the first time. But he plucked
one of the strings, and soon he'd
plucked all of them. And then
he ran his fingers against all of
them at once. He laughed, a
kind of inner laugh, and did it
again. Jez asked Calico to play it
for him once, to show him how
it went. But Calico said his hands
had worn out on him.

INSIDE of a week, Jez could
pick out a tune, a low whin-
ing sort of tune. Calico always
lay in ecstasy alongside, and his
fingers always moved with the
rhythm. Jez played every night—even Saturdays when the boys
went down for a dip in the river—and that made Jez forget altogether about cotton picking.
Then one night, Calico said Jez
could have the banjo all for him-
self. Jez knew Calico was lead-
ing up to something, but he wait-
ed for it to hatch.

One night, Calico dropped an
ordinary sort of hint about run-
away slaves. Jez stopped off play-
ing just like that. He grabbed
Calico by the neck and almost
choked him to death. Jez made
him tell him everything he knew.
Calico was scared. But he told
Jez everything the next night,
too, about freedom, and Miss
Rill and the other stations on the
Underground, and how he'd
learned a long time ago just
about the best ways there were to
get across the border. Calico
spoke his heart because he'd had
it deep in his heart for a long
time. Pretty soon Freedom be-
came a capital-letter thing with
Jez because Calico knew how to
tell it. Calico had been too old
to get his Freedom, he said. But
Jez knew, anyway, that Calico
never had had the courage to run
away.

Sometimes Jez made Calico
tell him more than he knew
about the Underground. So Cal-
ico had to make up things which
Jez believed because he'd put his
faith in Calico. One day Jez
climbed to the top of a big tree
and wouldn't stir a wink. But
he came down late in the eve-
ning, and the farm hands asked
him why he'd stayed up there in
the big tree all day. He didn't
know.

And Calico and Jez agreed to
run away in the spring.

Right before autumn, Calico
started to miss coming out once
in a while. One afternoon they
carried Calico in from the field.
And they laid him down to rest,
and the winter set in. Calico had
his Freedom at last.

When spring came, the earth
woke up, and Jez woke up, too,
from a long long sleep. Things
began to stir around inside him.
He found the banjo and began
to play it—play the old songs
again—the songs he'd played to
Calico — the Freedom songs.

Like the rivers that rose that
month, Freedom rose and swelled
in Jez. And one night, it burst
its banks and overflowed.

And you couldn't have stopped
him, either, even if you had
wanted to. Jez had the banjo
with him when he took the way
Calico had told him they'd take.
Once he left the banjo behind in
a thicket when it got too clumsy
to run with. But later Jez ran
back eight miles to get it again,
because he knew he couldn't do
without it. And when he reached
Miss Rill's, with the afterglow
still in the sky, she gave him food.
Jez wondered at the chicken that
strutted about her cabin. But
first, she made him tell her every-

thing about running away —
everything about chasing through
coffeeberry swamps and through
streams and fields and mud —
even about how he hadn't eaten
at all and about the mule driver
who had asked him where he was
going. Miss Rill said that Jez
might have been across the border
if only he hadn't run back for
the banjo. But Jez said nothing.
He only sank into a corner and
let his jaw hang down.

Jez wouldn't go up to the hay-
loft until he'd told Miss Rill all
about Calico. Jez just wouldn't
take no for an answer. And Miss
Rill heard all of it. Jez said that
the banjo would give him Free-
dom. He believed it, too.

That night Jez slept in the
hay with the banjo alongside
him, way up in the loft near the
roof.

Jez tasted bits of hay between
his teeth when he woke up late
in the morning. The sun had
been baking down hard.
Through a crack he could look
out and see the fields, a riot of
color, and he began to wonder
why he wasn't back on the plan-
tation. Jez heard pebbles grind-
ing underfoot, and started, like
it were a thunderclap. He flung
himself into the hay.

He heard Miss Rill's teapot
clatter. "What business have you
coming around here?" she asked.
Jez lay still and cold as death.
Mr. Buren's shot went wild, and
all Jez heard was: "We're giving
up the search. He probably got
over the border last night." Mr.
Buren was almost out of the door.

A nervous kind of motion ran
through Jez's hand. His finger
plucked the banjo. That's all.

They stuck Jez up against a
post. They whipped him good.
But first, they smashed the banjo.

5

# SPEAKING OF PARKER

by Richard Avedon

SPEAKING of Dorothy Parker is like speaking of March weather, a lion, a lamb, a winter snow storm, a spring shower, a not-here-not-there combination of the entire year. If she were a little less or a little more a poet there would be no problem.

Dorothy Parker came to light during those years when *The New Yorker* first appeared on the stands—when George S. Kaufman, Alexander Woolcott, Ben Hecht, Rodgers and Hart, and F.P.A. gathered at the Round Table of the Algonquin to pool together, and rip apart, each other's latest efforts.

The stories of the little woman who went around kicking truck drivers in their shins, collecting

stray dogs, and cracking wise have made a history of their own. Nevertheless, as a fine writer, I feel that Mrs. Parker is one of the failures of our time. Read—

"Oh, let it be a night of lyric rain
And singing breezes when my
bell is tolled."

or

"You will go faltering after
The bright imperious line,
And split your throat on laughter,
And burn your eyes on brine.
You will be frail and musty
With peering furtive head,
Whilst I am young and lusty
Among the roaring dead."

This is good writing. Then where does the fault lie? Mrs. Parker answers the question in these two lines from "Song of Perfect Propriety"—

"But I am writing little verse
As little ladies do."

Dorothy Parker has mastered words, has mastered sound and the use of sound. She knows perfectly the technique of writing, but fails in that she has little to say. She is a little woman writing little woman's verse. Her perfection of form, coupled with the sincerity and the ideas of many of our high school writers, might have produced a great poet. As it is, we have merely an excellent versifier.

Don't misunderstand me. Although I regret that her technique was not put to better use, I admit, most heartily, that she is one of the happiest additions to the modern swing of life. Long, long may she rave.

## Judgment Day

Dey tells me dat on Judgment
Day
In some udder clime,
I'se gwine hab to gib account
Ob mah earthly time.

Dey tells me dat, if I drink gin,
Lie, o' steal, o' fight,
I ain't gwine neber be allowed
To walk in Jesus' light.

Dem as tells me all dese things
Goes to church on Sunday,

From dey shoulders sproutin'
wings,
Shootin' crap on Monday.

No, I neber managed yet
To git real good religion;
Don't know why I didn't—
'Twarn't fer lack o' teachin'.

Guess I'se jes' a sinner,
Bound to go to Hell—
Jes' de same I'se kinder glad—
Shootin' crap is swell!

—JAMES BALDWIN

6

## To Madeline

### I

You must not think because my
glance is quick

To shift from this to that, from
here to there,

Because I am most usually where
The way is strangest and the
wonders thick,

Because when wind is wildest
and the bay

Swoops madly upward and the
gulls are few,

And I am doing as I want to do,
Leaving the town to go on
an aimless way—

You must not think because I
am the kind

That always shunned security
and such

As bother the responsible
of mind,

That I shall never total up to
much.

I know my drifting will not prove
a loss,

For mine is a rolling that has
gathered moss.

### III

You were not made to linger
at the fire,

Let winter beat unanswered
on the pane,

And never heed the beckoning
of rain;

You could not turn to such
demure desire,

For every time the evening sends
her call,

Elusive, subtle as a call can be,
And madcap winter stops to
spread a shawl

Made of a purple-white serenity,
I know, and undeniably, that
ferns

And flowers were not made for
painted urns.

—RICHARD AVEDON

### II

Oh, hear . . . the ticking of the
clock

Has quickened to the sound
of low

Humming and the step of your
Feet upon the walk below.

CLARENCE
by Lewis Harris

Illustrated by Robert Cargill

STWABEWWY with chocolate ice cream and vanilla flavor please." I turned to look at the person who had ordered this weird drink. He was sitting on a stool near me, his eyes blinking anxiously through horn rimmed glasses. The frame was bobbing up and down his small nose, and as he peered at Sam, the soda jerker, it gave him a quizzical expression.

"Stwabewwy with chocolate ice cream and vanilla flavor, please."

He had an odd way of slurring his r's which fitted the rest of his

personality. I hadn't seen him in town before, so I decided that he must be one of the new students. Greensville is a small place, and strangers are studied and gossiped about over a Rotary tea or a soda in Sam's.

"My name's Clawence," he said.

It could hardly have been anything else, I decided, when I looked at him again. He was carrying several heavy volumes of Cicero, and wonder of wonders, several books on crime and criminology. Now in any place except Greensville, this really doesn't

mean very much. After all, every city has some crime, and so, it would be natural to study criminology. But Greensville isn't really a city. Since Johnny Wells stole Old Lady Brown's upper plate, we haven't been bothered much by crime. Our only jail was a small room in the basement of the Town Hall, which the Mayor used as a darkroom. So, you see that we really could never use a criminologist.

I shook hands with Clarence and we walked out together. It seems that Clarence drank those sodas in order to get a variety of

vitamins. Well, that's Clarence for you. The funny part was, that in a few days, we all accepted him as though he had always belonged. He was O.K., especially in homework. We do that on a cooperative basis, and Clarence was exceptionally cooperative.

Well, things were going along swell. Clarence had finished several books on criminology, and our marks had improved greatly, due to our cooperative system. That is, everything was fine until a week before Christmas. Ordinarily it's a swell time, with everybody busy and planning for the vacation but then, they robbed the Dobbings plant. Folks depend on the plant for their living, and when they robbed it and killed a guard, it meant that there would be no Christmas bonus this year. That really meant no Christmas for Greensville. There was a pall on the town for a few days.

One morning, Greensville woke up with the police in every nook of the town. The gang had been found, and headed back. Now, they were someplace in Greensville. Men patrolled the streets for a day, and suddenly, the whole situation blew up. One of the men had been found near the opening of an old mine. The police investigated, and found that the gang was hiding in one of the shafts. The place was like a second Gibraltar. They had guns and food for a few days, since they had recently hijacked a food truck. They must have taken enough food for a couple of days at least. And Christmas was only two days off.

The police were sure of capturing the men, but it would take until after Christmas. That

meant that the bonuses would not come in time for the buying of presents. Well, the whole town grunted, and sat down waiting for the capture . . . that is, all except Clarence. Clarence was glowingly happy, since similar cases had happened only forty or fifty years ago, and some clever detective had always solved the case. Now, however, there was always some hitch to the book's solutions. It was like a correspondence school course. All the lessons were complete, but the solution was lost in the mail. Still, on the morning before Christmas, Clarence was very happy. He raced up to me early that morning.

"I've got it! I've got it! The whole sowution to the case is vewwy simple."

I looked at Clarence, wondering if he was crazy with grief or criminology.

"All we have to do is suprise the men in the mine. Suprise is a vewwy impotent part of any case, according to chaptew eleven."

For the first time I laughed at Clarence's face. Sometimes his crackpot ideas worked, but the impossibility of this one astonished me. The mine was the type that ghost writers love. There were only two entrances. One was guarded by fifty policemen with machine guns, and the other was unfit for use. When the mine shaft was first built, a miscalculation occurred which brought it too close to the surface. A rock formation had smashed through the few feet of soil and left a wall about ten feet thick across in tunnel. It would have taken cannon to smash it. The other entrance was about a thousand feet away,

but it also had a slight rock formation in it behind which the bandits were entrenched. They could have shot any one attempting to rush them. The only way was to starve them out. I told Clarence this, but he wouldn't listen.

"I don't want to wush them. Let's creep up on back of them."

"Through a wall of rock, you dope?"

His glasses were bouncing furiously up and down.

"You just don't understand. Listen, you know that they are about two hundred yards from the second entwance. Let's dig down througħ the soft gwound in front of that wock formation. We could dwop wight in front of it without having to blast it away."

"If that would work," I told him, "tell it to the police."

"Oh, no. They would make much too much noise. We can do it ouwaselves. Let's start digging."

Clarence was crazy. I told him so, but he wouldn't listen. In two hours we were ready to drop into the shaft.

Clarence dropped first. It had really been an easy job. The soil was soft from a rain, and it was only a matter of a few feet. The hole we made was only about a foot across. A few seconds after we had entered the tunnel, there was a soft plop, and the hole was closed by a small collapse of the dampened earth. I felt a queer emptiness in my stomach, and my legs seemed to be distant pools of water which were evaporating.

"Clarence," I said, "get out your gun. We may have to fight."

Clarence grinned. "I have no

12

13

MILE-A-MINUTE MURDER

by Solomon Stein

PINSKY shifted gears and re-
laxed.

"Don't thank me — It's just my luck that the sergeant has a bratty kid.—O.K. I'll take you up to Wandini's house, but don't blame me if he kicks you out on your ear. Magic — phooey! A first rate detective like me running around with a . . . Do that again."

Whitey rubbed the coin. It
vanished.

"Gee, you certainly can do
things with those hands of yours.
Some day you'll be a real magi-
cian instead of worshipping guys
like Wandini. Well, here we
are." The wheel hopped the
curb. Pinsky put the Ford in re-
verse.

"Sloppy," commented Whitey.
"Come up some time, and I'll
teach you how to drive."

Pinsky lifted his hand threaten-
ingly. "Slither out, Houdini, be-
fore I take that bank of hair that's
hanging in your eyes and tie it
around your neck. Git."

His face tinged slightly on the
crimson side. Whitey put the
wandering lock back in its place.
Pinsky followed, and they quickly
skipped up the two flights. The
door was open. The detective
walked in. "Hey, maestro, where
are you? Wand—nobody home! How
do yuh like that?" He sat
down heavily on a coffin-shaped
box.

Whitey was busily browsing
around the room. Magical para-
phernalia was neatly displayed
around the room in glass show-
cases and shelves.

"What's this thingamajig I'm

sitting on?" queried Pinsky.

Whitey stepped over to the
oblong case and looked at it with
a know-it-all air. "I'll show you
Wandini's original Mummy
Sword Mystery, A man, usually
an assistant, is placed in the box
and the lid is shut tight. Ten
swords are jabbed through the
box as they are now; the cover is
opened, and the guy isn't hurt at
all. Look, I'll show . . . . . .
Eeeceeeoooooo!"

Pinsky looked into the box and
hiccoughed twice rapidly. A man
was lying in the coffin-like box,
dressed in a tuxedo, pipe in
mouth, and looking perfectly
peaceful . . . only he was dead!

Whitey groaned. "Wandini?"

"No, it's his assistant." Pinsky was examining the pipe. He sniffed it and turned slightly emerald around the gills. "Phew! This guy mixed shut-eye powders with his tobacco. Must like it strong. Here catch." He threw the pipe. "Clue number 1!" Picking up the telephone, he lackadaisically asked for the police.

"Sergeant? Yeh, yeh, I took
him. Wandini's assistant has been
bumped off. No, darn it. Your
pie-eyed legerdemiac is still in
one piece. Huh? O.K. Send some
of the boys over. No, dammit.
I'm awake. Thanks. Good-bye!"

When the four policemen walk-
ed in, Pinsky was poking the
corpse with a wand. Whitey had
slipped out. He was walking up
and down the corridors, thinking.
"There, I've got it!" He started towards the left stair-
case. Wandini had a small thea-
tre, to which he used to invite

his fellow magicians, located in
the same building. Whitey was
sure. He had read about it in
some magazine . . . or was it the
paper? He neared the door; open-
ed it. His idol was standing in
the corner counting money.
There was a red smudge on the
prestidigitorian's right cheek.
Stepping softly on the thick car-
pet, Whitey picked up one of the
footsquare blocks used in the
Magic Transposition. He hurled
it.

It hit the wall a foot above the
magician's head, crumbling. "So,
that's it . . . hollow," the boy
thought. He ducked as a cane
came flying at him. Ducking be-
hind a row of seats, he narrowly
missed being hit by a Magic Lota
Vase. Glancing up. Whitey saw
Wandini towering about him.
Crack! The hand came down
once, twice—there was a hushed
whisper. A whistle roared and
sparks were shooting in the day-
time in a maze of mirrors that
laughed. Then everything turn-
ed black and just as in the stories
he read in the detective maga-
zines, Whitey slowly felt himself
slipping into dark oblivion.

PUSHING his hair back and
rubbing a swollen eye,
Whitey felt fine. Wandini was
handcuffed to a slightly damaged
Pinsky, who was, nevertheless,
smiling. The magician was recit-
ing in a voice like John Barry-
more at his best.

"Sure, I killed him. He was al-
ways asking how the tricks were
done. . . . I was in trouble with
the Expose and Ethics committee,
and I had to get rid of him. I put

16

some of that knock-out powder
in his tobacco, and when he went
out sitting in a chair, I put him in
that Mummy Sword case and
stuck the things through him.
Yeh, it's his money . . . what good
would it do a dead guy, anyway?
Besides . . ."

"Aw shut up," interrupted Pin-
sky. "You talk too much. Take
'it'm away, boys!" Wandini was
led out, and the detective turned
to Whitey. "Kid, where that
guy's headed for, no magic will
help him . . . it's all yours."
Whitey looked about in awe.

"All mine," he gasped. Pinsky
slapped a hat on his head and a
rabbit jumped out. "Darn it!
Wrong hat!" They both laughed.

That evening Whitey saw his
picture in the paper, but he did-
nt like it. . . . That lock of hair
was hanging in front of his face.

BIG JOB by Richard A. Feinberg

CHARLIE was scared. A
tremor coursed the length
of his body and then grad-
ually subsided into a constant
shiver which caused a general
ratling of the extremities.

His thoughts wandered to the
fame within his grasp. Being
lookout for Johnny Harper's
gang was a mighty great honor.
(Johnny, you know, was Public
Enemy No. 37.) For some reason
he was still a little nervous. Not
frightened, you understand; just
a little nervous.

He didn't exactly know the rea-
son for his fears. After all, John-
ny was the thirty-seventh most
dangerous criminal in the United
States, and with him on the job,
there could be no slip up.

Charlie got his cut of $3.66 for
his part in the job. "Mighty big

money for a youngster,” Johnny
had said.

Charlie wasn't afraid any more.
He was too smart for the cops.
Maybe he'd be a real Public
Enemy one day.

He could hear the bell ringing
downstairs. He opened the door
carefully and looked down the
long flight of stairs. A tall, grim
man was standing at the bottom
of the steps. "I'm from the Fed-
eral Government," he began...

Charlie gave him no time to
finish. He dashed back into his
room with his teeth rattling like
the pair of dice which had al-
ready cost him his $3.66. He
ducked out on the fire escape and
frantically grabbed at the rail,
but his foot slipped. He plunged
down three flights to the ground
below. He lay silently; his leg

twisted beneath his body.

The Federal man was walking
away from the house. "Well,
that's the craziest reaction to a
census taker I've seen."

Charlie was in the hospital for
two months, waiting each day for
the police who never came. Final-
ly, when he left, he decided that
after all, he had been too smart
for them, and now he was really
free.

You can see Charlie behind the
counter in Barrie's Department
Store selling dish cloths to the
neighborhood women. And there
he waits each morning on his
second big job, and a tougher
young salesman you never saw.

CLOSING DOORS

When the morn is breaking
And the night is o'er,
I am tortured, listening
To a closing door.

Closing doors have ever
Torn my soul apart;
I am tortured, listening
To my love depart.
All of my desire,
All that I hold dear,
Leaves me in the morning
Cold and trembling here.

Beside a dying fire,
With my starved heart;
Closing doors have ever
Torn my soul apart. . . .

—JAMES BALDWIN

Letter to the "Times"

17

LUIS IS MY COUSIN

by Emile Capouya

Illustrated by Joaquin Jarque

LUIS is my cousin, and he has been back from the war almost a year now. When Luis says "the war," he means the Spanish Civil War, because he's only twenty-two, and just finishing college, and he remembers no other.

He came back at the end of last summer. He had not written to his father nor to any of his friends, but he walked in late Saturday afternoon with his suitcases, and stood inside the door, holding two under each arm until my grandmother gave a little scream, and the rest of the family

shook off their surprise and took his things from him. He went into the bathroom immediately and began to wash his hands and face. I followed him inside and sat down on the toilet seat, and as I handed him the towel, I watched the water droplets glisten on the blond, downy hairs of his face, thinking that I might have seen him last on that very morning for all the change that a half year's absence had caused.

He rubbed his eyes with the towel and put his glasses on again. I saw that he was looking for a comb, and I took mine from my pocket and stretched it to him.

"I never thought to see the day when you'd carry a comb," he said, parting his sandy hair carefully, without smiling. "She must be pretty. Or perhaps you don't really use it."

His voice was hoarse, and I

answered him because I wanted to hear it again.

"I keep it handy in case you happen to drop in."

He made as if to return my comb, but grinned suddenly and drew it under his armpit by way of cleaning it.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" he smiled. "I knew a fellow who considered it a requisite bit of conduct between gentlemen." He made a face to show that he was offended when I wiped the comb on my pants, but a moment later he held out his hand to signify the reestablishment of friendly relations. He began to squeeze my hand, and I had begun to groan, when I found that he wasn't hurting me. He laughed at me, and dragged me into the living room, I stumbling on his heels all the way. He held my arm in back of me and forced me

18

down to the floor beside him when he sat. Then he looked around at the faces of all the family, and especially my grandfather, who put down a demi-tasse of black coffee in order to smile at him.

Luis put his hands back of his head and stretched his lanky body until his knee cracked. Then he sighed comfortably, and drew himself together, and asked my uncle for a cigarette. Both my aunts had been on the verge of tears, but they found interest in the fact of his smoking, and one of them said, "I didn't know you smoked, Luis. Is this something new?" She said it a little sarcastically, because, although the grown-ups of my family — even my grandmother and grandfather —smoked, Luis never used to.

"Something new? Well, yes. I picked it up recently." His eyes blinked quietly at her in a half humorous, comfortable way, and she smiled back at him, and then, suddenly, asked whether he was hungry. He was, and on my grandfather's hint, my grandmother got up heavily from her cushioned chair and went into the kitchen, patting Luis' shoulder as she passed him.

At dinner, Luis drank glass after glass of my grandmother's strong, sweet wine. "It helps my throat," he said, and it was funny because it made him choke and cough hard on the way down. My uncles and aunts, usually jovial and laughing at dinner time, were rather subdued because Joe, Luis' brother, had not come back with him. Everyone was careful not to mention Joe. Everyone thought Luis must have felt responsible, in a way, for his brother's death. But when the

table was cleared, and my uncles and my grandfather smoked cigars, and my aunts and my grandmother smoked cigarettes, his tongue loosened from the wine and he began to talk about many things. He began to talk about the war, and then about Joe, and he frowned a little when he mentioned Joe.

He said, "Forty of us were stationed at the edge of a wood near a wide meadow for taking off and landing. It was strange for so small a force to be stationed far from Headquarters, alone, unsupported by any more than two pursuit ships, even in that relatively quiet sector, but there we were, six bombers and two pursuit ships, with orders to fly down the river one hundred or so miles to bomb the camps of the enemy forces as they moved steadily nearer by the day. Every morning before breakfast, and every afternoon about two hours before dark, six bombers and two pursuit ships flew one hundred miles down the river to fly low over enemy camps and play at trying to hit the biggest of the tents. We never decided among ourselves whether the biggest tent was the general headquarters of the division or whether it was just a mess tent, but the thought of hitting it was gratifying any way you took it.

"Forty of us had been sent out, and forty we remained for a month and a half. Not one loss in all that time. Eighteen men took odd turns every day at the bombing down the river. I was in one set and Joe in another. I'd go in the morning patrol and Joe would go in the afternoon. For a month and a half there were no losses.

"I went in the morning patrol one day. The enemy division was on the march and when we came over, it broke into open formation under protection of the broken ground. We saw right away that it was a hopeless prospect, and Vargas signaled that we go back. He led us around our own station, passing out of sight of it, cruising a little east and to the north. We'd never been there before, because it wasn't in our orders, but today we'd found the enemy division on the march, and we didn't want to come back heavy as we'd gone.

"A little to the north up the river, and we flew pretty low because this was a tour of observation, and we never thought of finding enemy planes or columns there. We drifted along pretty aimlessly, and Vargas must have been about to signal us back, when we caught sight of it all together. It was a block of wooden buildings, raised with no attempt at camouflage in a clearing off the river.

"Vargas waved us down to a good look. We saw the soldiers at the corners of the fencing around the buildings, and we saw unarmed men herded in and out of the buildings. It was a prison camp. We swooped down to within two hundred feet of the ground, and we were taken by surprise when the guns began. We hadn't figured on an enemy camp here.

"I thought Vargas would order us to drop our loads right then, and my buddy knelt at the sight, but Vargas signalled 'home!' I looked twice at him, not understanding, and then I remembered the prisoners in the camp.

"We turned back, and in twenty minutes, six bombers and

19

two pursuit ships landed in the
little meadow at the edge of the
wood. But we couldn't find our
camp. And we couldn't find the
twenty-two men that made up the
evening patrol. And I couldn't
find Joe.

"That same evening we flew to Headquarters, and reported that our camp had been raided and prisoners taken. We were given a month of idleness at Headquarters as a sort of holiday and rest cure. At the end of the month we were ordered back to our post by the meadow at the edge of the wood, and we were glad to go again, because for a month we'd had nothing to do.

"One hour before we left, our orders were changed. We were to return to our camp later: First we were to visit a prison camp in our own patrol sector, present papers arranging for an exchange of prisoners, and we were to ferry them by air to Headquarters. We looked at each other when the officer said, "a prison camp in your own patrol sector," because we thought we knew the one he meant.

"We landed about a mile from the prison camp on a shelving off the river, and we walked un-armed through the woods under a flag of truce. When we got near the fencing, all of us shouted to attract attention early so that the soldiers guarding the camp would not shoot in a hurry. Then we walked slowly to the gate in the corner with our white flag very conspicuous at the fore. The sen-tries challenged us, and Vargas shouted our mission to them, and after about ten minutes the wire-bound door opened, and we were let in under the guns of the sen-tries. Ten yards from the en-

trance was the officer in charge. His boots were spotless and his tunic in perfect order, and we understood them why we'd had to wait.

"Vargas handed him the papers without speaking, and swayed back and forth on his heels until the officer had finished examining them. When he had, he looked hard at all of us, then motioned to a soldier and announced that he himself would lead us to the prisoners. He ordered the soldier to go before, and he walked with Vargas until we came to the first of the low wooden houses of the block. He stepped aside for our leader to enter alone with him and the soldier, but Vargas told him that he needed us to help in identifying the prisoners inside, and before he could answer, we trooped after him into the build-ing. By the half light that came in through the open door behind us, we counted twenty-two bodies; some still were bleeding. The officer was dignified and gravely apologetic. They had died this very morning, he said. They had been killed in attempting to escape, and he assured us that they were all quite dead.

"The twenty of us pressed sud-denly around him and the soldier, and in a moment both of them were on the dirt floor of the room. Vargas held the officer's automat-ic between his eyes and made him sit up. The soldier began to struggle fiercely but we pressed closer around and then he was still, with his own bayonet in his throat. All the while the officer hardly breathed; just sat on the floor looking at Vargas' brown hand on the gun butt.

"We pushed him to his feet
and marched him into the sun-

light. The sentries glanced at us, and then looked harder. They knew. They understood what was happening, but they saw the gun in the officer's back, and they never moved while we marched him through the gate. We walk-ed through the woods almost back to the planes, and when we were nearly there, some of us tore branches from the oak trees of the forest. The officer saw, and he understood, but he said noth-ing.

"We led him to within sight of the planes and tied his arms and legs to a scrubby pine, and we beat him until we broke his shoulder blades and his ribs cracked. Vargas and I carried him to one of the bombers and strapped a parachute on his limp back before we put him in the cabin. We flew over the prison camp and heaved the officer out of the cabin, and we watched the parachute open and jerk his fall-ing body almost still for a mo-ment, until his broken shoulders eased out of the harness, and he fell, whirling. The parachute floated for a while like a news-paper tossed by the wind above city roofs, and then it collapsed into a long silk streamer and slid down after him to earth."

My aunts were frightened and the family was still while Luis started to pour another glass of my grandmother's strong, sweet wine. He stopped himself sud-denly, and looked at me for a moment, and then he got up quietly and walked into the next room. "I'm going to get a little sleep," he called from just past the door. And it struck me again that his voice was hoarse and tired.

20

A Double Dose of the Gay Life

Actors and authors by pound or
by peck

Give me a pitiful pain in the
neck.

Musicians and artists by jug or
by jill

Find me despondent. They give
me no thrill.

I'd be contented if I were to see
no

Carmen Miranda or Ida Lupino.

Mickey the mouse and Mr. James
Cagney

Find me in peace, but they leave
me in agney.

Just how Clark Gable and Ty-
rone Power

Hypnotize women for ower on
ower

Is something beyond me. The
Marx Brothers, Harpo,

And Chico, and Groucho, and
Miss Greta Garpo,

Delores De Rio, and O'Brien
(Pat)

Leave me completely and utterly
flat.

Though I love music, I've had
enoughski

Of the glamorous elbows of Leo
Stokowski,

And while on the subject, being
quite candid,

Artie Shaw's swing stuff—I sim-
ply can't stand it.

There's little to me in the
comma-less drummings.

Of Gert (Stein is a Stien)
and e e cummings.

As for the artists, I'm not paly-
waly

With either Picasso or Salvador
Dali,

Yet I can imagine (no ifs and no
buts)

One evening with them, an I'd
end up nuts!

Regarding the antics of William
Saroyan—

Extremely delight-less! Extreme-
ly annoy an!

To Shirley Temple, to Gypsy
Rose

All I can give is a tilt of my nose.

(Here I am nameless, a nobody,
hence

This attitude makes up a swell
defense!)

—DICKET

29

SOME DAY... SOME TIME

by Solomon Stein

HARRIET . . .”
“No, Johnny. I said the theatre . . .”
“Baloney!! That’s all it is! The theatre is the bunk.”

“Johnny!”

“Oh, all right! But listen to me, you sixteen-year-old . . .”

“I’m seventeen!”

“Wishful thinking! You can’t blow your own nose . . . talk about acting. Besides, actresses have to be beautiful . . . and you are, dear.”

“But, mind you, good looks alone won’t get you anywhere. Look at me. Oh, stop giggling. Say, that’s a new hat, isn’t it? Good! I like it! C’m’ere darling . . . see that star. No, not that one. The one up . . .”

“Johnny . . . out in the street! Do that once more and I’ll form the Anti-Kissing-Out-in-the-Street League.”

“Actors are privileged characters!”

“Oh, so you’re an actor, too!”

“Too! Why I’m the only good, real actor hereabouts. Did you know that Brenda Garcia told Mr. Higgins, my math prof, that she saw me in “Truth About Tessie,” and that she thought I was good. It was only the Middle Amateur Theatre, but that’s as good a stepping stone as any other. I’m going places! Dear, you just don’t understand. There are thousands of everybodies who think they can act, silly little girls, and you’re one of them. But time’ll knock it out of you . . . wait and see!”

“I hate you, Johnny!”

“Would-be actress loses temper,

finds new beau! That’s good. Why don’t you use it for a campaign slogan or something!”

“Good-bye!”

“I hate to see you go . . . I hate to see . . .”

“Johnny, I’m leaving!”

“Don’t be silly, Harriet. I lost my head. I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean anything! Harriet! Look at me! I’ll see you tomorrow night! Okeh?”

“No, Johnny! I’m serious. We can’t . . . get along, that’s all. I’m leaving for New York tomorrow. Good-bye.”

“Leaving for . . . no! No, Harriet!”

The “Main Street” sign post with the lamp swinging in the wind cast a film of yellow light on their tears as the distance between them grew wider.

IT was three years later, and Johnny was still trying to make up his mind. He glanced up at the Times Building and whispered, “Big!” He glanced at the cold cigarette he was holding and flicked it to the pavement. “It’s got me . . . it’s . . .”

“What’s got you?”

Johnny turned and lifted his eyebrows. “Oh hello, Gus! Get anything yet? Oh that!” He laughed. “That job at the bank at fifty a week is still knocking at my door. I can’t do it!”

Gus looked at his watch. “Well, I gotta be going. But just one thing. Take the job. Don’t wait for a break in the theatre . . . you’ll end up . . . like me.” There was a tear on Gus’ cheek. Johnny wondered. He thought a guy like

Gus couldn’t cry. “Take it from me, Johnny. That job is what you need. Forget about showing off to that girl back home or wherever she is.”

“How did you . . . how did you know?”

“It’s happened more than once.” He glanced at his watch again. “Well, so long!!”

Johnny felt empty. He thought—more—deeper. He looked at the paper he was holding and turned a page. “Twelfth Night Going Strong. Helen Hayes is making . . .” “Damn!” Johnny turned and started towards Eighth Avenue.

He went down that alley to the back. The light from the stage door was shining across the street. He began to whistle. “Ouch!” He stumbled. “I’m sorry, lady. My fault. I did . . . say, did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m . . . Johnhnnnnnnn!” Everybody turned but she was lost in his arms. “Oh, Johnny, how’ve you been? Why did you leave? I was only kidding then . . . Johnny. Johnny, don’t ever go away again. Oh I want to say it over and over again. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny! Oh, it’s wonderful.”

His heart lost somewhere in his throat, he took her arm and led her past the stage door. It was still.

“Let a man get a word in somewhere. Gosh you look beautiful. Oh, Harriet!”

“Here comes someone. Let’s go outside. Johnny, kiss me.”

“What, and have the Anti-Kiss-

30

ing-in-the-Street League after me?” They laughed.

A man appeared at the stage door. “Miss Mullen, Miss Mullen,” Harriet turned. “There’s a fellow here says he’s got a place for you. Opposite some handsome . . .”

“Save it for someone else,” Harriet cried, “there’s a fellow here that’s got a part I want to play. He’s handsome, too.”

She turned, took Johnny’s arm, placed it in her own, and they both walked lightly away from the theatre. Johnny turned and saw Gus at the stage door. He was shouting something, trying to tell him about something he had to see him about. “Some other place,” Johnny answered, “some other time.”

They quickened their steps.

The Hapless Captive to His Erstwhile Benefactress

When all the World was Spring, Ma’am,
And all the Morn was gay,
They roused me from my Sleep, Ma’am,
With trilling Roundelay.

They spared no single Jest, Ma’am,

Nor any agéd Ditty.
For Jokes and Wheezes rank, Ma’am,
They’d combèd all the City.

And could I then forebear,
And soothe my startled Brain?
Nude I sallied forth, Ma’am.
They dub me, hence, Insane!
They brought me to this Place,
Ma’am,

Where Madmen are immured.
With Fetters, Bonds, and Chains,
Ma’am,
My Limbs have been secured.

These Presents duly sworn, Ma’am
Their Seal once more I broke me
To add that—through the Bars— Ma’am,
Small Boys do pinch and poke me.

Say, wouldst leave me thus, Ma’am,
On this sparse Straw reclining,
A Thrall to urchin whims, Ma’am,
Lamenting and repining?

—EMILE CAPOUYA

31

## WHAT'S YOURS

by Richard Avedon

I WENT to the movies last Sunday afternoon all alone, a thing I scarcely ever do. But it was raining out, and they were painting the apartment, and—Well, anyway, I was there seeing the newsreels. They were showing some shots of Coventry when I felt a tug at my arm. I looked, and there was this little girl grinning up at me. She was very thin, but not skinny, and she had big grey eyes and a lot of dark hair.

"My name is Janet," she said, "what's yours?"

"Shhh," I said, "be quiet."

"What's yours, huh?"

"Richard. Be quiet."

She looked at me, and she seemed to be saying so much with her eyes that I felt I just couldn't leave her there.

"Hello, Janet," I said.

"Hello," she answered, and then, as an after-thought, "I've seen this picture twice already."

"You don't say," I said.

"Yes," she answered, "and I don't like it much."

### Spring at Coventry

I shall watch for Spring this year
With cautious eyes,
With fingers reaching
Where no vine lies,
With a hand searching
Where no bud falls,
And a heart calling...
I shall watch for Spring this year
With a heart calling
Where no bird calls.

I was watching more than listening to her. Watching her push a stray lock of hair off of her forehead, and pull at her shoe-lace, and then come back to the stray lock. She didn't sit still for a minute.

"Mother says I can't have ice cream with strangers, but she didn't say anything about not having a chocolate bar," she said.

"Oh, she didn't!" I answered.

And in a zip we were walking up the aisle toward the candy stand, she running along beside me just as happy—and I carrying her tiny lavender coat with the big white buttons, feeling

### Triolets

by Dicket

I

April is a twinkling witch
Stirring up a magic brew,
Wondrous recipes and rich,
April is a twinkling witch
Weaving spells above a ditch.

(See the daffodil come through!)

April is a twinkling witch
Stirring up a magic brew.

II

Spring has passed the garden wall,
Summer darting at her heel.
With no farewell word or call,
Spring has passed the garden wall,

Cool and still and not at all
Like herself, but quite unreal.

like a fool, but liking it. I went upstairs to the lounge with my little enchantress and her chocolate bar, and we just talked and talked for the rest of the afternoon. And before I knew it, I was telling her about how they were painting my room, and how when I was a little boy I had spent my summers on a farm—and how I used to get up early in the morning to help with the cows, and to smell moist new mown hay. And, well, I guess after a while I was telling it to myself rather than to her. I got to living those farm mornings over again. And then it was five o'clock, and she had to go home. We walked out of the theatre together, hand in hand, swell pals. And out at the curb she smiled up and said,

"Well, good-by, Richard."

"Good-by, Janet," I said.

"By," she answered.

"Good-by."

"Good-by."

And she waved her hand.

### Madness Is Enough

Madness is enough to turn
The fragile willow, the cool fern,
The warm hand, the warmer breath,

To send them shrieking into
death.

It is enough to leave the town
Burnt and ravaged and fallen
down.

It is enough to leave the earth
Sold as a bargain, half its worth,
Growing the smaller, puff by
puff.

Madness is enough,
Enough.

32

## Incident in London

by James Baldwin

THE small chapel stood on the white, still street, and seemed, in the darkness, to be a thing eternal, a bulwark and a refuge from strife and from fear. And the man hurried towards it.

The man was no longer young, and he stooled a little as he hurried. His hands were large and rough, and he carried shrapnel in one leg. His face was scarred with the scars of many battles, and his eyes were bleak and hard.

And the chapel beckoned in the dim, frosty moonlight, and he hurried towards it.

Long before, when the man was young, and before he had gone off to the many wars that were always being fought, he had believed implicitly in the faith he had been taught. He had believed in God, in peace, in righteousness, and the dignity and decority of man. But after he had fought, and had seen how strife degraded and destroyed humanity, his faith had lost its glory and had disappeared.

But now, still another war had come, and his family and his loved ones had perished, and he was alone and lost without them, and being lost, knew not what to turn to.

And the chapel beckoned in the cold moonlight, and he hurried towards it...

And as he hurried, the stars winked and trembled in the heavens, and as he entered, they, for an instant, hid themselves, and the man knelt before the rough, heavy crucifix and closed his eyes.

And suddenly the skies blazed fire, and the stars were blotted out, and a roar of fury filled the universe. And slowly the chapel crumbled to the white, still earth.

And the street was as it had been before, save that the chapel had been destroyed, and the snow was no longer pure, but filthy, and the man was dead.

### DEMOCRACY

DEMOCRACY, did you say?
Lord! It's spreading over
the country like a plague. And
in the schools, too. I know what
I'm talking about. What's the
country coming to?

My husband didn't want to send our son, Ronny, to a private school; I did. You know, there's nothing like one. Fine manners, and just the right company for our little boy. But, anyway, his

father kept insisting that he should go to Clinton, which is a boys' public high school up in the Bronx. So finally I had to give in.

One Saturday, two months after he had been enrolled in Clinton, Ronny and I were walking down Broadway. The day was warm; everybody seemed to be out. When we met Mrs. Roberts and her friend, both of whom are members of the Park Avenue Tea Club, I was so pleased that Ronny was looking his best. They would surely think he was a little gentleman.

Suddenly, just as I was about to introduce him to them, I heard someone yell, "Hey there, Red!"

Since Ronny has that color hair, he turned around to look. Sure enough, he was the one who had been called. He waved to one of those shoe-shine boys and yelled, "Hi there, Joe." Then he turned to us and explained, "He's the guy who lent me his homework in Latin the other day."

—GERALD BROWN

"I Want My Mummy"

33

GENERAL JOHN

by Sam Schulman

Illustrated by Robert Cargill

GEORGE, my tall Greek friend, and I made our way through the liquor reeking and cigarette smoking throng who crowded the bar and occupied nearly every seat in a small Near Eastern restaurant off 26th Street. Little as I knew of ethnology, it was not hard for me to make out Turks, Armenians, Jews, Druses, Syrians, Falshas, and Yemenites, with several Nords among them.

Each night George and I came down to this smelly place to observe and speak with this multi-colored, multi-raced lot. Many were the blood-chilling tales of Oriental might, mellay, and mystic that were told to us by the willing individuals, in the belief that in a year's time or so, we would put them in print, and make the orators men of world

renown. Truth to tell, we did use a great many of these over-exaggerated sagas, but I fear that none of the orators shall ever be praised and spoken of in many places—their tales were fine material for those ill-paying pulp monthlies upon which George and I depended for our living.

This particular night in late April was warm, and all the crisscrossed windows facing the avenue were thrown open. The smoke from the many cigarettes flowed out of the large room, forming a veil of mist before the entrance. We broke through the mist and descended several steps to face a large bar stretching like a horseshoe around more than one half of the uneven walls.

The fat little Arabian proprietor, sporting a bright red tarsboosh with a blue tassel, fairly

bounced over to greet us. "Sallaam Aleikum! Wun't you come in?" he croaked with a basso voice, quite profundo. He was another guardian angel of our "you tell me something and I'll make you famous in a book" yarn. George, in true Arabic form, tilted his head forward and replied, "Aleikum Sallaam." His invitation was quite appealing. We sat ourselves down around a small table for three. Michal, the proprietor, was never quite so cordial unless he had something to tell us. "I have big story to tell you, better still, I have somebody here who can tell you better than me. But you not meet with him unless I got your promise that you make me famous in next book."

George gently tapped my knee —inwardly he must have been

smiling. "The very next book," he replied. The little fat man's eyes sparkled. . . . "And you will tell all about my hareem?" . . . George chuckled, "All about your hareem." I could not help thinking of Michal's stout Christian wife and his four or five Turkish "friends." My tall friend quickly dispensed with his humorous attitude. . . . "But you must tell us more. Tell us this tale, or give us, as you say, one who will."

The fat one arose and motioned for us to follow him. We made our way to the rear of the restaurant. At a large table, obviously kept from everyone's use, sat a large man who seemed to be an elderly, handsome Near-Oriental upon first appearance, but proved to be an Anglo-Saxon upon closer observation. He was near sixty, taller than George, who stood more than six feet and two in his stockinged feet, more handsome than any other man of his age that I have ever seen, poorly but pleasingly dressed, and had an astonishingly lambent pair of blue eyes. Never have I seen such eyes — large, beautiful, with scarcely a tint to them.

Michal approached him. "Mister farangi. Here are the two gentlemen of whom I spoke." The clear-eyed one turned his eyes upon us and rose. "How do you do?" he said. "Come, sit here with me. Michal Ibn Hasan, the good Arabian, has told me of you. I have long known this tale, have kept it within my breast, but, have told it to none, save a few aged Tuaregs who are far from this terrible world today. But then, gentlemen, I should introduce myself." His greeting was not usual, his manners not of our kind. This tall

individual was obviously intelligent, with a way about him that cannot be explained. It is true, he knew of our presence, he knew he had invited us to be seated, he knew of everything that had occurred . . . but he never looked at us, or, when on occasion he did, I am quite sure that he did not see us. He was obviously averse to chatter and wished to tell us a tale, a tale which I think he had carefully fashioned many years in advance.

"My name doesn't matter . . . they call me farangi. What does matter is the name of the person who lived this narrative—who lived it, who breathed it. . . . His name was John McCall."

"John McCall?" I queried.

"John McCall of the Saudi Guard, who fought with valor under Lawrence."

I was at the point of telling him that I had never heard of any such person, when he sharply said, "General John of the Sahara. General John of the Six Hundred Thieves."

"General John of the Six Hundred!" I echoed greatly astounded. The name, of a surety, rang true.

THE comely elderly one sat down, leaned slightly forward, placing his elbows on the edge of the table. He gazed silently into the darkness of the op-

posite wall for several seconds, then began . . .

"First I must tell you of the man, the leader of men, this John McCall, and of his six hundred loyal comrades.

"Among the various forces that have ever borne arms in the vast desert lands extending from Mauritania on the west to the Nubian territory on the east, close to the British Sudan, were to be found the Six Hundred Thieves of General John McCall. The Six Hundred Thieves, so called by the not over-honest Bedawi of the Sahara, was a name aptly applied, for so they were . . . deserters from every army under this one sun, fugitives from the penal institutions of both Europe and the Americas, social outcasts, political exiles, perverts of the passions, adventurers, beggars who found not alms, and as

36

37

their name implies, thieves every one.

"Forever he rode upon a
grey Arabian mount before this
mongrel group, their leader, this
General John, this tall, bewhisk-
ered, water-eyed, self-designated
General John. He was a man still
in his prime, not more than forty-
five and not younger than forty,
still quite able to shoot with dead-
ly accuracy, to throw the noctur-
nal intruder, to curse and shout
with effectiveness, to charm the
vivacious **fille de joie** or the half
savage woman of the **houri**.

"For twenty years he rode be-
fore his men pillaging, despoil-
ing, marauding, a slave of the
Armageddon, far from Christ's
world, a being devoid of love, de-
void of honor and ethics. He
cherished none, save perhaps
those six hundred loyal comrades
who would have willingly given
their wretched lives for him.

"In his exploits he gained the
disfavor of both the indigences
and those imperialistic Europeans
who claimed the Sahara as their
own. Many, oh many, were the
times that he had crossed and
measured swords with the en-
raged natives, with the helmeted
British, and with the képi-topped
French. Several Tuareg chief-
tains had sworn to hew from their
bodies their right arms as a re-
ward for General John's head
upon a lancehead. The Foreign
Legion of the French Republic
had posted a price of ten thou-
sand francs for his dead body.

"General John and the Six
Hundred had raided the Mabruk
district and had gained much loot
upon their expeditions in-
to the French deserts. Word had
come from friends in the north
that the swift riding Spahis,
with Native re-enforcements,

were fast riding down to Mabruk
to put to an end the actions of
General John. In no time, the Six
Hundred were on the move, in
the saddle and away. They
marched to the north, a little to
the west of the trail that the
Spahis would take, thus tending
to outmaneuver the French.

"Within three days, the long train of men and beasts drew near to the Menejez Oasis, a native held strip of watered land seldom frequented by unwelcome Europeans. The next watered spot in this unwatered region was the Sidi-Kwin Oasis in the north, more than six days journey away. The vast water-sacks that had been full at Mabruk were mere pouches now . . . only twelve gallons of water left for six hundred men and over seven hundred animals.

"The water situation did not
annoy the strong-bodied General.
There had been water shortages
before—and Menejez would fall
an easy victim into the hands of
his hard fighting group. Water
would soon be plentiful."

The handsome one called **fa-
rangi** looked at me. "Do you
know what it is to be without
water in the desert with only the
sun and the hot sands to keep
you company?" I could not an-
swer. His hands went to his col-
lar, he undid his tie, and tore off
the button that kept his well
starched collar around his neck.
He again was silent for several
seconds, then continued . . .

"As was usual, the General
took few risks, even with an un-
guarded oasis. He called before
him twelve men, put at their head
his swarthy little right hand man,
the Spaniard, Lala Da Casa, and
sent them forward as a reconnno-
tering patrol. The rest of the

men dismounted, staked and
tethered their tired beasts, and
made a temporary encampment
for the night.

"The night is beautiful but
cold in the desert lands. All the
tiny stars in the heavens come
out to greet their desert comrades
when darkness comes. For the
most part the men rolled them-
selves in heavy blankets and
closed their eyes after three hard
days of riding, but forever alert
and ready for any emergency
were the night patrols of General
John spread girthwise around the
encampment.

"Only Da Casa had the Gen-
eral ever trusted with this task of
spying upon the enemy and then
returning to suggest a desirable
plan of action—only faithful,
loyal Da Casa. He was gone sev-
eral hours — unusually long,
thought the General. Since the
first day of their meeting at a bar
in Cairo the General had always
known him to be shrewd, weasel-
like in action, and active, quick
to obey and quick to carry out.
In the little Spaniard the Gen-
eral had intense faith. Shortly,
thought General John, he will
return.

"And the General was not
wrong, for shortly from the east
a lone figure came riding for all
of God's speed, fairly flying over
the sands. It was Da Casa. He
rode through the night patrol
and reined his horse before the
temporary lean-to of General
John.

"General John rushed out to
greet him. He helped Da Casa
from the horse. It took no close
observation to see a red gash
across the Spaniard's forehead.
'Your men, Lala—they are gone?'
... 'Si, my general, many are
gone, the French have take rest'

... 'Are you badly wounded?'

... 'Only the bullet she come
near my body, but, *gracias a Dios*,
she no go in much.' . . . The
smaller man grinned and showed
his white teeth.

"General," there are many
French at Menejez.

'French? Are you certain?'

* 'No Tuareg he shoot like
that.'

"How many would you say? queried the General, as he bound a piece of cloth around the wounded man's head.

"Maybe, perhaps, one thou-
sand Kwin.'

"Upon hearing this the Gen-
eral became thoughtful. He had
less than six hundred men, tired,
thirsty; but well armed and will-
ing to fight, that he must of a
necessity set to face against a fully
manned garrison of crack French
troops. Sidi-Kwin, the nearest
oasis outside of Menejez, was half
a fortnight's distance . . . neither
man nor beast could exist seven
days in the desert. Da Casa's large
black eyes watched the General's
every movement. 'Lala, it seems
we must fight.' 'Sí, my leader,
there is no other way.' . . . The
General left the lean-to to sum-
mon his officers. The ratlike
Spaniard smiled a ratlike smile.

"Within half an hour the en-
tire camp was alive and about.
Even the poor beasts reared and
snorted as if they could actually
smell the odor of battle in the
air. Then men squatted in three
long lines before the General's
lean-to, the wings extending into
the night. The General, General
John, stood before them with La-
la Da Casa at his side, Lala whis-
pered to General John, 'Let me
speak to them, General.' The tall
soldier, paying no heed to his

aide, turned away and addressed
the men. The Spaniard mumbled
something under his breath.

"Gentlemen of the Six Hun-
dred—by now you know we have
to fight to get our water—there
are a thousand Frenchmen—well
armed, straight shooting, level
headed Frenchmen—they have
twelve of us already—we have
to afford to let them take any more.
—We must fight, indeed, but we
must fight wisely."

"How are we to go about it,
General? came a voice from the
ranks.

"A wise question. —This is
my plan . . . Under cover of
nightfall a small squad of twenty
will steal into the oasis and estab-
lish ourselves near the fort that
guards the water place. At the
crack of dawn, those of us who
are left will come down upon its
walls like thunder, while those in-
side will cripple the fire of the
defenders. . . . Do you approve?"

"An enthusiastic cry went up
from the Six Hundred, many al-
ready beginning to mount.

"I, myself, will lead the small
party. Da Casa will remain and
further explain and command
the dawn attack. General John
called the names of twenty men
who were to enter the oasis. In
very little time, they rode out
into the night.

"When close to the fort that
guarded the oasis, the small
group dismounted, still out of
sight of the defenders of the fort.
But there was an extra warrior at
the General's side, the Spaniard,
Da Casa. General John turned to
him. 'I thought I told you to re-
main with the men.' . . . 'I came
for your safety, my leader.' . . .
The General was furious. He
slapped Da Casa with the back
of his hand. The little Spaniard

said nothing—the silent group
moved on.

"It was simple to enter the
oasis; in fact, the General
thought, it was much too simple.
Da Casa's wild eyes at his side
annoyed him. His little loyal
comrade had never acted like this
before. Soon, the wild eyes were
gone. The General looked about
... Da Casa was gone. The Gen-
eral was fearful. . . . He saw the
glimmer of several bayonets at
his side. Throwing care to the
winds, he shouted, 'Aux armes!'
He felt a hard object, the steel
helmeted butt of a long rifle, land
squarely on his head. He felt no
more.

WHEN he awoke, he found
himself in a large room
with many French officers. The
obvious thing that struck the
General was that these officers did
not wear the uniform of the
Legion, but the trim riding dress
of the Spahi. And in a corner,
speaking softly with one of the
Spahi officers, pointing now and
again to General John, stood the
Spaniard, Lala Da Casa. The
General could say nothing; his
mouth was effectively gagged.
Hate burned in his breast. It was
too obvious. When word had
come to him near Mabruk that
the Spahis were coming from
the north, the ever loyal little
Spaniard had sent word back of
the route that General John was
to take. General John knew by
the insignia of the many officers:
majors, colonels, that the French
force must number not one thou-
sand, but five. Five thousands
against his six hundred.

"Da Casa approached him. . . .
'Now, my General, my great,
proud General Thief, how do
you feel now?' He slapped the

38

39

General with the back of his
hand. He laughed. 'Never would

you allow me, Da Casa, to com-
mand the men—only you, always
you. *Al diablo* with you!

"The jealous hound, the low
dog that he was, he slapped the
General, General John, with the
back of his hand!!"

The man called *farangi's* eyes
were wide. They flashed back and
forth. He was excited.

"It is surprising to note the
amount of power that a man has

## Soon the Winter

The damsel flies evade the snare
Of glistening sunfish, where they
leap

Into the vap'rous autumn air,

From circling pools not over-
dep

From runs made quick by sun-
light there,

Where waterweed the waters
sweep.

The birds that wheel above the
reeds

Shape unseen eddies in a fog

Of swirling, scented breaths of

meads

That floats around the rushes'
sog,

That ghosts along and carries
seeds

To nets of waving cattail bog.

The hummingbird and damsel
fly

Shall see the last red moon to-
night,

Ere winter comes and wildlings
die,

And empty fields shine winter
white.

—EMILE CAPOUYA

when anger seizes him. General
John was no exception; in fact,
he was a splendid example. The
bonds that held his hands were
torn loose. Luckily, there were
no such bonds confining his feet.
Like a panther, the General leapt
to his feet, grabbed the pistol of
a bewildered lieutenant and
made for the nearest exit. He
dashed out into the interior of
the fort; the Spahis were almost
instantly on his trail. Several
shots rang through the night air.
One, two, three buried them-
selves in General John's right leg.
Four, five, six, in his body. An-
other in his right leg, and an-
other.

"Powerful as the General was,
he fell beneath the hail of hot
metal. On his hands and on one
knee he crawled out through the
open, unguarded gateway. He
dropped to his chest and crawled
with his face in the sand to the
left of the gate. The wounds
made him weak; his vision was
failing. He leveled his stolen
pistol at the gateway and fired one
shot at the first one to come into
sight. The bullet found its mark,
the head of a Spaniard, of a trait-
or, of Lala Da Casa. General
John attempted to crawl just a
bit more, and then everything
faded. Everything faded. He felt
as if he no longer had a right leg.
It was shattered, but thanks to
God, everything faded. He would
feel it no more."

There were tears in George's
eyes, and I doubt if there were
not a few in mine as I watched
the handsome old warrior tell
us of General John. I did not
have to hear Michal Ibn Hassan
softly ask the tall old one . . .
"Do you want your cane, faran-
gi?"

40

MILTON EPSTEIN

## Climbing

MISSISSIPPI LEGEND

by James Baldwin

'T WAS Annie Simpson as tol' me this here story, an' I ain't a-sayin' as it's the truth or a lie. Annie Simpson's a real respectable woman, an's she ain't got no cause to lie to me. I been knowin' her all my life an' she's one o' the sweetest chillun I know.

Annie used to live down on a farm in Mississippi. 'Twant her farm, but she used to work it on a sharecroppin' basis—you know, that means she was workin' for somebody else an' givin' them half o' the crops at the end o' the year.

Annie says that everybody down there was real religious, but she says Annie was seen a woman as religious as Mattie Jones before. She says Mattie was so blame holy that she wouldn't even straighten her hair, or light her stove on Sunday. Said Sunday was a day of rest an' that folks oughtn't to do no work at all on that day. On Sundays Mattie went to church real early in the mornin' an' stayed there all day, singin' an' shoutin' an' praisin' God. Sometimes she stayed there till way early Monday mornin'. Annie says she was as pious as anybody, but she couldn't never stay there that long. She says she had to get some sleep some time. Anyway, Mattie was always the leader in somethin' like that.

Well, as I said, they was all mostly sharecroppers down that-a-way, but this year the crops hadn't been so good. To tell the truth, there was reports of a blight about ten miles away from where they was, but that didn't scare them none, 'cause the blight was almost always down that

way, but it hardly ever bothered them. The folks who lived down where the blight was, used to come up Annie's way beginnin' them for a loan of flour, or sugar or fatback, or sometimes even money. Annie says they never had much, but they would give them what they could.

Well, Annie tells me that one day Mattie Jones came a-runnin' over to her house all excited an' everything, an' her face an' her eyes was shinin', an' the first thing she says is, "Annie Simpson, what you think is goin' to happen?"

Annie says she was so surprised she couldn't say a word. She stares at Mattie, an' then she says: "No, Sister Jones. What's de matter?"

Mattie jes' looks at her for a minute, an' then she says, almost in a whisper: "Chile, de Lawd done tol' me that a terrible plague gon' come on us."

Annie says she jes' sinks down on a chair. "On us?" she says. "Why?"

"De Lawd says He's angry at our backslidin'," Mattie says, her eyes shinin'. "He says He's gonna punish us an' make us behave ourselves."

Annie says she jes' sat there, an' she couldn't say nothin'. It sounded jes' like something you read in the Bible about the children of Israel. It didn't sound like nothin' that would happen now in times like these. Annie says she didn't know what to think.

"Maybe de Lawd'll stay His hand if we repents an' fasts an' pray," says Mattie gloomily. "Anyway, dat's what I'se a-gwene ter do."

"You gon' tell de rest o' de folks?" Annie asks her.

Mattie jes' looks at her. "Yeh, I'll tell 'em. Ain't gon' do no good, though."

Well, after awhile Mattie went, an' Annie sat there thinkin' for awhile, an' then she got up, an' started cookin' supper.

The next day the rest o' the folks got wind o' Mattie's revelation, an' all you could see anywhere was gangs o' people all huddled together, an' excited, talkin' about it. Most of 'em was kinder skeptical. "Dat Mattie Jones!" says Sister Williams. "She's always seein' somethin."

"Lawd got anything to tell me, He sho knows where I lives," says Mamie Wilson, tossin' her head.

"I knows I ain't done nothin'," drones Deacon Jones. "Mah life is clean."

"Ef de Lawd say we done backslid, we musta done backslid, Deacon Jones," says Brother John, kinder strict-like. "It doan do us no good ter boast ourseufs."

"I got somethin' to boast about," says Deacon Jones. "More'n I kin say fer some people."

"What you talkin' bout?" says Brother John, gittin' mad.

"You knows what Ise talkin' about," says Deacon Jones. "What was you doin' in de fiels wif Matie Lee de udder night?"

"Now look a-here!" says Johnnie, flashin' fire, "you keep dat gal's name out yo' mouf!"

"You keep her out de fiels," says Deacon Jones, under his breath.

"Now brudders be nice," says

Mamie. "We ain't gonna fight. We wants ter fin' out ef what Mattie Jones says is true."

"Ise de Deacon," says Deacon Jones. "Look like ef de Lawd had somethin' to tell de church, He'd tell me."

"Doan fergit we got a pastor," says Sister Mary. "You ain't everything, Deacon Jones!"

"I knows dat, daughter," says Deacon Jones, kinder hurt-like. "But de Lawd might show me somethin', too. Ise next to de pastor."

"Seems mighty funny ter me, dat de Lawd would show Mattie somethin' He didn't show de pastor," says Sister Williams.

"It sho do," says Brother John.

"Here comes de pastor, now," says Sister Lizzie. And sure enough, down the road, they saw the pastor comin'.

And then, from her house, they saw Mattie comin' too.

"Jesus!" whispers Brother Mattie reached them first. Her comin' made them quiet and fidgety.

"Praise de Lawd," she says.

"Praise de Lawd," they says, not lookin' at her. The pastor was comin' closer. Sister Lizzie coughs an'says, "Sister Jones, what's dis we hears about some plague de Lawd done showed you?"

Mattie looked tired an' kinder washed out. Her voice was hoarse, "De Lawd done showed me," she says, "dat y'all ain't livin' right."

They didn't say nothin', but Annie says you could see they didn't like that a bit.

"He says y'all done backslid," Mattie says. "He says dat ef y'all doan repent, He gonna smite de crops wif a plague."

The pastor joined them. When Mattie saw him, she got quiet an' her eyes got big.

"Praise de Lawd, chillun," says the pastor. "What's de matter here?"

They jes' stood there an' fidgeted, an' looked from Mattie to the pastor, an' from the pastor to Mattie. They didn't say nothin'.

"Well?" says the pastor, smilin' and frownin' a little, too, "what's happened?"

Deacon Jones coughs. "I thinks," he says, slow-like, "dat de Lawd done showed our Sister Mattie sumpthin'."

Annie says that Mattie talked an awful long time, an' she said a lot of terrible things. Then they all got real mad an' the pastor says ef Mattie don't take back what she said, they's gonna put her out the church.

"Dese things ain't true," he says. "De Lawd got anything to show de church, He'd show me."

"De Lawd done tol' me," says Mattie. "Ain't no devil."

"You got a devil," says the pastor. "Ef you doan take back what you done said, we is gonna put you out de church."

"De Lawd done tol' me," she says doggedly, "dat y'all ain't livin' right."

"Dat's a lie," says the pastor.

Mattie jes' stood there an' licked her lips an' didn't say nothin'. Tears started rollin' down her cheeks.

They jes' stood there lookin' at her an' sayin' nothin'. After a minute Mattie turns an' cryin' quiet-like, walks across the fields, back to her house.

About a week later the blight came. Every crop in the region was ruined. Folks went out to the fields an' the fields stank, an' the plants fell apart in their hands. Folks looked at each other, a-feared an' puzzled an' nobody says nothin'. There wasn't nothin' they could say.

But Annie says that Mattie's piece o' ground seemed to be aalmos' shinin' an' her crops wasn't touched. An' Mattie, head an' arms raised to heaven, walked through the fields, a-cryin' an' a'-praisin' the only God she knew.

"Twas Annie Simpson as tol' me this here story, an' I ain't a-sayin' as it's the truth or a lie. But Annie's a real respectable woman an' she ain't got no cause to lie to me."

YOUTH

Beloved, do not warn me

Of birds too highly flown;

Your word is not enough for

me—

I must have my own.

I was young and did not know Anything could hurt me so.

I was gay, and failed to see What there was to torture me.

I may be destroyed, but I Shall not let this life go by.

(No, no!—destroy these tales Of birds too highly flown.)

Your word is not enough for me—

I must have my own!

—JAMES BALDWIN

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43

# Under the Sea

by Albert Medwin

EVERYTHING about me is quiet, quiet as only the depths of the seas can be. There is only the sound of the air pump, booming like the frothing surf up above. It is a quiet sound, if one can conceive of such a thing. It has a pulsating rhythm, like that of the blood in my veins, throbbing against my forehead in a beat that means life; for that booming sound signifies that air is still coming down.

Yet, there is another rhythm about me, but this is truly a silent rhythm. The faint rolling of the green jade water surrounding me, moves in a beat synchronized with the great clock of all time—beating out the passage of moments past retrieving. This movement is as tender and ominous as a tiny child's clenched fist, and just as friendly.

I think now of less gentle parts of the sea, of mile long breakers thundering against a tired, weatherbeaten cliff, each drop throwing itself against the stone to splatter into a mist, as faint as evening's shadow, fulfilling its part in the greatest battle of creation, that of sea against land. And with the cool, slimy danger of a striking snake, a whirlpool furrows deep into the dungeons of uncharted seas, upsetting the graves of yellow-boned corpses, and causing them to rise in the wake of its swift passage, they who had hoped never to need rise again...

But this mood passes as I see a school of sea dwellers sliding by, passing with a quiver of a tail, and the shutting of a gill. Their

orange specks, shimmering in the reflection of the pale green water, form a halo 'round each fish, giving this under water world an elusive symbol of a heaven above.

Then, of a sudden, the silence is shattered into a thousand tiny fragments, each flashing and flashing the echo of the silence that once was. A sharp, crisp voice speaks. Humbly I obey its command, and prepare to rise to the surface.

## The Hat Shop

SHE was heavy and tired, and the sweat on her upper lip clung to the skin precariously, almost slipping off. In her hands were two hats, each a little more preposterous than the general run of women's hats, one being tall and feathery, the other almost non-existent. She tilted her head and glanced at each one, wondering which would make her look younger, or at least not quite her real age.

"Of course, Alexander—that's my husband, the dear, Alexander says that when a woman gets over the age of ... uh ... the age of thirty, she can't wear every hat she sees. But then, even if I do say so myself, I always have had a very youthful appearance. Why dear Mattie, and I'm certainly not the one to be gossipy ... Oh goodness no, I never gossip, and I simply hate women who do. Dear Mattie could never wear stylish clothes that my type wears. After all, when a woman has to begin touching up her hair ... Well, after all ...

"Madam, both of those hats don't do you justice. Believe me, no hat could do your face justice."

"Thank you, my dear. Of course I would have to wear this hat at the Ladies Association for Social Contacts' party next week, and I would like to look my best. Considering that women, like Mrs. Welles, can wear outlandish hats, why I don't suppose this is really radical at all. Huh, of course Mrs. Welles spends her time looking at hats, and for a woman of her age I don't understand why she doesn't stay home a little more often.

"Of course, I would like to look my best at this next meeting. We are going to have as a guest, that writer, Lloyd Randolph, who writes most divine books. For the life of me, I simply can't understand why he went to that Mrs. Welles' house to stay. Of course, what some people would do for just a little publicity. Naturally though, I'm certain that he will understand the situation, and I'm sure that I will impress him most favorably. The books he wrote were about—well, my type of person. A woman like Mrs. Welles would certainly not appreciate his *bee-you-ti-ful* pieces of art. But of course Alexander always says...

"Tell me, do you think that I would look better with two beautiful feathers instead of one plume in green?"

She was looking at herself in the mirror, the hat rakishly tilted and tied with a bow just beneath her second chin.

"Well, if I do say it myself, Alexander always did say that I could carry any type of hat ... Dear Alexander ..."

—LEWIS HARRIS

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