No, and it is wrong to answer you, yet I do so, and sin.
I am weary, heart-weary of the life of my people,
Weary of their stolid peace of life.
Yet, until you came, I dared not think it."
"COME, Dark Girl, and fields and toil will be behind,
The life of Romance before."
The Dark Girl followed.
The next sunrise, her people rose again,
To weave their clothe,
To reap their grain,
To hew their wood;
The Dark Girl was gone,

-4-

"Neither, my car is in the edge of the park".

"Why do you want to spend the day in the city? Don't you like
winding country roads, cool lanes, dense forests and distant landscapes?
I believe you could find cooler breezes and more interesting gazing".

He did not know that she had combed every landscape for miles around.

"What have you on your program?"

"Nothing my lady and just why do you ask?"

"Do you drive?"

Stevenson was daring and adventurous. He had always had his way by
simply taking it. He had never asked anyone's opinion but made his
decisions and followed his own mind.

"Yes, when do we start?"

"Now".

For miles they skimmed over country roads. They talked about
fraternity houses, foot-ball games, dances, and picture shows. He told
her about his scholarship record in Yale and of his plans to study law.
They stopped at a barbecue station and bought sandwiches and cold drinks,
and ate like two weary hikers.

Steve was a master at the steering wheel. He drove steadily, not
too fast nor too slow.

"The next little road that dares to run into my highway without
notice, I shall back up and track it to its lair", Stevenson said as they
sped past a side road that hid itself in a curve about twenty feet from
the highway. Trees stood on each side of the drive and Julia could trace
its course until it met a dense forest about a half mile away.

"Steve"(she felt well acquainted now and cut his name short) I never
like to follow up and explore unknown paths. Enough wrecks occur on the
highway without risking the byways. Those roads seem too narrow to

-4.-

believe in excluding all other fellows, of not even being friendly
with them, and confining yourself to just one fellow. Then when you
stop, you are all disillusioned, because you think everyone is like
that, and you really haven't had a chance to have even known others.
I'm too young. I want to have friends. Not that I'd make love with
everyone, but you like different people for different reasons, so that
when you feel a need for that thing which you like one particular fel-
low for, you can be with him. Don't you see?"

"No", he said. "I haven't been used to that. Around here it can't
be done. People are beginning to say that you are making a fool out of
me."

She objected, "I don't see how that would make a fool of you, and
it's absurd." It was cold on the steps of the dormitory, and it was near
ar time for dinner, so she said, "I guess I'd better go in."

He said, "All right. I just wanted to know how you felt." He left.
That was the end of that affair though she didn't quite realize it
then. His pride was too hurt for him to come back without a show of re-
gret on her part. And she did not regret it.

When she finally realized that Rob was really through, she wonder-
ed what she would do. She liked John and Herbert both. She didn't know
which she liked best, at first, but slowly -- whether it was because
John made love to her outright and sincerely and profusely, and Her-
bert held himself in reserve; whether it was that John didn't have a
girl already and Herbert had to offer competition; whether it was
just that she liked to play with Herbert -- silly little playing and
teasing; or whether it was just something else about him or not, --
anyway she began to like Herbert best.

When fellows were on the horizon, for she was very popular, Hugh

-6.-

her."

Joy heard and was so hutt that she cried and worried even more. What right had people to say that anyway? Yet she was afraid so that, being more sure of Hugh than of Herbert, she began going with him, gradually. She wanted so to get rid of the impression of fickleness. She was frank enough to tell Hugh though, that she liked Herbert when he began asking her about him. Hugh said, "Do you like him as much as you do me?"

She avoided the question by saying, "Well, you see I've just known Herbert longer".

He said, "Well, will you give me a chance so that you can see whether you can like me better? You really don't know which one of us you like best."

His humility surprised her. She felt deeply unworthy of it. Yet she realized that it was partly because he had just stopped going with another girl, counting on her. She realized that one reason why he urged so was because he did not want to seem left out. He asked her not to see Herbert while going with him. She promised, half-heartedly, not knowing how to get out of it.

But she did see Herbert. She met him in a part of the library that she knew Hugh would not go to. There he told her that he liked her very much. It was not a reckless plunge as the others had been. It was not out-pouring like John's. It was not pleading, like Hugh's. It was a feeling reserved for fear of embarrassment, a feeling displayed in the degree he thought it would be accepted -- an emotion feeling its way along. Yet it thrilled her more than any of the others. She, in turn, told him that she liked him too and promised to see him sometimes.

Yet people said sarcastically, "Quite a powerful woman!" When

-8.-

meet him fully resolved. She said, "I can't see you anymore."

Quickly, surprised, hurt, he asked, "Why, Joycelyn?"

She said, head held down and lips almost trembling, "People are beginning to say that I'm fickle, that I think I'm cute because of the fellows I talk to, so I've decided not to see anyone but Hugh". Fully expressive and showing hurt, she continued after a pause, "Herbert, I don't want to get that reputation around here."

He said slowly, "You certainly do care about what people say", dis-appointment entering his voice.

Quickly she tried to ward it off. "But don't you see that I can't continue like this?"

He asked, "But why must it be me to be left off?" She did not know. "Do you still like me, Joy?" softly and slowly.

"Yes-s-s. You know that I do."

"Well, why not go with me instead of Hugh?"

Her heart gave a funny leap. She was undecided though and said, "But people always say that you are in love with the girl you are going with."

He answered, "I thought that you knew that I wasn't by now. Listen, Joy, are you going to believe me or <u>people</u>?" angrily.

She could not resist him; looking into his eyes, she said, "You".

He wasn't angry now. He said, softly, "When are you going to tell him?"

"Tonight."

That night at call hour when Hugh came up she said, "I have decided."

He said, "Well."

She paused, tried to put it off, tried to soften it, flushed,

-9.-

then said just, "It's not you."

He looked down, embarrassed, embittered, curving his mouth in a cynical, side-way, and said, "I thought so," half-angrily. He tried so hard to blame her, in order to save his hurt pride. But she made him admit that she had been frank and fair.

She was sorry to hurt him, but was so glad to get it over that she wanted to get away and dance or turn hand-springs. She was almost holding her breath until she should get somewhere and revel in this feeling. She wanted to be away from him, his half-pleading regrets, his threats of loss of faith in women, and deep denials of ever going with another. Finally she excused herself and went to sit in a window.

Soon Herbert came up, and they fell easily into talking and playing. He could not make himself so irresistible! She was so thrilled at being with him. She did not see the surprised glances of people. If she had, and seen their whispered remarks, she would not have cared,

This went on for about four weeks, and people got used to seeing them together, and took it for granted that they were sweethearts. They began to suspect that they had been wrong about Joy. She was so very happy.

Herbert was on the varsity basket-ball team. He was one of their two best forwards. The day came for their first game of the season. She was thrilled and embarrassed to see him -- thrilled because he did play so well; and embarrassed because whenever an especially good play, everyone would yell, applaud, and then look at her. She was so proud of him. When the team went off to play one week-end, he said that he hated to go, and even threatened not to go because of her. She was very popular, and he knew several fellows who liked her and

-11.-

have an affair.

Nolette looked disgusted, gave a little spurt of a laugh and said, "What do you care _what people_ say? If you are going to let your life be bound with what "people" say, you are going to be miserable. And what right has Herbert to tell you what to do? I hope you aren't going to follow blindly everything he says. Do you suppose _he_ would come up stairs?" and went on writing.

Joy looked down, ashamed. She realized that once in her life she had not cared what people said. She remembered that she had _not_ bordered her life by what people said, but by what she herself had _the_ thought.

But she liked Herbert so. Somehow she had wanted to do as he asked, especially since no one believed that she was going to be true.

Nolette said, "But what is the need of being true? Is he worth it?" She had never seen what attraction Herbert had for Joy.

Joy said, half-frightened, almost tearfully, "Oh, Nolette, have I let this place 'get' me?"

Nolette looked busily down at the letter she was writing, moved her mouth, and finally looked up very frankly saying, "I don't know. But you _have_ changed. You used to think of something else besides men. But who can stay in this atmosphere of continuous petting, and continuous empty-headed discussion of men, clothes, and jazz, without becoming tainted?"

Joy felt that she had fallen in Nolette's estimation as she went slowly home some time later. She realized how her time had been lost on this seemingly little _important_ thing, how her lessons had been neglected for this -- and after all it wasn't what she had come for.

-12.-

But soon she lost the thought in her dreams of Herbert.

The next afternoon she was at the drug store with a group of girls and boys. When they had finished eating, Charles came up and said, "We are going down to the Little Inn so that we can dance. Come on and go with us. There is nothing else to do."

She consulted Virginia and Lorona, whose fellows were away with the basket-ball team, also. They, too, were going with some fellows, saying, "Sure. It'll be fun. There's nothing else to do."

She had often seen this Little Inn and she and Lorona had often planned going there sometimes when they had the money, to avoid a monotonous meal in the dining room.

They went. The Inn was the first floor of a regular house. They were ushered into a living room. The new girls were surprised, but saw that the dining room was right next door. When the proprietor asked what they would have, they said that they'd prefer dancing first. There were six couples.

But they didn't dance. Couples she'd never seen together before sat down on sofas and together in single big chairs in shadowy corners. She and Charles were last getting in, so they had to sit on straight chairs. She was glad. Charles tried to kiss her. She resisted. They had a little struggle. "Oh don't be crazy", he said. "Don't embarrass me in front of all these people. Everyone else is having a lovely time!" She looked around. Everyone else was occupied except Lorona and the fellow whom she was with. She was sitting on his lap, playfully, but they were just talking friendly talk. The fellow was Lorona's fellow's best friend. Joy used them as an excuse; nevertheless Charles continued to try to put his arm around her and kiss her. She felt miserable

-13.-

and wanted to go back to the dormitory. He said, "You can't go now. You have to wait until the rest get ready to go." It was getting late and after time for them to get back on the campus. She began to be worried. To keep Charles from bothering her, she said, "Let's dance." The radio was playing softly.

They danced. After awhile two other couples joined them on the floor. The room was now dark; they could see only the outlines of the other couples. There was nothing else to do, so they peeped at the couples making love, Charles being as mischievous as she. They had lots of fun. Joy expressed surprise at one of the couples in the process of making love. Only two were usually accepted as sweethearts. Charles said, "Why he's a man, and he has desires. They are both good-looking and like each other. Why not?" He said, "You are just a little innocent girl, I see. You'll feel differently after one year here. Just wait until Spring! My girl was just like that last year too."

She said, "You like her a lot, don't you?"

He answered, "Yes."

Then they began discussing his girl and playing at spying on the others again. They had lots of fun, but she was still worried, underneath, and wanted to go. She had never dreamed that it would be like this!

Finally, they went back to the campus. It was after time for them to be on the campus, and after hours for the freshmen to be in the building. They were afraid when the fellows left them on the steps of the dormitory, but finally pushed open the door, and walked boldly in. It was just after call hour, and they expected the dean to be in her room. They walked through the large reception room toward

-19.-

"Joy, dear, the best type of girl isn't crazy about him. It's
only the girls who do not care anything about themselves."

"But can't we even be pals?"

"If I were you, I wouldn't be pals at all or even anything.
People don't think anything of him. Wait awhile. Someone else will
come along." But Joy felt that she could not wait. She did not tell
the girl that she was supposed to meet Holsum the next day. She knew
that the girl would object -- and forbid her to see him. He loomed more
desirable.

She saw him. She didn't go on time, but she did go. He picked her
up, stood her on a stone to look at her. He rumbled her hair, and told
her that she was the cutest thing that he'd ever seen, and that he was
crazy about her. He said, "We've got to be good pals."

She made no objection to that. He was so nice. What harm could
there be? They would be only pals.

There was a dance by his club and he invited her. She debated
whether or not to accept. Lorona said, "Of course accept it. Every-
body can't go to that. Do what you want, Joy."

Virginia said, calmly and thoughtfully, "Yes-s-s, I'd accept it
if I were you. People won't be able to say anything because there
will be many odd couples. What do you care what people say about Holsum?
You'll have to know him for himself."

That was it. She did care what people said. Mary Smith affirmed
this. She said, "No, I wouldn't go if I were you. People are saying
now that you have fooled with so many boys that none want to go with
you. Then your being in that mess about the Inn makes it worse. People
will surely find something to say about that. I wouldn't go if I were
you."

-21.-

People saw, lifted their eyebrows, and gave meaningful looks. They thought things that were entirely foreign to their relationship, assumed things of which they had no proof.

People said, "So she's going with Holsum. Too bad she's 'mess-ed up'. I thought she was nice at first."

People said, "Oh well --", shrugged their shoulders, placing her in a class, and went on.

Lucile Dillon

-4-

"Who was the gentleman that left you with such reluctance?"

"My future husband" June said, and talked with this pleasant chap like
stranger to stranger. She told him all about their college life together,
their separation, engagement, and their future plans. He listened enchanted
and was fascinated by the story as much as by those flashing dark eyes of
hers.

"Why are you marrying so immediately after finishing school. Marry in
haste and repent at leisure", he said prophetically.

"What is the difference? After all I intend to get married some day
and Max is ready now". Why would this strange handsome man question the
wisdom of my marrying? June thought as she turned her head to gaze at the
flying landscapes.

"Are you going home directly" "No, I am stopping in Louisville with
my aunt. She is making my trousseau".

"I am just a few hours drive from Louisville, may I call over to see
you while you are there?"

"Yes, you may come, but you must promise not to chide me about my
marriage. Your care-free philosophy is good entertainment as long as you
don't really mean it for me".

Edward Clay lived just twenty miles from Louisville and drove over
every evening. By the end of her stay they were good pals. For hours they
drove. They saw picture shows together. June began to see life in a more
casual and carefree way too. Edward Clay had never attached himself to any
woman he told her. On their last night together he kissed her good-bye.
"Just a real brotherly kiss", he said as he took her hand. But June noticed
there was a peculiar sort of passion in it.

She opened the package the postman handed her. "June twenty-second" she
said, "just one more week".

After reading an announcement she thrust it into her mother's hand,
"Kiss me for that mother", she said as she flung her arms around her mother's
neck and began to cry.

-6-

"Mother I don't think I'll marry Max. I'll send the announcements back to him tomorrow and the ring and tell him I don't think I am ready to marry".

"You can't do Max like that. You can't disappoint him after all the preparations he has made for you. Don't be foolish and live to regret."

"Well, June put it over on us", Daisy said to Helen Sanders when they met in July at the annual Sorority Boule."

"All cozily settled in New York with Max. Some place to stay while I am studying at Columbia next summer".

# The Man Who Tried to Come Back
by
Marguerite Davenport'33

Picture yourself in 1917, a handsome young man with a wife of three months and your heart full of music and rapture, when Uncle Sam sounded his trumpet for men of war.

Cecil Valdes, a well-groomed young chap around the age of twenty-one, so deeply in love with a charming young dame, Marie Vare, his bride, that he was in love with the World, and rushed to answer to his country's call that his wife might rejoice over her hero husband.

"I can close my eyes now," said he, "And picture the bloody fields of Flanders, hear the rumbling of guns and the cries of my fellowmen. Some-where in the trenches I lay gased, and was on the verge of giving up, but when a mental picture of my darling Marie flashed before me, I struggled for life, and for some unknown reasons, God landed me safely home when the great World War was ended."

This brave soldier had not heard from his wife for many months, and feared that she had forsaken him like many other war brides had been done, but in spite of his fear, he traveled happily homeward. He was all wrong. He arrived home just in time to welcome a bouncing nine pound baby boy, and to give Marie, his beloved wife, one final kiss before God in His all wise power, took her away. Two days later, the son that he had long cherished, followed.

Many a sleepless night and many a eatless day followed. His only prayer was for God to take him to his loved ones, but God deemed it otherwise.

He wandered far into the world in search of that sea of oblivion. How could he ever find it. At night when he lay down to sleep, he could feel Marie's last touch of delicate tenderness on his arm, and the fever of her dying lips. He knew it was useless to ever attempt to forget.

-2-

Davenport

As the days past, and the year grew older, the gas began to affect his
lungs; he began to look weird and grow very thing.

One day as he rose to dress, he glimpsed his pale, lean figure in his
mirror.

"God!--Can this be Cecil Valdes?"

Something gripped him; he snapped within him as he stood, starring in the
mirror at his mere ghost--a faint shadow of the Cecil Valdes of two years
ago.

"What's the use of floating in the air like a bubble, only to burst. I
shall fight, I can fight, and I will fight my way back to earth and to
life, and forget, forget, forget! Ceasar saw, he came and he conquered.
Why can't I conquer, conquer the thing that is sapping the life out of me.
I can, I shall, I will, I tell you," smashing the mirror in millions of
pieces.

Lieutenant Valdes fought, and fought hard to regain his hold on life
--to come back--
and reality, but the task was too great, procrastination had proven to
be the thistle of time.

The Crusade

3.

They sensed his love for singing. They knew the charm of
the man --- and so George White's singers kept spirited and
conscientious throughout the years they served.

It had always been his cherished hope at Fisk to take
this group and place them before the public. At this crucial
time perhaps --- perhaps, by some good turn of fortune, they
could go out into the country and bring back the $20,000
Fisk must have been it to survive.

Voluminous and seemingly hopeless problems faced him.
First, there was no money. The small amount in the school
treasury he preferred not to risk on such a precarious venture.
There were the very skeptical parents of his young choir to
persuade and assure, whose opinions of the world were vague
and disquieting. It was a situation, indeed, which demanded
forbearing and stiff determination. The keen sincerity of
George White and the rich voices of his enthusiastic pupils
must have prompted the charitable instinct of someone; for
in the year 1867 the Fisk singers were presented in the
opera house of Memphis

Should we say it was curiosity over these young black
folk who had so boldly stepped out of their long accustomed
obscurity into a foreign and somewhat hostile foreground, that
proved such a ready passport to the opera house that night?

The Crusade

5.

Along with the fame of the Jubilee Singers, of course, ran that
of Fisk, synonymous and salient. They returned to Fisk with
$100,000, five times the amount that had looked unattainable
a short time before.

January, 1933!

been
Fisk must be represented today has the coaxing echo in
the minds of the Fisk Board. Again, there is a scarcity of
money, this time not peculiar to Fisk alone, but to the
world. Is such a venture wise? Will such a tour be successful?
Ray Francis Brown believes it will. Mrs. James A. Myers be-
lieves so.

A large circle of traveling bags are placed near the door
of Jubilee Hall. Almost every other inch of space is taken up
by groups of students. The hall is filled with the hum of ex-
cited voices. Some haven't much to say, but are looking wist-
fully at the bags, regretting that God hasn't given them a
voice too. Most everyone has on his hat and coat, waiting to
escort the sixty of their classmates to the station, from
where they will be destined on a two-weeks concert tour, for
high spots of the East.

The Fisk Choir will this time meet quite a different
situation, entirely unexposed to insult and inconveniences,
but will know all the modern accommodations and will face a world receptive and eager for them; for

Very thin, her part of the story looked, yet, Millie consoled herself, that it was the truth. Over and over again, her thoughts of self Larry and his connection with the woman flashed through her mind. "Do respectable men allow women to support them?" She questioned herself. "Even after it is all over, I won't marry him, the Scoundrel, the cheat, I hate him", and with this, her aching eyes released what must have been the last of her tears.

Each day the leading papers reiterated the case, each day, stronger and stronger were the evidences against her. Each day seemed to have been farther and farther from the set day of the trial.

April 9, with bright skies and cool spring breezes, finally came, Millie took her seat in the Harlem Court house. It was her first visit to court. She had seen court scenes in the movies and the recollection of the happy outcomes of the movie actors, helped her to retain the poise which her lawyers had assured her was essential.

Millie looked around her at the writers and artists who were either studying or sketching her. She eyed the newspaper men who occupied quite a spectacular place in the audience. Millie was startled almost out of her seat by a resounding, "Whack, Whack, from somewhere. And then a voice! Order in the court! His Honor! the Court! Everybody please rise."

The judge entered. The court was called to session. The piercing quietness of the court was disturbed-- A large rustic looking woman of about thirty-years-old, entered from the back. She rushed down the aisle calling, "Mr. Judge, Mr. Judge." No human power could stop her. She was Millie's Savior. In her hands, she carried the letter which bore Leonora's plans to ruin Lawrence Tate's girl's reputation, who ever she might be.

Leonora Wilson called the police, then killed herself when she heard Millie knock at her door that night.

"When I saw in the newspapers that it was my cousin, Mildred Hayden, I had to come here to save her," the strange woman concluded smilingly.

Two years later, in a modernistic bungalow in Garden City, Virginia, a little girl was born. "Shall we name her, Leonora}? came the weak voice of the new mother."

"No, no, not because Leonora wasn't a brave, good woman, but because I like the name Mildred better. Dr. Tate replied, with all of the avidity of a proud father."

ANOTHER ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

Abraham Lincoln Jones was one of the few men whose only ambition in life was to go to New York. When asked why he had never gone to New York, "Abee" would reply, "Lord, Mamma wouldn't let me leave her for nuthin', but some day I surely mean to go."

Under certain circumstances, one might have thought highly of a youth who meant so much in his mother's life. Quite different however, were the thoughts of the people who knew Abee and his mother Aunt Rachael. Aunt Rachael loved her son--"He's all I've got," the dear lady remarked fondly of him.

Abee and his mother lived in a three-room house which was located behind the "big house" on Mr. Raymond's farm. Aunt Rachael's husband, Uncle Abee had been an important man on the blue-blooded Englishman's plantation. But, in the Spring of 1889, one month before Abee was born, Uncle Abee was killed while trying to tame a young colt. Mr. Raymond lamented the death of Uncle Abee quite as much as Aunt Rachael and the other Negro laborers did. He gave the widow a house in which to live, and a spot for a garden, which he declared would be hers as long as Aunt Rachael or her child would live,

Poor Aunt Rachael was so afraid that her son would not live. Abee was not allowed to work in the garden, neither was he allowed to draw water from the small well for his mother's washing. At the age of twenty-seven, however, Abee had grown into a powerful young man. He towered about six feet in the air, and his circumference measured fifty inches. Abee inherited the typically negroid features of his father, yet there was something decidedly distinctive about his face. Other than the lazy unambitious contentment and sense of humor, there was the self-reliant confidence in himself which inspired respect.

Abee's favorite past time was sitting down-- sitting down anywhere. But, he was especially fond of sitting around farm-hands at noon hour, and at the Commissary in town on Saturday afternoons. Abee's presence was never rejected as his fat fingers moving slowly over his big, black guitar brought pleasing entertainment to his audiences.

Abee might have earned money by playing his guitar at feasts which were given at the Blooming Light Hall bi-weekly; but no, Abee couldn't play at feasts--such entertainments came at night. He had to be at home with his mother at night fall. The lad did earn a few pennies though-- the hand of a child born after his father's death would cure any pain. Therefore, it was not an uncommon thing for people to drive miles and miles over the poorly kept county roads of Virginia to have Abee lay the palm of his hand on the pain of a child or a grown person, either, for that matter. The next day, one would see the patient walking about-- Abee's hand had cured him.

One Monday morning the other residents of the plantation were disturbed more than usual by the mournful hymns of Aunt Rachael;

"Jesus, won't you stop by here,
Oh, Jesus, won't you stop by here,
Jesus, won't you stop by here?"

Verse after verse of this melody rang out over the neighborhood. The sound of Aunt Rachael's washboard was preponderated by her voice. From one song to another, Aunt Rachael sang on. Always as if imploring God's aid, she continued:

"I done made my vows to the Lord,
And I never will turn back;
Oh, I will go, I shall go
To see what the end will be---"

Aunt Rachael was in trouble, one inquisitive neighbor

3

discovered as she went over to take the good lady some of her
cake which had been left from the day before.

The night before, Abee had started to walk home from
church with one of the popular country damsels of another neigh-
borhood. The Green-eyed Monster, accompanied by the week-end
drink, "monkey-rum", stirred within the girl's regular boy-
freind, James Read. Haughtily, he inquired of Abee, "What in
the Devil, do you think you are doing?"

Before Abee could make any reply, his enemy had struck
him forcefully in the mouth. The fight was on. In a minute Abee
had James Read on the ground. With his big heavy fist, Abee directed
several heavy blows at James' head. Jim's howls for mercy came
softer and softer--the girl uttered a scream which predominated
the sounds of the night birds. Startled- Abee jumped to his feet
and fled home.

"He caught that 60'clock boat this morning and went
to Norfolk. He is going from there to New York to my brother".
Aunt Rachael let the tiny white napkin, which had long since been
clean, fall into the tub. She caught her apron up in her hand and
buried her face in it. Aunt Rachael was crying.

James Read didn't die, but her remained sick for almost
a year. Aunt Rachael's cousin, an elderly lady, came to live with
her.

Neighbors wondered how Abee lived in New York with
out his mother's support. Two years later thier questions were
answered. Abraham Lincoln Jones came back to Wythville, Virginia.
For almost a month Ash Grove Baptist Church was filled to over-
flowing. People came from far and wide to hear New York's evan-
gelist. The songs from the once strong voice of Aunt Rachael
echoed over the congregation through the voice of Abee. Aunt Ra-

Sunset Rockabye

The golden sun is tired now,
It's going right straight to bed,
All day it's been a-playing,
And dancing far overhead.

It's cast it's golden dress-skirts,
Over all the fields and hills,
It's kissed the bright, new harvest,
And peeped o'er sashes and sills.

It isn't queer now is it?
That the sun's tired and going to bed,
Twill be so bright to-morrow,
To light up all golden and red.

And you must sleep, too, baby,
As we watch while the night is born,
So the sun may kiss you softly,
As you play 'mongst it's skirts in the morn.

Silence

How gently inn the mind Silence abides,
And softly into deeper thoughts she glides,
To touch a heavier sorrow than we see,
With soothing hand of Still Serenity,

And bids the thoughts take ease within the mind,
With peaceful quiet, leave all rue behind,
And fairer than a lily tho' unseen,

And plants thoughts there that we would never see,
That grow and grow, a harvesting to be.

What more beauties we see with her, alone,
On Earth, Great Nature's loveliest of thrones;

The ferns are greener, with a lovelier sway,
The sunset seems much more than end of day,

The trees are statelier, flowers everywhere,
Garland the trees and scent the cool, fresh air.

More beautiful, the winter seems to be,iful
The snow lies white, and cold upon the tree,

That waves it's arms upon the wintry wind,
That seems a bolder message yet to send.

Ah, Silence is a wond'rous work of God,
With her, how beautiful the common clod,

With her, the thoughts grow lovelier and round,
With her, in lowliest souls is genius found,

How softly does she steal into the mind,
Without her, how confused would be mankind!

'Lizy Jane

It wuz de happy harves'ntime,
De co'n wuz in it's upmos' prime,
De fo'ks, well dey wuz in an' out,
A-cuttin' capers all erbout,
But who wuz waitin' in de lane?
Who but leetle Elizah Jane?

An' Dan'l, he wuz fetchin' roun',
Fer to he'p de grown fo'ks wid dey poun',
Dey had de sugar an' molasses,
De gals wuz handy wid dey sasses,
But she wuz waitin' in de lane,
Waitin' fer Dan'l, Lizy Jane.

She sot dar waitin' in de lane,
Ez perk ez shoots dat's on de cane,
Her leetle bob-curls wuz all roun',
Her skirts wuz gracin' dat dar groun',
An' Dan'l, bimeby he came,
To whar sot leetle Lizy Jane.

She fotched a smile, he tucked a grin,
An' rubbed 'is colla' wit' his chin,
While Jany sot a-waitin' dar,
He tried tuh speak, his mouf wuz raw,
An' dar she sot, so perk an' plain,
Waitin' patient, 'Lizy Jane.

Hit wuz a spell fore he could speak,
His eyes wuz blinkin', His v'ice wuz weak,
His knees wuz shiverin', shakin' bad,
His tongue wuz heavy in his haid,
An' whut he said, it wuzn't plain,
But 'twuz, "I luvs you, Lizy Jane."

"De years fly by on silver wings,
Dey seem so sweet, an angel sings,"
De trees grows tall on Lizy's grave,
An' Dan'l speeds de years dey way,
So he kin meet on high agin,
Hebbenly angel, Lizy Jane.

She waits; de same ez on dat day,
So long ago, his hairs is gray,
An' who is Lizy, Dan'l, you ast,
He stands heah 'latin' uv his pas',
An' she am dere, in hebben's lane,
Waitin' patient, Lizy Jane.

PRELUDE

"Sorry?"

"Sorry about what?"

"Sorry you married a country doctor?"

"No."

"Sure? Sorry you . . .?"

She didn't let him finish the rest. "No, since that country
doctor is you. Now that I've satisfied once more your vanity, kiss
me good-night, turn off the light, and raise the window."

He stooped to kiss her, and in a similar bantering tone in-
quired, "Didn't you forget a few other nightly orders - - banking
the fire, putting the cat out, locking the door, covering up the
children, and leaving a note for the milkman?"

There were no children; there was no milkman. Mere mention of
banking the fire caused Maida to shiver. To the uninitiate a
West Virginia winter in an unplattered shanty is almost unendurable,
for gust after gust of mountain wind, sweeps through the flimsy walls,
and bears away every vestige of warmth.

Sleep had gone from Maida, and Joe's deep regular breathing in
the stillness brought back his question. "Am I sorry? Dr Maida Wood-
ard - Dr Maida Lanson - Mrs Joseph Lanson - - No, I'm not sorry - I'm
a one-job woman. Either the medicine or Joe had to have all of me - I
chose Joe - I'm not sorry!"" She turned on her stomach, threw her arm
lightly across Joe's chest and dropped into sleep.

Dr and Mrs Joseph Lanson had been in Lester, West Virginia two
years. They had graduated from Meharry in the same class. Their
friendship began on the day that big black Joe had smiled reassur-
ingly to the only girl in the freshman med class - a mere wisp of a
woman whose smooth fair skin, level gray eyes, and dark-brown hair
enabled her to get a seat unquestioned in Loew's orchestra. A seat

Prelude 2

she frequently took, not so much for the pleasure she got from the show
as for the satisfaction she derived from out-witting Jim Crow Esquire,
known among the students as old J. C.

Joe had interned in Bellevue, and Maida in City Hospital in
St Louis. Their year apart had conversely drawn them closer together.
Each had practiced in the office of a friend for a year, then Joe had
declined a teaching position at his Alma Mater and Maida had given
up a scholarship for study abroad and they had gone to West Virginia
to try out ideas Joe had talked about since he first recognized Maida's
sympathy with them.

They reached Lester just ahead of the flu and they were so success-
ful in their treatment of it that their reputations spread far through
the mountains and into neighboring states. Hungarians, Poles, and
Italians, as well as native whites and Negroes, made up their patients.
The following spring one of Joe's ideas would materialize - he would
build the first section of his sanitarium.

But the treatment of the flu left them both so edged and so ex-
hausted that Maida discontinued active practice. Then fresh and sweet
at the end of the day, she soothed Joe's tired nerves. She read to him
the latest medical news, and listened sympathetically to his discussion
of puzzling cases. Now and again she offered suggestions which he found
valuable. It had been hard giving up her practice. Joe had not asked
it, but his smile when she told him of her decision had let her know how
he felt. Their marriage must not fail. She'd had the idea since her
youth that making a success of marriage was a woman's concern. It re-
quired more skill, more finesse, more delicacy, than any other business--
this intimate relationship between two individuals so close together,
yet so far apart.

Although she had been asleep for hours, it seemed to Maida that
she had just closed her eyes, when she was awakened by a far-away call.

Prelude 3

As she became wide awake she heard distinctly, "Doc! Doc!" She roused
Joe. He grabbed his robe and peered out into the bleak dawn. A lank
man in sooty bank-clothes stood there - the lamp in his cap still burn-
ing.

"Bad accident down the road, Doc. Can you come?" Joe stirred the
fire, slipped into his clothes, looked into his bag, and was ready to
go, but not before Maida had prepared two cups of steaming coffee. Joe
passed a cup to the man and they drank gratefully, while Maida got towels
and filled a thermos with water.

The two men stepped briskly down the hill to Joe's make-shift garage.
The thin frozen snow crunched under their feet. Each step silhouetted
the loam beneath.

"What kind of accident?", asked Joe as the din from the warmed Lizzie
ceased.

"Automobile - bad smash up."

"Where?"

"Dead Man's Curve. Wheeler and I were coming from work. Could
scarcely see. Heard a few faint moans - our lights weren't good, but
we discovered the job was too much for us, so we got as much load off
'em as we could and started for help."

"Anybody you know?"

"Strangers we think - funny thing the license plate's broke. I
stepped on a part, didn't see the other piece - think from colors though,
a Pennsylvania license."

As they neared the curve, Joe slowed down, then stopped his car
just off the road out of the way of other cars.

"Bad curve this!"

It was daylight now and the men saw clearly. The groans that had
been barely audible had ceased. The other miner came in sight with two
more men, one of them a deputy, who in lieu of either coroner or sheriff,
acted as both.

Prelude 4

The men worked almost silently.

"Damn bad curve," said one of them, and he spat broadly. "Ainta
six months passed since this road's been built, somebody aint been
killed or *near* killed here!"

Enough of the debris was out of the way to ease a man through.

"Get the blanket out of my car, and take out whoever else is there,
while I see if there's anything I can do for him," directed Joe.

Deftly Joe examined the man-- felt his pulse, listened to his heart,
felt for broken bones. Then shaking his head, "Must have been internal--
a few seconds too late--God, what a difference a little time can some-
times make! Maybe while I drank the coffee - or was it to be?" He
closed the man's lids and shut his mouth. Then brushing his hand across
his own brow, he turned to the men who were awkwardly moving out another
body - this time a woman.

"Dead too, and---." He was interrupted by the lusty cry of a wak-
ing infant.

"How'd we miss him?" inquired the first man who found his voice.

While the men went to find the child, Joe satisfied himself that the
woman was dead--had been dead several hours, then turned again to the
man, loath to give him up.

The baby feeling himself picked up ceased to cry. He was a fair
child - about eighteen months - with brown eyes and curly brown hair.
As he looked into the strange faces, his cries began afresh.

"Poor little chap," thought Joe. "Odd how he escaped."

He was in a wicker basket with a handle. When the car turned, his
basket must have turned too, at least on the side, but the handle pre-
vented his falling out, and perhaps his own weight had sent it down,
right-side up. He had been momentarily disturbed, but being well
wrapped, had gone back to sound sleep.

Prelude 5

The cries grew louder. Joe picked up the baby. He was struck by the latter's resemblance to Maida - eyes, hair, complexion. "Why he could be hers!"

The baby was warm but wet and one of the men who'd had experience in bettering such a condition volunteered his service. The child was all right otherwise, and ceased to cry when he was confortable. They put him back into his basket, where he quietly dropped to sleep, and they turned again to the dead couple. Both were fair--for Negroes, dark for white--that indistinguishable fairness which prevents definite classification. "Brother and sister, perhaps," suggested one of the men, for both had brown hair and similar features.

At first they decided against opening the baggage, but a thorough search of the man's pockets for some identifying clue was fruitless. Equally barren was the search of the baggage--it revealed only the initials R. L. The man had a few dollars in his pocket, and he wore a ring bearing the same letters.

Joe took the baby to Maida, who bathed him and delightedly fed him orange juice, rice, and poached egg, and gave him a slice of toast to nibble.

They never discussed keeping him. Joe had said, "He looks like you Maida." And Maida, with the odor of a freshly bathed baby in her nostrils and a catch at her heart as his head nestled on her shoulder, only smiled.

A description of the couple and the child with an account of the accident was sent to the Associated Press. After three days, nothing having been learned, the two were simply buried in Lester.

A week later a modest Dodge, bearing a Pennsylvania license, stopped in the heart of Lester, and one of the two occupants, a heavily-built white man just past middle-age, inquired for Dr Lanson.

Prelude 6

"More patients for Doc. They come from everywhere," thought the man who directed them.

Joe invited them into the room which served as his office. If they were surprised at his color, they did not manifest it. They had heard of him through friends, whom they did not name, and they wished him to examine them thoroughly. Joe had just finished the examinations when Maida came to remind him that it was time for dinner. He introduced his patients, - the elder a Mr Robert Ledbetter, a Pennsylvania manufacturer; the younger, Alfred Clark, a secretary-chauffeur combination - and she, knowing the difficulty strangers encountered in finding accommodations in Lester, invited them to remain. They hesitated, exchanged glances, then accepted with thanks.

During the meal, the accident of the week before was mentioned. The men asked many questions which Joe and Maida readily answered. They inquired about the baby who played contentedly in the next room. As Maida brought him in, the elder paled slightly, but said nothing to indicate more than ordinary interest, and the talk drifted into other channels -- of Joe's work, of his patients, of their ways of showing appreciation, and of the gratefulness and kindness of people generally. Asked about his most successful case, Joe mentioned an operation upon a man from Richmond --strange to say, the only patient from whom he'd failed to receive even a work of thanks. They were interested in his theory of the treatment of cancer.

"I can't prove my thesis yet - I haven't studied enough cases for a sufficient length of time."

"What other diseases particularly interest you,?" questioned Mr Ledbetter.

"Miner's asthma, and naturally tuberculosis," and they launched into the whys and wherefores and likely remedies --Joe always insisted upon preventive rather than remedial measures.

Prelude 7

Unnoticed by the men, snow had begun to fall. Steadily, silently, swiftly, as though they had a duty to perform in a limited time, the huge flakes fell. Already they had hidden the path that led from the house to the highway. Snow-covered mountain roads at night are not for strangers to travel. The men were glad to accept still further hospitality from the Lansons and after a hearty breakfast they bade them adieu, promised to follow Joe's instructions and to return in six months for a reexamination.

"Fine couple," commented the elder, settling the rugs about them.

"Couldn't be finer, and . . .," but seeing that his chief was already lost in thought, the younger, too, became silent.

An unconscious sigh of relief escaped both Joe and Maida as the car disappeared among the snow-crested hills. A nameless fear had possessed them; but, their fear, as most fear is, was needless, for interest in the revival of an ancient mountain feud superseded the curiosity about the dead couple, and the migration of the men who had helped to find the child, left only the doctor and his wife concerned about him.

Six months brought again spring to the world--at least to the part in which Lester is located. Fresh green leaves pushed off the last wizened hanger-on. Grass and weeds covered former bare brown spots. Hard red berries replaced the silvery white blossoms of the dogwood. The hillsides were alive with laurel and rhododendron and great clumps of deep-cream, almost orange-colored, honeysuckle. Here and there, glimpses of irregular patches of beans and onions and lettuce were caught.

Six months turned Baby into Ralph. They wrought a doubtful toddler into a sturdy youngster quite sure of his footing. They made Maida wonder what sort of a clutch one's own youngster could have upon a heart when an alien could make it hurt with joy.

Prelude 8

Six months converted the shanty into a wing of Joe's dream - an unexpected check from Richmond had enabled him to erect his sanitarium. The building was small, but it was as completely equipped as any of its kind. Separate, yet under the same roof, was their own little home.

"I'm in debt, but I've good insurance - pennican that! And if the worst comes, Maida can resume her practice," he reasoned.

Six months brought again Mr Ledbetter, who, with several visiting physicians, viewed the sanitarium, attended some sessions of the State Medical Association, listened attentively to the address Joe delivered, and lingered many days after the others had gone.

"Barring accidents, you're good for three score and twenty," Joe averred.

The night preceding Mr Ledbetter's departure, the three - he, Joe, and Maida, talked for hours. The next morning his face, as he bade them farewell, wore a contented expression. Joe followed him down to the car, and Maida blinking very hard and very fast, clasped Ralph as though she would never let him go.

To busy folk, twice six years can pass as rapidly, comparatively, as twice six months. These years were eventful ones for the Lansons. They had brought Little Joe and Baby Mae to keep Ralph company. The sanitarium, twice as large, stayed full, winter and summer. Each year from Richmond had come a check. Internes and aides and nurses left Joe and Maida time for plans and study and care of the children. Their own swimming pool, tennis court, and ponies, shared with little Italians, Hungarians, and Negroes, made regular summer camps unnecessary.

Ralph was a serious, studious child--sensitive too, -- always asking difficult questions; always resenting favors. In those first years Maida and Joe had had to explain to him, inadequately, it is true, why his little Hungarian and Italian friends could not go to his school. He'd wanted to know why all the pictures in his school-books were white;

Prelude 9

why in some magazines and newspapers, all were white; why in others all,
were brown or black. "Why mother?", in his childish treble, "Don't they
know about each other --or don't they care?" He had in turn been
King Arthur and Robin Hood--always the favorer, never the favored.

Then before they knew it he was a senior in high school.

"Is eighteen dreadfully young to become engaged?" he had asked, one
evening as the family sat chatting around the fire.

"We must tell him," Joe and Maida's eyes said to each other.

"Can't we wait until school ends? He'll be dreadfully upset."

Commencement night, they saw him leave the friends who crowded about
to congratulate him and peer into the auditorium for a certain little
brown face, then come back with apparent satisfaction when he'd found
the owner, Lina, sitting, waiting complacently for him -- they knew
they dare not delay.

The next day the other children set out gaily for the circus.
Ralph had not yet recovered from his senior dignity, so he did not join
them. Maida, Joe, and he lingered long after the evening meal--chatting,
planning, recalling. In spite of the apparent joviality, each felt the
air of dejection which hovered. Ralph thought it the aftermath of a
gay commencement season. Joe and Maida knew better. During one of the
infrequent pauses, Maida said, "Son, Daddy and I have something to tell
you."

Then simply, quietly she told him of that winter morning years
ago when Joe had gone to the scene of an automobile accident, of the
dead couple, and the lovely child that Joe had brought to her.

"Was I that child? I've always been lucky?"

"Lucky?", questioningly repeated Maida.

"Yes, lucky in that you and Dad found me" --Then -- noting her
hesitancy, he inquired, "Is there something --more, Mother?"

"Yes, dear, - Mr Ledbetter -- is your grandfather"

Prelude 10

"My grandfather --- Then I'm not a Negro, --- I'm "
"White," she finished for him.

The three sat in silence. Only the intermittent tapping of a woodpecker in a nearby tree broke the stillness.

Ralph turned from Maida to Joe as though he sought to read denial rather than affirmation in his countenance. Though his lips were mute, his eyes asked volumes. "Why do you tell me this? Why haven't you told me before? Why now? Why at all?"

Drawing him closer Maida kissed his forehead. "You were so young, and your mother who accompanied your father was the last woman in the Ledbetter family. Your grandfather himself was not well. You needed a mother. Here, he felt that you would learn a great deal about people, all kinds of people, that you could not possibly learn with him. Whether you are black or white makes no difference to us--makes no particular difference to him either, but America decrees that her citizens must be black Americans, or white Americans--they cannot be simply Americans. Your grandfather feels, and so do we, that you should have a choice since Fate has made it possible for you to be one or the other."

She ceased to speak. It had been such a short time since she had climbed the stairs and found the two year old Ralph, whom she'd thought still fast asleep, sitting in the door, clutching in one hand a cigarette stub, in the other, a charred match, and regarding intently, first one, then the other. Just yesterday she had been frantic, and everybody on the place had been worried, because he and his dog Cricket, pronounced Fricket by him, couldn't be found for hours--then he had sauntered nonchalantly in, announcing that they had been to call on their girl. Only the day before he had taken two handfuls from a freshly baked cake and she had found him outside the door, he himself eating from one hand, and feeding Fricket from the other. And now--

"Must I decide immediately?" Ralph's voice brought her back.

Prelude 11

"Sleep on it," she answered with a wan smile.

But Ralph did not sleep on it. Surprise, hot anger, bewilderment -- each in turn enveloped him. When these had spent themselves, sober reason followed. He saw that Joe and Maida had been preparing him for this very hour -- his playmates; his books; that momentous summer at Mr Ledbetter's homestead, the place its self, a former Underground Railroad Station, abounded in things of historical significance-- a fine old painting of Penn treating with the Indians, the master bed-room with its hand-made furniture, the work of a Freedman artisan; those trips through the mammoth Ledbetter Shoe Factories, which owed their being to the lasting machine invented by Matzeliger, young Dutch Guiana Negro; Mr Ledbetter's talks about philanthropy -- a new kind in which the individual is given the opportunity to earn sufficient not only for his needs, but also for his desires; his year in Nashville, visits to Meharry, to Fisk -- both gifts, favors, from the white man -- gifts that made one feel keenly signs: THIS PART CAR WHITE; WHITE ONLY; his first-hand knowledge of strikes and Unions -- smoky tents, ragged-shivering children, scowling men, frowzy women, strikers' fare-- white meat, colored beans, corn bread; Joe's impartial treatment; Maida's sympathetic and intelligent guidance -- all had been a prelude to the life which was to follow.

"I do not lose them! I gain a frandfather!" He was almost happy. Then came the thought of Lina, he loved Lina, and he believed Lina loved him, but he would not, he could not let his love subject him to those little things --Favors --Signs: WHITE - COLORED --that sear one's soul and leave it eternally scarred.

Reddick, Lawrence

January 12, 1932.

### Poem A (meaning in brief)

We all return to our own. The familiar sights and the old haunts are lovelier than the imposing thorofare. Lasting are the joys of home.

### Poem B

Think not of death for surely the hand that fashioned you - his most remembered work - will not let you die. Such loveliness will be cast in bronze on the very earth to make known the Master.

### Poem C

The tone is pessimistic with resignation. In a somewhat literal sense Margaret is first asked if she weeping because of the coming of Autumn (and winter). She is told that after a while she will become used to this (and things of like nature) and spare not a sight ..."Tho' world of wanwood leafmeal lie...." In time Margaret will know that all sorrow springs from the internal blight man was born for. It is this that Margaret really mourns for.

Stone, Deborah

January 12, 1932.

In poem A, I received the poet's reaction towards his home. To him it is a spot unlike any other on earth. The return to it always brings a feeling of comfort mixed with joy. His eyes always welcomed a re-impression of old familiar scenes - the flowers, trees, paths, and surroundings. To this poet home seems to be a place where one's soul seems to be wrapped around everything. It is a retreat which draws him to it.

Poem B - In this poem the poet takes a questioning attitude towards death. He does not believe that the beauty and loveliness of the body will die broken and forgotten. What part of the body of the being goes to dust, whatever part that returns to its essential self in its own season, the loveliness of the body of the one he speaks to will not be lost in the process but will be cast in the bronze of the urn that contains it. Its creator will still make himself known as master. The poem is quite striking in that it allows the reader to interpret through the beyond the bare lines.

Poem C - I found poem C much more complicated than A or B. It required more than three readings to get what I think is the meaning of it. The poet is inquiring from Margaret if she is grieving over the passing of her youth. He tells her that as she grows older she will experience greater hardships. She does not know the real reason now for her grieving but the time later in life when she will really know the cause of her grief. She is weeping for her former youth.

Taylor, Minne Alta

January 12, 1932.

Poem A is a simple, easily understood poem, written in iambic pentam-
ster verse with alternate rhyme scheme. Its sentiment is that no mat-
ter how far one may travel, nor what lovely places and sights one may
see he will always return to that most beautiful and dearest of places,
home.

Poem B is a sonnet. It states that true beauty never dies, but con-
tinues to live and glorify its Maker, God.

Poem C contains the words of an older person to a young girl. The older person tells the girl that although now she weeps because the flowers are losing their freshness, later in life she will not notice them, but will mourn because of her own ignorance of and helplessness in the whirl of things.

Townsend, Hellen

January 12, 1932

Poem A tells us what a lovely place home is. A tree or a shrub takes an added beauty when in our own yard. No matter where we may roam, we will always return to our loved ones and home. The rhyme scheme is abab. It is written in iambic pentameter verse.

Poem B is a sonnet of Beauty. It is also written in the iambic pentam-
eter verse. The rhyme scheme is abab, abab, cde, cde. The poem ex-
presses the idea that God will not let real loveliness or beauty die,
but the same beauty and loveliness that exist today will live on down
through the ages, making known that he who created beauty and loveli-
ness is Master.

Poem C was very hard for me to understand. From my understanding I gathered that an older person was telling a younger person that as the heart grows older it will weep and know why. Youth weeps but does not know why. But later you will find all sorrow comes from the same root.

"COLOR"

- By Grace Ellena Walker

"Approve of it?" Frank Merril bellowed to his wife across the breakfast table. His heavily booted feet were swung from chair-arm to floor, and he Simultaneously thud that set the breakfastook a-quiver.

"I told you last night that I don't approve of it. I say this morning that I don't, and until the day I am dead I say that I don't. That is final".

"Very well, then, Frank", she answered him with a calmness and an inhibition of submission that left him unprepared for the challenge she was to fling at him.

A pause. Over all the small room a sudden, rigid quiescence as in the instant when a scale is taking balance.

"Very well", she repeated, measuring her words with a deliberation unbecoming her usual irritability and display of petulence on those occasions when his will crossed hers. "If I may not go with your approval, I will go without it. It really isn't necessary, you know; only I hate to displease you".

The sarcasm, the irony in her speech and manner bit into his flesh. He winced as if she had struck him. Blood rushed and throbbed in his temples.

He had expected that she would make a dramatic departure from the room, slamming the door behind her and dashing to their room where he would find her out-stretched on the bed, in tears. He would fold her in his arms, chide her bad temper, and she, to show him that she was a sport, would recant and do as he wished her to do.

For the length of time he judged from past experience it would take her to reach and slam the door, he dug derisively into his grape fruit. The

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customary length of time doubled itself and the silence had not been broken.

The fraction of a second in the grape fruit gave him new command of himself. When he looked across the table to determine her next course of action, no trace of disturbance was present in him. No trace of disturbance in the woman either. In fact, only her eyes seemed actually alive. They were piercing him with sharp accusation: "I fooled you that time, Frank Merril. You thought that I would keep on forever being submissive to you and giving in to you just to keep peace and quiet within the home. Maybe you did not know that the fire was always in me, but that I quenched it with nervous fits and tears, quenched it and allowed you to domineer and ride rough shod over me because I hate nigger rows and fusses. But if we fight until all Hell is shaken, this is one day on which my will will be mine. Nobody is afraid of your loud talk. Nobody is too seeped in culture to match their tone to yours". And then the eyes stopped talking, and the woman spoke.

"He was mine before he was yours. Maybe that is why you don't feel as I do about it".

"You are mistaken, Marguerite". His sober manner surprised her. "I love the boy as much as you do. But you are taking chances. We have been lucky -- damned lucky -- to keep down suspicion and scandal. And you paid a big price for it, too. You left your Southland and came here a stranger where no one could know the truth. The first two years were hectic with the fear that the truth might follow us here. Well, it didn't. Are you willing to forfeit all that sacrifice and our present happiness to such a reckless undertaking as you are fostering?"

"I don't see where it is reckless", she returned with almost childish stubbornness. "I have been several times before, you remember. The last time was a year ago. This time, with a year between, could not mean ----"

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that Marguerite had promised to take the baby. It was a beautiful child.

This woman had dropped unheeded into their midst. Gossip ran high, and over back fences black and brown and mulatto women exchanged theories of why a white woman should cast her lot among them. But the four seasons had totaled a year and fresher streams of gossip had long washed out this one, when the woman became ill. She had, during the year in Decatur, known the visits of only one white man who came frequently from Atlanta. Her brother some said; others that he was a lover. But nobody knew, and nobody asked, and all the time the woman nestled herself closer and closer against the heart of Negro Decatur.

And when she had come to die, the future of her child haunted her more than the approach of death. Marguerite loved children, and because the fairness of her skin and the gold of her hair matched that of the mothers, she took the child to be her own.

The sun never came out that day, but the woman died. And Negro Decatur looked in vain for the white man who perhaps never knew the spot that marked her grave.

He never came, but large and imposing envelopes containing only a generous check came at definite intervals to Marguerite. There was no return address, but they were post-marked "Atlanta". The woman had given Marguerite a letter to mail on the morning before she died, the morning on which Marguerite had promised to take the child as her own, and the name on each check was the same to which the letter was sent. Marguerite made this observance and kept it in her heart.

Frank Merril was furious when the news reached his Nashville home that the girl he was engaged to marry had taken upon herself the care of a child. But after all, even Frank Merril had respect for death-bed promises; and when three long years of separation had proved to him how barren and useless life without Marguerite would be, he married her and made himself a father.

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kept singing it over to her with their every revolution. The elevator hummed
it up the flight of four stories, and typewriters were making a chorus of it
when John J. Hamilton greeted Marguerite Merril in the main lobby-hall. She
thought she saw him stop short as if a pain had gripped his loins, but she
wasn't certain until seated opposite him in an inner office she traced the
mark of disappointment in his face.

"Where is my boy?" were his first words to her when they were safely
secluded in his office.

She paused in the pretense of adjusting herself more comfortably in the
luxurious red leather chair. Then she answered him.

"He is older. His mind is disturbingly acute for one of his age. I was
afraid".

"But other times he will be still older".

Again Marguerite delayed her answer. She dug deep into her purse for
something she knew wasn't there. When she did not find it she spoke again.

"You cannot ever see him here; perhaps you shall never see him again".

An oath was on the white man's lips, but he checked himself.

"But you will always come?"

"No. This is my last visit. It is unfortunate, but you must have
anticipated this".

Marguerite was surprised at herself for the calm, dispassionate
deliverance of those cutting words. But he had to know, and she was glad it
had come so easy.

The man did not answer her then. Marguerite saw the battle of emotions
that all but shook him where he sat, in the pain that only a father denied of
his child can know. When to one single emotion all the others had been
subordinated, he began to unfold to Marguerite that which she had longed to
know.

"I would ask you for my child", he began in a voice cracked with the

Communion

We frolicked in meadows,
In fields elysian;
We laughed and we sighed together.
Yet never our souls
Communion knew,
Until we had cried together.

There Are Detours

Every girl was drunk with the rythm of jazz; and those who had
been unable to restrain themselves fell into panting heaps upon the floor,
exhausted from their mad dance, as the last flourish of chords vibrated
from the piano. There was a wild outburst of applause, and somebody on the
floor shrieked out, "O, m'God, that music makes me weak".

Phyllis wiggled herself into a more comfortable position on the
lounge and sighed. Music stirred her soul rather than her bones, and while
the others were thrown into convulsive jerks and swaying of the body, she
lay out-stretched on the lounge like one in the enjoyment of a pleasant
drug.

"You look it", she answered the shriek from the floor. "You played it
well, Mat", addressing the girl at the piano, "but if you know Among My
Souvenirs, play it before you go".

"Hell, who's got any souvenirs?" Eva slurred from the deep luxury of
an armchair. "Besides, the five-thirty bell rang long ago, and it takes
you eons to get dressed. We were late to dinner again last evening all
on your account, and I vow I will not strut to the back of the dining
hall again this evening after everybody else is in and seated".

"How do you figure I made you late?" Phyllis answered in quick defense.
"You always monopolize the mirror and I never get a break to fix until
it's time to go. You can go straight to-----!"

"Say, can it", Mat broke in. "Keep family troubles at home. I'll get
sentimental after supper for Phyllis, but I must be going myself. Say,
have lights come on? I've got a dress to press. Come, Phyllis, so you
won't make dear little Eva late for dinner.

-4-

But as she walked back to her dormitory in the gathering darkness, a sudden chill set upon her, and she felt, oddly enough, that something was about to separate them. Her step became slower, and her shoulders drooped. She felt hysterical.

Possessed of a sudden impulse to retrace her steps and follow Eva to dinner, she stopped short. She would not mail the letter tonight. Perhaps after all she should not have Paul know that she cared as much as she really did.

She had turned and made a step toward the dining hall, when a familiar voice arrested her.

"Hey, Phil," it called.

"Darn it," Phyllis swore under her breath.

She went on as if she had not heard. She was in no mood for Bob tonight.

"Hi, Phil," it came again too strong and clear to ignore.

Reluctantly she swung herself around. Bob was coming to meet her.

"A trifle bit late for dinner, aren't you?" he greeted.

"I was half way there and remembered something I left."

"But you were faced the other way when I caught sight of you."

"Yes, I know. I decided to go on without it. Just a letter to Paul that I wanted mailed. Did you want anything?"

"No---except that I always want to see you."

"Then why did you call me back when you saw me rushing to dinner?" Phyllis was irritated.

"I just told you that I always want to see you. I did, and couldn't resist callin' you."

"Same old flattering Bob aren't you?" she teased.

"I wish I could flatter you. But you are flatter proof, little Phyllis. You don't fall for it like the other girls do."

They had reached the dorm steps. Both paused. Phyllis spoke first

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"You may come in, if you like. I am not going to dinner now."

"Thanks. But I must hurry on. Before I go, may I depend on you for the
dance tomorrow evening? it's going to be the season's best".

Refusal was on the tip of her tongue, but she remembered that there
might be some truth in what Eva had said.

"Depend on me".

"That's lovely of you, Phil. Good night".

"Good night, Bob".

Her eyes followed his retreating figure until it disappeared in the shadows.
After she mailed the letter, Phyllis did not go in immediately. The
night was beautiful. The stars hung low, sprinkled against the velvet
darkness of the night. She seated herself on the dorm steps; and as an
early spring breeze, delicate and perfumed, brushed her cheeks, she gave
herself up to thoughts of Paul. Only a little while she sat there. Then
She remembered, "I must go right now and get the letter; she murmured to herself
"You are like a picture", he said, in a voice soft and lazy and warm
as a mid-summer breeze up from a southern swamp.

Phyllis jerked herself back to reality and the sensibility that some-
one had spoken to her. She followed the sound of the voice'till her eyes
rested on the face of a man she had never seen. Confusion surged within
her, and anger tinted her cheeks a deeper rose. She did not like strange
men, but all the resentment that she wanted to spit at him froze on the
edges of her teeth.

She regained her composure in the instant that she lost it, and without
brushed past him to join her group of friends coming up from dinner,
a word arose and went into the dorm carrying with her the sole impression
that he was tall and blond. He made no attempt to detain her. His experiен-
ced eye had caught in her eyes the reflection of something that she did not
know herself to be there, and he knew that he would see her again.

That night, Phyllis dreamed that she was a picture in a frame of pure
gold, and that a stranger, tall and blond, bought her at a price that no
others could pay.

It was cool and refreshing on the balcony. The dance floor was too
crowded with the throbbing bodies of students ecstatic and inflamed by the

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rythm of crooning rhapsodies. Phyllis stood half-leaning, half-erect
against a balustrade, a silhoutte in blue and coral.

She was uncomfortably conscious of the fact that all evening her eyes
had searched the dancers for a glimpse of a blond head---she knew nothing
else except that it was blond. And at last she thought she saw it, high
above all others, go out upon the balcony. It was then that the dance floor
had become so insufferably conjested that she could not breath, and at the
end of the dance there she was drinking in the sweet freshness of the
clean, cool air.

"You are more beautiful tonight", she heard the blond head speak clear
and distinct, though soft and lazy, from the other end of the balcony.

And then she heard a voice in answer that sounded like her own, as if
it were far off, "You might begin by saying who you are."

There was a laugh above her head, and a warm breath in her hair.

"I'm nobody but Clifford Graham, senior in the med. college. Phyllis."

She liked the way he said it, and she somehow did not think to question
how he knew her name. In the light from the dance hall, she saw that his
mouth was delicate and sensitive like a woman's, and that he was handsome.

The strains of a waltz floated out to them. He took her into his arms,
and where his hands rested, all the blood in her body rushed warm and
throbbed there. She was waltzing on the crowded floor, but the air was
easy to breath, and she did not want to end her dance.

That night melted into the dawn of another day, and that day into
weeks. A month had passed.

"Phyllis, it's none of my business, but you are going pretty fast
with Graham. I never thought you would be so entirely swept off your
feet. Come down to earth".

It was Bob talking as he and Phyllis walked home from the library

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just as the sun went down.

"I know. That's what everybody says. Bob, it's not what I am doing. It just seems that people don't expect for me to raise whoopee and rush a guy. Other girls do and ~~there~~ is nothing said about it. But as soon as Clifford and I started an affair, the campus ~~went~~ red".

"I'm simply warning you, Phil. I don't mean to offend you in what I am saying. Graham is a guy that bears watching: a handsome fellow spoiled and corrupted by women, who can't help but ruin a good woman. He doesn't know anything else, now. When have you written Paul?"

"'Coupla days ago. And why should I worry over Paul? I will have Paul long after my youth has passed away.'"

Bob chuckled. "From the way you are letting Graham play you, I suppose you will be throwing Paul over, eh?"

Phyllis flushed a deep scarlet. "Oh, no danger of that", she replied, trying to make her remark casual. "My life with Paul and the road I shall travel with him are mapped out like a well-planned motor trip."

"Bill' Shakespear", Bob answered without turning to look at her, ~~said~~, "there are tides in the affairs of men". I add that there are detours, also. Be careful, Phyllis."

Phyllis made no reply, and they walked on in silence until ~~at the door~~ of her dormitory, Bob bade Phyllis good evening.

March winds had given way to April showers, and they in turn to the balm and warmth of May. When the small watch on her arm indicated to Phyllis that it was ten minutes past the hour appointed ~~when~~ arrived Clifford Graham should come for her. Paul would have been on the hour. But one never knew what Clifford was going to do until he had done it. Phyllis never knew that he was really coming until he was there. Sometimes Phyllis waited and he never came. But when she saw him, all the rebukes, all the things she had meant to say to him went from her.

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In one brief span of time Clifford had first mastered and then possessed her, and in the fire of that new-found passion the memory of Paul was consumed. When she wrote to him for the sake of the flashes that were left smoldering, her letters were brief; and with the weeks Paul wrote less frequently. Indifference brewed quarrels. She did not realize when it was that his letters stopped coming.

Clifford had sounded a chord that Paul had never reached, feelings came that Paul had never inspired. Her soul was suddenly over-whelmed with a thirst that Paul was incapable of sating. The cup of mystic water was in Clifford's hands. Had it been in Paul's, he would have given her to drain it to the last drop. Clifford with-held it and allowed her only sips at intervals spanned by agonizing uncertainty and longing. And her parched and thirsty soul clung to the cup.

Long walks after schoolhours had developed into dinner dates, and dinner dates into theater engagements, and theater engagements into long country drives along cool and shady lanes until there came a time when dawn broke, and the first light of day came upon Clifford and Phyllis still together.

The hands on her watch pointed forty-five minutes past the hour when Phyllis took her seat beside Clifford in his roadster. At thirty minutes past the second hour Clifford brought his car to a stand-still before a shabby little building in the country town seventeen miles from the city, and as the magistrate's office clock struck the third hour Phyllis Storm was married to Clifford Graham.

Phyllis spoke when they were miles on the road going back.

"I am afraid, Clif, to face my family. They will be furious", she breathed through nervous lips.

"Aw, honey", he answered, drawing her closer to him, "You don't need the family now that you've got me. All your troubles are over. No longer must you dread the baby's coming, for it will have a father. That's

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all that's worried you, ain't it?"

He had a way about him that calmed her when she was most alarmed and assured her safety through risks and dangers she shrunk from with fear. And so she had married him that her baby might have a name.

June came. Her commencement was an age-long nightmare. The confession of her marriage brought forth the response she had anticipated, and she was left by her family with no fond farewell, "to make the best of her hard bed", her mother had said. She had disappointed them all; and so they relinquished all claim on her. Meek and unmoved she sat while the battle between family and husband waxed furious, and finally reached a dramatic end.

The summer passed quickly, and Clifford was kind to Phyllis. When snow lay thick upon the ground, and the world had settled itself to the duties of a new year, Phyllis brought forth a son, lifeless before she saw him.

At the death of her child, remorse took possession of her. The rose left her cheeks, and her hair lay close to her head in a thin and stringy fashion. She was silent and morose at table, and Clifford began eating at his club. Three years elapsed, three years of trying to make a go of married life with Clifford, when she admitted to herself that he was growing less kind to her. In the fourth year he proposed divorce, and when she refused to consider it, he deserted her and she knew not where he went.

Paul Ryans drew himself upward to his full height and drank deeply of New York air. It was refreshingly full of the breath of other people--his people--after days of salt air, and the jagged sky line was like the face of an old friend after the monotonous expanse of water meeting sky.

Like a school-boy let out on a holiday he wanted to shout and run down the gangplank turning handsprings and leaping over people's heads. But the grinding cameras of staff photographers restrained him, and his wife, for- eign-born and viewing America for the first time, clung timidly to his arm.

So they went down together in the dignity that became them, and as his

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strained gaze took in, as far as he could see, evidences of great changes
everywhere in everything, he felt oddly a stranger in a new America. Thir-
teen years is a long time.

Phyllis looked over the few frocks of one another from her scant wardrobe, and after she discarded as unsuitable. The fact was, she did not have anything. After her rail-road fare from the South and the expense of lodging, she could just barely spare the price of admission to the concert seats in Carnegie Hall from high when European artists sang--and Paul Ryans had Europe and America at his feet.

She finally decided on a flimsy affair of flowing chiffon. She had
not had use for such things since she had left Jacques. As his mistress,
she was the spoiled child of luxury. Evenings at the theater were fre-
quent, and she had no desire that was not satisfied. But foreigners have
temper, and the second time Jacques beat her, she left him.

Clifford's desertion was the blow necessary to knock Phyllis into
the mire. And it did. It did not leave her with the strength to get up
and go back to the highway from which she had taken a detour. So, like a
toboggan, despair and remorse coasted her down-hill.

Her conditions of life were dependent on that of the man who kept her--sometimes she dwelt in the case of luxury, and once she deserted to escape the drudgery of her existence. Jacques had been the last with whom she sought the uncertain protection of a home. He was the last, for from the jewels and furs he had given her, she managed with sacrifice and economy to eek out a scant living on the bare necessities of life.

Six years of such living breaks a woman and changes her beyond the recognition of one who has not seen her in thirteen years. The woman who pressed herself in the front ranks of the crowd, as close to the curb where Paul Ryans' car was stopping as the blue arm of the law permitted, bore no recognizable resemblance to the girl that he had left behind, studying as she inspired him on to the realization of that hour.

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But her woman's heart had lured her to the place not so much for sight of him as for sight of the woman she might have been.

The car drew up to the curb and stopped. Phyllis was conscious of the blood thumping in her temples. And then she saw him alight, the same Paul she had known, only a trifle older. And there were lines about his mouth that had not been there when she saw him last.

The woman she saw beside him was small---only to his shoulder. As she stepped to his side, a letter fluttered to the pavement. When Paul's quick hand had recovered it, she tilted her head back to look up into his face; and the cape she was wearing fell from her head, revealing a cluster of rich blond curls.

"We forgot to mail it", Phyllis heard her whisper to Paul.

A letter neglected to be mailed, and a blond head. They struck upon Phyllis' reason like a blow between the eyes.

They were both so ingenuous, so poised, so unconscious of the surging crowd gathered to receive them. And as Paul bent tenderly over his small wife to reset the cape that it might protect her head against the brisk night air, that one act, that one demonstration of her possession of him caused Phyllis to go mad.

She was boring her way through the crowd, head down. An indignant mothers thundered threats at her above the din of cheers as she mowed down their small children before her.

Down at the wharf a half mile away the Hudson called. The sudden break in her nerves gave wings to her feet, and she cleared the blocks like wind.

A police man walking his beat a half-block from the wharf guessed her intent. He set foot after her. When he reached the edge of the wharf, a disturbance in the water mocked at him like a monster's smile. Three bubbles rose and burst, and the river was calm again.

********HELEN OF TROY********

Bustle, hustle, noise - rush!
"Hurry this order - Rush this!
"Oh, my feet!"

Ten o'clock at the shirt factory is hurry time. Everything is being rushed - orders - people - machines! Helen Smith was seated at her table mechanically sewing trade mark tags on the neck band of shirts; mechanically, I say, since for three years she had been sitting in the same chair, doing the same thing, the same way between the same hours six days out of each week. When her father died three years ago leaving debt upon debt and an insolent, good-for-nothing son, she had taken upon her young shoulders the responsibility of sending her brother off to college, and of selling the home with its furnishings to pay the howling creditors who demanded their fees immediately. From the sale she was able to save a few hundred dollars with which to send Cecil, her brother, to school. All the "friends" who had enjoyed the dinners, dances, and teas that had been given at their home had actually evaporated into their air now at the time when she needed them most. Tom Cowan, Helen's wealthy fiancée, had left on an extended trip to Europe the week after the reverses occurred and he had only sent one postal card from Rome stating that he was well and hoped she was the same.

Here Helen was friendless, except for her fellow workers who sympathized with her as best they could. At night when she returned to her room which she called home, she would gaze at the picture of her mother, who had died when her son, Cecil, was very young, and thank God that He had taken her mother when He did so that she was spared the depression now being endured by her daughter. A life for three years of no romance, no laughter or pleasure, or anything that a girl of twenty-two longed for and expected had begun to tell on Helen as

2.

shown by her doleful expression worn constantly. She seemed morbid and depressed, and one could readily see that her smiles were sometimes and somewhat forced.

To-day as she sat at her table sewing in the Troy Factory, she wondered if there could possibly be a chance for her to have romance and laughter again, to have that cottage for which she dreamed. Helen sat there in deep thought for fully ten minutes with any number of things running through her mind.

"Ah! Snap out of it, Kid."

Helen jumped when Sally spoke to her and picked up the next shirt in her group to sew the trade mark on it.

"What's the trouble, kid? You ain't worried about nothing."

"Oh Sally, I'm so unhappy I don't know what to do. I have such a responsibility - I don't see how I'm going to stand this much longer," Helen concluded exhaustedly.

"Ah Kid, I'll tell you a way to settle that. Put your name in one of these shirts and before long you'll have some handsome rich guy looking you up."

Helen smiled faintly and said, "Nonsense."

Well, anyway Kid why don't you try it for fun - you never can tell," Sally said smilingly.

Without another word, Sally went on to the packing room.

Helen sat there a while wondering, then she smiled and took some of the red thread, carefully and neatly sewed HELEN SHEAR just over the trade mark of the white broadcloth shirt that she had in her hand.

It is the first of June at college and Cecil Smith is ending his junior year with rather a high average in scholarship. His best pal, Joe Sphere, who is somewhat older than he, is lecturing to him

3.

about working during the summer in order to be able to help his sister of whom he often speaks. Joe is the only fellow on the campus who knows anything at all of the circumstances that Cecil faces, and even at that he knows nothing definite. Cecil promises Joe that he will try hard during the summer to aid his sister in matters, so that discussion ended.

a few necessities for
They go down town to buy, their respective trips home. The problem of whether to buy blue shirts and white ties, or white shirts and blue ties takes up some time, but it was at last solved by Cecil buying a blue shirt and white tie and Joe a white shirt and blue tie. When they returned to school it was dinner time, so on the bed the packages fell, and the last minute packing, since they were leaving the next day, was left until after dinner. Upon returning from dinner the packing was completed and they retired with various thoughts concerning what the summer was to bring. In the morning at six o'clock, Cecil bids Joe a hurried farewell and good luck. At ten o'clock that same morning Joe was dressing to catch the eleven o'clock train when he unfolded his new shirt to put on. He noticed a somewhat red blur, however being in such a hurry he had no time to decipher that. On to the train he rushed and was just in time, for the porter was calling, "All aboard!!"

While seated on the train, Joe thought of his pal, Cecil, and wondered what he would really do during the summer; whether he would be kind and helpful to the sister of whom he spoke; what was she like to do so much for a hopelessly lazy brother, and what would she think of him, her brother's friend. Thus seated with these thoughts running through his mind, he dozed off to sleep and dreamed he had met Helen Smith, and was liking her very much. She spoke to him very sweetly and explained how she longed for someone to whom she could tell her

4.

woes; how she wished for romance and gayety; how she wanted a home
of her own; and how she prayed for her brother to become someone worth-
while. She was just about to say something that she was a little hesi-
tant about saying when the porter came through the car calling, "Soft
drinks, apples, candy, chewing gum, and cigarettes!" Joe Sphere felt
as if he could have choked that porter for disturbing his dream at
such a point, but since he also wanted to stay on the train he had to
content himself with a look at the poor innocent porter which should
have killed him.

At last, he arrived at his destination, Boston, Mass. He rushed
home immediately, and was greeted most affectionately by his elderly
parents who had not known that he was arriving so soon. He was
ushered into the cool old parlor where the three sat chatting for a
while. The maid appeared and said dinner would be ready shortly,
which fact made Joe realize that he should get his bath. Excusing
himself, upstairs he rushed to the bathroom where he undressed quickly
and plunged into a tubful of soothing warm water. His soap accidentally
slipped from his hands on the shirt that he had just pulled off and
had thrown on the floor. Stretching out his long arm to get the soap
he pulled up his shirt by the collar. His eyes fell upon the neck
band of his shirt which he continued to look at for fully three minutes,
HELEN SHEAF. His mother was calling that dinner was ready, his fa-
ther was urging him to "snap up" because he was very hungry, but Joe
continued his gaze upon the name in the shirt.

Ah, strange that this happens to be a name like that of Cecil's
sister! From what Cecil says of his sister, she'd never do such, and
furthermore, this must be someone who is working in a shirt factory,
yet, he said that her name was Helen Sheaf Smith. By the way, Cecil
has never told me where his sister works. Oh well, this is some silly
girl." With no other thought of the name, he hurried with his bath,

5.

dressed, and went down to dinner. After dinner, Joe and his parents spent a lovely afternoon chatting in the library.

Several weeks later, having not heard from Cecil, Joe decides that he will go over to Troy for a short visit. Upon arrival at Troy he went immediately to the address given him by Cecil. He could not help but notice that this section was far from being aristocratic. He knocks at the almost rickety door, waits for several minutes, then he hears footsteps. A young girl, freshly clad in a pink house dress, opens the door.

"Beg pardon, Miss, but could you tell me where Cecil Smith lives?"

"You are at his home now, but he is not here. I am expecting him any minute. Come in, you look rather tired."

"Yes, I am, as I have been travelling since early this morning."

"How tired travelling can make one. Take this chair, it is much better than that one. I will get you a cool drink."

Joe speaks softly to himself, "I wonder who she is. She is a peach. Anyone could fall in love with a girl like that."

"Here you are, a nice cool drink. I do hope you will feel better after refreshing yourself."

"I am sure I will. I am Joe Sphere, Cecil's room-mate. I presume you are - - -"

"Oh! I am sorry, I am Helen, Cecil's sister."

"Cecil has told me so much about you. You must be a great girl to be so nice to him. Is he helping you much this summer? I told him he should do all that he can to help you out as much as possible this summer. Is he obeying orders?"

"Yes, he is a changed man. I wondered what had come over him. My work is quite confining, as well as tedious, and I find myself wondering so often if I will spend my whole life sewing trade mark

6.

tags on shirts. You see I work in the Troy Shirt Factory."

"By the way that reminds me of an incident that happened last
week. While sorting some new shirts I came across one bearing the
name HELEN SHEAF on the trade mark. Do you happen to know her there?"

"Yes, I am acquainted with her. I am sure she'd like to meet
you, but suppose you've already met her. What would you do?"

"Do you mean to say that I've met her? Where? You see, I have
been acquainted with her for some time in my dreams, but I don't re-
member ever meeting her in person."

"What if she were the same as another Helen you just met?"

"Do you mean to say that Helen Smith is the HELEN SHEAF on my
shirt? If that is the case, I'm not just meeting you then. I've
known you nearly two weeks now. Tell me, are you HELEN SHEAF?"

"Truthfully, the HELEN SHEAF of your shirt band is Helen Sheaf
SMITH, Cecil's sister."

They both laugh over the situation and do not notice Cecil who
has arrived. He is happy because they seem to have made acquaintances so readily. Helen explains the situation. Joe likes her so much better for it, and tells her so later on that same evening.

Autumn Afternoons

Autumn, the season of the afternoon;
Heat and glow of summer cease,
Leaving to us the beauty of peace,
Bringing to earth a golden boon.

Autumns and afternoons come in life, too.
Passions of summer fade from the mind,
Blessed consolation we then find,
And flame and whirlwind pass from view.

We shall reach our afternoons together,
We shall feel that touch of rapture divine,
Beholding with quiet eyes all kinds of weather,
While soft and gentle lights about us shine.
A genial sun will come to cheer us soon,
Against the chill of that autumn afternoon.

—Georgia F. Holloway

## A Transition

Wanton are the castles of fairyland
Surrounded by a misty halo,
Clinging fingers groping in darkness,
Grasping in vain.

Shattered are the patterns of man;
O! crumbling walls of Jericho;
Crushed to mere skeletal starkness,
There to remain.

Shadowed are the fancies of childhood
'Neath clouds of the bleak night,
Chased by the chilling breeze;
Never to return.

Ushered so wildly into manhood;
Overwhelmed then with blight;
Beat upon by tumultous seas—
Remaining to learn.

Music

Music in the distance enchants me,
As its soothing sounds encircle my soul,
Making me oblivious of realities
That are tangible and seemingly cold.
Music, like tendrils of eel-grass, entwines
The essence of this heart of mine,
Saturating the air with soft rhythms
That bewitch the body and charm the head.
Music, refreshing as rain on a torrid day,
Lures into ecstacy my whole being;
Entrancing it like the wand from a witch's hand;
Benums all reason that lay within me.
Phantom music harmonious in my dreams
Reminds me of frigid winter's moon-beams.

—Georgia F. Holloway.

Beyond the Hill

Think you of the remotest ray of an evening sun,
Of a flickering candle needful of air,
Of a heart in abysmal despair,
When you gaze beyond that hill.

Think you of a sunset glowing with fire,
Coloring a sketch no brush can portray,
And of a rainbow after a rainy day,
As you peer through that hill.

Think you of a great masterbuilder,
Erecting a monument that soars to the sky,
Above which no expanded wing can fly,
Beyond the distant shadowy hill.

------Georgia F. Holloway

CHECK AND DOUBLE CHECK

I had always wanted to fly - and so had Billy. He had
said that we would fly someday. Certainly between London and Paris the
next time we had to make the journey.

Adventure tingled in my blood. I hurried home, a human
dynamo, in desperate endeavor to reach Sky Harbor, five mile dis-
tant airport.

The day was a perfect one. The incoming plane, a Fairchild Wasp Fly, was more than one hour late - doubtless held somewhere for repairs. The prospective passengers resignedly devoted themselves to newspaper, magazine, or, the somewhat nervous and planeapprehensive, to introspection. At last the thrill of a distant drone, - high up a huge silver-winged bird, ...sailing majestically through the clear air, now descending, gradually, ... smoothly, lower, ... lower....lower, - until now, touching the earth, it bowles and bounces gracefully along the green level stretches of the flying field and finally comes to a stop in front of the adorable white stucco-with-green-trim air-port, "Sky Pilot." Just a brief stop for mail and passengers.

The Tired Soul, the last to pass through the door which
immediately swung home found a perfect dear of a coach with two rows
of six seats - daintily slipcovered in immaculate canary casement
cloth, lending both an air of comfort and beauty. The sign at the
front "Pilot" and at the rear "Wash room" makes one feel confident
and begin adjusting self and baggage, obvious now to the roar and
sputter of the plane's motor. From outside the Co-Pilot's

"Contact!"

The propeller pulled down, a roar and a sputter - almost before one
knew it, the plane was rising. The huge bird moved perceptibly,

-2-

then faster:... faster:... faster:... and faster, taxiing, bouncingly along the green field, now rising:... higher, higher:... rising--until we're off in the air. Flying,--in an airplane--indeed! Everyone, airminded or otherwise, thought I was crazy--of course, I MUST BE, to be deliberately flirting with death in this fashion. Couldnt one manage to get killed nearer home--by a Rolls Royce or a Ford, in a vain endeavor to cross any busy street? Yes, it happened everyday--anywhere. But this was different,--this stunt so unusual and restful--don't mean a crash would be restful--of course not! Except for four other persons in none too close proximity, I was alone--alone in the great out of doors, sailing along high up in the air, on a trip made in the plane in two hours, but which would take seven and a half by rail. Here I was flying, breathing the purest of air against the prover-bial lifetime peck of dirt(and cinders) taken all at once by rail. But youth must be served, and was I not young--at least at flying. So why worry over thoughts of earth and its critics.

The Co-pilot approaching--note his million-dollar smile, I ask:

"Would you be so kind as to snap that scene? My Kodak is all set.... Thanks a lot; and I'll be so glad, if you will take two or three others while we're flying. But maybe you're-"

"Delighted! It's a clever idea. Quite comfortable now?"

The great silver bird winged its way through clouds and thin air,--on the earth below a much bepatterened Beloochistan,--Gods toy--all green and silver and gold; green fields and fields of yellow gold; the ribbony, muddy Cumberland, terraced with fringes of tiny pinetrees--a tiny steamer with its doll-like plume of smoke curling skyward; dark rough clumps of trees, over all of which we floated serenely--perhaps at one hundred fifty--eighty miles, perhaps two hundred; speed was nothing, it seemed. How beautiful! Magnificent! The gorgeous panorama. Sailing, now high above the clouds and now down--down--again.

It was a Big idea, but I liked it--immensely; I'd like to learn to drive a plane --be my own pilot(I believe I could learn)and have my own

-3-

plane- I-a Lady Heath---Amelia Earhart; or Marie Dickerson-that's the colored
flyer, and take my guest flying after dinner. Oh Boy!! You scoff--but take
it from me, the time is rapidly approaching when a woman's age will be judged,
not by calendar years or her wrinkles, but rather by one of these three con-
siderations: She has been up in an airplane-rating; YOUNG. She wants to
go up in a plane, adolescence or more has set in. She's afraid to go up in
an airplane,---------------obsolescence. Flying over Louiston, through the
air, looking down--down on the beautiful green of the earth. I closed my
eyes, but only for a moment--sight of the earth below was too precious. It
was like riding atop of a cloud--a billowney, silver cloud, lazily, smoothly,
looking down in the tops of trees,--high up. How high is up? Now down....
down.......restfully...gliding......Wonderful! Awesome!! I......what?.....
...TEARS!! A glorious joy ride through the air--up in the sky--with it a
seductive cocktail--call is heavenly dream. No insipid whiskey and soda
with gin, frapped furiously, but real nectar of purest air and lovliest
vision, frapped beneath a dome of blue sky, over a gorgeous bowl of green
dashed with reds, yellows, saffrons, golds,- a gorgeous symphony--all
color strings in grand ensemble. The great Above and Below. Shouldn't
have come, eh? Boshi! Colored folk are most all scared of flying! FLYING--
AND HOW!! Priceless pensoroso memory of aerial pathways,--a rendevous hung
with nature's masterpieces- trees, streams, hills, vales,--minatures from
God's Great Paint Shop, passing in exotic pagentry underneath the wings of
the great silver bird. Sailing on and on,.....up- where "Silences creep in-
to the brain and lie there, screaming." Now, Oh, the fur piece has fallen
on the floor! That's nothing,- I'll get it. What's that!! Feels like my
heart-...it's my head! No, head's alright. It surely IS that heart; and
it goes so fast....fast!....FAST. Now the floor drops from under me! And
it shoots back! The wash room--where's that sign? Shall I go? Just hate
to--those Jewish mwn across the aisle are saying: "She's ALL IN," but I'm
NOT! I'm floating......serenely.....hanging on a cloud.....now swinging

-4-

up and down.......now sideways. Where's the plane? Am I still in it? Oh, hang it- I was having such a gorgeous time!! Now everything's upside down-tumbling.....rolling-down-over and over. Oh SHOOT, there I go- More weeping! The men still looking but chewing, now, like mad; both all butter colored, too! That wash room-i I'll have to be going!! Steady! Steady now!! Hold on to the chairs!.......

"No thanks! I can make it alright," to one Jewish man's offer to help. Inside now!! O.K. BY ME.

Lipstick,-rouge,-puff,- wave smoothed,- bloom and chic restored. That's that! Back again- I got a break alright!

I think I'll chew the gum, now, and put the cotton in my ears? No I don't mind the din- I like it; it's music--sweet cloud music--plane--(not PLAIN) music. The men across the aisle watch still more keenly. They're trying to hold on. I HOPE THEY DON'T!!!

Where's that note book...my notes about the cloud banks we cut through....and everything else below and above so wonderful! The muddy little river, snaking along. I can't pick up that note book-....yes, I can!- I WILL!!...No I can't, too tired; Oh, give me a break......I want to look out! It's so GRAND!! But I'm weak! Weak!! Weak!!! Yes, weak like a gray stone. I'll have to rest,.....maybe....s--l--e--e--p.

The obliging Co-pilot saunters to and fro from the cockpit to washroom, pointing out the highspots of the rare ethereal journey; the pilot never leaves his lofty post,- at least we HOPE NOT! Only peering behind now and then, through begoggled eyes at his brood, like a hen counting to see if all there.

There must have been a report from Mr. co-pilot: "Lady really quite ill," for the solicitous goggles peered thereafter more than once at the said indisposed lady passenger, the plane flying lower, and faster, as if he wanted to hurry now. Nor did the "lady quite ill"- not even after the usual sequence to plane sickness- make any particular progress toward a comeback

-5-

and subsequent enjoyment of the air stunt, over which she set out to get
ooibles of thrills.

The wash room facilities, adequate to the last degree, enabled
lipstick and puff to put bloom and determination in the face even as other
adjustments restored the chic of suit and hat. Still the comeback did not
extend, apparently, beyond these superficialities. Plainly the lady was
still "quite ill." Co-pilot and pilot, alike, made several observations
through the oval of the cockpit door.-- Lower, now, flew the plane.

"A little more air-would that help?"

"Perhaps," - faintly. "Isn't it about time for another snap?"

"Too much?" as he adjusted the tube overhead, "I'll get the snap."

"No;" - still more faintly - "More."

"Too much?"

"More! !"

"Landing in about five minutes."

"Will you get a snap of the plane landing?- and another after
it comes to a stop--passengers and all; I can't do a thing, I
guess."

"Don't bother, I'll get them for you."

"I don't want to land. Can't."

"We'll help you; everything will be alright."

"Oh yeah? Can't you begin now?"

"Some one meeting you?"

"Hope not; don't want to see anybody!"

"Going to..................?"

"Don't know-anywhere-so a good hotel........?"

"Peabody, or Gayoso?"

"Make it Gayoso; I need something like that urge now."

An effort to pick up furpiece and bag resulted in a slump into depths of
chair again.

"Don't bother to get your things; I'll attend to that for you."

"Call me a cab?"

"Yes; you bet. It will be alright-you'll be feeling better when
we land."

"If you think not, please don't land."

"You're a good sport, anyway."

"I haven't noticed it on this trip- except the first hour. Wonder
why I can't come back--does'nt everyone?"

"Well, yes, most people do."

"Of course I had to be the odd one- just came for a rest, too."

"You'll enjoy it, though, I'm sure."

"Oh yeah?" What time is it?" Trying to pep up. Result, nil.

"Better not try any more. We'll help you to the cab."

"Thanks a lot."

And so ended the trip in the air. It was not the end, however, of the ad-
venture I sought.

-6-

The obliging cabby waited until the likewise obliging co-pilot had made a snap of the newly arrived plane and those gathered about it, then drove his drooping passenger hurriedly to the Gayoso Hotel, luxuriously and satisfying, and Four to Fifty dollars per day. Could I have the House Doctor?- at Golf?........Well, any one usually called would do.

Then the Doctor:

"What's the matter, young lady?" called for the frank explanation:

"The matter is probably that I am not a young lady any more."

"How's that? I wouldn't say that you are an old lady, I'm sure."

"No; people don't always tell the truth; they are afraid it hurts too much. Nothing like that would happen in this case, however. I've come in on the plane this afternoon."

"On the plane-eh- and got sick; that's too bad."

"That's what I thought, doctor, when I was having such a ripping good time up to that unfortunate occurrence."

"What seemed to be the matter?"

"Everything; and nothing in particular, but I couldn't continue to look out on the air. It seemed too bad. I've wanted to fly for so long!"

"Well, we won't worry about that half-trip; you enjoyed the first part, anyway,- didn't you?"

"Yes; more than anything I've done for years I believe. It was gorgeous,- thrilling- nothing like it down on earth!"

"Well, don't get excited over it again. We want to get you out of this first. -"104- 106-108" taking pulse, What do you do with yourself- did you take a good rest the night before you took this trip?"

"No, Doctor."

"Did you sleep nice and late,- have a good breakfast, and take things easy until time to leave...........?"

-7-

"To No. 1, no doctor; to No. 2, no doctor; to No. 3, no doctor." I was getting ready to go from six 'til ten O'Clock, with a maid helping me. Lots to do, - straighten out trunks; straighten out closet; make new will-write letter to aunt with "open if I do not get back; otherwise give to me when I return." Didnt have time to drink all of my coffee, even. Was rather tired when at last I was ready to leave.

"Well I shouldn't wonder, - rather tired, yes you were. Now, young lady, -well, not so young then, just as you like it- it is true that neither you nor I are as young as we used to be. Consequently this old heart of ours is not as strong as it once was, and must, for that reason have better treatment then it may have had in the past. Let me tell you, therefore, that you must go in active training- and at once, for the purpose of correcting the results of certain habits of yours better known to you as "rushing around." Stop everything you may be doing except eating and sleeping. Do plenty of that. This is serious. Normal pulse is, as you know about 72. ÷ would not scold you very much if it were 82 after this plane trip. But with 108 you can see that you have not been treating that heart right; and it is rebelling strongly. - See what I mean? You MUST stop that sort of thing, and at once, if you wish to stay with us. I mean all of this and hope you understand how serious I am trying to be. If you had taken the proper rest and precautions the night before, and this morning before leaving for the field, you would, doubtless, not have experienced any in-disposition from the entire trip. Don't you wish you had done so, seeing how much you enjoyed the first half? Now, we will proceed to begin to re-pair the damage done - and from the background I have gotten from my questions since being here, I believe this rushing habit is of long standing. It's been a much abused little heart; it's a wonder it has not spoken out long before this, or shut off the works, even. Do you see how serious I am! It might have done so while you were in that high altitude."

-8-

Meekly - "Yes; doctor. What do you want me to do?"

"Remain right in this room - in this bed until I get back to see
you tommorrow- about ten, I think it will be."

"May I not go to the dinning room for dinner; there's music and
that rests me."

"Not tonight; perhaps to-morrow night."

"Couldnt I go right across the street to the Loew -State Movie-
house; movies rest me?"

"Not tonight," firmly. "You take your rest doing things, it
appears. We shall have to get out of that, won't we?"

"Yes, Doctor. Could I have a magazine and read a while?"

"Not tonight; perhaps tomorrow might. Rest, ABSOLUTE rest, until
I return. The waiter willbring your dinner--I will leave the order at the
desk; likewise your breakfast. Try to eat it ALL. Rest in peace until I
come again, will you?"

Resignedly - "Yes, doctor. - Could you come before ten. Perhaps I
might be alright and can go out then?"

"Possible but not probably. You will be in possible for two days;
perhaps on the third........"

"But I must go home, doctor, I go to school."

"I thought you said you were no young lady."

"Well, this is a different kind of school - for me. I'm entered
not as one of the younger set. I'm doing "Creative" study. I may write
the Great American Novel........I'll send you a copy. But doctor, please
don't be later than ten."

"I promise. Good night. Follow instructions, and let's snap out
of this. A fast heart is not exactly the best thing to carry around with
one. See you in the morning. I'll order your dinner."

# # # #

Saturday morning, - afternoon, Sunday morning. Check and double
check,- heart, lungs, blood test, blood pressure--all checked and double

-9-

checked like nobody's business. Only that heart - too fast, everything else O.K. - absolutely necessary to slow that down, which accomplishment - says he(the doctor) would depend entirely upon the lady in question. It was Sunday afternoon when the ambitious flyer with the fast heart phoned friends for dates intended to have been made upon arrival, two days before, - and proceeded to make up for lost time, but with cautious, remember-that-three-days-doctor-bill-slow motion. Monday morning, seeing the good doctor in the home of friends on the Parkway for the fourth and last visit, - discharged, she might now return home, and by plane if desired. In fact, the doctor recommended completing the adventure.

"Safe - absolutely - PROVIDED you do not get to doing things before the trip. Rest, rest...and...MORE...REST, and I feel sure you will be able to enjoy two full hours in the air instead of a bare three-quarters. Let us say when you are contemplating going up in the air, don't "GO UP IN THE AIR," but rest, - rest well before going up in the air. Are we going to do that next time?"

"Yes, doctor, and thank you," - this followed by the final check to cover this the final admonition.

A urge to adventure - a long coveted holiday from earthy things to aerial realms - which suddenly came to the T.S. that bright April morn disclosed an untoward, even dangerous physical condition, a desperately fluttering, overworked heart, - long time overworked, which MUST have surcease from this habitual daily abuse. The remedy, - the good doctor's visits, in exchange for coin of the land; the forced brief but highly beneficial rest following, more than likely chartered a fresh lease on life - what was left of life - that otherwise might have ended surrupitiously - perhaps at home, in busy traffic, or even as the good doctor intimated high above in the plane.

Fading Shadows

Snow was falling thick and fast on the frozen ground at Atherton. It was December, but not too much so for one lone figure to be abroad at two o'clock in the morning.

She was frantic --; half crazed because of her purpose. Yet, her mind must be eased somehow. She had a snugly wrapped bundle in her arms. In the deep snow and black of the night she trudged on and on while her mysterious bundle grew more and more unbearable. At last she could stand it no longer.

Her mission on this extraordinary night was to dispose of the burden. Yet, she hated (like hell) to do it. She must, though. Her disturbed mind was like a sea in angry turmoil, unconscious even of her whereabouts. Above all she hadn't dreamed of being in a nigger village.

Atherton was always a calm and uneventful little village. The only enterprise of which it could boast was a large country store that contained all merchandise imaginable. In summer the farmers raised corn, cotton and tobacco. While in winter they diligently looked after their poultry and killed hogs.

Chittling struts and box suppers proved to be the winter amusement. In all seasons, however, the store was filled with the village gossips who sat on soap boxes. They consisted of old men who chewed Brown Mule tobacco and spat the juice into the huge stove in the middle of the floor. Old grannies, who dipped snuff joined the flock of people who ripped niggers up the back.