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... h YEAR 1942-1962 fioretti WINTER ISSUE 1961-1962 THE FI:ORETTI VOLUME xx NUMBER 1 Indianapolis, Indiana 1961 -1962 . ' AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE THE STAFF Editor-in-Chief Joe Kempf, '63 Assistant Editors John Chapman, '63 Dolores Kohne, '63 Cynthia Stokes, '63 Donna Tatroe, '64 Marilyn Weinbrecht, '63 J~rry Zore, '63 III ustrators Joe Kempf, '63 Marie Krebs, '62 Photography Eileen Mueller, '63 CONTENTS ESSAYS Isn't Golf Funny 16 George Schmutte If I Had Been There 24 Stephen McCracken Of Men and Islands 35 Rita Moeller SHORT STORIES Martian on Mad Avenue 9 A Joking Matter 12 Peggy Knoll Sweet Racket of Youth 20 Marilyn Weinbrecht Easy As Falling Off a Log 26 Joe Kempf Elsye Mahern POEMS The Sign 6 After 15 Joe Kempf Soledad - Loneliness 18 Adriana Guzman Neverland 24 Tom Molnar Thoughts 25 LaVerne Gray The 13th of the Night 33 Maribeth Schubert Theresa Meyer SPECIAL FEATURE Beyond the Porta I 4 Joe Kempf tlt~Chd Joe Kempf, '63 tAt Pel-till ~Vhat is the significance of en t e r i .n g Marian)s portals ? Tha(s a ridiculous question) one 'Zvould be tempted to say) what significance can such an ([ction possibly have ? But there 1S a sgnificance-a significance so important that entering between those pillars itn1'nediately differentiates ape r son and those lilu him from the rest of 11l/,anhnd. Those brick pillars are h:me a chi n e s) f01' beyond then,], there is no time, all of the past and future is centented into an eternal now. JiVithin the portals) the Greeks battle on the plains of Marathon ) within the p01rtals, the Romans hurl H annibal back across the A lps and in turn are 0've1Tun by Teutonic tribes. Here Aristotle expounds his Physics. M ohammed hears the command of the angel Gabriel) and Shalcespeare 11l 4 lives again. The past is now, not only perpetual and relived, preseY7Jed and cherished, but questioned, studied and scrutinized. Beyond the portal, tke Fitzge'rald contracion becomes (t reaWy, and electrons spin dizzily around fantastically-heavy protons and neutrons; beyond the portal are the thoughts 'Zvhich will build the future and help make its dreams reality. On this side of that portal are thoughts which transcend space and time, thoughts which weI' e thought three-thousand years ago, and thoughts which a:ill be thought a thousand years hence. Those 1:deas go out from one end of the unive'rse to the other. Place cannot contain them" for they are universal; time cannot bound them, for they are eternal. Beyond those pill a l' s 'i s lmowledge, lmowledge of all kinds, and kno'lvledge about l"lOwledge. Beyond those palars are ideas about that knowledge which will 1:nspire new 'ideas and new tho ugh t s, thoughts which will in turn compile more knowledge, and so on in an endless cycle of 1nind-thought-knowledge. The passing between those brick pillars is l1tuch 1110re than a mere ph'ysical action, it tS rather an action of profou'l'td spiritual and intellectual i'111,portance. For withirt the portal marches a vast caravan of hfe. spanning the ages and rolling ever onward. vVithin t/rte p01'tal is an immense panorama stretching out 0 f the pas t, drawing new l'i fein the present, and challenging the futur e. TVithin the portal hangs the tapestry of life, lmowledge. truth and beauty--wovcn fro11t the shining threads of 1,n en's thoughts and deeds. But more hnportant yet, w1:tht"n that portal lies the opportunity for you to enrich yOU.1' life immeasurablv and the Z,ives of those who come aite'r you. So prize that opportunity! Be aware of what lies inside that portal and grasp it! If ')wu do not make yourself part of that relentless caravan and that vast panoram,a, if you do not add your own sh1~m~ng threads to the tapestry of truth and knO'Zvledge, you h~7Ve failed yourself, mankind, and '\lour Creat01'. When next enten:ng between those briclz pillars, 1'emember 'what they 1'epresent." they are the pillars to a ,tulle'!', richer. and 1110re-sat'i sfying life. vVhen 11e;1."t entering between the pillars, reme1'Hber 'u.'hat lies beyond the p01,tal-what lies beyond the portal - beyond the portal-. the Sign Heavy fog spreads its opaque mantle over the rustic village, one by one candles are lit in the windows of cottages. 6 A vague feeling of dread and anxiety hangs over the settlement like a heavy weight awaiting the single blow that will sever the thread. And everywhere there is silence, save for the roar of breakers against the rocky shore, the ceaseless, lashing hiss of wave hitting stone. And when the dawn breaks villagers stream from doorways and gather on the beach, and shading their eyes with gnarled hands, they gaze toward the sea. And when they are satisfied the horizon is empty they disperse some to mend nets, some to patch boats, others to clean the fish. The ritual continues clay in, day out, as it has continued these twelve months after the Great Storm. 7 Not a word is spokelJ, not a whimper, not a tear, not a curse; but silently they hope and yearn and wait and pray for the sign which is long in coming. But it does come on a gray, misty, cheerless day. It comes by the sea as it was taken away by the sea. Only a scrap ot lumber, but it is enough; it bears the inscription "Bonnie Lass.' The villagers look no more to the sea, but tend quietly to their work and murmur a prayer as the breakers pound against the rocky shore. Theres:l Meyer, 64 8 MARTIAN ON MAD AVENUE As you know I have been spending some months on Madi----==--son Avenue making a survey of the advertising industry. A ll is well, my disguise is still intact. vVhen I step from my Renault Dauphine wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, Hathaway shirt, tie by Countess Mara, Pedwin shoes and light up a W inston, ELSYE MAHERN '65 no one seems to notice that I have one eye and a tail - both in the middle of my forehead. 9 But excitement urges me on to the matter at hand. I first had this idea at the time of the hula hoop craze, and since then have seen much to confirm it and nothing to deny that it is a workable plan. I'm sorry, I for got that you are unquainted with earth ways and do not know about the hula hoop. A hula hoop is ... A hula hoop is used for . . . Please forgive me, it will take a separate report and much more thought before I can hope to explain it. But the key word is craze. The hula hoop craze. As you know, the Flibblebound lands have ceased to be a problem to us simply because they were regarded as hopeless. Those fifty thousand square miles of Mars there are unusable merely b e c a use they are packed, stuffed, bulging with Flibbles. Daily it grows worse. But what are we to do? Tuppers are a necessity of life - in the Mars, not earth sense - many died when we tried to decrease the supply. Tuppers we must have, yet it is a fact of life that whenever a Tupper is picked it is replaced by two Flibbles. Those horrible, wasteful, space consuming Flibbles ! But try now to look on the Flibble as an indifferent object. You must do this or your mind 10 will refuse to comprehend what I am about to propose concerning them. vVe can make Flibbles a necessity of life on earth. Yes, I said Flibbles, not Tuppers, but Flibbles. This can be done through the advertising industry. (Perhaps we should sign with the agency handling Mars Bars. Ho! Ho! I still enjoy my little jokes. ) A nything can be made a necessity for an earthling if the advertising industry so decrees. However there are certain very strict rules which must be observed. Other people must appear to consider the item desirable. But only desirable other people. I f the item becomes desirable to an undesirable group then it becomes undesirable to the majority. The desirable people, to any group, are members of the group to which they are up and coming. For instance, if the boss's wife had Flibbles, then the wife of each of the workers would look forward to her husband's promotion, and having Flibbles would be a status symbol to her. She would have to have Flibbles when he received his promotion; her position would demand it. MK2, I know you well, and I can hear you at this moment demanding. "But what use ,-\ ould they have for them ?" On earth, at least in the United States, there doesn't have to be a use, simply a desire. This desire is created in various ways, including the one just mentioned. Another way is to tell them that the item is desirable, or rather tell them how undesirable are all other versions of the same item. In our case we might try something like this. "No other soap has Flibbles." This simple statement of fact would be repeated constantly using every means of communication until the whole nation had been penetrated. Being penetrated would mean in this case, any bump, pimple, scratch or irregularity in the skin would automatically be attributed to the absence of Flibble in the soap. This would force all the soap manufacturers to include Flibbles in the ingredients of their products. The next step in the campaign would be, "The only soap with shredded Flibbles." The whole process would be repeated, and as you know, many more Flibbles would be used. Another means of selling a product is to make it appear in short supply. No matter what it is, if it's hard to get, especially if he has to put his 11 name on a waiting list, an earthling wants it. That is why it is absolutely essential that earth not have a knowledge of the vastness of our supply. We must create the illusion that the contrary is true. I am sure that this idea is workable; however, it may be advisable that you gather the secret council together and kick the idea around. Run it up the flagpole and see if anyone salutes it. Earth-wise, saleswise and consumer-wise I see no wrinkles which n~eed ironing out. Mars-wise, it should be best of all. A colleague informs me that they're admitting new names to the Cadillac list this morning. The Renault Dauphine is sufficient for purposes of disguise, but a Cadillac would give a certain status which would be useful if I am to head up this campaign of the Flibble. I'd better dash if I'm to get there before they close the list. Please send more coin. I must be ready at every moment to purchase what is necessary to continue the disguise. I cannot quote a figure of what this will cost as I have no idea what the industry will decree next. END OF REPORT EBG A JOKING M Peggy Knoll, '63 A T T E "There's a piece of chocolate cake in the bread box. Cokes and milk in the refrigerator. Help yourself, Julie. " "Thank you, Mrs. McDaniels." "Here's the number where you can reach us if the hospital should call. I don't think it will, but just in case "All right, Doctor McDaniels." "N 0 w , Julie, the baby shouldn't wake up. Just make yourself at home. " R 12 from her lap. Julie froze and strained to hear what it was that had startled her. The sound of tinkling glass died away as she realized that the noise was in the kitchen. As the back door closed with a muffled thud, she forced herself to stop trembling. Her mind raced back to Mrs. McDaniels' words. . . "Everything's 10 c ked up tight. .. " .. and the doctor's. . . . . ." Julie," he had told her the first time she came to stay with Billy, "I don't want to frighten you, but for your safety, you should realize something. Because my office is here in the house, I naturally keep narcotics here. I f any strangers ever come to the door, don't unlock it. Keep it closed while you talk to them. But under 110 circumstances are you to unlock it. Understand ?" Julie knew what had happened. She leapt from the sofa with th~ silence and speed of a Persian cat and crept to the phone: But she wasn't fast enough. He was tall, lanky, and in need of a shave. His coat hadn't been to the cleaners since the day it had left the store and his shoes had never seen polish. From the dingy gray blend of "Have a good time," Julie called, as Dr. and Mrs. McDaniels walked down the porch steps. Their blue station wagon was just pulling out of the driveway as she locked the front door. "Now for some real excitement. Let's see. Guess I'll study for the chemistry quiz first... " Julie mumbled to herself. She plop~ ped down on the sofa and flipped the book open. "Hmmmm. . . . in the commercial preparation of sulfuric acid,"-she began, repeating the formulas carefully. "Golly, bet I've said sulfuric acid ten times," laughed Julie to herself after some minutes of concentrated effort. Julie bent her blond head over the book to double check her answer. She was a petite, blueeyed senior at the academy. G r a d u a t ion was just two months away and in September, she would begin her studies at Marquette. "Right!" she exclaimed in a half-whisper. "Now for English. Come here, you." Julie addressed the large gray volume and soon it had carried her to Scotland to tell how a king .was murdered by one of his ambitious lords. CRASH! - She jumped so much that the book nearly flew 13 his skin and clothes, his bright black eyes shone with a fiendish gleam. A cruel smile played at the corners of his lips. "vVell, aren't you a cute one." He crossed the room in four steps and reached the telephone stand just as Julie did. "Just so we don't have any misunderstandings. . . " He yanked the cord out 0 f the wall. He grabbed her arm with a vise grip. "Do you know where the doc keeps the stuff ? You know what I mean. Where is it ?" "Holy Mary, help me," Julie pleaded silently. She forced herself to control her trembling voice. "I don't know," she managed to stammer. ' ''All right, let's have it. Think I'm dumb or something? I'll tell you - I'm a patient man, but just don't press your luck. Now, where is it?" His voice rose with each word and the last four cracked like pistol shots. Julie could see that he was in bad shape. Still she had to tell him, " I'm just baby-sitting here and I don't know ... " SLAP! his hand flew across her face. As he relea sed her arm, she attempted to get to the front door. But he was quick enough to stop her. He threw her into the arms of the 14 doctor's favorite chair. "It's all right. I don't really need you. I've got plenty of time to find it. But since you won't be of any help ... " He started for the chair. Julie was paralyzed with fear. She tried to scream but the sound would not come out. His hands were at her throat. Her blows were all in vain. Kicking and hitting, gasping for breath, she was unable to break his grip. Julie sank back into the chair, back, back, back into the black nothingness. Round and round, down, down, down, she sank. Soon it didn't hurt. The light was blinding. She looked around. There was her English book on the floor beside her. The silence pressed down on her like a heavy blanket. Slowly the realization of it all came to her. "A d-d-dream," she murmured in half-belief, half-bewilderment. "Just a dream," Julie declared in amazement. "Oh, how silly ... " She started to smile. The smile blossomed into laughter. Suddenly the laughter froze in her throat. The crash came from the kitchen. JOE KEMPF, '63 o A struggle from the warmth of distant womb To cold embrace of death's dark tomb, A vicious metamorphosis from birth To chill of silent earth Is life Is breath Is strife Till death. yetBeyond the hold of death and sepulcher Awaits rebirth to frankincense and myrrh And murmurings of harps so strange ann far That trip and fall like crystal stars. 15 Golf is full of paradoxes. It is 98 percent walking and two percent shooting - too much walking for a good game, and too much of a game for a p~easant walk. The harder you try in golf, the worse you do. I f you try to kill the ball, you get nowhere; and if you make a good shot, you can't find it. If you concentrate, you get tense; and if you relax, you get careless. If you swing, you get no direction; and if you lunge, you Isn't Golf Funny Georg e Schmutte, '62 16 get no distance. If you try to fail to hit even once the big twenty-four foot sign in right field, entitling the swatter to a free suit of clothes. True, the golfer hasn 't a bunch of hungry ballhawks eagerly waiting to grab his smack, but the golfer has trees, bunkers, traps, fences, rivers, and deep grass stretching up and out to snare his drive. vVhile the safe baseball hit can drop in an area equal to that of a small farm, the golf ball must ultimately drop from view into an opening- smaller in diameter than the width of a vest pocket. Really the surprise is not that some gol fers take ten shots to a hole, but that they ever sink the ball at all. Alibi-ing is the most distinctive part of the game. An alibi is a good explanation of a bad score told to someone who isn't interested. It's a process of putting a bad score through a sort of beauty parlor, which turns a ragged seven into a handsome four. All alibis have one object in common: to convince the listener that you're a better player than your score indicates. But probably we don't need an alibi at all; perhaps we fail to appreciate the fact that golf, instead of being a simple pastime, is really one of the most difficult games in all playdom. steer the ball to the left, it slices to the right; and if you try to steer it to the right it hooks to the left. When putting, the longer you prepare to shoot, the greater grows the distance and the smaller the cup. After you shoot, the cup shows up in the wrong place. After you have bought two or three sets of clubs, changed your grip, shifted your stance, altered your swing, and pointed your chin in several directions - after all this, you have everything mastered except distance and direction. In almost every other sport. the ball comes to the hitter at a suitable recelvmg height, vvhile a golf ball must be picked fr o111 a one-inch elevation, driven from off the turf itself, or even dug out of little pockets into which it all too frequently rolls to rest. Not only is the ball small and the lie embarrassing, but gol f demands a control of distance and direction almost unequaled in any other pursuit jocularly referred to as play. For example, a baseball player can find safe territory somewhere in a section of ninety degrees; in this area are many open spa c e s to hit through or over; yet most players throughout an entire season 17 Mar clara y serena de mis dias fe1ices, Mar brava y oscura de mis dias tristes. Mar que cuando amas, abrazas y besas, Mar que cuando odias, destruyes con fuerza. Mar que en dias claros, llegas silencioso, Mar que en dias oscuros ruges con pasion Mar que como un nino amas sin dobleces, Mar que como un hombre amas con recelo. Mar, oye mis penas, oye este lamento: Mi alma no puede con su soledad. Mar ama y aprieta mi cuerpo cansado, Mar que entre tus olas busco descansa I 18 Sea clear and serene of my happy days, Sea dark and furious of my sad days. Sea that when you love, you hold and caress, Sea that when you hate, you destroy with force. Sea that in clear days, arrives silently, Sea that in dark days roars with passion. Sea that like a child loves innocently, Sea that like a man loves with jealousy, Sea, listen to my sorrows, listen to this lament: My soul cannot bear its loneliness. Sea hold and love my weary body, Sea that on your waves I seek for rest. Adriana Guzman, 162 19 Rastors' rail fence. Any minute now, the old man would come flying out on the steps, jeans dragging, razor strap in hand and yelling down the wrath of God upon Johnnie who shouting gleefully and jumping just out of reach would continue to beat on the fence, happily yelling little ding-dongy epitaphs at Mr. Rastors. Today, he was unrewarded. Mr. Rastors did not appear. Johnnie beat harder, louder. The freckles on his forehead stood out with the effort. Suddenly the door burst open. H 0 use w i v e s stopped hanging up clothes, babies stopped crying - a hush came over the alley and silence desee n d e d apprehensively. A huge, redheaded woman came flying out. Johnnie took several steps back; his mouth hung down with awe. Then slam, crunch, he slipped on the cinders and darted off down the alley. Sweet . y,ut~ Marilyn Weinbrecht, '63 On the beautiful hot day of August 22, Johnnie, age 9 and a person of no little fame , was dragging a stick across Mr. 20 Safe, at last, he lay hidden under his front porch. The old porch brought back reminiscences of Sally's kittens last spring. He thought fondly of the kittens and cringed farther under the porch where the sweet smell of honeysuckle pervaded. But his heart was worried. Maybe something had happened to Mr. Rastors. Johnnie savored that thought awhile. Then he could beat on the old meany's fence all he wanted. But the day stretched on and, somehow, it had lost its taste. He stole some strawberries from Mrs. Burgeonmaster, but she didn't chase him very far. Rather, having a nice, motherly feeling, she told him to be sure to wash them. He stole some tomatoes from Mr. Zeimers, but the old German did n 't play properly. He promptly leaped on his motorcycle and gave chase. If J ohnnie hadn't agilely scaled the rob f, he would ha ve been in trouble. Gretchen, Mr. Zeimers' pretty .blonde daughter, .offered him a chance to get a coke, but he knew Patty'd throw a fit. He and Patty were engaged. She was a ragged little witch with black eyes, short clipped hair and the bewitchingly romantic name of Patsy Raglioni. So he went home, and for the first time, he felt all tired, hot and dirty and the concrete stung his bare feet - and there was no Mr. Rastors. Perhaps the redheaded woman was keeping Mr. Rastors prisoner! I f so, Johnnie would have to do something. He had read about Federal agents in pursuit of Com- munist spies, and he knew just how they went about it. Sweet visions of glory danced about Johnnie like the wraiths of a summer morn. He saw himself standing up and proudly accepting the decoration. "Thank you, on behalf of the F.B.I. I accept this solid gold medaL" He could see tears in the ladies' eyes at the vision of the young boy, so brave, so young, so handsome and death defying ... the dream gave way to the clear call of duty. He strode through the four o'clocks to find his second lieutenant. His second lieutenant rebelled. "Aw. please, Patty, come on down," he yelled up at her. Patty lived in the third floor back. "I cawn't today," drawled Patty. "I'm busy." "I've got something important to tell you," he coaxed. "Very important. " "I'll bet. Last time it wasn't anything," Patty came down slowly. "Do you know who I really am?" she asked, shading her eyes with her hand. "Well, I know you're not Superman." "Oh, I don't know ," said Patty with a faraway look in her eyes. Patty was always pretending. Today, you could tell, she was a glamorous movie star. But Johnnie was anxious. 21 He had picked her for this dangerous mission because she was his girl. Together, they could lick anybody on the block and two streets over. He told Patty about Mr. Rastors and the red-headed woman. "How will we find out?" she asked. "We' 11 have to get in," he said. "How?" Patty asked softly. Her heart was beginning to pound deliciously with the sensation of impending mischief. Together, they made their plans. Patty was a real artist. When caught, she never ran away. She always ended up having something to e

... THE FIORETTI ! VOLUME XIX Number 2 Indianapolis, Indiana 1960-1961 AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE I THE STAFF Editor-in-Chief Joe Kempf, '63 Assistant Editors John Chapman, '63 Dolores Kohne, '63 Cynthia Stokes, '63 Marilyn Weinbrecht, '63 Jerry Zore, '63 Art Ray Day, '61 Marie Krebs, '62 Marie Mastruserio, '63 Joan Myers, '62 - - -- - ----- -- -- - -- -- - -- ------ - - -- CONTENTS ARTICLES Depression Baby 4 The Drugless Drugstore 13 Jane Schwacke Warp and Woof 16 Terry Medhi Tehrany Unis Utopia 19 Mary Anne Stapleton Symphony in B Minor 32 Margo Eastman Stephen E. Mooney FICTION A Ki ng Is Dead 7 Revenge of the Incas 10 Arthur Jonas Psychognosis of Death 34 Joe Kempf The Perfect Gift 42 Donna Tatroe Elaine Grafen POETRY The China Doll 9 Prayer of the Adopted 15 Elsye Mahern Requiem 22 Joe Kempf Challenge 33 George Schmutte Nothing 40 Dave Allison Jeanne Babcock SPECIAL FEATURE Civil War Centennial 30-31 Ray Day Art end Photography somethin' huge in there one time, like a big monster or somethin'. Mommy says it was probably his wife 'cause they don't get on. I don't know what gettin' on has to do with it but if it was her she sure ain't gettin' out 'cause she is about two times as big as that ole trash can, and that's a big trash can. There ain't no other little boys to play with 'round here. In the next block though, there is a little girl. But who wants to play with girls? Ugh! They're sissies. House, house, house, that's all they ever want to play. Ugh! Girls! All I have to play with is Harvey. Harvey is my dog. Harvey ain't been round lately. Mommy says he has probably found hisself a girl friend, but I don't believe it. Harvey wouldn't want to play with any old girls either, not Harvey. My daddy is a big boss at the factory across town. I bet if it weren't for my daddy the whole factory would have to shut down. He told me what he was but I can't remember 'cause it was such a big name . . Something like janesessitor or somethin' like that, but anyway, it's a big real important job 'cause my daddy told ine so, Stephen E. Mooney '63 f Hi! My name is Tommy. I'm a litle boy and I'm five fingers goin' on six fingers old. I live in a little house, on a little hill, in a big city. I'm sittin' under a tree in the aliey in back of my house trying to think of somethin' to play. You know what? I just saw a man find an old rusty pipe in Mr. Greenlow's trash can. Mr. Greenlow is our next door person. Mommy says I can't look in other people's trash cans, 'cause we're not that bad off yet. Whatever that means I don't know but that's what she said. Sometimes I just don't understand my mommy. If a big man can do it, how come I can't? Heck, I might even find a big ole dead bug in Mr. Greenlow's trash can, 'cause he is all the time throwing stuff in there. I even saw- him throw 5 and my daddy don't lie. He told me once he was all the time working in the president's office . . I guess my daddy WIll probably be a big president one of these days. Mommy is always yellin' at daddy when he comes home from his hard day in the president's office. She called him a bum yesterday. I ain't never heard of anyone calling a future president of a big factory a bum before. Sometimes I don't understand my mommy. My daddy always goes to Joe's every day after work, with -some of them other big important men down from the factory. I don't know wInt they do down there at Joe's but sometimes my daddy, he don't walk so good when he comes home. When daddy's like t hat mommy really yells at him. Heck, sometimes mommy even cries, and then daddy tells me to go out and play 'cause mommy -don't feel so good. Boy, can my mommy yell when sh~ don't feel so good. Sometimes I dolt't understand my mommy. Mommy told me that pretty soon a big bird was gonna fly over and leave me a little brother: I've been watchin' every day, but all the birds I see are too little to carry my new little brother. It sure is gonna have to be a big bird all right. Mommy says we don't have enough grocery money anymore, but you know what I think, she's been eatin'all our food cause boy-o-boy is she gettin' a big ole tummy. 'Now! She's not gonna be able to fit through the front door if she don't stop eatin' pretty soon. My daddy told me when I get to be eight fingers old he was gonna take me down to the factory and show me his big office. He told mommy all the men call him "Chief of the Laboratory, " or somethin' like that. Gee, my daddy sure must have lots of nice friends to call him somethin' like that. He sure is popular, ain't he? People are all the time laughin' when he goes by, I guess 'cause they like him so much. I asked him 'bout that one time and he told me they were all ignant sons-o-b ...... " I guess that means friendly, or somethin'. 1m gonna have to go now, mommy says we're gonna go live with my aunt in Ohi;). Daddy's not gonna go live there with us though. I don't see why I have to go if daddy don't. Sometimes I don't understand my mommy. 6 ~- ---- --===--:::- Late last night Dun Can, king of Chicago's underwQrld, was struck down by an unknown assailant. The authorities surmise that while Dun was approaching the gates of the ivy-vined mansion of his r---_ - Elaine Grafen, '63 7 chief disciple, Mac Beth, the villain leapt from behind a cluster qf bushes, fatally stabbed the king, and vanished into the thickness of the woods. Upon a thorough search 0f Mr. Beth's estate, the police discovered a man's -footprints leading from the area of the murder, through the trees, and . to the servants' quarters at the rear of i~e main house. Entering the butler's room, Sergeant Tracy found the manservCl.nt highly intoxicated. The sergeant happened upon a kni fe believed to be the murder weapon hidden in a panel behind the bookcase. The man IS now being held in the custody of the police as the primary suspect in the city's latest gang murder. Meanwhile, this morning it was reported that Dun's sons and heirs to his realm of vice, Mal and Don, have left the city, their reasons unknown. Their actions promote investigation. Do they fear they may meet the same end through the hands of hired men of the mob? Or could they have planned their father's death 1n hopes of filling his post? Nlany of us have formulated a still greater number of questions and answers concerning the motives and persons connected with this slaying. Besid e the possibilities already offered, one other important theory remains. Mac Beth is a rising figure in underworld activities, and it is a known fact that his leadership abilities were second only to Dun'!'O. How convenient it would have been to exterminate Dun, e3pecially in the privacy of one's own home and take command of an orientated mob. Mr. Mac Duf and Mr. Ban Quo, two other outstandillg characters in the association. have professed their ignorance of the crime. Rumor has it, though, that they have spent many hours in conference with Mr. Beth and are planning a campaign of opposition to Beth's dictatorship. The circumstances surrounding this case are numerous and. as yet, not clearly understood. As new facts are brought to light. it is certain that the person responsible for Dun Can's death will pay for his actions \vith his own Ii fe. 8 lllH1IE CIH111NA IDOILIL Here She sits, with tears trickling inside, One by one, quietly tinkling. On her face she wears a smile. She smiles and smiles A nd brightly sits And stares. But if you looked into her eyes just once, Such sadness would you see That you would stop, start to laugh, Then stop again. You would smile, and say some witty thing To put your mind at rest, And when you turned away, forgot again, Her cracked heart Would cease to shed its tears . .. It would just quietly splinter To fi ll her with a thousand glassy spears. Jeanne Babcock, '64 9 R E OF THE E INCAS Arthur Jonas, '64 G E For weeks our tiny expedition had been winding its way across the endless tracts of sweltering Peruvian tropics. Finally, as we trudged across the jungle floor beneath a canopy of leafy branches and 3. myriad of multicolored birds. flashing their gorgeous plum- 10 age, the appalling realization struck us-that we were lost in this steaming primeval waste. Laboring under onerous packs we slowly plodded onward, each step bringing deeper despair and frustration. Stately trees that had been looked upon as sentries guarding us against the broiling sun and the anger of passing storms become fearsome giants under which sundry dangers lurked. Deceptive vines lay like camouflaged snares along our path striving to entangle our feet and throw us upon our faces into the jungle's refuse of ageless decay. The jungle, with its oppressive heat smothering our every breath, became to us a formidable land, a place of no return. --\. monkey chattered overhead. Somewhere in the distance a bird swore. Then suddenly all was silence as though we foolhardy mortals had somehow wandered into the arcade of the forbidden. We pushed through an entanglement of undergrowth and a slithering serpent glided inaudibly into the gloom of tepid waters, leaving only mute grasses to testi fy to its presence. Silence lay upon the land. Its magnitude was maddening and our frantically beating hearts pounded like tom-toms in the still night air. An ominous breeze sprang up, plaintively wailing through salient tree tops. Then suddenly we were startled by peal a fter peal of rollicking, ricocheting thunder-like clashes, not unlike a thousand cannons. We hastily clambered up a knoll on our right and were able to discern in the semi-darkness of twilight the ruins of an Inca city. It was nestled in a valley, guarded on one side by towering cliffs and on another by a sluggish, muddy-brown river. Through the ages nature had wrought her work upon this Inca stronghold and now the jungle had its toehold among the ruins. Trees had sprung up between the magnificent buildings flogging their sides with the ceaseless sway of mighty branches. Vines clung to their walls and grasses found root in their encroachments. Finally, despite the deepening dusk we. saw the source 0 f the tremendous rumblings, or rather crash, as we by this time realized it was. - One of the ancient buildings, twisted and broken by whoknew-what ungodly force, lay in a mass of rock and stone. Little demons of debris stirred 11 up by the crash were still playing over the walls and pillars of the fallen edifice and from newly exposed subterranean passage poured a horde of bats. Puzzled, . we searched, but nowhere could we discern the ele ment of this temple's misfortune. tering bits of jewelry and tarnished metal figures, maliciously. gleaming among the bones of former ill-fated sacri,.. fices, lying in the ashes of a defunct civilization. Above this manifestation of erstwhile offerings was a stonel;vith hieroglyphic characters. My comrades and I cautiously left our vantage point and a,d~ vanced toward the assemblage of archaic buildings. 'l\Te reached the first of the structur.es and entered, stirring up little will-o-the wisps of dust which slow ly settled back to their ageless put suits. The dank air reeked with the must of years and the walls were slimy to the touch. When our vision had become accustomed to the dim light, we began to penetrate the interior. Trails of dust, disturbed for the first time in centuries, swirled around our feet and encompassed our persons like so many hornets angered by our presence. In the cen!:er stood a huge altar beneath a~l equally gigantic statue tower~ ing so high that in the dark interior we, unable to discern the top, stood in awe. The beams of our flashlights slashed through the cold blackness and wandered over the altar. Illuminated upon it were glit- Then startled by a thunderoustasping .sound, we sprang around only to see a colossal rock slide against the portal of the building we had entered. 'vVe searched the temple but found only labyrinth an passages and rooms leading always to that infernal statue and its mocking skeletons. Th~ realization slowly dawned' upon our stunned senses -\ve were entombed, buried alive within the cold dead walls of an Inca Temple. Had the Inca god after eons of fasting lured us to his temple for appeasement-for the final sacrifice ? I wonder! !! That was six days ago and I , the last surviving member of the expedition, brooding here in the dwindling illumination of my dying flashlight, ponder. Was this misfortune mere chance or had .we been forewarned on that first fateful day, when the jungle had become so suddenly omInously silent??? a 12 Jane Schwacke, '63 The DRUG LESS H a v e you ever wondered just how drugless a drugstore really is, nowadays? On entering the corner drugstore the other evening, a startling thought struck me, " Just what did I come in here for?" Well, I needed some cold medicine, hand lotion, shoe polish, theme paper, a postal card and stamp, and I wanted the latest issue of McCall's, a pint of ice cream, nail polish, and a candy bar . I became very amused upon glancing over my list and just had to laugh at the irony of a couple of items in particular. Why? Well, let us examine the list a little mmoe closely and do some comparing. The first item, cold medicine, seems to hold nothing so amusing. After all, the drugstore is a logical place in which to look for medicine; but what about the second t h r 0 ugh s i x t h items? A re they not a bit on the farfetched side? Hand lotion, I suppose, could, in the broad sense, be considered a DRUGSTORE 13 medicine since it is used for chapped hands, but what abo lit shoe polish, theme paper, a postal card and stamp? Even the m 0 s t b r 0 a d-minded person would have to be a bit skeptical in thinking of it tbus unless t hat person were flatheaded. l In high school I was taught that there is such a thing as being so broad minded that one is fiatheaded although I have never been able to figure out to whom the lecture on said subject had been directed .) such as this might be received, "0 h, t hat's where mommy takes me when I'm good (or to make me be good ) to get a coke or an ice cream cone !" The teenager might answer, "A gossip den!" which is, 111 the English language; a place w here the gang meets to catch up on all the news while sipping cokes; the housewife's retort. " A store in which cosmetics , which one can never fi nd time to use, are bought"; and th e businessman's response, which is much like th:1t of the teenager only on a more adult scale, "A place to meet the other businessmen of the community to 'hash out' business problems and suggesti on s over a cup of coffee." Then there are those luxury items, (as my budget demands they be called. ) McCall's would logically be fo und at a corner news-stand, ice cream at a grocery, nail polish at a cosmetic counter in a dime or department store, and the candy bar at a confectionary. In fact, the ice cream and especially the candy bar pose an ironic position in the drugstore cooling box or on its shelves. Usually, when candy is spoken of, rotten t ee t h, malnutrition. and possibly diabetes come into the general public's min d. The drugstore is supposed to represent health or the means by which a person might return to health. Upon asking a child the definition of a drugstore , a reply Did anyone of these groups of people come anyway close io the idea conveyed in the woni "drugstore' ? Of course the answer is definitely "no" in the strict sense. However, within the past quarter of a century the word "drugstore" has been given an entirely new connotation, and the drugs are, in reality, only a very minor part even thought probably still the major money-making part. Therefore, with this new connotation, perhaps these people elo have the right idea a fter all. 14 Dear God, make me a Negro, Make my soul one with those In dark-skinned bodies, \ Vhere Your light shines Brighter by contrast. The hateful paleness I cannot escape, _\s inexorably bind my soul and mind. Let me feel each nail of hate. Each thorn of ridicule. Scourge me with names, Crucify me. lest I crucify. Make me a Negro. Elsye Mahern 15 16 so complicated and intricate that no two rugs are ever made having the same design. Terry Mehdi Tehrany, '64 Although the weaving of pile rugs and carpets was a national industry in Persia for centuries, the earliest preserved fragments date from about the fifteenth century. Similar rugs are pictured in Persian miniatures of the fourteenth and fi fteenth centuries. The rugs are woven on a base of cotton threads, called the warp and running lengthwise in the loom, and the pile is made up of strands of wool or silk yarn, called the woof, \vhich are knotted around the base threads and then cut off. Cotton is preferred to wool for the foundation threads because the knots can be tied closer toget her on the thin cotton strands. Fairly coarse rugs may have some sixty knots to each square inch, while those of finer quality have over two hundred. The fabulous rugs surviving from the sixteenth century have nearly four hundred knots to the square inch, and even today this figure is sometimes excelled in the very costly silk rugs. The number of knots to the square inch has no relation to wearing qualities, but the finer workmanship gives an. extra precision to the outlines of the pattern. By the end of the nineteenth century special schools were founded to give training in carpet designing and weaving. Their purpose was to establish a high level of technical skill and to restore to design the intrinsic good taste of the past which had been almost lost through the influence of inferior machine products from the outside. The hand looming of fine rugs continues in Iran on a large scale, and the preparation of the materials, the techniques of weaving, and the choice of patterns and colors - predominantly light and dark pink, green, brown, white - follow the earliest traditions. The director of the weaving may follow these or may also create his own patterns by combining old patterns so as to form new ones. The whole process is all Most of the rug weaving is done in so-called "factories." A. factory may be only a large house in which two or more looms have been installed, for there are comparatively few 17 structures especially built to house looms. Persian women and children are the best rug makers; their small agile fingers can tie as many as three to five thousand knots a day. Fatemeh, a little nine year old girl, sits crosslegged before her loom. Lengths of colored silk or wool hang over her shoulders. Sometimes she does nnt have the strands across her shoulders but on a piece of wood beside her on the bench on which she sits. Without even looking she can reach for the desired color, never making a mistake, her fingers moving faster than eye can follow, executing the pattern hung up in front of her. In the very large factories a preliminary drawing is made for each rug as well as a careful full-scale picture in color of sections of the pattern. In weaving a large rug three or four adults or children sit in front of the loom while a foreman, following the prepared drawings, calls off the number and color of the knots to be tied by each weaver as the work goes forward. The rugs are usually finished while still on the looms. As a ~ection about two feet is com- pleted the foreman carefully clips the pile down to a uniform surface. Work progresses slowly: a rug of moderate size takes a month to weave, a hung rug as large as fifteen feet by thirtyfive feet may take over two years; a few, however, are the work of a lifetime. vVhen the rug is finished. it is dusted, washed in pure water and then hung up in a drying room provided for this purpose. It may also be laid out in the sun to dry. Its vegetable dyes will not fade or run. Irregularities in patterns and . colors. strangely enough, often account for the beauty and brilliance of the Persian rugs. The rugs are usually known to the trade by the names 0 f the towns or districts where they are woven, and many towns have their own patterns and combinations of colors by which their rugs may easily be distinguished. Some of these carpets are priced at five hundred dollars each. But if you are going to buy one of these Persian rugs in the United States, you may have to pay more than five thousand dollars for the same rug. Here is where a friend can be of service to you. 18 , NIS Mary Anne Stapleton, '62 o There he is over there ._coming out of one of our towering and massive buildings. You probably don't even recognize him among the rushing figures. He's Philip J. Cushing, Executive Director of Domestic Travel for Leo nor a Shipping Lines. Not many people take note of him. Watch him give a pull at the front of his hat as he squints into the sun and then heads for the station. Yes, Mr. Cushing is a methodical man. Re always has been. In fact, many people attribute his success to that one quality. Sor:1e of his associates knew him 111 college. They say t hat 0 n e characteristic a Ion e isn't enough to explain his status in Ii fe. According to the few who p I A 19 know him, there is the advantage of a good mind, well cultivated from early years, formeei, and daily increasing in breadth. If we don't hurry, we'll miss the train ride with him. He takes the 6 :59. Yes, he chose the same seat near the window, as always. Of course, this (and every) ride won't be a loss for him. No racing to the club ca1' for Phi 1 i P J.; the evening newspaper is much more enlightening and entertaining and refreshing at the end of a hard day's work. You would think he might talk to the man that's sitting next to him, or at least share the paper with him. But, no , Mr. Cushing doesn't even realize the poor man exists. A family, did you ask? Oh, no ! He really has no ties. There was something about his parents' death, and then w h i I e quite young, an old aunt raised him, leaving enough money for hi s education. But she dieel. And he has no wife or children -never seemed to be able to be bothered in getting so involved with anyone person. Now, don't pity him. He has hi s own kind of enjoyment. vVhy you should see the statel y home, with the very masculine mahogany -furniture through- out. And, oh yes, in his study there is a complex stereophonic system that brings him as close to the best classical and modern music as anyone could be. Each room in the house has a wide and interesting bookshelf, and he has read all of the books at least once. Sometimes in the evening he will go to the opera or . one of the better Broadway productions. But everything is up to him. He leads his own life-picking and choosing at '.v ill. Even as a homemaker, he does fairly well, considering his being a male. Most breakfasts and lunches are eaten out, but in the evening he settles down to a good, well-balanced dinner, that has been sel f prepared. Afterwards, he feeds his dog and usually takes the animal out for a walk. This only other resident in the Cushing home is treated with a strictly automatic care. The poor dachshund was left with him by a neighbor some ten years ago and now he is just like: the rose bushes in the back yard-w:ltered and fed and cared for in almost the same manner. \TV e' d better start to get up now. It's just about time for Mr. Cushing's station. The walk home at this time of eve- 20 ning is quite enjoyable. Yes, Mr. Philip Cushing takes this four-block walk home every evening - and it's funny, vou know, but it seems that each walk has a new finding in it for him. Look how observant he is of the different homes and kinds of landscaping-it's all registering mentally. ;\ very distinguished looking man walking in that (11rk suit and topcoat. Those 42 years haVe!l't begun to take a toll on him, ex c e p t maybe for the gray around his temples. Actually our Mr. Cushing receives great enjoyment out of his life. He has a good joh, one in which he is quite happy. Of course, he always strives to better that position, and so far has been successful. He leads quite a productive 1 i f e and shares in all our human benefits, It really must be wonderfnl to be so independent. I guess that most of us can't sever ours e 1 v e s from this beckoning world long enough to taste such a luxury. Maybe it's bebecause we're so lazy. After all it would take an awful lot of work to dis-entangle ourselves from such a network of human life. \Ve're almost hom e now. Let's watch him as he walks up to the door; then we'll have to go. Mr. Philip J. Cushing, brilliant and esteemed man of th~ modern world, opens his front door. He bends and picks up the mail that has fallen through the chute. As he rises he looks around for the dog, who is usually there. Evidently the poor animal is asleep somewhere. As he starts to the kitchen to put on the coffee, something in the living room catches his eye. Suddenly, running over to the inaminate object heaped on the floor, our Mr. Cushing stops. As he bends over it, tears break away through their 42 years of imprisonment. Yes, there on the floor lay the dog -dead! A nd kneeling beside the little creature is a sobbing Mr. Philip J. Cushing. His independency, his great detachment from the world, his ability to withstand any test is shattered. The small bridge to communication with humanity is severed. And the bar e cl knowledge of this lonely little canine's deep import in the Ii fe of the successful Phi 1 i p J. Cushing is realized for the first time. It may be man's best friend, but a dog can't be tl1(' only friend of any man 21 As a somnambulist waking from a dream , my SpIrIt cries out and m y soul sheds bitter tears for the dead thing that once was my A merica . . . I look upon the land with misty eyes, but I do not know it vVhere are the pounding hoofs of the shaggy buffalo making thunder on the plains, and the lightning flashes of the golden eagle soaring on the blue of a summer sky? Where are the unbroken plains and the rippling praITle grasses, bounded only by distant plateaus and the purple haze of an endless horizon stretching away to the mountains? Where are the emerald virgin forests carpeting the continent from ocean to ocean, and the giant firs standing boldly with their feet in the earth and heaven in their hands? Where are the mighty unharnessed rivers roaring their lusty defiance across the countryside, forging the land beneath the unceasing blows of their molten steel hammers? Where is the fertile black earth on which the red man grew his corn and tobacco, and where are the countless fowl that darkened the skies and the wildlife that filled the woodlands? Where are you, America? 24 and I gaze hopefully into men's faces, but I do not know them - \i\There is the long-legged drawl of the hickory-boned Kentuckian, with his long rifle and plug of tobacco he spat so matterof-factly into the rich soil? Where is the Massachusetts merchant and his staunch, stubborn pride, and the God-fearing perseverance of the Pennsylvania farmer with his Dutch-German accent? \i\There are the Southern planters and their whitewashed mansions beneath the moss-covered oaks and the gentle breezes wafting the perfume of wisteria hanging heavy in the lisping pines? Where is the Western pioneer with his unshakable con:'fidence and courage, and where is his steadfast wife cracking the whip impatiently over a team of straining horses? \i\There is the red man and his painted pony, his buffalo-hide tent and moccasins, his birchbark canoe and hunting grounds;? \i\There are you, Americans? 25 and I search vainly men's hearts and minds, but I do not know them - \Vhere is the courage and daring of the first pioneers that spurred them on past the Appalachians and into the wilderness of the Mississippi Valley and across the great Midwest? Where is the fierce national pride and fiery love of country that boiled the blood in men's veins and sent the enemy flying before the flexing of infant muscles? Where is that determined independence and tenacious individualismof spirit that demanded the defense of personal rights against any and all violations of liberty? vVhere is the lusty vigor of young men revelling in their youth .and newfound power, and where is the unquenchable boldness and ingenuity of a young nation? Where is the simple trust in the Providence of God and the tenets of moral stability which our Founding Fathers stressed so persistently? Where are you, Spirit of America? 26 Alas, my America! They have raped your forests , Lome of the red man and the animals, and with them built multi-colored, mortgaged houses They have tamed your raging waters and turned them into hissing steam to drive generators and dynamos - They have robbed your rich earth of its blackness, and the Indian of his corn and tobacco They have replaced your prairie grasses with wheat and the purple haze with the gray of smog They have heedlessly slaughtered your buffaloes ;l11d taken the eagle from the sky and put him on flags and coins - Weep, my America! They have left the Kentuckian only his drawl and wad of tobacco to spit into the desecrated earth They have humbled the proud New Englander and taken the fear-of-God from the Pennsylvania Dutchman They have ravished the Southerner and left him only charred embers and fading memories of wisteria in the pines - They have filled the Westerner's eyes with dust and tears and taught his wife Philadelphia manners They have plundered the red man, confiscated his hunting grounds. and left him only his moccasins - 27 Struggle, my America! They have domesticated the Pioneer, shrunk the Appalachians, and cottonized the Mississippi Valley They have quenched the fire of Patriotism and replaced the blood in men's veins with water They have substituted conformity for individualism and exemplified the minimizing of personal rights They have encouraged Stoicism and the restraint of all emotions to insure the production of stereotyped citizens -They have shattered God's Providence and the moral stability of our Founding Fathers as well - Death, my America! They have taken the steel from the Northwoodsman's arms and molded it into metal girders spanning rivers They have disillusioned the immigrant and turned him into a protoplasmic robot on the assembly lines They have converted the merchant into a catch-all cash register in a gray flannel suit They have smothered man's belief in honesty and fair dealing and cheaply bought his principles They have killed you, my America! 28 epitaph In Memory 0 f : Your forests, animals, rIvers, your earth - plundered ; Your courage, daring, individualism, your spirit - dead: Your Kentuckian, Southerner, Pioneer , your red man A ll of them - gone gone. And there will be no handsome prince to wake you from your eternal sleep, My Beautiful America Noone to wake you No one - Joe Kempf, '63 29 !In Commemoration War Between 30 the of the States Civil War Centennial 1861- 1961 31  In ~in"r Margo Eastman, '64 Another drop of perspiration rolled from Jane's brow onto her long, slender nose. At the moment, Jane was in the middle of her oboe solo which could be distinctly h ear d throughout the entire outdoor theater. Moments before she had begun to play, she had noticed a little bee buzzing around her head and she had made the mistake of giving one desperat:: swat at it. But it was too late to swat again for the needlenosed monster was now resting on her forearm and she dare not stir to move it-not while she was the outstanding musician of the evening. "Oh, why didn't I just ignore it? If he stings me now, I'll ruin the whole concert. Only fifteen more measures and. then I'll be finished. Oh, please little bee, wait until then." Discom- forting thoughts ran through Jane's mind as her memorized solo poured forth. Another drop of perspiration fell from her now drenched brow. Nine measures to go ... The restless bee began wandering aimlessly down her arm toward her hand. I f he got upon her fingers , at the, rate she was playing, it would be disturbed for sure. Three measures . . . I f only she could finish her solo before it crawled upon he!' fingers. "I'm in my last measure. Just a few more notes and I can return that insect's friendly little gestures," thought Jane with great anxiety. A t last she finished and as she slowly lowered her instrument, the little reign of terror, slightly perturbed, flew away. 32 George Schmutte, '62 * * * America-shoot the moon with rocket arrow . Amid a scene of stars all spangling in place: Surpass the others in quest of outerspace, Dissolve the ramparts in God's sky below. Ascend the vertical frontier , and not too slow F or now an adverse nation sets the pace; Preserves man's right to freedom-win the racc, Uphold it always, thus convert that foe. The astronauts, who brave celestials gain And seize the lonely air-starved ocean overhead vVhere blue blood bubbles like fine uncorked champagne, Will win acclaim and influence lands unled; Beyond the earth no valor could they feign, That trip aloft to . spheres unknown-a dread. Challenge 33 Joe Kempf, '63 Ignoring the insi stent racket of the phone, I crawled across the crumpled sheets and, leaning over the dirty windowsill, raised the window to clear the room of the smell of alcohol and armpits. The damp win

... THE FI'ORETTI VOLUME XVIII I NUMBER 1 Indianapolis, Indiana 1960-1961 I AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE .( I THE STAFF Editor-in-Chief Joe Kempf, '63 Assistant Editors John Chapman, '63 Dolores Kohne, '63 Cynthia Stokes, '63 Marilyn Weinbrecht, '63 Jerry Zore, '63 Art Anna Krebs, '63 Marie Krebs, '62 CONTENTS Articles Genera I Store 11 Mary Ann Armborst My Other Mother 22 24 34 Eileen Mueller Let No Dog Bark No Ruz-Persian New Year Mike Nolan Terry Mehdi Tehrany Fiction That Special Day 9 Of the Spectre 14 18 26 38 Alone Mr. Morton, Please! Of Ghouls and Men Cynth ia Stokes Joe Kempf Marilyn Weinbrecht Clara Ann De Becze Jerome J. Vollmer Poetry Chaos 4 A Tear 13 17 21 36 37 41 My Beautiful America Man Musings Life The Tragedy of M. Pauvrhomme Joe Kempf Steve Mooney Donna Bentler Bill Beasley Deanna Metzner Bi II Beasley Dennis Donahue \ ,.. Stretching up from the moist earth, I ripped away from their primeval beds A handful of the brightest stars; Clutching them in trembling hands, I pressed my ear to their hearts And listened to the pulse of the Universe- 4 Chugging metal monsters clawing at the cracked earth, Snorting their carbon breaths from steel-lined lungs into the cancerous sky; Giant radioactive mushrooms springing instantaneously from the blasted desert sands, Leaving gaping pits and invisible death after they die. Feet, feet-pounding, pounding; Conscience, conscience-hounding, hounding. Two-legged ants swarming across the giant anthill of the earth, Dragging their burden of lies from labyrinth to labyrinth to oblivion. Sweating planets fleeing eternally from the scorching sun, Finding no palm-treed oasis among the sands of timelessness. Wheels, wheels-turning, turning; Souls, souls-burning, burning. 5 Rusty old moon crying Roquefort tears, 'Falling through a Pumpernickel sky in the dead of night, Cement and steel monoliths rearing their angular heads high above the asphalt, Staring into the black with a thousand sightless eyes. Water, water-flowing, flowing; Sins, sins-growing, growing. Pot-bellied bigamists hiccupinghiccuping across their martinis that Love's like an open manholestrolling along, one falls into it. Empty beer cans babbling drunkenly from triangular mouths About the evil effects of alcohol on the intoxication of men's minds. Girders, girders-straining, straining; Satan, Satan-gaining, gaining. Impatient seconds, begot in the future, pausing reluctantly in the present, then screaming into the past, Dragging everyone and everything along with them. Magnetic cities, connected by shining lines of steel force, Pulling protoplasmic robots across copper-plated continents. 6 Leaves, leaves-rushing, rushing; Lies, lies-crushing, crushing. Steel-shod giants striding across the Universe toward earththe nearest outhouse. Human shadows running to sharp-edged corners, Hiding in the convergence of angles, where cold, geometrical arms embrace them. Man, Man-hating, hating; Hell, Hell-waiting, waiting. And, As the chill wind swept through the red-gold leaves like a thousand-fingered hand, a tear rolled down my cheek illt the waiting earth- High above, silver-gray clouds whipped across an October sky, beckoning to the blueso far, far, far- And I cried for the Universeso dead, dead, dead- JOE KEMPF, 7 '63 8 months and months. It had been years in coming and now -here it was! My skin tingled with excitement. The sun's rays penetrated and warmed me. For a while I lay there musing, feeling anxiety, feeling joy. I overflowed with anticipation. I felt wonderful and sad all at once. This day would never come again. It would bring its splendor or its sorrow, to be permanently imprinted in my memory. I must accept whatever it brings. I wiggled my toes and pulled the covers up to my chin. Then I freed my arms and swung them out in front of me. I sat up. I lay down again. Oh, this is unbearable - the waiting, waiting, waiting. I had waited long years, ever since I reached the ...age of reason-I guessfrom the time I was eight years until now. Now - ten years, four months, two.weeks, and three days later to be exact. There is so much I must do and such a lot of it depends on today. So many places and things to explore, high hills and blue skies and green grass in the meadows. Faces of people to meet and to read. Perhaps to see the Statue of Liberty or the Eiffel Tower or roam through Disneyland. I hear the That 5 p E C I A L Day CYNTHIA STOKES, This was the early; perhaps I the entire night. day had been on '63 day. I woke hadn't slept This special my mind for 9 unwound the bandages around my head. "Keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them." I heard mother d raw the blinds and felt her good hand clutch mine. A r 0 u n d and around and now the bandage was gone. I had the wildest desire to touch those orbs. My fingers ached, but I was patient. Doctor Benson removed the wads of cotton. "Now," he said to me. "Open them slowly, together." I prolonged the action for a moment, while I reflected over many things - what this all meant to me. "What time is it?" I asked. "Why?-It's 10 :15," Mom replied. "Exactly?" "Yes." I wanted to know the exact time when this moment occurred. I would open my eyes " and see this great, wonderful " world for the first time at 10 :16. Slowly, in the anguish of fear and exaltation, I raised my lids. I opened my eyes. Grand Canyon is gorgeous. My head began to ache wit h . thoughts. I imagine I lay in bed for hours just thinking and dreaming. Today has to be wonderful, I said to myself. I must not have my hope crushed. Mother said not to count too much on anything. How impossible! I turned face down. Oh, stop these butterflies! I think I'll go crazy just waiting! I sensed someone was in the room near my bed. I knew it was Mom, and there was someone with her, probably Doctor Benson. "Terry," mother prodded me with her hand. "Honey, Doctor Benson is here. Wake up." I . was afraid now and sick at heart. I could hardly move. I uttered a soft prayer for success which was drowned in the turmoil of my mind. Funny, all I could think of was red. What did red look like? How I should like to use that word "look." V"; as red as Mrs. Lamb, my teacher, had said: warm, symbolic of loving hearts - was the sun red in the evening? Did the sun actually come up and go down red? I turned as I heard Doctor Benson's reassuring voice. It was calm like at the time of the operation. His strong hands * * * * * At 9 :30 that night-at the end of the special day-I sat down in my favorite chair and began to enjoy a good book111 braille. 10 appruach the store the loafers, draped comfortably on the porch settle, shift their tobacco to the side 0 f their mouths and gaze curiously for a moment before resuming their gossip and yarns. A mixture of aromas greets us as we enter the store. The odor of kerosene mingles with the scent of spices, the smells of newness and mustiness are mixed, and over all is the lingering aroma of tobacco. When our eyes become used to the dim interior after the glare outside, what a fascinating jumble greets them! This is truly a "general" store. Ceneral Store MARY ANN ARM BORST, In the middle of the room is the inevitable pot-bellied stove, surrounded by its chairs, empty now it ~he summer heat, for their occupants lounge outside and, of course, the checker board has followed them. The soda cracker bar'rel stands within easy reach of the chairs as does a shelf on which lies a ripe golden cheese and a sharp knife. On one side of the crowded room is a dry-goods counter heaped with drills, sheetings, calicoes brightening up the drap board, buttons, pins and needles, thread, and varicolored ribbons. Materials such as rainbow-hued silks and cash- '63 Let's turn time back about a hundred years and visit a clap-board building w h i c h serves as meeting-place, postoffice, and community center in a somnolent American village. The weathered sign above the door proclaims "Warren's General Store." It is a quiet, dusty August afternoon, and as we 11 meres, less in demand, are on a shelf below the counter. Large bins of varying sizes hold shoes for all ages; congress gaiters, factory-made shoes, high-buttoned lad i e s' shoes, all are jumbled in the bins. The far end of the dry goods counter is given over to a hardware store, where cutlery, axes, rifles, kitchen utensils, agricultural implements, and nails all scream for attention. Opposite this is a grocery counter displaying staple foods and luxuries such as white sugar, and perhaps even the brighteness of oranges or bananas. A drug store is also given prominence on this COUtlter with its array of formidable looking bottles and pill-boxes. In the back of the store is a candy counter with its tempting array of colorful glass jars inviting the sweet tooth. Anyone have a penny for candy hearts, lemon drops, red hots, hoarhound, or licorice? A makeshift post-office is in one corner, an important part of the store, its official-looking cubbyholes proclaiming their owners' names. In the grey shadows of the corners are cooking stoves. kettles, gleaming tin washtubs, 12 plows, and a display of parasols, palm-leaf fans, the latest fashion in feather and flower bedecked women's bonnets, and a pile of men's broadbrimmed hats. Clocks and watches are ranged with kit c hen crockery, books, stationery, and paint. Brooms and coffee-mills decorate the walls, while the ceiling is garlanded with baskets, lanterns, horse collars, and ladies' bustles. As we take our purchases to the store keeper in his roIledup shirt sleeves with a pencil behind his ear, we dodge barrels of all shapes and sizes, containing such items as codfish, molasses, tea, and pickles. Mr. Warren enters the sale of our goods in his ledger, one ear attentive to our conversation and one listening to what is going on outside on the porch. Blinking as we step into the brilliant afternoon sun, we notice a panting dog in the street stir at the sound of our feet on the planks of the porch and then settle down again. The men, bent on an intriguing checker battle, glance up briefly, shove back their hats, and are again absorbed in their game. "Your move." A EAR A tear is crystal clear is joy is sorrow is life is death a tear clear clear STEVE MOONEY, 13 '63 JOE KEMPF, '63 I opened my reluctant eyes . and stared at the rough-hewn, spruce logs that were the ceiling. Slowly, realization that it was cold in the cabin came over me and I watched the steam from my nostrils rush out virile and frosty into the biting air, only to die a few moments later. I thought 1'd have to get up and put some more wood on the dying embers, and I could already feel the bark rough and cold against my fingers as I shovelled the logs into my arms. For a few precious seconds I experienced only an infinite numbness and a vast loneliness. Then it burst like an explosion within me, and I knew I would not get up to bank the fire. Her flowing golden hair floated before me on a wisp of expelled steam and her loving blue eyes shone with a tender sadness as if from eternity. I longed to reach out and run my fingers through her hair and once again caress the soft curve of her lovely neck, but as my leaden arms struggled to rise from my sides, her glowing face faded in the thin, chill air, and a choked sob escaped my cracked lips. An overwhelming sadness filled my being, and there was only the ceil- Speclre JOE KEMPF, '63 ing and my anguished breath swirling and fading before my eyes. Allowing my tortured sel f only another moment of bittersweet pain, I erased her from my mind, for it was to be never, never again - I got up from my bunk and rubbed the coarse, black , stubble on my chin, again noticing the chill cold through my thin, wrinkled shirt. It was cold, but I didn't care. I t had snowed while I slept. Outside I could see new drifts of powdery white everywhere, and a few scattered flakes still whispered down. Through the single window with its icy 14 panes piled high with snow, I saw a rabbit bound jerkily into the opening, sniff the crisp air with twiching nose, and just as rapidly jerk from view. Unconsciously my eyes followed his tracks - the only violators of the otherwise unbroken white - and I wondered where the rabbit had been and where he would go. Not really caring, I turned away from the window. Maybe I should eat, but I knew I wouldn't; I hadn't since that day I found her stiff and frozen on the path with the snow falling softly - gently touching her dead cheeks and lips with its icy kisses. That had been six days ago if this was Saturday - but I wasn't sure that it was. Undoubtedly I should eat, if I wanted to live, but why live? Yes, I thought, why live-? I opened the door and the intensely cold wind ice-knifed my lungs and I shivered violently. Standing there in the doorway, my breath came out thicker and disappeared faster it seemed, now managing only a feeble swirl. Repeatedly r watched it spring to life and in a few fleeting moments die before my uncaring eyes, and I wondered if Someone likewise had watched me waken to Ii fe and if He would watch me die just as disinterestedly as I watched the vicious cold drain the life from my breath. I thought maybe so, but I wasn't sure Stepping out, I started walking, not bothering to close the door behind me. The new snow scream-crunched beneath my boots, and I wondered what there was about that anguished cry that had always jarred the air in my lungs and arrested the blood in my veins. Now I thought maybe the snow was alive, and the crunch was its death scream as I stepped on it, but I wasn't sure. The cold was so intense that it seemed to hang quivering in the frigid air and my spittle exploded before it reached the feathery snow. I spit several times and wondered at the unseen power of the numbing cold as I walked along, kicking the white into flying billows of frenzied ice creatures t hat whirled angrily around my boots. Darkness was closing in fast, I thought, and the landscape began to merge with the deeping shadows and grow indistinct about me. Unseen ice-arms of the monstrous cold were draining the last traces of feeling from my hands and feet, and I thought 15 I would sit down and warm myself, but I only got colder, so I kept on walking. It was almost dark now and the stars were coming out, and I stopped to watch them winking at me through the wind-torn clouds. I wondered how far they were and guessed they were pretty far because nobody had ever got to one, but I wasn't sure-My hands and feet and face were no longer vulnerable to the piercing cold - they were frozen, but I didn't care because I had only a little way more to go. It started snowing again, but I c 0 u 1 d fee I n 0 feathery touch on my hands or face, so I stuck out my tongue and caught a few velvety flakes. I felt them struggle feebly and then die there, and I wondered what kind of insane monster I was who had killed them. I didn't care and thought n1aybe they didn't either'------ I couldn't work them, but it didn't matter because I knew what the cross felt like - I had made it. Kneeling there with the cross in my icy embrace, I began to cry, but the tears fast-froze on my eyelids and I couldn't blink anymore because my eyes froze open and I stared unseeing at the snow-covered mound with the snow falling silently about me. I wasn't cold anymore and turned over on my back and lay down stiffly in the feathery snow on the grave, and I thought of her lying cold and hard in the frozen ground below me. I thought of her soft, warm arms and how her blue eyes had laughed up at me. And I remembered her beautiful hands-like two white dovesand how they had been folded when I found her a week ago. I tried to fold my pands like hers had been, but I couldn't tell the fingers were crossed and I had to look to make sure. Tears tried to cry again, but froze again, unspiIt. I stared at the cold, black sky with its few grey clouds and somewhere to my right, a golden star winked at me from away off. I thought maybe it was she, but I wasn't sure - I saw it then through the silent wisps of snow, but it blurred for a second and I had to blink to make sure. Falling to my numbed knees, I groped clumsily toward . the crude, wooden cross, trying to grasp its arms with my unfeeling hands. My fingers were dead from the paralyzing cold and 16 MY BAUTIFUL AMERICA I wander in a wonderland As in a dream unending, On breeze-swept coasts along the sea With tall palm trees bending. Over barren, wasted desert-land Basking in God's sun; In snow-capped mountains high and white, Where sparkling rivers run. Beside the wide and deep blue lakes So silent and so still; In forests green with new-born life And filled with nature's thrill. To midland fields of corn and oats Golden, and smelling so sweet; Down by the river swi ft and strong Where land and water meet. All this I've seen, and so much more, With the greatest still to come it seems. This is my AmericaThe land of hopes and dreams. DONNA BENTLER, 17 '64 ALONE MARILYN WEINBRECHT, me; I could turn to the left and thus avoid the park; or, running on the right, skirt its edges. Strange that so familiar an object should hold such revulsion for me. So gay and warm in the summer, children laughing, playing over its surface. N ow it stands ahead; wind howling, scraping paint from gray clapboards. Oh, Lord! The wind. '63 As I walked through the corridor, formed by the houses of brick upon the right side and the opening street and alley upon the left, it seemed as if the wind were speaking to me. I was in a hurry and did not stop to listen. It whirled down my neck and ran down my legs, chilling my toes, forcing me to hunch up in my coat as I strove to bring the collar up over the red tips of my ears. It's two blocks farther if I turn to the left. I resolutely wheel and make for the park, wrapping my coat tighter around me, quickening my steps, eager for the warm fire and the yellow light. As my s t e p s hurried almost against my will I felt myself being drawn toward the edge of the water, bordering the park. T was moving, had been moving imperceptively toward the left side where the water rushes very quickly, eager for its destination. I had the most peculiar feeling of being acutely alone. Perhaps I was alone. The homes which bordered my path gave forth no heat and all was dark; there seemed no living thing about. I hesitated and wondered what would happen if I climbed the steps of the dwelling to my left. Perhaps its occupants were in the lower section watching black and white waves take form. For some reason each house appeared boxed up and alone. In the summer a new dock was built. Sheryl and I would walk and talk down near the dock where, if it were a warm day, we would slip out of our Bats and rest. I-Iouses lined the other end at its origin, woods farther on. The moon was not visible. Even the wind which had driven me on now seemed I increased my speed. The wind hurried after. I ran. It ran. Breathless, I stopped; hair blown and disarranged. I felt entirely free, and yet pursued. Th ere were two routes open to 19 to subside to a whisper. Only a whitish haze illuminated the water. It was then I heard it! Hand upon the rough touch of a slim tree . . . I held tightly as if fearing for my balance. I gazed avidly upon the raw waters a little off from my feet. I t was so slight a cry or sound that I first closed my ears and laughed at the frailty of my nature. \iVhen it came again, I bee arne cold within and I turned to dig my saddles into the ground and leaves held fast by the frost . I ran uphill and stumbled, hardly noticing the throb in my knee. The cold ground beneath my fingers snapped me into reality. The sound I heard was choking, as if someone's wind were being cut or smothered. I hesitated; my first impulse was to run to the river; yet, I took no step. Someone, perhaps a child, had slipped and was being swept along; or, and strange tales pushed into my mind, like the mountain lion which cries like a child as it lures wellmeaning victims to a combat of which the end is swift and sure. I drew breath deeply and tasted salt upon my lip, peering into the undergrowth beneath and over to the side of the dock. Oh God, I prayed 20 that it would not come again. Once more, and . . . hush. I jammed my gloveless hand into my mouth and bit down on the knuckles, stifling the cry which threatened to engulf my being. My mouth was completely dry and no flow of saliva wet the chords of my voice as I stood there, eyes held riveted to the appearing source of the sound. The wind picked at the corners of my collar and again started to lash against my throat. \"1 e waited, the wind and 1. Poised to run, I stared before me until I saw it, almost obscured by the wave-like floes which tossed away and now retrieved, as a cat plays with the body of a bird, its victim. Above the grotesque picture below, the moon slipped from behind its shield, withdrawing it to observe as a disinterested third party the combat below. "I can't," I cried to the wind. "Don't make me. Let the water have its plaything" ; for I knew I could never reach aid before the last bit of precious air was pounded from the stomach of the victim, as bodily resistance sank to a minimum; and soon, there would be no resistance and only a limp rag doll would slip up and down under each ripple, brushing by the shore upon the advent of morning. The struggle was waning and death would soon succeed in the third fall. I screamed! The sound ripped air and throat lining, impelling action. The shock which can kill stunned like a bullet, as icy flows parted my hair to the scalp. As I spit forth the water which filled my mouth to climb above the murk and downward pull, I let my body flow with the current until I reached cloth and shoulder. Now, I couldn't let go! Our destinies were twins. I knew this now. This was what the wind had been throwing at me as it mocked. vVarmed with the energy of fear, I struggled to maintain a foothold upon the plunging waters. As I fought, the struggle sapped my strength until my eyes became wide and staring like a frightened animal's. I tried with every ounce of strength to pull for the Man shore. Now, the wind seemed on my side as it betrayed the water and pulled me on. I must have screamed, though I had no voice but a whisper. I kicked, I kicked so hard. I tried to keep his head up, too; but he was heavy and I was frightened. I brought my legs together again and again, but I couldn't get there. "I can't get there and it's so cold. If I could rest, just for a minute, let go and stretch my fingers, close my eyes for a minute, if the water would stop, please, stop." I swallow and swallow .... ... Now, my ears hurt, hurt so badly. They throb so I can't hear, and my lungs and throat burn from the gasping thrusts of the cold air. They are trying to force something into me but I can't swallow. My cheeks are wet but not from water . . . I'm not alone. A few chemicals A spark of life Held together by lust And physical satisfaction. This is man. BILL BEASLEY, 21 '62 Reality is in anything that exists. Realization is the awareness and comprehension 0 f this existence. For instance, the majority of people are aware of snow and understand its state of being-likewise, of a fire set off by excessive heat. Or, to be more personal, take as an example the love a mother bestows on her child-or, that brothers and sisters who grow up together have for each other. I sincerely doubt that a brother and sister, especially in their early years, tend to think " lovingly" of each other. Perish the thought! However, a common bond of affection grows stronger as the years pass: a bond that holds together and unites a family forever no matter how strongly any individual member of that family might fight it. Many times, nevertheless, it is impossible for all the children of one family to grow up together. This can be due to a number of circumstances. The size of the family could be one factor. Another could be that the oldest has already left home to be on his own before the "baby" of the family has had much of a chance to get acquainted with him. Although we don't often stop and think about it, our relationship with 22 My Other Mother EILEEN MUELLER, '63 our parents and each brother or sister is a very deep realization in itself. Oft times then, objects or persons very intimately connected with our lives exist without our immediate awareness. It sounds rather silly, one would think, but the following is an example to illustrate my point. Some twenty-three yea r s ago, there lived a family of eight on a small farm in central Indiana. The oldest of the six children, a girl, was seventeen, while the youngest, again a girl, was one year old. In that summer, which now is hardly even remembered by the youngest, Dorothy, the seventeen year old, entered the convent. Despite this, just about every- . thing remained as normal about our family as one might expect. Some fourteen years later, at the time when I entered high school, I wanted, oh so much, to be closer to this sister-Sis- ter of mine. The problem consisted of the seemingly unreal, but true knowledge that this Sister of Saint Francis was my real blood sister, yet I didn't feel the common bond of affection which truly ties and keeps a family together. At this time I was very much aware that anything which might have caused sorrow or joy for myself down through the years while Sister was in the convent made her sad or happy accordingly. In spite of this, I must admit that this Sister of Saint Francis was just another Sister to me. Our family naturally went to see Sister as many times as was possible. And it was during these visits that I noted many of her sterling qualities: kindness, gentleness, her dedication to her calling, sympathy, an ever ready sense of humor, but above all, her seemingly unfailing interest in her youngest sister. I t wasn't until my second year in high school that I experienced the shock of true realization: the knowledge of actual blood relationship. However, the very fact that the realization had taken so long makes the shock more deeply appreciated and treasured. This wonderful awakening was especially heart-warming because the interest display'ed by my oldest sister during my entire life was very close to the interest one expects a mother to give lovingly to her children. The difference in years between us seems the most probable cause for such a feeling. Yet the tenderness with which she always received, listened, and talked to me far outweighs any probable cause. I shall never forget the radiance of her smile as she showed approval over one of my "big" achievements; the consoling thoughtfulness of her letters when I was sick; her avid concern for home when we had the chance of being alone for a few precious minutes; her good, deep humor toward the incongruous; the kindness and gentleness of her actions as she offered to remedy a hurt; the warm sympathy displayed over a tragedy; the unfailing devotion to her vocation; her "sister motherly" instinct which I have so recently (and always) experienced through her reassurance, her understanding, and her words of wisdom. This is indeed a treasure, one which shall be guarded carefully forever. 23 lull before the storm. I passed the Civil Service Exam. Then, suddenly last summer, the storm hit. It rained cats and dogs, particularly the latter. The storm hit in early June when I began to work for the Indianapolis Post Office. Indianapolis, a city of 600,000 people and 700,000 dogs. let no dog Back to Webster. Webster (the naive romanticist) defines the dog as "a carnivorous domesticated mammal type of the family Canidae.)) Domesticated mammal! Balderdash! Is the Cardiff Giant domesticated? Is the Abominable Snowman domesticated? Is Khrushchev domesticated? No! And neither is the dog. Carnivorous? Yes. Domesticated? No. May the S.P.CA. strike me down this instant if I lie. Mr. Webster was obviously not a mailman, nor did he understand the trade. BARK MIKE NOLAN, '62 A dog may be a boy's best friend, but he certainly is a mailman's worst enemy. I have never harbored any hostility in my heart toward dogs until last summer when I worked as a mail carrier. In fact, until then, I was even friendly with sever~l dogs. Last February was really the commencelnent de la fin of my love for Canis Familiaris. Canis Familiaris is the technical name used by people like Webster, with whom I've got a bone to pick-I mean grudge --which I'll explain shortly. Back to February. This was the Back to the storm. June 13, 1960, I walked the streets as a United States Postal Carrier for the first time. June 13, 1960, I became prejudiced against dogs. On that day I found that there is an unimaginable variety of dogs. They whined and whelped and whimpered on every block of every street to which I de- 24 livered. I walked over five miles that first day, and by the time I joyously punched the time clock, I was dog-tired. It wasn't long before I was obsessed by a fear of dogs. Every rattling metal sound, such as the metal chain on my mail bag, was a dog's leash. Every loud noise was a barking dog. Every low rumble was a growl. Every soft pitter-patter was the stalking of a hungry mongrel. But there were some consolations, for instance, when a quiet bulldog would sneak up and wrap his bloodthirsty molars around my left leg. The consolation is obviously still to come. As I struggled to get free, an elderly woman would shout from her porch, "Don't worry, mailman, he won't bite." Oh, the inner satisfaction and feeling of superiority that swelled up inside of me when I could answer, "He already has, lady!" The only way I could C011quer my fear was by turning it into anger. When a vicious canine would start his charge toward me, I would swallow my fear, yell at the beast like an army sergeant, and swing my 30-pound mail bag in his direction. This didn't scare the dog away, but it strengthened my arm muscles in case I decide to take up discus throwing. After three months of fighting off four-legged fiends, I was elated when September arrived, and I could quit my job. I was not left without scars, however. My peace 0 f mind was only complete when I was free from anything that would remind me of my furry foes. I began my search for serenity by breaking my Elvis Presley record 0 f "H 0 u n d Dog. " I became a conscientious objector on the grounds that for me to join the army, become a dog-face, and wear dogtags would be psychological suicide. Never again would I play golf on a course that had fairways with dog legs. Never again would I watch old war pictures that featured aerial dog fights. Never again would I go to a football stadium that had hot dog stands. I was even afraid to listen to debates for fear that someone would speak dogmatically. The one, tragic lesson I learned last Summer was that mad dogs and mailmen go out in the mid-day sun, and invariably meet. \i\That a joy for mailmen everywhere, if Shakespeare's plea had been heard when he said, "And when I open my lips, let no dog bark!" 25 MR. PLEASE! CLARA ANN DE BECZEJ Groping for the phone on [he end-table, Morton knocked over his half-filled highball glass. This act of clumsiness. along with the insistent jangle of the phone, awoke him completely. He quickly sat up on the sofa, about to pick up the receiver, when a sharp pain in his chest stopped him short. '6 1 He clutched at his chest with one hand, and slowly reached out with the other to pick up the receiver. "Yes ?" "Morton?" the bulldozer voice of Kevin Brisco demanded. "Who else ?" he answered, relaxing against the back of the sofa as he eyed the bubbly Scotch and soda, which was slowly soaking into the carpet. "All right, wise guy, what were you trying to pull today?" "Sorry, Kevin, I don't know what you're talking about." He took his free hand from his chest where the pain had somewhat subsided. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a pack of badly crushed cigarettes and managed to light one as Kevin Brisco exploded a verbal bombast in his ear. 26 "For God's sake, man, do you want to lose your job, and make mine even less secure? You know I'm the only one who ever sticks up for you on the board, anyway!" "Kevin, friend, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me the reason for all this noise," he replied, exhaling the smoke through his nose. "Don't play it so dumb," Kevin retorted. "You know I'm talking about that piece of idiocy you displayed in your History of Philosophy class today. You've got a keg 0' gun powder in there with Cromolowsky and that gang. ' That fellow throws a lot of weight around with the student body~ old boy, so I'd watch it if I were you. I've already heard from the Old Man. Says he wants to talk to me about something, and that something is sure-enough -you." Kevin came up for air, during which time Morton propped his feet up on the coffee table, and blew smoke rings at a bust of Aristotle which contemplated Morton's feet. Morton was enjoying a mental image of the angry Irishman at the other end of the line. He could see red-faced, red-headed Kevin, rolling his cigar between his teeth while Morton, him- self, sat calmly inhaling and exhaling great quantities of smoke at the Irishman's expense. Kevin continued once more, "So, if you know what's good for you, layoff Christianity. I know you got no respect for God, but I'd think you could show a little for Old Nick. See you tomorrow," and puffingKevin hung up. Morton laughed at Kevin's indignation and obvious sincerity. He hung up still chuckling over his friend's medieval respect for a mythological Satan. Resuming his prone position, his face took on a more serious look as he thought about the "powder keg" Kevin had spoken of. He'd always had trouble with Cromolowsky, a hot-headed, second generation American, who let the phrase, "freedom of religion," go to his head. Morton had tried to restrain himself but today was too much. It had been a hot and humid day anyway, which had only served to make him more short tempered. He remembered how he had stood facing the blackboard, gritting his teeth as he heard the whisperings and mutterings behind him. Slowly and deliberately he had picked up the 27 eraser, and wiped the diagram from the board. He could tell from what portion of the room the whispering came. There were also other scattered noises, coughing, and uneasy clearings of throats. The students were tense as they felt Morton's storm of temper about to break; he was not known for his patience. Turning around, he avoided the section of the room which was particularly annoying him. His eyes directed toward the clock on the wall at the back of the room, he noted that there were exactly three minutes and forty-three seconds left. He began to speak. "Along with this myth of the three worlds of after-life, we also hit upon the proposed theory that man, with his supposedly free will, can determine to which of .these three worlds he wants to go." Morton ventured a quizzical smile in the general direction of Miss Hilliard, in the front row. She was one of the select few who enjoyed his most esoteric jokes. "Provided, of course, his meddling parents didn't have him baptized as an infant. N aturally, this would eliminate the poor fellow from Limbo; he'd have to settle for heaven or hel1." Miss Hilliard laughed openly and a few others giggled. The rest sat perplexed, stealing uncertain glances at one another. Only the "radical section" at the rear of the room jumped about in their seats, madly waving their arms above their heads. To Morton, they were so many chicken wings fanning the air. Exactly like ignorant, stupid chickens, he thought, picking on everything and when nothing was left, they began on one another, excommunicating the weakest from their sect. Chickens, chickens kept in a Vatican coop. Eyeing the ceiling, Morton clasped his hands behind his back and took a couple 0 f paces as he resumed his lecture. "Mr. Morton!" a voice demanded from the rear. He couldn't i g nor e them any longer. Cromolowsky was now standing and the class had all turned towards him as he spoke. Morton, too, was forced to give him attention. The young man's voice oozed with sarcasm as he addressed the teacher, Morton. "You deny God, you deny man's free will, but truthfully, don't you think there's a hell?" The blood rushed to Mor- 28 ton's face, but the dismissal bell rang and for ten seconds he had to restrain his temper, as he and Cromolowsky shot electricity into each other's eyes. "Hell," Morton replied, when the bell stopped, "exists only for those Christian fools who choose to go there, Mr. Cromolowsky!" Not waiting for the mixed reactions of the class to subside, he walked out of the room. Now, Morton recalled with enjoyment how good it had been to leave Cromolowsky standing there with his feathers ruffled. All the way down the hall he could hear the arguments raised in the classroom he'd just Ie ft. lust then Morton remembered the spilt highball on the carpet. He sat up slowly, recalling the acute pain of a few minutes ago. It was just heartburn. As long as he kept up those pills, which he took faithfully every day, there would be no danger of recurring heart trouble. Of course, it was well past the time to go back for a checkup but there had been no reason to go until now. He was fine; just too much garlic at lunch. He'd only noticed a slight contraction in his chest after class. Coming home in the car, it had been most annoying, but the relentless heat of the day had irritated it. By the time he had parked the car, the contraction had developed into actual pain. Walking from the garage to the front of the apartment seemed interminable. The heat burned him to the soul, if he had one. His shirt was completely sweat-soaked and the soles of his shoes fried his feet. vVhen he pulled back the heavy glass door at the front of the apartment building, he felt a welcome rush of cool air. He walked into the air-conditioned world that lifted the heat from his body, lessening the pain in his chest. He checked his mail box; the metal was cold to his touch, and he reveled in its coldness. As he opened the empty box, he leaned against the marble wall, trying to absorb more of the coolness into his feverish body. Moving towards the elevator he saw a strange sign posted on the doors: OUT OF ORDER. Hell, he thought, before he could recall there was none. Laboring up three flights of stairs to the third floor was a task he felt unequal to at the moment. On the second floor landing 29 he stopped for breath. There he met Mrs. Carpenter, the elderly lady in the apartment across the hall from his. the bad news, she moved on down the stairs, leaving a smell of lilac in the air. ed. Once in his apartment, Morton sank onto the sofa in the living room. He'd left the door leading out to the hall open, hoping some stray breeze would wander in. A drink, he thought, Scotch and soda. "Yes, but I won't be out in the heat long. Mr. Carpenter had the Mercury air-conditioned, you know. Oh, that reminds me, the air-conditioning on our floor blew out this morning. I don't understand it and neither does Mrs. Jackson down the hall. A man's coming tomorrow, I understand, but Mrs. Jackson can't take the heat so she's moving downstairs with Mrs. Barbor for the night. Mr. Carpenter and I are spending the night with Jane and her husband, so things ought to be quiet on the third floor. Too bad you'll have to face the heat alone." She sighed, "Shame about the elevator, too. \Von't go up or down. It's in the basement now, and there's the strangest man down there working on it, but he says it's not serious. He promised to have it done around five. Well, good-by, Professor." Having given him After he had fixed the drink he pulled off his wilted jacket and threw it on a chair. Settling himself on the sofa, he took a long drink. Immediately his body began to relax. He set the glass on an end-table, and rolled over on his back. Closing his eyes for just a second, he let his thoughts run rampant. Scotch. Cool. He had slept until Kevin's call had awakened him. Now it was time for another drink. Slowly he got up and bent down to pick up the glass. There hadn't been much left in it when he'd fallen asleep, so there was no use trying to mop up what little had soaked into the rug. Walking out to the kitchen, he glanced at his watch; twenty-two after four. He'd slept for not quite an hour. Not time to eat yet, he thought, so a drink would certainly be in order. He must do something " Hello, Professor," she greeted him. She looked cool and crisp in her pastel dress and white gloves. "Very hot out,'"' he remark- 30 to abate the heartburn which was increasing. In the kitchen he got out the Scotch bottle again, which was less than half full. Sometime this week he must replenish the supply. Although, it would be all right for now, and for tomorrow. Kevin drank only beer, so he could finish the S cot c h himself. Tomorrow night Kevin would come over after meeting with the dean to tell him what was in store for him. There was enough Scotch left to get him through Kevin's tirade. And when that was over, the two friends would sit and smoke, and talk late into the night. Morton hoped the air-conditioning would be back in order soon. It was dreadfully hot. Just as he put the ice cubes into his drink, the phone rang again. "Mr. Morton, please," a nasal female voice said. "Speaking," he answered, and took a quick gulp of his drink. "One second, please." During the pause which followed, Morton heard the asthmatic breathing of the female at the other end. There were a series of clicks, then a smooth male voice began. "Good afternoon, Mr. Morton. You don't know me, and if you don't mind, I'd rather remain anonymous at this time." Morton stole another gulp. He wondered if the unknown man at the other end of the line could hear the ice cubes tinkling in his glass. The smooth voice continued, "From a certain source I heard that you've been voicing some rather unorthodox views in one of your philosophy classes." Word travels fast, thought Morton. This man would probably be an irate parent, or a minister. or even a faculty member. This would be a long and tedious, one-sided conversation, Morton decided, so he balanced himself on the arm of the sofa. The voice had paused as if waiting for Morton's response. which was uttered mentally. "Isn't this so?" the voice asked. "If you are referring to the opinions which I made known in my one o'clock class today, I suppose some people would call them radical." "Ah, yes," the voice agreed. "Mr. Morton, I do hope you won't brand me as one of the uneducated, but I'm afraid I can't quite agree with you on some of your issues." 31 Maybe, thought Morton, this was Cromolowsky's uncle, who ~as a lawyer. like him to call in one of those professional debators the Catholics were so notorious for. "Y ou see, my reason for calling, is that I'd like to hear your side of the story." No, this was a board member; might be Miller, the one who fancied himself an intellectual. A fter taking another drink, Morton answered. "That's very kind of you, I'm sure, but won't the board give me an official hearing?" "Oh, Mr. Morton, I'm not a board member," the smooth voice flowed on, rolling over the words, and savoring the sound of each. Here was a man well-versed in the art of persuasion, Morton thought; a talker. "I was thinking that perhaps we could get together, and, if you would allow me to refute some of your theories, I might win you over to my way of thinking. You see, I'm a philosopher, too, you might say." Definitely a minister, Morton thought. Suddenly he stood up, once again wincing as the pain shot up into his heart. Maybe he wasn't a minister; he might be a priest, or worse, a Jesuit. Cromolowsky was a Catholic. This would be just "A second, sir," Morton threw as much sarcasm into the "sir," as he could. "I'm afraid that would be impossible as I'm all booked up for the next few weeks. I really must go now; I'm to speak at the Unitarian Supper Club in an hour, and after that I'm to give a talk on pre-natal baptism at the Rosary Altar Society. Just crushed for time. See you around sometime at the Eucharistic Congress!" He slammed down the receiver. It had been fun, but he was breathing hard, and really, he was quite angry now. If the Cromolowsky gang didn't like his class, they could get up and walk out. Why they had to go running for help to some crackpot theologian was beyond him. He had his rights as a teacher. At least, he wasn't speaking dogmatically, but he was speaking the truth. The truth that could only be learned by reason and careful thought. Of course, even he had had his doubts. Back when he was just a boy, sitting there, in the first pew of the Evangelical Ref 0 r me d Church, the love of God had been pounded into him not so 32 much as the fear of hell. Even in his days as a young student at the university, the memory of a childhood devil-vision had risen up in his mind, and it had been all he could do to suppress it. But reason had won out, and now he was free. without giving me a chance. In just a little while you're sure to see things my way," the voice laughed. "I knew all the time you wouldn't be busy this afternoon, and I really must see you soon." Morton made a feeble contradictory sound. Free of everything but this ungodly pain and contraction in his chest. He sank onto the sofa and finished the Scotch in a gulp. "Please don't interrupt me. I know it's an effort for you at this time. That heart attack must be excruciating." Despite the sharp jabs at his heart, Morton drew himself up and stared out the open door into the hall. It was really too bad that the air-conditioning had gone out on a day like this. The sweat was pouring down his chest and back, and his face and hairline were moist. With the increasing of the pain, the sweat oozed out even more freely. He tried to get up, but found himself breathless and weak. Best to rest awhile, and then get up and take a pill. Once again, through the thick pulse beats which resounded in his brain, he heard the phone ring. The receiver was within easy reach. "Mr. Morton - now don't hang up." It was the smooth voice again. Even through the physical pain, and dizziness from the Scotch, the voice flowed in unobstructed. "Really, it wasn't very nice of you to hang up like that, "Who in hell are you?" he whispered into the receiver. The voice chuckled. "How clever of you, Mr. Morton, to have guessed. I knew I could convince you of my point of view." The voice changed suddenly, and the smooth audible mask fell away to its true sinister riature. "But it won't take me a minute to get up to your apartment," it hissed. A click was heard, but Morton continued to stare out into the hall at the lights above the elevator door which flickered one by one, until they stopped at his floor. He was still standing there, clutching the dead receiver when the elevator door opened. 33 - NO RUZ PERSIAN NEW YEAR TERRY MEHD! TEHR.A.NY, NOR U Z) the beginning of the New Year in Iran, is celebrated on March 21, the first day of spring and the sun's vernal equinox. The Iranians have celebrated the arrival of spring for many centuries as is evidenced by the long rows of sculptured reliefs at Persepolis showing groups of people from every part of the mighty Achemenid empire bringing their tribute to the ruler of Iran on this occasion. Preparations for NO RUZ begin well in advance. Fifteen days before the festival, each household plants in a shallow bowl seeds of wheat or lentils which by the proper time have sent up thick fresh green shoots several inches high as '64 a token of spring. Several days before NO RUZ the small villages are treated to an amusing spectacle. The "man-whoburns-fire" parades through the streets, accompanied by a masked troupe of performers wearing high hats and cloaks of many colors to which are fastened small bells. The troupe may include a tightrope walker, wrestlers accompanied by a trained monkey and a dancing bear. One of these performers strikes two boards together and repeats: The fire maker has come. He comes once each year. I am poor one day each year. Intestines and guts have come. Whoever was not here has come. 34 These processions are held only on the last Wednesday of the old year. This last Wednesday is a special festival called CHAHR SHANBEH SOURY. On the eve of this day each family prepares bundles of dry wood to make a bonfire. Everyone in the house then jumps over the flame while he addresses these verses to the fire. I take your redness You take the yellowness from me. I take your warmth You take the coldness from me. The fire should not be breathed upon and the dead ashes are to be scattered at the crossroads. Since our buildings are not made of wood, this fire is not dangerous. I should tell you that this custom is a survival of rites which were per-: for m e d fro m very ancient times. For the feast of NO RUZ, household servants and minor government employees receive an extra month's wages, and everyone wears new clothes. On the eve itself, lights burn in every room of the houses and a special table is prepared. The centerpiece of this table consists of a mirror and candlesticks, and grouped around this mirror and candlesticks are a copy of the Quran (Koran). a large sheet of bread, a bowl of water in which floats a green leaf, a glass of rosewater, nuts, f r u its, candy, eggs, chicken, and fish, and between these a large and Ion g p I a t t e r 0 f HAFT SIN (seven S's) : any seven articles whose names begin with the Persian letter S -wild rue, apples, garlic, vinegar, a part of malt grain, greens, and sumac are the easiest to find among the articles the initial letter of which is S. As the time of the vernal e qui n 0 x approaches, all the household is grouped around the table to await the exact moment of the New Year, said to be marked by the moving of the surface of the water. In large towns a cannon is fired to announce the New Year. But not all the customs and ceremonies associated with NO RUZ are now performed in the towns. The N ew Year begins a period of five days of official holidays devoted to social calls. During the first two or three days the eldest member of the family remains at home to receive calls from friends and relatives, and large sums of money are spent on the entertainment of these guests. Return calls are paid, and the at- 35 mosphere of these days is one of contentment and rejoicing. On the thirteenth day of the New Year, the bowls of green shoots grown in the houses are thrown out into running water and everyone troops out into the open country for a promenade in the green fields . Each family takes along as elaborate a supply of food as its means permit and spends the entire day in the open. lit u J I If I would the the the the The people believe that in this way they do not only welcome the spring but carry the bad luck associated with the thirteenth day away from their homes. Of course there can be no substitute for seeing and experiencing the festivities of NO RUZ for yourself. Perhaps someday you may be able to visit my land, Iran, during this time of year. rather not know the news of tomorrowjoys, sorrows, raptures, tears. I would rather live by the measure of todaywith resignation, with prayers, with hope, with dreams. I would the the the the rather retain the promises of yesterdaymeaningless, phantom, forgotten, unfulfilled. DEANNA METZNER, 36 '62 What is man? What does he seek? Is it happiness Which he longs for? No, it is escape. Death is his longing. He hurries. He toils. He says He works to an end, But whatever he thinks or does, Death is his longing . Ie You there! vVhere are you going? What do you seek? Are you searching for happiness? If death is happiness, yes; For death is your longing. BILL BEASLEY, 37 '62 Of A strange old family was ours. Looking now over the letters and memoirs of my sincedeceased relatives, I recall one of the oddest events to happen, even for us. It had to do with my Great-Aunt Matilda. She was quite old then, and I was quite young, about sixteen. However, even at that early age, I was able to discern certain eccentricities. For instance, all the doors of her house were well secured with a great number of locks; all the windows of her house were boarded-up on the outside. It was perfectly easy to see the impossibility of either entering or leaving without her knowing it. Each night as I passed the house on my way home from the drugstore, where I earned some little money, I would notice a faint, red light coming from one of the rooms on the west side. One night, my curiosity more aroused than usual, I stole up to the house ever so quietly, being careful not to wake the hound sleeping by her back door. Finally, reaching the house in a state of anxiety, I discovered it pos:;ible to see inside through a crack in one of the boards. There she was, my great-aunt, bent over and kneeling on the floor counting the most money I'd ever seen up to then and never after. It was hidden in an aperture in the floor covered over by a swinging door and a rug which was now thrown back. She appeared as I've never seen anyone before. A weird JEROME 38 J. VOLLMER, '6 1 smile disfigured her face, and she had the strange habit of frequently looking behind her, as if to see if anyone was there. She was stacking coins in little even piles and when quite satisfied that it was all there, replaced everything neatly and left the little room, taking the light with her. seen me coming, for the answer was prompt. The door opened slowly and noisily. "Ah, ah, re- remember me? I'm your nephew, Robert." "Oh yes, yes. What is it ?" She had a very annoying cough. Startled, I was not sure what to say. "\VeIl, I'm rather good Upon returning home that at odd chores. Perhaps you same evening, I related my ex- have something for me to do ?" citing experience to my father "Why, how nice." She openin the library. He explained to ed the rust-hinged door still me that many years ago Aunt more and beckoned me in. "I'm Matilda, or Tilly as she was afraid I can't pay you." called then, was disappointed "Oh no, ma'anl." in love. It seemed that the man "Perhaps you can fix that old she married was interested only chair there for me. You'll find in her money and was believed some tools in the basement. Exto have run off; no one knew cuse me now please. I'm very where, for she never spoke of tired." him. I obtained permission to It appeared to me strange see Aunt Matilda the following that she should depart so soon day to see what I could do for after meeting me. And the her. strange cough, now that I think Rising bright and early, I of it, seemed all the time not arrived at the old house about at all like that of other women ten o'clock. Despite the bright- her age. The thought which ness of day elsewhere, there this brought to my mind horwas still a rolling mist hover- rified me. But what, besides ing about the place. At first the money, could she be hiding? glance I decided to turn back, When she had disappeared but then, reassuring mysel f that from the room, I examined the that would be childish, I strode old chair and then looked up to the door and banged on around the room. I was greatit with the huge brass knocker. ly astonished. The uncovered Apparently Aunt Matilda had floor was composed chiefly of 39 rotting wood. The room was amply furnished, however, not only with the old armchair I was to fix, but also with several other chairs like it. In the direct center of the room was a quite long dinner table set for two. "Two?" I asked myself. I brushed my finger across the plates to see if any dust had accumulated there; to my great astonishment there was no dust at all. I did not stop to think long, for I decided to repair the chair and leave as soon as possible. Going to the other end of the table, I immediately noticed three doors; the farthest left was to the room in which I had seen Aunt Matilda the night before; the middle door must be the basement door. I quickly approached it and was about to turn the handle when I heard singing; it was a woman's voice and sad. I began to open the door and it creaked; I noticed that the singing had stopped at the same time, so I ran through the door and dovm the steps very much excited and pale, looking back up to see if anyone was there. The basement was damp and dimly lighted by two small windows high up on opposite walls, one by the tool room and the other near a wine cellar. The place was rather untidy; however, I entered the tool room and gathered up what I thought was necessary and turned back toward the steps when I heard the same low-toned singing coming down through one of the ventilators. The basement door opened, and I heard footsteps much like those of an old man. I hurried behind one of the walls of the tool room to keeo out of sight. The heavy steps stopped when they reached the basement floor. Do I dare look? I thought. I trembled all over and felt my brow moist with perspiration. I heard the door open; I decided to look. What I saw horrified me. I could neither shout nor move. The man was dead-a monster, a ghoul! \i\Thatever he was, I flew up the steps and slammed the door behind me, leaning back on it and panting heavily. The scene before me was no less strange than the one from which I had so hastily departed . There was Aunt Matilda gathering up the dishes. She neither heard nor saw me as I looked at her in wonder. As I approached her, I heard a strange, yet familiar melody, whose sense seemed to convey that she was lonely, but not alone. 40 .The Tragedy of M Pauvrhomme I We are, my friend, in 1810 N ear Barrington, by the sea. On Nova Scotia's rocky tip A M. Pauvrhomme we see. A fateful day once changed his life Some forty long years ago. Since then there's been a fearful debt That no one but he could know. Externals showed no difference; He still was the businessman 41 Gomg to work at half past eight And leaving ten hours from then. Hard honest labor, six days full, He rendered punctiliously, While on the seventh he would rest. A really good man was he. And tithes he rendered to the Church Where he on the Sabbath went, And not once in those forty years Could one find him negligent. He intermixed in politics And made sure the best was done To pass decrees that aimed to please The interests of everyone. At Peint Street's end in Barrington (The closest one to the sea) He lived a solitary life, His pseudo-Gethsemane. For here his mind did labor much, Externals all torn away, And contemplate the shameful deed Relived by him every day. So much it tore his mind That oftentimes did he pray That he might never bear the terror Of living another day. 42 II How, on that August day So long ago, How did he let her die Whom he loved so? A picnic on the beach Shared just by two, As sunshine warmed the chill The cold sea blew. 'Twas here that she confessed What was her dread, "It is Victor, not you, That I will wed. " He died within himself, But was this grief Enough to let her go When, on that reef, His boat jolted so hard That she was thrown Into the foam, and help Was him alone? That he should row away And let her cry? That he should row away And let her die? 43 III And now M. Pauvrhomme's alone To die within this cave of stone. He now awaits the rising tide To provide for his suicide. He thinks, "How long I've known the day Would come when I this debt must pay, For I have seen a thousand times That Felons must repair for crimes They've done against Society; And so it is the same with me. I'm ready now to expiate And to surrender to my fate." IV He sees the lights outside As slowly they subside. And in this gloomy noon, Which soon him will entomb In dying words are heard Of the curse self incurred. V "And now 'tis me As once 'twas she Death .... . . . from the sea. VI The echo resounded throughout the cave And died with him in the watery grave. DENNIS DONAHUE, 44 '63  ...

... I I THE FIORETTI I VOLUME XVII NUMBER 2 Indianapolis, Indiana 1959-1960 AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE THE STAFF Editor-in-Chief Sharon Bocklage, '62 Assistant Editors John Chapman, '63 Joe Kempf, '63 Cynthia Stokes, '63 Marilyn Weinbrecht, '63 Art Marie Krebs, '62 Betty Beard, '62 Kathryn Ann York, '63 Layout Judy Huhn, '62 j /, CONTENTS ARTICLES Lucky, Lucky AAe 8 AAarycarroll Dane vYhat Do Doctors Recommend 18 Floyd Chamberlin This Won't Hurt a Bit 42 Kathryn Ann York FICTION Prejudice and Pride 10 Dennis D. Donahue The Intruder 15 Jane Spaulding Oak 22 Joe Kempf A Pencil, An Eraser and Paper 27 AAarilyn Weinbrecht AAaybe Tomorrow 35 Deanna Metzner POETRY Lament 4 Isabel Harnish Abstraction to Contradiction 14 Larry Sweeney Beautiful Lady 20 Carol Biemer And Then 32 Joe Kempf Why 41 Steve Mooney I am of the Americas. Of the great mountains and the rivers of crystal; Of the hell-jungles and the rivers of fire. 4 I am a baby crying in the slums of Lima. Lima, the City of Kings, and I cry, because I am hungry; because I am not a king. I am a boy, crying in the jungle of the River of God's Mother. I am a boy, and I am crying, because my father was killed by the river; because my mother is poor; because I do not understand. Does anyone understand? I am a girl crying in the casino of Rio where I work. Rio, the city of bright lights; the city of Satan. I cry because I am tired and ashamed. Once I thought that to be a woman was good. N ow I am ashamed. 5 I am a student of a university in lVIexico. I am crying; inside I weep. For I am lost and afraid and alone. Where am I going? To God, the old priest used to say. But where is God? I am a woman, an Indian woman crying in the mountains of Guatemala. I am crying because I am a mother. I have no food for the bodies of my children. I have no food for the souls of my children. vVhat will become of them, my own? I am a man crying in the mines of Bolivia. the tin ml11es of my land. I do not know what to do. H I take the card, I shall have food for my family a job for my family; a house for my family. But the card says that I am a Communist. I do not want to be a Communist But there is my family. 6 I am an old man crying in the sun outside my hut 111 the land of Chile, the land of my birth. What is happening to the land of my birth? The people are changing, and the customs, and the land. Is the whole world changing, too? Only the sun does not change in the land of my birth. I am the wind crying in the shrines of the olden times. There used to be priests, and shining candles, and incense, and God. Now they have gone; the incense is gone and the priests, and the candles, and God. The incense has returned to the sky. A nd the priests have returned to the dust. The candles have burned themselves out. A nd God has deserted us . Only the shrines are here now. The empty shrines. -Isabel Harnish, '6 1 7 LUCKY, LUCKY wed din g s or movies and be called sweet. I can wear perfume, buy expensive jewelry, tryon crazy hats, and carry elephant-sized handbags. When I am fifty I can giggle; at eighteen m y h ear t can b e broken. I can gossip over back yard fences, drive through red lights, and change my mind as often as I please, always placing the blame on my sex. Here I sit, the luckiest person on earth, the happiest person on earth. vVhy? Because I was born a female, because I am a w'oman. Even the word 'WOl1wn thrills my ear. It holds so much meaning. and so much pride. Because I am a woman I can smile in troubled times and be called brave. I can cry at 8 My womanhood is a package of powers and responsibilities. \tVith my smile, I can make a grey sky blue, make an old w 0 man 1 e s s lonely, and an angry man sheepish. With a word of encouragement, I can help a defeated man rise and try again, stop a little boy from crying over his bleeding finger, or make a child take his first step. With these hands, I can ease a worried mind, soothe a hurt body, bake a loaf of bread, hold a baby. I can laugh with my eyes, talk with my hands, listen with my heart. My mind can be the most practical and the sneakiest. With no reason at all I can love anyone and anything; with an unselfish love. I can work minor and sometimes major miracles. By being a woman, I am lucky, lucky, in the most wonderful way possible. I can be a mother. I thank God every day for punishing Eve by mak_ ing childbirth painful, for now. I can suffer for my husband and child and prove my love for them in a very special way. Someday I want to hold my child in my arms and rock him to sleep in a squeaky old rocking chair, singing the same lullabies that my mother sang to me. I want to see my son run home from his first day of school; I want to hear him cry because he doesn't want to go back; then I want to feel the sweet pain that will come with the knowledge that someday he will leave home and feel no reluctance. I wonder if my little girl will be a tomboy or play with dolls; I wonder how many times her little heart will be broken by big or little troubles; I wonder if there will ever be a man good enough to be her husband. Oh! so happy I am to be a woman, to have wit h i n m y reach the most miraculous gifts attainable. I'm so very, very lucky! ME MARYCARROLL DANE, '6;) 9 PREJUDICE AND PRIDE Help Wanted - vVoman to do housework for expectant mother. See Mr. James, 1301 Chestnut Place. White only. DENNIS D. DONAHUE, '62 "Four days I've had this ad in the paper, and s till no comers. vVhat's the matter?" "Now take it easy, dear," said his wife across the breakfast table, "you could have had a woman the first day if. .. ." "I know, I know. If I hadn't specified 'white only.' Now for the last time will you get it into 10 your head, I'm not going to had taken in their little Georgia have my wife or baby tainted. town. His deep and outspoken No 'nigger' will ever touch this hate for the colored won him pro per t y while I live. And an immediate, and not a meathat's final!" ger, following. The people of "Am I tainted? I had a Darbyville had fallen more or colored nurse when I was born; less into a state of apathy toa colored cook served my food. wards the colored until his arI ... " rival; but soon after that. he "I'm sorry, Jean. You know had the townspeople up in arms that isn't what I meant. You again to preserve the honor for couldn't be tainted; there IS which so many of the forefathers had given their lives. nothing but good in you." "But don't you see, Don, I But this fault, as Jean now need help-badly. A week from knew it was, was easily overThursday you have that Local looked in such a personable Democratic Party meeting here man as Don. and I won't be able to get J e a n remembered the first everything done. I just can't time she had seen him-at the do it alone." Annual Fireman's Ball. He was "The answer is still N 0 - standing with a group of young no. I'll call off the meeting be- men expounding his own perfore one of 'them' comes near sonal version of AI ein Kmnpf and the master race, much to here." Don began turning the pages the approval of all present. A of the front section of the short time later he was dancing paper to look for any account with her. It was because of her of his previous day's work in he made his final decision to court. Favorable publicity was remain in Darbyville. especiall y welcome now wit h Together they attached his the election of the city council- shingle, "Donald James, Attormen only six weeks away. ney at Law," to a small office His wife looked at him and near the center of town, and thought of how he had come he soon proved himself capable to Georgia five years before; a in court. The next year he was man from the N orth-a 'Yan- a candidate for a seat on the kee, without a past. She city council. The vote went for thought of the great strides he him, and his campaign promise 11 of "city reform" was underway. The main points of the "reform," which for him meant the "forming again" of the absolute white bourbon dictatorship, included such things as: higher requirements for voters in municipal elections, the placing of the city's schools and playgrounds under a private corporation, and a much stricter housing code. These affected mainly the colored, and it took only minor persuasion to have the city council pass them into laws. His fight for "S 0 u the r n tradition," as he called it with his Bostonian inflection, won for him a large majority of the v 0 t e sin his re-election two years later, especially since the first of his reform bills had eliminated many of the colored voters. And now once again he was running for re-election, and it seemed fairly c e r t a i n that he ... "Here it is, Jean," Don said, breaking off her t r a i n 0 f thought. "What ?" "About the trial yesterday, you know. Here, let me read you w hat the y have to say about me. 'Yesterday Donald James won an acquittal for F rank Manning inC ire u i t Court 3 here. John Browning, a Negro sharecropper on the land of Frank Manning, had accused Mr. Manning of shorting him five bushels 0 f corn, in the counting on the fourteenth of August I a stye a r. Judge Thomas B. vVells tried the case.''' "That paper certainly didn't give the story much of a writeup," said Don, in a rather disgusted manner, as he turned to the sports page. "I hope a lot of people in this town read all through the paper. They'll have to to see that. Remember when I first came here and had my first case like that? It was on the front page." "But you've had so many of those; now it isn't news any more. Every time there is a case between a cropper and a landlord, lately, everyone knows what's going to happen. 1'111 surprised ~hose coloreds keep trying to fight it." "Tell me. Before I came, how were these . . . a . . . misunderstandings handled?" "Before you came, there was very little of this t r 0 ubi e. That's why I wonder if some of the landlords aren't taking advantage of the sharecroppers just because they have you to 12 defend them." "Look, Honey, I've got a job to do and I do it. A s far as I'm concerned those 'niggers' are always wrong. and I do my best to prove it. Sometimes I think you're getting soft towards them. You should hate them more than 1. Don't forget your great uncle was killed trying to save you from being called equal to them." Jean would have 1 ike d t 0 ask, " A nd what is your reason for hating them?" but instead she quietly ponred herself another cup of coffee. Once before, and only once, had she asked that question. It was during their courtship, and the sharp reaction he displayed was more than enough to hold her back from ever asking it again. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the front gate open and two people enter the yard. "Don," she said. "here comes someone to the door. She has a young boy with her. Maybe it's an answer to your ad." Don g ot u p, w i p e d his mouth, laid down his napkin, and started walking towards the front door. "They're colored," she added quietly. He stopped, mumbled something under his breath, and continued in the direction of the door as if in a rage. Jean had hoped he would not do that. She had hoped he would break down and get her a maid, but hardly expected it, considering the mood he was in. \i\/hy? Why did he hate them so much that he would sacrifice himself and his wife rather than work with them? She heard the door open. She closed her eyes. On the other side of the door was a lady in her late twenties and rather fair complexioned for a colored. \iVith her was a five or six year old boy. The woman just stood there looking at Don as he began his monologue on what he thought of the coloreds, and where he thought they could all go ultimately, and where this woman and the boy could go immediately' ending with these famous last words: " . . . And stay away!" She was still staring at him, a slight smile on her face. A glimmer of recognition came into his eyes, followed by a look of horror as she spoke with a small Boston accent, "\i\/hy John, dear, is that any way to greet us; especially since this is the first time you've seen your son?" 13 Lazily drifting into Infinity I commence Upon An absolute Nothing. Yet a positive Something. I f not Everything. Is prevalent. ~/'strcrction I am Everywhere. Or could be , But, I am Nowhere. to I Seek. For What? I Search. How? I Die, Always. Yet, I Die, Never. Lazily drifting into Infinity I Commence. LARRY SWEE NEY, 14 '62 the intruder JANE SPAuLDING, '63 No matter what Jill says, I did not give Susie Harper her black eye. Joe did. I only had a minute part in it. I'll prove it! I was sitting in my room wondering whether to wear my full-skirted formal or my new, dreamy sheath tot h e c I u b dance, when Jill came flying through the door like an airplane. (Jill and I share parents but that is all) . Eyeing her coldly, I kept thinking what she had done the night before. She had taken my favorite album with her to a beach party. Guess what hap- pened! Someone sat 0 nit! " Have you replaced my record yet?" I asked her. "You had better by tomorrow ." "For heaven's sake, Kathy, the shop does not open until ten o'clock. \Vhat do you expect me to do? I3reak open the place ?" "You will not ha ve to do that. Just make sure you're the first customer," I told her. "Don't worry, I'll buy another one for you, Smarty. Guess whQ I've been talking to ?" "W hom, big College Girl , whom ?" I asked. "Remember what I told you about the Big-Sister, Little-Sister routine?" "Yes, I remember. It is a crazy idea, but go ahead and talk. " "VI/ell, the girl that was to have been mine was not accepted at the last minute. A nyway, I was talking to my new one, Susie Harper. " "\\1hat's wrong with that? She sounds n ice. But why bother me with all this talk?" "Oh, she is nice, but she and her family are on their way back from a trip to Europe. They are visiting relatives here, so I thought I'd better ask her over and get acquainted." 15 I thought to myself that she just wants me to drive her around. I merely looked at her and said, I'd be nice to her, but that is all. " I won't give up my bed for anyone." "You don't have to do that. All I want you to do is take her to the dance while I go over to Aunt Mabel's party. I'll be right over afterwards with Tom. We can bring her a date." I politely refused. Then dear Jill put on a big act on how cruel I was and how could I do things like that to her. "Some sister you are," she yelled. "You're the one responsible for her entertainment. Why should Joe and I have to change our plans for you? Besides, what did you ever do for me? I always help you and I am sick of never getting anything in return." I was sitting in the kitchen eating some popcorn when in walked Jill and the most gorgeous looking creature 1'd ever seen. A ll I could think of was Joe. What would he do when he saw her? He might even fall for her. After the introduction had been made, Jill began talking about the dance. I could have 16 killed her. "Kathy will take you to the dance while I am at Aunt Mabel's. \~ron't you, dear?" "Oh, I am, am I? Oh, well, I might as well do it." J oe arrived just then and reacted just as I had thought. He flipped. He didn't want to go to the dance but when he found out we were taking Susie, he offered to buy her an orchid. He kept saying, "Oh ... !" He finally asked me what he came over for. "Can you ask your dad if I can borrow hi s tux? Mine is too small." Mom gave her permission to him, and only hours later did I wish that I had never brought Susie along. By the time I was ready for the dance, Susie was already downstairs with Joe. He didn't even notice me as I came in. He kept repeating, "You are beautiful, Susie." He r ea 11 y made me mad when he asked her to ride in the front seat of the car with him. I knew I had to make him jealous. Jim Burns was the only one I knew who could do just that. After we arrived at the dance, I sat out to make Joe mad. I finally got Jim to ask me to dance "Where is your boyfriend?" he asked. ttl thought you two were g0111g steady?" "That IS for the birds, " I said under my breath. We talked about old times together and got along fine. After the number was finished, I excused mysel f and decided to take a walk in the garden. As I approached a hug e shrub,I could hear voices. "Do you really think so, Joe .. '. ?" "Sure, I think you're beautiful," exclaimed Joe. I began to cry. I just couldn't help it. Jim came along just then and asked me what ,;vas wrong. I told him I had something in my eye. I decided to yell as Jim was trying to help me. "Jim, quit, you are hurting me!" Quick as a wink, Joe leaped over the shrub. "Great day in the morning, Jim, what are you doing to my girl?" "I was just helping her get a piece of dirt out of her eye," shouted Jim. Joe began taking his coat off. He started towards Jim 111 one big leap. "I'll fix you. Don't bother my girl." "Don't, Joe. " I shouted. "He has glasses on." My thoughts and efforts w ere not f a s t enough. As Joe threw his arm back to hit ] im, Susie came around the bush. Perfect timing, I thought to myself . There, the poor thing lay suffering! Jill came along just in time to see the accident. "\Vhat happened? vVhat is wrong, Susie?" "He tried to put my eye out with his big elbow." She pointed straight at Joe. Naturally, I got the blame for eveything. Jill refused to believe I had had no part in it. As she got up from the ground, Susie looked right at Joe and exclaimed, "Oh, I hate you. Look what you have done to me. You have injured me for life!" " Did you hear what she said about me, Kathy?" Joe asked. "After all I did for her tonight. Just don't ask me to entertain any of Jill's friends again 1" "Don't worry about that," I answered with a sly smile. "Say, what were you doing here with Jim anyway?" "Let us forget that, " I told him dreamily. "H e doe s n't mean a thing to me." ''I'm sure glad I was close by," boasted Joe. "He might have killed you." "Gee, that is what I like about you, Joe. You always appear at the right place when you are most needed." 17 What DO Doctors "VV ould you believe it? have a cold; but I never felt better so fast in my life!" This confusing statement is the opening line in the advertisement of one of the nation's largest cold remedy concerns. Its product promises not only to cure your cold but also to make you happily oblivious to all your other problems, such as the job you lost by sneezing into your boss's face, or the question of how to dispose of the mountain of used kleenex in your wastepaper basket when your incinerator positively refuses to burn. On taking this pill you immediately feel like bowling ten frames or shaking a leg to the tune of the latest rock-and-roll hit. Nevertheless. the ignorant cold germ, who hasn't read these extravagant claims, joyfully goes about his task of making you thoroughly miserable. Recommend? FLOYD CHAMBERLIN) 18 '63 If you prefer not to be hap- pendant. This is particularly pily oblivious to your troubles, goo d for the summer cold, the above mentioned remedy is since mosquitos don't like the not the only way to pester this smell either. However, married uneducated bacteria. There are people should not try t his man y 0 the r less advertised method without fir st giving the methods. (The methods are partner a share of the germs less advertised because of the and the cure, or going to P3.Sunfeeling stubbornness of the quale's Pizza Par lor eve r y U.S. Board of Health.) The night for a pepperoni pizza. first of these are the Classic, or This brings us to the HotAilcient Methods: the Greeks \Vhiskey-and-Lemonade School favored hemlock, taken orally, - which is more or less acwhich was permanently effec- cepted nationally, except in Bostive. Rome's downfall was un- (:on and various scattered prodoubtedly contributed t 0 b Y hibitionist strongholds in our thousands of feverish Romans fair land. whose favorite goddess failed The truly dedicated seeker them in their battle with the for a cure need not suffer for vacillating virus. lack of advice. Uncle Joe, the Then we have the Medieval newspaper boy, the cop on the Met hod s, pioneered by the ceat and everyone who has the witches who were burned at power of speech will be happy the stake probably because to advance the latest scientific the mayor's nose ran faster treatment; and if necessary, t han the unfortunates who users of sign language can be treated his cold. advised also. G rea t Aunt Mathilda preThese methods are equally fen-ed goose grease, messy if effective, and when used propdubiously effective; C 0 u s i Ii erly will insure a complete cure Fanny swore by an assafetida in two weeks. HO\,vever, if YOLl bag hung about the neck. This are an adherent to the Spartan has many variations. African attitude of ignoring your aches witch-doctors agree with Fanny and pains and letting nature about the necklace, but choose take its course, the commOll dried beetles or shrunken heads cold will hang: on about fouras the active agent. A few stout teen days. souls attach garlic pods to the Take your choice 19 Beautiful Lady Toil-worn hands That cleaned and sewed, That stroked His hair, That joined in prayer, Were beautiful. Deep brown eyes That saw Him, That shone with love and understanding, That mirrored the loveliness of her soul, vVere beautiful. 20 A warm and gentle smile That showed to all That she was friend: was mother, vVas beautiful. Intellect enriched Through observing Him, Through suffering, Through joy, vVas wisdom, vVas beautiful. Heart and will United with His In faith, In hope, Dedicated to Him, vVas love, Was beautiful. Beauty of body, of soul. United, Perfected, vVrapped in humility, vVas exalted. Carol Biemer, '62 21 Ever since I could remember, the mighty gnarled oak had stood large and bold on the side of the hill, its spreJding branches blotting out a great portion of the sky. Sometimes in sum- 23 mer I would watch its countiess leaves flvttering against the indigo sky; sometimes I saw its mighty branches flai!ing wildly before a driving wind; sometimes I would stare at its twisted limbs. black and bare against the steel gray of a winter sky; sometimes I had seen it silver and ghostly beneath the sheen of a full moon, its leaves winking like a thousand eyes as they gently rippled in a night breeze. I could remember lying beneath its huge limbs and listening to a thousand tongues talking in soft lisping tones, mingled with the fluttering of feathered wings and the soft cries of countless birds. The oak would talk to me and every fibre of my being would tense as I listened to its fluttering voice which changed its pitch with each puff of wind. I knew every inch of its mighty trunk and spreading limbs and sometimes I would climb up high. lie down on a huge limb and wrap my thin, white arms and legs around it, caressing the rough bark with my little hands and pressing my cheek hard against its coarse, gray-black skin. I grew up with the oak and there was a honri hetween it and me, and it became part of my very being, as though it were one of my arms or legs. When I was alone in my childish world and no one else could understand my troubled mind, I took my problems to the oak on the hill and listened to its soothing voice. It would understand in its inanimate way and reach out with its leafy arms and soothe my turbulent soul; the oak and I were one and I loved it and it loved me. There was a fearful night one summer that I can remember even today when the velvet, black clouds w ere ripping through the heavens and the rain came screaming down from the skies. I woke fearful and alone with the thunder . roaring in my ears and the brilliant flashes of fiery lightning giving momentary b i r t h to . strange, twisted shadows on the walls of my room. Tossing aside my crumpled sheets, I jumped to the window and watched in awe as the oak thrashed on the hill and fought wildly at its invisible tormentor. The battle was waged in moments of brief suspense as bolt after bolt of intense brilliance lit up the surrounding countryside, bathing the hill and its struggling giant in vivid whiteness. And then there was a blinding blast and a roaring crescendo that filled my head, followed almost simultaneously by a distant ripping from the hillside, as though mighty muscles of wood were being torn asunder. Horrified, I threw open the window and screamed as a bolt lit up the skies and I saw a huge limb being torn to the ground, jagged, woody, fibers protruding into the violent night. A lmost hysterical, I ran down the stairs and into the raging storm, the vicious pellets of wetness stinging my face and neck, the muddy earth splashing up between my toes as I clawed up the hillside. Blindly, I fought through brambles and undergrowth, slipped and fell to the ground, cut my hands and feet on jagged rocks until at last I stood beneath the oak listening to its mighty voice shout in anger and its woody muscles flex and groan as the wind ripped at its leaves and branches. I threw my arms around its rough trunk and felt the heart of the oak pumping furiously, felt it writhe in anger against its merciless opponent, felt it shift ever so slightly as it maneuvered for the advantage. I cried out in pain and anger and the tears streamed hot down my 24 c h e e k s, mingling with the pounding rain. It seemed like endless hours until I was certain we had won and the oak was speaking to me in reassuring weary tones. The wind had died to feeble puffs and the fleeing, gray clouds raced across the skies, occasionally revealing brief glimpses of black. Realization that I hurt and was exhausted came upon me slowly, for even yet I still clung tightly to the oak's wet trunk. Wearily, I slipped to the ground and lay exhausted but happy, for I knew we had won. Rising, I paused to run my fingers tenderly over the jagged wound of the fallen limb and feel the wet blank where the wood had been charred by the lightning. I stumbled down the hill, sliding and tripping in the gray dawn and collapsed, muddy and exhausted, on the living room rug. The oak was different now and it looked strange against the sky, but it still talked the same and I still loved it and it loved me. The storm had only strengthened my bond with the woody giant, for together we had faced the raging elements in all their fury and together we had conquered. I grew and m y young body stretched and my voice cracked and began to change. I stood taller in the world and felt much older and wiser. I went to the oak only seldom now. but once in a while I climbed the hill, lay ben eat h its protective branches, listening to its muted welcome and dreaming the strange dreams of youth. The birds still fluttered and called high in its branches, and the bond remained between the giant and me-not as evident, but just as strong and real. Then one day on my eighteenth birthday, I became a man and Dad said I had to act like one. And soon I began to feel a strange stirring when I looked at the oak-a sense of manly shame that would gnaw at my mind. And suddenly I knew what I must do-something I had always known I would do. Outwardly calm, I dressed and went out to the woodshed. There I found what I was looking for-the steel axe. I had used it many times before, but that morning it felt strange in my hands and each time I touched its cold, steel head, a shock seemed to course through my being. I sharpened it on the stone, for I knew that it would have to be keen for the job I was about to do. 25 ~tiffly, I climbed the hill, my eyes never once leaving the mighty oak on the side of the hill-the oak that blotted out such a big chunk of the sky. Silently, J stood beside its rough trunk beneath the stretching limbs and listened to the tree as it spoke to me in sorrowful tones. And a vast silence fell around me and even the birds stopped their restless chirpings and fluttering among the still lea ves above. Into the silence broke the first angry shout of the axe as it cut through the rough bark. I watched a shudder pass through the mighty trunk, and I could hear it scream in anguish as successive strokes began to gouge at its woody muscles. Tortured chips flew in every di rection and the wound at the base of the trunk . grew ever deeper. I flung my sweaty shirt from my hard body and began to swing with an eve r-increasing ferocity, my strokes falling faster and harder. I began to cry and sweat mingled with tears rolled down my cheeks and off my chin into the waiting earth. I became oblivious to my surroundings and one thought possessed my mind as my aching muscles cried out in tor t u r e mingling their screams with those of the oak. I flung the head of the axe again and again until I lay panting and crying on the ground, my breath coming in great heaving gasps, my salty tears burning my eyes and tasting tart on my cracked lips. I rose and swung again and again and again-only to fall gasping to the ground. And then I thought I heard the oak laughing, laughing at me as it stood there with the gaping wound in its side and I lay on the cold earth choking in anger and sorrow . Enraged now, I flew at the tree with flailing arms; I was obsessed, the axe flew, my arms and body ached, and the oak laughed. I swung; I cried; I fell. I got up again; I swung; I cried . Endlessly I swung and swung again until I could hear the oak crying, too. I swung once more and felt the oak shudder and then with a deafening roar, it went down with a mighty shout on the hillside, leaving an empty space against the sky. For a minute I stood, axe in hand, shocked by what I had done. I ran my fingers tenderly over the jagged splinters where the oak had stood and then turned and walked slowly down the hill 26 A Pehcil ILhd MARILYN WEINBRECHT, PILpe,. '63 27 / A little boy was slttmg on the bank of a big river. He sat on the edge and peered into the water. He was supposed to be at school, but he didn't like school and it was boring; so on hne mornings like this one, he would come to this river and sit on the edge of the bank with his dog, and look. H e didn't .look for anything, he just looked; but he could never see the bottom because the water was so muddy and brown and non-descript. To day, he was throwing . rocks ipto the water and watching them skip. The dog was watching them, too. He never said anything but he looked particularly knowing today. One rock hit the water, but instead of skipping, it started to ripple, and ripple, and ripple. The ripples made a little clear spot which got wider and wider. A big fish broke the top and splashed the little boy, at the same time breaking the brown. And the little boy could see all the way to the bottom. He got down on his knees and looked into the hole which was perfectly light and clear. It was beautiful down there. He saw a white beach of cane sugar, sand and blue sky, and he saw a complete little world. He bent forward to look close; so close that he fell into the hole, turning, and rolling, and tumbling till, plop, he landed on his head in the nice, soft, hot sand. He picked it up and dribbled it through his fingers, and then he saw a little lake. Only a very shallow puddle of water; and he was throwing the sand in the water to see if he could fill up the lake, when he saw two porpoises. They approached him. "Where d 0 yo u com e from? " they asked. "From up there," pointed the little boy. "From up where?" asked the porpoises. "There isn't allY world but this one." And with that narrow-sighted view, they walked off. Before they left, one called, " Don't stuff your pockets full of c hoc 0 1 a t e." "Chocolate?" wondered the little boy. He got up and right to the left of him was a chocolate house. Not really a house, just four walls. "Go ahead, " said all the animals. "Eat all you wan t but whatever you do, don't stuff any in your pockets, " and with thi s warning, they departed. The little boy closed his eyes and took a big bite of the south wall. Ummm, it was delicious. H e co m pie tel y stuffed his mouth with rich, creamy milk 28 chocolate like little star candy. He bit down hard. The next wall was composed of milk chocolate and a I m 0 n d; t 11 e t h i r d, s e m i-sweet; and the fourth, of chocolate co at in g with a nougat center. But the little boy forgot the warning! Greedily he started to stuff his pockets full to the brim with chocolate. Immediately, he started to rise. "Oh, quick, quick, eat the chocolate before he gets you," said everyone. And the little boy tried and tried, but he was rising faster and faster. The more he stuffed in his mouth, the more seemed to be there. As he rose through the filmy, blue clouds, they seemed to say, " Oh, why did you eat the c hoc 0 I ate? Now, you'll be a cloud like us. " "B utI don't wan t to be a cloud, " cried the little boy, and he desperately jam m e d his cheeks outward with chocolate. At last, he succeeded in stuffing in the last bit of chocolate, just in time. He found himself in a large, fenced in enclosure, like a big paddock. Then. he saw it. The strangest looking airplane. He had never seen one like this before, and he stood and stared. It had three wings; one on each side and one right on top like a shark fin. It said, "Come in, I'll take you for a ride. " "No, thank you ," said the little boy. " I don't think I want to take a ride in you." "Come in," said the plane, more insistently. He moved toward the little boy with a menacing gleam in his eye. The little boy moved to the right. The airplane moved to the right. The little boy moved to the left. The plane moved to the left. "Don't get in, don't get in!" whispered the clouds. Then, the clouds moved in front of the plane to help the little boy, so that the airplane couldn't see him. Just then, a miraculous thing happened! All the little clouds turned into boys and girls. They had all been changed into clouds and when they helped the little boy, they changed back into boys and girls. They were very pretty children, but the little boy had never seen any children like these before. The y a 11 had square heads and beautiful rectangular eyes with long lashes and heavy, silken hair. "Where do you come from? " asked the little boy. "We come from th(" world below this one." said one of the little boys, "but hurry, we must get away before the airplane sees us." "But how will 29 we get away ?" asked the little boy. At last, the little boy had an idea. "We must climb over that big, pink wall," he said. So they ran to climb over the pink wall. But it was spongy. like angel food cake; and as soon as they climbed up, they bounced back. The little boy had an idea. "I'll climb up on your shoulders," he said, "then, I'll pull you over." So, they inched up the wall like combat soldiers on their stomachs and stepped over ... into a lovely, lukewarm, g r e e n swimming pool. The cement was nice and white and it wasn't too deep anywhere. All around it was I ike a j u n g I e setting, with greenery and vines and beautiful sweet-smelling flowers. The chi ldren splashed the w ate r, scooting along the bottom and playing shark. A t last, they tired of this, and ran out. The sun was hot and dried their clothes in no time. They trudged along, singing happily, when they came to a big, beautiful valley. It was really something - all rolling hills and green, soft grass, and little plateaus and caves to run and hide in, and shady places to doze. They played hide and seek, rolling and tumbling on the grassy hills. \t\1hen they awakened, after snoozing awhile, they walked along and came to a border. The little boy was about to cross when one of the other little boys said, "Oh, no, we can't cross here." "Why not?" asked the little boy. "Because if the people who live there see us, they'll want us to stay and they won't let us go. It's such a beauti ful place; once we stop there, we'll stay there forever.' "I lnve an idea," said the other little boy. "Put your hand very tightl y over your eyes. You must clasp your fingers so that you can't pull them apart." "How will I see?" he asked. "The first boy won't cover his eyes," he said. "We'U hang on to each other' s collars with our teeth, and single file push him through. That sounded like a good idea, so they each clasped their hands and didn't unclasp them for anything and went over the border of the beautiful land. The people were very happy to see them because they hadn't seen visitors for a long time. and they begged them to stay. The first boy wanted to stay but the others pus h e d him through. At last, they were all through but one, and he was half way over the line. The 30 to leave. "You can come with us," they said. "No," he said, "I'd never make it." "I know," said the little boy, "you can be my shadow." So the others thanked the little boy for having helped, and, laughing and s h 0 uti n g, h e I d hands and jumped down through the floating, cottony mists tot h e i r homes below. The two little boys waved goodbye to them, then the one little boy pretended he was the other little boy's shadow while h e b 0 u n c e d up and down. "Now, when we come close, we'll each grab," he said. 'Try for a tree or something to hang on to." But the first two time::; they did it, the earth was so round and slippery, and was going so fast, they couldn't hang on. So the little boy remembered and thought of his dog waiting on the bank, and he bounced right up, landing on the bank again. His dog said, "My, you have been gone a long time." The Ii ttle boy turned and dropped his rocks. "Did you say something?" he said. But the dog hadn't said anything. people who lived on the edge kept pulling him by the legs and his friends tried to haul him over the line by the arms. His friends won and they all sat down to reconnoiter. "\Vhere shall we go now?" asked the little boy. "I think we'll go home," said the other children. This sounded very good to the little boy, who was hungry, so he said, "How;" "\Vhy, we just jump down," said the boy, "but since your world is above, you will have to jump up." And the little boy looked up and saw his pretty, g r e e n w 0 rId and started to sniffle. "How will I get high enough?" h e ask e d. "T h e ground here is very soft and springy," they told him. "You can b 0 u n c e up and down." "But what if I miss?" said the little boy. "The secret," said the others, "is to think of someone you love very much. The thoughts between you will pull you to them." At this, one of the little boys grew very sad. He said, ''I'll see you guys." "Aren't you coming?" they asked. "I don't have anyone," he said, sadly. At this, the others didn't want 31 AND THEN He sat tensely on the glowing Rim of Eternity And watched the sad events occurring belowThere amid the noise of the cancerous city, He saw my mountain of vilest sins grow. He sawme die. And then - 32 Down into the dark, abysmal pit of Hell. vVhere friends and demons go slithering aboutDown - and still farther down I fell vVith a terrified shout. Horrible beasts with yellow eyes, slavering jowls And bared fangs clawed at me, vVhile I fell down among mocking howls Into that fuming and boiling sulfurous sea. Flying demons with charred black wings Ride upon the wind of Hell's hot breath; Creeping sloggoths and odiferous hissing things Scream to me an eternity of living death. Scaly things moving tortuously in the molten sea Cry out incessantly in agonizing tones of despair, Cursing and blaspheming one another in evil glee, Smoldering and smarting in this Demonical Lair. 33 CryI cannot; Tears . There are none, For the searing breath of Hell doth scald Away the watery pools - everyone, Leaving burning eyes and a heart that is galled. The fiends will rip me to a shread, Dismember my limbs one by one, Pluck my eyes from my sightless head, Kick me when I try to run Yet, therein lies not my greatest dread, But in my Eternity Only Just Begun Joe Kempf, '63 34 lJJoybe tOlJJorrow DEANN A METZNER, 35 '62 "Any minute now I'll look up and he'll be standing there. He won't say anything, he'll just smile and sit down next to me in the sand." Trudy couldn't resist lifting her head slowly and dramatically, full of the hope that only a nineteenyear-old could p 0 sse s s. A 1though she hadn't really expee ted t 0 see him towering above her, still she was strangely disappointed. Sinking back onto her beach towel, she mur- mured softly, "Maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow ... " As she repeated the phrase, it became n10re like a prayer. She stared at the foaming ocean, and the sound of each wave hitting the beach soothed her. The swaying, r u s t lin g palms moved aimlessly, adding to the picture of tranquility. Soon the sun sank under the ocean, and the sky became the v i v i d, illuminated, cloudless blue that is present only in Florida. Finally, the r 0 u n d, smiling moon hung low in the heavens. Nighttime on the beach was a scene which Trudy particularly enjoyed. Here was always a deep silence, aweful, but not frightening . For T r u d y the beach was the ideal spot to sit and gaze at the water until her own problems were washed away. She would sit for hours, watching and thinking-thinking about Ii fe, love, religion, and God. No small s c h 0 0 I problem was worthy to enter into such profound surroundings, therefore, they a 1 way s seemed to melt away. Tonight, however, she had a very special reason for being there. Ben had written a few days ago to tell her that he would be down to see her as soon as his classes at the university were over. He was due to arrive tonight, and she didn't have the courage to stay home waiting for him. vVhat if he didn't come? It wouldn't be the first time he had disappoi n ted her. Certainly she wanted to see him. She would have liked nothing better than to look up again and see him before her. But she knew he wasn't there, and she didn't ha ve the strength to bear not seeing him. "D i sap poi n t men t," she thought bitterly. "That's the only word that sums up our friendship." N ow the gat e had bee n opened, and all the memories of the past two years flooded through - memories that she had tried to keep hidden SInce 36 her family had moved to Florida. But even eight months and 2000 miles of separation could not remove her thoughts of Ben. "vVhy?" she wondered, and stared at the sky without really seeing it. Then her reminiscing began. Though each date was fresh and real in her mind, still the disappointments stood out most vividly. "How did it a 11 beg in?" Trudy mused, but the answer was hopeless. She might be able to recount every event, but it was impossible for anyone to find the moment, or even the day, when Trudy began to think of Ben as more than one of her close friends. , Sitting up and hugging her knees, she experienced over again each bitter disappointment. But the p a i n was deeper now, since she saw all the heartbreaks and broken dates in a series, no longer as isolated incidents. His image flashed b e for e her, short, but muscular. His brown eyes peered forlornly at her through dark rimmed glasses. Even his boyish grin was there to haunt her. But the memory of his dee p v 0 ice drowned out his person. The first excuse for breaking a date thundered through her. "Trudy," he had said, "you know that sorority formal you wanted to go to? Well, one of the guys who lived in the dorm last year is getting married. The wedding is the same weekend, and I'd like to go-if you don't mind." He had paused a minute before adding, "But if you want to go to the dance , just say so." Of course she had wanted to go. Her senior year was the last opportunity she w 0 ul d have. But Ben, she k new, wanted to go to the wedding. So, the dance was forgotten. " The first e x c use," she mumbled. And each one came back to her. "G e e, T r u d y, I'm really sorry about that New Year's Eve party, but Dave called it off, so I'm going home. " "Would you min d i f w e skipped that show tonight? One of my buddies from home is com i n g dow n tonight, and we're having a stag party." "I'm sorry I didn't call last night, but a bunch of the guys started watching TV and I really forgot about it." Suddenly tears s t rea m e d dow n her tanned face. She couldn't keep reliving the s e moments, for they hurt more deeply each time. Yet, she could 37 not forget them, for there was always that one small ray of hope that Ben would change. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her face into the wind, she scolded her s elf. "You're not being fair. Think of all the wonderful times, the happiness, the laughter." Laughter every moment with Ben was filled with laughter. He had an unusual way of jokitig when he was afraid to be serious. Everyone had laughted at that remark of, "When I start getting serious about a girl, I know it's time .to say goodbye." But from the way he had looked at her then , she should have realized what he was trying to say. He !lad tried to warn her, but Trudy had failed to understand-until now. Heartbreak and tears had followed, and her moving didn't help much. She had heard news about him in letters from her friends up North. Surprising reports, too, for Ben was finally settling down. In the time she had been gone he seemed to have started to mature. No more thoughtlessness without even realization was coming from Ben. He truly had begun to change. Now he had written that he was coming to see her. O~le thing about him had not changed however. He still had that way of joking when he was serious. He had mentioned that he had his class ring and then added, "I remember how you liked the university rings. I have mine now, but I'm warning you what will happen if you steal it. I'll have my revenge I'll take yours." Trudy's mom had laughed when she read it. but Trudy knew Ben too well to take it as a joke. How many times in the past had she dreamed of the glorious day when he would proudly show her the crimson-stoned symbol of his hard work. Drifting into her private world, she could see it all. They would be together, having fun as usual. No moonlight nights and soft music for them. It would be a sunny afternoon filled with laughter. He would turn to her and say very simply, "Trudy, wear my nng. She would smile and place it on her finger. N one of their friends would be very much surprised, for everyone always assumed that they went together. N ow after all her dreams, she knew he wanted her to have his class ring. \NThy hesitate, then? She began to sob. "Oh, God," she prayed, 38 "what's Wrof1g? This is what I've been praying for. I've asked for it, and now I'm afraid to take it. I've dreamed of it for ... " Dreamed - and then she realized just what was wrong. "That's it," she whispered to herself, "isn't it? You've dreamed about it; you've planned it; you've prayed for it. You talked yourself into believing it's what you wanted. But now you're not so sure any more. You won't be able to live in a dream world any more. You'll have to live life, instead of dreaming about it. And you won't be the martyr of the whole world. You'll see how insignificant you really are. You're a f r aid . . . I'm so afraid." After admitting this, she telt a great release. But once realizing that she was the one who needed to mature, and not Ben, did not solve her present problem. The decision, she knew, must be hers. She couldn't ask anyone's advice, not even her parents. She must grow up eventually and now was the time. "Please, God, help me," she pleaded. "No matter what I do," she murmured, "I must be sure I'm right. But will I ever be certain. Time ... how much of it I've wasted; how much of life I've wasted. 'ViII I ever make it up?" Time the healer of all wounds, but to Trudy her problem was beyond even time. Trying to make up for all the decisions she had neglected to make before, and for the truth she had run from, she determined to solve this problem wisely and swiftly. But her admission had not been complete. Automatically she rose and began to gather her things. She was careful to shake the sand out of her towel. She calmly slipped a jacket over her bare shoulders and walked dow n the bright, moonlit beach. Ben was waiting for her; she must face him now. But her luck would not even allow her time to regain her composure. There he was, smiling as always, waiting for her. N ow it would come; now she must decide -quickly, before he had any chance to influence her. "Hey there, Trudy, I thought you had deserted me. Come on, I'll drive you home. Your mom thought you would be here. How are things going with you? I'll bet you love college, and you're really knocking out these guys down here. Right ?" 39 Same charm. Same sense of humor. "Why doesn't he say it," she almost cried out. "Get it over with now." She could see it all now. She would have to be gentle to him and mother him. It wouldn't be easy. But she had accomplished one thing from their friendship, at least she had grown up and entered reality. "You're not very talkative tonight," he commented, as the car slid into the scattered night traffic. "Tired, I guess. Or maybe my charms are overwhelming you. Hey, I've got a surprise for you that you'll really like." . "No," she thought, "here it comes, but I'm ready." "Some of the guys from . school came down with me for the week. I thought maybe you could get your gang together and we could have a beach party or something. Just a group of us. Just friends, and all that stuff. But I know one guy you'll really like - my roommate, Jeff." She was stunned and could do nothing but repeat after him, "Your roommate Jeff?" "He's really a nice guy. You know I wouldn't even think of fixing you up with him if he weren't. 1'd never let anything happen to you, Trudy. \iVhy, you've been practically a sister to me. You'll be a good cure for Jeff, too - some girl has been chasing him all around school. I was hoping you'd do me a favor and make sure he has a really good time. You know what I mean, Trudy, just the thing you did to me. Good friends." "Yes, good friends," Trudy managed to utter. She tried to tell herself that "he was relieved, but she knew too well that that feeling inside her now was the one too familiar - disappointment. But it was all in the past now. It was over. She had learned. Sinking back in the seat she closed her eyes. Slowly her frown melted into a soft smile. "Jeff," she spoke, almost inaudibly. "Did you say something ?'. asked Ben. Then he started t() laugh, "Or are you just whispering secrets to the wind?" Once again they rode together, laughing as usual. Soon Trudy broke the spell. "Ben, what's Jeff like?" Ben began to talk, but Trudy could not hear. She began a new dream with a new hero, and Ii fe went by unnoticed. 40 Why i am walking, just walking looking, seeing, thinking funny that grass is green strange that sky is blue why? i wonder they say because He made it that way why did He do that why not pink grass why not red sky why? i wonder they say i am going to be big someday why can't i stay this way why do i have to grow up . why do i have to be big like them why? i wonder they tell me because that's the way He wants it why? i wonder Steve lYfooney, '63 41 THIS WON'T HURT A BIT (Not Much It Won't) KATHRYN ANN YORK, Sooner or later everybody makes. a crack about "the men in the little white coats." But the particular little man that I am thinking about did not come fully equipped with strait jackets and restraints. However, I feel very confident in saying that he could cause just as rl1Uch, if not more, trouble. Oh, he looked innocent enough in his clean and neat white jacket topped off with his shiny head, but I learned through experience that he was to be considered as lethal. I found that orthodontists are trouble with a capital T. First of all he was the only man that ever succeeded in cutting off my constant stream of words, which to me was a devastating development, i f not dangerous, at least for him. The first time that I met this '63 dynamo of dental art was the time that he made the initial impression of my teeth. I had just started to make what I thought to be a very intelligent statement, when he popped a foul-tasting piece of wax in my mouth. He asked me to bite down and, because I am very obliging when I want to be; I did. I think that I surprised us both. I was surprised when [ found that I had more than wax in my mouth and he was surprised when he found that he wasn' t as agile as he thought he was. His finger just didn't make it out. A fter he had rescued the injured didget he was very careful in the vicinity of my bicuspids. From then on it was open war. He did his best to pay me back for his wound. His first battle tactic ,vas to make me 42 feel as much like the Brooklyn Bridge as he possibly could. This gave me the general appearance of being wired for sound. But it didn't bother me so much after I got used to the idea of looking like a roll of aluminum foil, so he took an even more drastic step. He installed me with rubber bands. This took the cake. It not only hindered my conversational powers but it almost caused a national incident. \Vell, maybe not national, but it posed a problem to me and other poor females like me who were finding it hard to tie up the telephone wires. But to top it off you can imagine how you would feel telling someone that you were chasing a renegade rubber band. You might come up with an excuse like this: I just opened my mouth to say something and it snapped out. Now really, this is ridiculous. Especially when the incident occurs in a class when you are about to answer a question, and I might add the only answer you know, and away it goes. Of all the nerve !-clear across the room! You hope fervently that it hasn't accosted anyone in its flight and you sprint after it. However the teacher doesn't understand and she s p r i n t s equally fast to her grade book to give you an F for the day. Obviously she n eve r w 0 l' e bra c e s complete with rubber bands. I remained trussed up in this fashion for three years enduring the dilemma in what I thought .to be a very dignified manner. Then I found I had another cross to bear. He had the gall to insist that I wear a retainer. Well really? N ow I . know how my grandmother felt after she had all of her teeth removed. The only thing that I lacked was the modern miracle Poli-Grip. I soon reconciled myself to this agony with the thought that it would all be over soon and I would be free of the blasted thing, when I found that this contraption reacted in the manner of a greased pig. I was utterly mortified when I lost it one day after lunch and had to dig through the garbage container to find it. Now this wouldn't have been so bad if I could have done it in some amount of privacy. Unfortunately things couldn't have been any worse if it had been Friday the 13th: as my luck would have it one of my handsome classmates arrived on the scene and enjoyed my pI i g h t i mmensely. He wasn't even gentleman enough to offer to help me with my task. Even with my head in a barrel of smelly garbage I have my pride so I became indignantly furious on the s pot and continued my search. I found the little rascal and from that day to the day we drew up the peace agreement; it remained securely hooked around my molars. The day the war was over .was a day indeed for celebration. The only reason I would ever go to that office would be to . visit the good doctor and then it would be 'o n my terms. Now all that remains of this torture is the retainer which I keep in my drawer as a trophy of past battles. But the biggest joy of all is that I won't feel as though I'm leading with my teeth when I smile, I have since gone back to see ' myoId opponent and we are the best of friends as long as he doesn't challenge me to a duel: gnashing teeth at a safe distance. 44  ...

... THE FIORETTI I VOLUME XVII ~. NUMBER 1 Indianapolis, Indiana 1959-1960 AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE THE STAFF Editor-in -Chief James Jenks, '60 Assistant Editors John Chapman, '63 Joe Kempf, '63 Judy Parrish, '60 .Cynthia Stokes, '63 Elaine Thomas, '60 Art Sister Mary Kevin, O.S.F., '60 Marie Krebs, '62 Byron Murray, '63 Marjorie Timko, '60 Layout Judy Huhn, '62 CONTENTS ARTICLES Pity the Man 11 Ann Marie Holleran Nothing 17 Richard Simko The Future in History 22 Frank Stites The Perpetual Magnet 31 Byron Murray No Time for Studying 34 Deanna Metzner FICTION Peanut 5 . -Once a nd Once Aga i n 28 Margaret Harmening Joe Kempf POETRY Listen 12 Joe Kempf Friend 19 Marilyn Beck Senor Cristo 20 Elaine Thomas Inevitable Death 25 Mary Ann Deiter C'est l'Amour 26 Ma ri Iyn Beck Fatherhood 30 Sister Mona, O .S.F. The Secret of Happiness 36 Francis Rottet My PEANUT M.-\RG:\RET ANN I-L\lD1ENING) Jerry sat on the top step of the dugout and aimlessly flipped pebbles into the air. His usually ruddy complexion was now quite pale, and he yearned for a trip to the locker room and a cool shower, but the Skipper had ordered him to remain here. " \ Ve may need you in this second game," he had said. But Jerry knew old Skip \yell enough to know that he was '62 just trying to make him fo rget . He felt in no condition to play. As a matter of fact, he doubted \vhether he would ever feel like playing aga in. Everyth ing had happened so fast a sliding, side-arm knuckle-ball, the crack of a broken bat, a shrill scream and it was over. T he bright afternoon sun crept over the dugout, and the strapping youth pulled hi s cap 5 down tightly to shade his dark, troubled eyes. Occasional glances fell his way, but Jerry didn't seem to notice. Over the loud speaker came the familiar voice of Paul Manley: "For Chicago, number 28, Jerry Spears, batting for Bobby Hartley." Jerry pretended not to notice. He buried his face in his hands and didn't move. A firm hand grasped his shoulder, and he whirled around to see the grim face of the Skipper. "Didn't you hear the announcement, son? Hurry and get up there before old Doyle comes in here after you." Jerry was about to protest, but Skip was already on his ,~ay back to the third base coaching box. Dizzily, the youngster rose and headed toward the bat box at the opposite end of the dugout. Frank tossed him a batting helmet, which he blindly fumbled but quickly recovered. He walked ,,,,ith uneasy strides toward the plate, halting only momentarily to dust his hands with resin. Stepping into the box, Jerry felt a strange sensation overcome him. "\l\l hy did he pick me to pinch-hit?" he murmured to himself. "He knows what hap- 6 pened the last time I came to bat. " ] erry looked to Skip at ' third for a sign. The Skipper signaled for a hit, and the youth stepped up to guard the plate. The opposing pitcher eyed Jerry carefully, respecting the reputation the youngster had gained in his brief career. The righthander stretched. leaned in for a sign, reared back and fired a beautiful curve ball, which Jerry eyed cautiously, but the bat lay heavily on his shoulder and his arms froze. The pitch caught the outside corner for a strike. The spectators were hardly audible, and. except for the regular shouts of peanut venders, the stands sounded empty. Sweat circled about the protecti ve band inside his safety helmet as Jerry tightened hi s grip on the bat. "I must hit I must!" he told himself between clenched teeth. A change-up curve baJJ proved Jerry's weakness again, as he watched the perfect strike sail past. The count was now 0 and 2, and this v.'as Jerry's last chance. Backing away from the plate, he knocked the mud from his cleats with the bat. Straightening his helmet. he again step- ped up to the plate, and, bracing his left foot carefully. he choked up on his bat and checked Skipper's signal at third. The lean righthander took a full wind-up and fired the next ball. It was perfect, and as Jerry stepped up to it, his lips drew a firm line across the boyish face. Suddenly, Jerry was paralyzed with terror. He dropped his bat to the ground as the spinning sphere met with the leather of the catcher's mitt, and old Doyle bellowed out, "Strike three!" The crowd came back to life, cheering frantically as the visiting Trisox took the field. Jerry proceeded to the tunnel leading to the lQcker room, only to be halted at the dugout's bottom step by Skipper. "What's troubling you, Jer?" he asked, placing a wrinkled hand on the boy' s firm shoulder. "Nothing, sir," Jerry replied softly without lifting his dark eyes. Skipper viewed the youngster \"ith a look of sadness and pity. "I understand, son. Go take a hot shower and change. \Ve've only an inning left to play, and then I'll give you a Ii ft downtown." Reassuring the lad with a pat on the back, Skipper turned quickly towards the action on the field, avoiding the boy's eyes. "Sk'Ip . . . !)" Jen.y I)eoan. o' "Yes, J er ?" "Uh . . . oh, never mind." The second game went into extra innings, so Jerry watched from a ramp, unrecognized in his street clothes. "Skip won't be ready for quite a while yet," he thought to himself . "Now's my chance." Jerry ushered himself to the main lobby and glanced about the walls until his eyes met a large sign 111 the opposite corner: "MAIN OFFICE." Jerry pushed his way across the lobby. Reaching his destination, he halted briefly to straighten his collar, clear his throat, and push a black curl from his forehead. A gentle knock was answered by a burly man, probably in his late forties, who smiled and asked, "\Vhat may I do for you, lad ?" "Uh .. . May I come in?" "Of course," the man smiled. Stepping aside, he welcomed Jerry into the office with a smooth, sweeping gesture of his left hand. "Sit down and make yourself at home." "I have only a few minutes." 7 the persistent young ballplayer to walk to the hospital, but insisted he drive him there. Upon reaching his destination' Jerry nervously departed from the car. Bending his lanky body, he peered back through the window. "Much obliged, Skip," he mumbled, smiling weakly. "Wait up, kid, I'm coming with you," Skip hastily replied, turning of f the ignition. The shadows cast by the tw o mer~ as they walked up the sidewalk to Saint Jude's were quite different. One was that of a very tall and erect young man with broad shoulders the other was that of a slight, bald111g man, rather dumpy. However, at this moment, they similarly walked 111 uneasy steps. The Skipper and Jerry were ushered into a room already half-occupied by a half-dozen or more anxious persons. "Skip," Jerry w his per e d nervously, "maybe I should have brought the kid something. " "Don't worry about that now, son," the old man assured him , "we can take care of that later. " Jerry picked up a magazine and fumb led through several Jerry explained. "I'm Jerry Spears, sir, of the Trisox, and I wonder if you could tell me anything about the person I hit with that foul drive today? The husky gentleman jabbed his hands into his pockets and walked around to the front of his desk. His serious face looked deep into the frightened boy's eyes. Lowering his voice, he inquired, "\!Vhat would you like to know?" "\lVho was . it ?" J erry asked anxiously. "A small boy. His father came in here with Doc Snyder to call the hospita1." "He was hurt badly, then?" ''I'm not sure, son; they were in such a hurry that I wasn't able to catch all the details. They called S a i n t Jude's, though; perhaps if you stop in there someone can be of more assistance to you than 1. " "Saint Jude's? And where's that ?" "A bout four miles south of here - at the junction of highway 40. " "Thank you, sir, " Jerry murmured, reaching for the door. "Sorry I can't be of more assistance," the man apologized. The Skipper wouldn't permit 8 pages. Everything was blurred, though, for the young man's mind couldn't be Ii fted from thoughts of the injured boy. Across the room sat a trembling couple, the woman's hand held firmly by her husband's, and her eyes moist with tears. N ext to her was a handsome boy with dark brown eyes, probably in his early teens. "Must be the kid's family," Jerry thought to himself. "My God! \Vhy did I do it?" Tiny Mike O'Connor was wheeled from surgery at 7 :14 p.m., after a four hour emergency operation. The inert form was carefully placed in a crib in one corner of the children's ward. Immaculate white bal1dages bound his head from the top of his sandy hairline to his dimpled mouth. George and Betty O'Connor were brought from the waiting room to the bedside of their unconscious son. "My baby! My baby!" cried Mrs. O'Connor, who was permitted to remain in the ward for only a few minutes before being led away by a nurse and given a sedative. Doc Snyder returned to the room where Jerry and the Skipper were anxiously awaiting news of the child's condition. 9 Approaching the athlete, he laid his hands on the boy's broad shoulders. Looking up into the deep eyes of the doctor, Jerry inquired hesitantly, "How is he, Doc?" Doc replied slowly with a slight smile and a reassuring nod of the head. "He's out of danger, but ... }} .. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Jerry turned to the Skipper and gri_nned. Suddenly realizing the doctor 's last word , he jerked his head back and demanded, "But what?" Doc pulled up a chair facing the two men. Untying his white apron, he stated his message slowly but directly. "The ball struck the boy directly in the face. His nose was crushed, and neither eye can be saved." Jerry's mouth dropped open, as he stared blankly and unbelievingly at the doctor. Skip rose and put his arm about the lad. Jerry closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands. "My God!" he cried. "He's blind 1" The Skipper excused Jerry from practice the following afternoon, and little Master 0' Connor was honored by an unexpected visitor. "I can't go vvith you," Jerry The tiny patient sat 111 his crib, unaware that he was told Skipper. " Drop me from destined never to see the huge the roster if you must, but I fielder 's glove he now treasured can't leave Kansas City yet." "Okay, Jer," Skip replied in his arms. "Gee ... did you really sign knowingly, "Brian should be able to handle short for a week it for me ?" he asked. "Sure, Peanut; right there or so. Meet us in Cleveland on in the pocket. " Jerry guided the the 27th?" " Sure. " boy's right hand across the smooth, inked leather. Jerry rejoined his team in " Thanks, Jerry, " the young- Cleveland on the date specified, and suddenly displayed talent ster beamed. and spirit unequaled by the "Forget it, " the young ballyouth ever before. Once again. player said modestly. Jerry became a serious threat " I won't - ever, " the boy to the ERA of opposing pitchpersisted, "and when I grow up , I'm going to be just like ers. vVhen the Trisox again visityou, too. \Vhat do you look like ? I've never seen you up ed Kansas City later that seaclose. I've got freckles - have son, one tiny spectator was especially thrilled. A rmed with you?" . Jerry swallowed with an ef- a gigantic baseball mitt, he fort, and proceeded to satisfy cheered incessantly when he the child' s curiosity as best he spotted the big number 28 on the back of a gray uniform could. leaving the dugout. Before leaving the hospital, "Jerry! Jerry!,' he shouted. Jerry stopped in to have a talk "Hi, Peanut!" Jerry grinned. with Doc Snyder. Later he "Hit one for me!" Mike vi sited the chapel and knelt before a statue of the patron begged. " Sure enough. kid; I'll give sa int for quite some time. ';Dear Saint Jude," he pray- it the old eye-okay?,' It is quite possible for little ed, ';ask God to restore the "Peanut" O 'Connor to grmY up child's sight." The Trisox team boarded a in the footsteps of his idol, for train for \Yashington without Jerry and Mike share a secret, and a handicap. their star shortstop. 10 ANN M A RIE HOLLERAN, '63 P ity the man who knows no fri end, who walks life's road al one. Pity the man who has no one to go to in joy and sorrow, whose fear s and tru sts are sealed within the walls of his own mind. F riendship is a blessing , besto,-ved by the Good God on mankind. Some men have willingly closed their hearts to this g i ft. They have shut it out becau se they do not wish to make the sacrifice that is necessary; for friendship, like anything of value, is not gained cheaply. A man must clear away the worthless and the make-believe things that clutter hi s heart to make room for thi s truest o f all treasures. A man w ith even 11 one friend. one true friend, has a jev\Tel quite beyond all worldly value, and the sacrifices made to attain it are forgotten in its possession. M an does not live alone; he cannot exist in himself. If he would find him self, he mu st search in other men. The road to heaven is one that is never walked alone; if we would enter the kingdom of God we must enter with a f riend. If we would walk the highway o f life walk and truly know the aliveness of life - we must walk with a fri end. Indeed the aw ful and beautiful truth is: whether we strive for heaven or fall to hell. \\l e are not alone. L I S JOE KEMPF) '63 T E N I listenAnd I hear thingsStrange and violent thingsAnd I know that Nature is an angry giant- I hear steel girders crying out under their burden of cement and stone; I hear forest giants shout in rage as each steel bite cuts deeper into fibrous veins; I hear the bellow of watery mountains as they spend their fury on rocky cliffs; I hear steel rails groan as mighty, metal monsters hurtle along their shining arms; I hear the victorious shouts of leaping flames as they greedily devour their victim; I hear mighty muscles of wood flex \\Then the driving wind bends them to the earth; [ hear the uncontrolled voice of thunder after the skies release their fiery chariots; I hear the sound of her voicet\.1.1d I know the angry giant is dead. 13 I listenAnd I hear thingsJoyous and riotous thingsAnd I know that the \V orId is a laughing clovvn- I hear the splash of water and the sound of laughter carried on a summer breeze; I hear the chiding of a contented cricket from the edge of a goldenrod patch; I hear the merry vocals of a winding brook away across the wooded hillside; I hear the tin~ling of diamond bells hanging from a spiderweb in the morning sun; 1 hear the wash of purple waves caressing sandy shores on some forgotten isle; I hear the songs of the winds as they wind their way through the boughs of ancient oaks; I hear the tales told by moonbeams as they fall silently upon golden waters; I hear the rush of a tear on her cheekAnd I know the laughing clown is dead. 14 I listenAnd I hear thingsIVIournful and dejected things_-\nd I kno\\" that Life is a sad, old mall- I hear the melancholy cry of the loon sharing its sorro\\" with the heedless \yorlel ; I hear the tired mutterings of a muddy river as it meanders through red Georgia hills; I hear the despair of streets dark and gloomy under the sightless eyes of broken streetlights ; I hear faded laughs and forgotten echoes of wild applause under a deserted bigtop ; I hear mesmeric murmurings of ancient elms high above the green \vaters of a dreaming pool; I hear the lonely tongue of a tolling bell swaying free in a crumbling bel fry; I hear the hollow tapping of a blind man"s cane down the cold stone of some dark street; I hear a laugh from her throatAnd I know the oldman is dead. 15 I listen- And I hear thingsSerene and beautiful thingsAnd I know that the Earth is a dreaming woman- I hear the sound of grass drinking after an early morning shower; I hear little green buds growing on the branches of naked trees in Spring; I hear the groan of mast and snap of white sails before a driving wind; I hear the farewell shouts of the world as the last traces of amber fade from the sky; I heal- the rainbow after the rain as it plants its legs in the moist earth; Ihear the rustle of sweet-smelling pine needles stirred by a summer breeze; I hear the shimmering footsteps of moonbeams as they tread gently over rippling waters; I hear- What do I hear-? I hear her saying goodbye- And I know that I am dead. 16 NOTHING R. SIMKO, '60 \iVhat is nothing? Is there any place in this universe to which one may go and point and say, "There is nothing"? Does it sound like the chattering of starlings at sunset or the trumpeting of elephants at the waterhole or the lazy drone of the honey bee in search of nectar? Does it feel rough like a eat's tongue licking a drop of mi lk fro m you r finger or smooth like the glossy coat of a thoroughbred horse? Does it taste sour like the unripened grapes hanging in the sunshine of California or sweet like honey freshly gathered from the comb? Has it the nosetwitching fragrance of a field of clover right after the rain or the repugnant s ten c h of burning trash from the city dumps? Is it an awe-inspiring sight as the first heavy snowfall in the moonlight or as commonplace as the little ant dragging his burden through the forest of grass? Is it as long as the Mississippi River? Is as wide as the universe? Is it as deep as the gorge which the Colorado River has cut through the majestic Grand Canyon? The an s w e r, of course, to all of these questions IS NO. "VeIl, we know now 17 ,,,hat it is not, so what then is it ? The dictionary says that "nothing" is "the absence of something or anything." It is abstract. But more than being abstract, it is relative. Nothing is merely a starting point for measuring the properties possessed by any person, place or thing, whether it be tangible or abstract. Nothing is merely and simply _explained as being a state of non-exi stence of anything at a given time or place. Nothing could be demonstrated 1ll a number of ways. If you have a thermos of coffee in your hand, and you -pour the coffee out of the thermos, the thermos still .holds something. B ut throw the thermos to the ground with the cof fee, and you are holding nothing in your hand. . "N othing" is without a doubt one of the saddest words in the E nglish language. Several eminent writers were once asked for their idea of the saddest word in the E ngli sh language. The three words mentioned most often were "death, " "but," and " if. " Death is certainly not the saddest. There are many things worse than dying. And nine times out of ten, the words "but" and " if" merely imply a lack of character or competence in the speaker. The word that was missing from thi s li st and which v e r y definitely should have been included is "nothing. " Most people go through their entire lives without bumping into that abstract thing known as "nothing." However, it is a very real , and even tangible, thing for some persons. Ask the deaf man what he hear s when the happy laughter of children at play is floating on the summer alr. \sk the mute what comes out when he stands up to cheer the home-run hitter at the ball park. Ask the blind man what he sees standing on a mountaintop overlooking a peaceful vall ey at sunset. Ask the amputee what he feels when hi s faithful dog licks his hand in affectionate companionship . Ask the man who has had a stroke what he tastes when he is fed intravenously. Ask the psychiatrist what the homicidal maniac felt when hi s guns chopped down a family of five coming out of church on Sunday morning. Ask the atheist what he expects after he dies. Ask the tramp what he owns. Ask the souls in hell what they have to show for their lives 0 11 earth. 18 The answer you would receive from each one of these people is "Nothing. " Nothing. Zero. Naught. Nil. A nd where there is nothing, there is also sadness, tragedy, and even despair. Not h i n g isn't accompanied by laughter and happiness. Its companions are tears and suffering and heartache. Nothing exists all around us and few people are even vaguely aware of it. God has given us so many things to use and enjoy that our eyes are blinded to the fact that there are instances and places where these wonderful things simply do not exist. Nothing is as abstract as liberty, faith, justice or intelligence; but it is also just as real as all of these things. It exists in the mind where it is possible for a person to be hurt much more severely than any blow to the body might inflict. A person who knows nothingness in one of its various aspects knows also the meaning of tragedy, despair, grief, heartache, and probably self-pity. But a person who fights back to overcome it has achieved a colossal triumph, botl; physically and mentally, that almost would always leave a finer, better person in the end. "N othing," like many other afflictions, is often a blessing in disguise. MY FRIEND You touch my tear-stained face: you sympathize. You sense the sorrow in my heart; you understand. You know my weakness, my deepest agony. You wait with outstretched hand, and comfort me. M ARILYN B E CK, )60 19 SENOR CRISTO 20 Across the border, down Mexico wayI see Him in the mountain peaks piercing the sky; I see Him in the cactus plants beautifying the sand. I see Him in the black-eyed baby's hungry cry; I see Him in the old woman's praying lip and folded hand. I see Him in the "I speak a leetle ingleesh, may I help you please ?" I see Him in the pilgrimaging Indians walking on their knees. I see Him in a sombreroed niFio * leading a laden burro; I see Him in a yoke of oxen plowing a furrow. I see Him in the multi-colored mosaic church domes, shining bright. Isee Him in the vigil-light stars, glistening in the night. I see Him in the children playing with laughter, with life; I see Him in the children begging for bread, for life. I see Him in the thatched roof and mud-packed abode; I see Him in peddlers selling their pineapples and papayas and enchiladas along the roadBut selling, most of all, their kaleidoscope of Christ to tourists from up United States way. *boy 21 The F RANK STITES, )60 Future In History T her e is no future in hi story. This has been and will , in all prohability, continue to be a typical s tat e men t of that p e cuI ia r development of modern society - the practical mall. This man examines everythin g, not onl y history, in the light of personal financial compensati on. \ i\That opportunities, he would ask, does hi story offe r for econom ic advancement? \ Vhat future lies in hi story? T he ans\ver, I fear, would 22 be that hi story offer s little opportunity for the realizati on of actual, measurable returns. The r eturns from hi story cannot be measured. They do not add up to so many doll ars or cents, to a house in the country, or to two car s in the garage. A n investment in hi story yields returns wh ich so far exceed these that they are incomprehensible to the narrow-minded practical man. The reasons for thi s are simple, perhaps too simpl e. H istory deals vvith man. This is its subj ect matter ; not dates, not t rends or movements, but man. It treats man as the individual, the organization; man a lone and hi s relations with other men. It reveals hi s problems, hi s solutions, hi s successes and hi s fai lures. It brings out the good and the bad \ \1 h ich if proper to one man in any tim e \,vill be proper to all men as long as man ex ists. It gives one understanding and appreciation of man. Can anyone thing be isolated fro m hi sto ry? Hardly, since the simple fact that it existed makes it part of history. Let a person choose any field of learningliterature, science, philosophyand regardless of the lengths to which he might go to divorce them from history, the fact still remains that they are based upon the past. Any product of man from the smallest thought to the greatest monument is based upon experience, and experience, if only a second old, is necessarily the past. The scientist, for example, discovers a new serum. vVould this have been possible unless there had been earlier failures? Perhaps. It would have been a first and at the same time a successful attempt. Assume this is true. VI/ould it not also be true that there was an ill from which this cure arose? Further regression is needless; the answer is always evident. Man is depend- 23 ent upon the past. History deals with man. The rei n lies its future. To the typical practical man and his typical statement I would pose one question. \Vhat is it that makes him desire these purely material gains? Is it not a yearning to be like someone else he has known? Perhaps not. If not, then it must be a desire to be different from s 0 m eon e else. vVhichever should be the case, his decision is dependent upon hi~. past, upon his history. To him I would point out that his future is also dependent upon history. I would point out that in arguing a g a ins t history he is only strengthening the grounds upon which it stands. He must prove history in order to disprove it. Finally, I should stress the fact that if man is to have a future, then history is to have a future. ODE II, XIV Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume, labuntur anni, nec pi etas moram rugis et instauti. senectae adferet indomitaeque morti ; non, si trecenis, quotquot eunt dies, am ice, places inlacrimabilem Plutona tauris, qui ter amplum Geryonem Tit yon que tristi compescit unda, scilicet omnibus, quicumque terrae munere vescimur, . enaviganda, sive reges sive inopes erimus coloni. Frustl-a cruento Marte carebimus fractisque rauci fluctibus Hadriae, frustra per autumnos nocentem . corporibus metuemus Austrum: visendus ater flumine languido Cocytus errans et Danai genus in fame damnatusque longi Sisyphus Aeolides labori s. Linquenda tellus et domus et placens uxor, neque harum, quas colis, arborum te praeter invisas cupressos ulla brevem dominum seq uetur. Absumet heres Caecuba dignior servata centum clavibus et mero tinguet pavimentum superbo pontificum potiore cenis. HORACE INEVITABLE DEATH Alas, Postumus, years glide swiftly past, Nor will a righteous life impending age suspend; Inchoate wrinkles have their place at last, Nor can worthy deeds delay man's final end; And neither will prodigious bribes and tricks, The fateful ire of stern Pluto deflect, vVho, in his dungeon by the gloomy Styx, Keeps Geryon and Tityos ever checked. To all who may rejoice in nature's gifts, It was determined in the Heav'nly plan, That each across that morbid river drifts, Be he the highest prince or lowly husbandman. In vain from gory battle do we flee, And from the deep replete with raucous waves; To no avail we tremble fearfully vVhen South-\-Vind with its boundless fury raves. Gloomy Cocytus flowing ceaselessly, \Ve all must see who pass this earthly way, Vile Danaus' daughters fraught with infamy, Bold Sisyphus toiling ever night and day. Forsaking earth and home and darling wife, Each man must meet his destiny alone, \Vithout the trees he's tended all through life, Except the cypress with its hateful moan. The choicest wine, saved by a hundred keys By order of the master in his day, Now flows full freely as the heir decrees, More precious far than regal feasts display. MARY ANN DEITER, 25 '62 C~st L ove i;S life; love is hope. \ Vitho ut love there is aiml essness, emptiness. L ove is as steadfast as the constant star, As soothing as blu e ,vavelets caress ing the sand. L ove is sam eness ; love is differ ence. It is something for each ; something fo r all. 26 vVhat is love for an infant? It is security, contentment. It does not give ; it is. \Vhat is love for a child? It is understanding, sharing. It takes its first faltering footsteps. \~That is love for an adult? It is deep, coursing. It remains always, because it lives on in another. Complete love is death, union with the God of Love. It is peace, sublimity. Love is Life, filling and overflowing. It is most precious, for with love, anything, every thing- is possible. MARILYN BECK) )60 27 I was dogging slowly along the slick, rain-soaked streets, letting the pale, yellow glow of the street lights soak into my foggy brain. Somewhere in back of me a low humming dri fted through the fine rain and added to my melancholy. I wanted a cigarette to warm my cold, thin body; I wanted some gin to set Illy stomach on fire and rot my guts out - but I didn't want to die! Oh, my God, I didn't want to die! But I was going to, for out of the night the hum grew to a rumble, and then to a roar, filling my head with its crescendo. A nd as I spun around, two shiny orbs sliced through the pale fnist, fixing themselves squarely on my chest and blinding me with their brilliance. I saw only a peculiar hood ornanlent and heard the roar of a pmvedul engine as the speeding car slapped me to the pavement. Pretty stars and purple lights, a roar between my ears that drowned everything and th en nothing for a long, long time. I was Boating Boating above my cold, stiff body lying there on the rain-soaked street with the pale, yellow lights glowing dimly. They stood like s i len t pallbearers, the only 28 mourners at my funeral as the rain played gently in the red puddle near my head. I felt no pain, not even pity, for the thin body lying twisted and broken, clothed in a tan trenchcoat and dirty, dark tweeds. I was alive-but how could I be? I don't know-I should have been dead, for I could see my body and somehow I knew that it was dead. A nd yet, I lived; but this did not amaze me-it seemed nat u r a I, as though it had to be. Even then I could see the small headlines tucked away in some remote corner of the thick Dctrot Times: "Unidentified Man Struck Down. " In a few disinterested w 0 r d s, s 0 m e young reporter would go on to tell how the man had been struck, apparently by a hit-andrun driver, how he bore no identification, and how thel-e Once aAlg ain had been no witnesses on that wet night. " No witnesses," did it say? Oh, but there were after all, I was a witness, and I was judge and jury also; my verdict was GUILTY. I turned away from my body and laughed a soft, hollow laugh. I knew something had to be clone and only I could do it. How did I know? I just did - instinctively, you might say. Silently I rose above the cold, stone city and searched I searched the streets, I searched the alleys, I searched the outskirts of the city, and I found it. Quiet now in the fine rain, it did not look like the killer it was. But it was a killer, for it was black with that peculiar hood ornament ; the powerful engine \vas still now, but it had killed earlier that evening. Patiently, with the infinite patience of the dead, I waited 29 - waited for him. At last he emerged from the bar, staggering drunkenly, weaving unsteadily toward his car. He climbed in, grasped the wheel, turned on the ignition, and the engine roared to life. Powerful lights cut the mist, and the big black car leaped into the deserted street, speeding faster, racing wildly through the night, trying to outrun the darkness. N ow was the time. Silently I dri fted down to the street and stood on the rain-soaked pavement, not feeling the fine, cold rain this time. The brilliant lights fixed themselves on my chest, and once again the black car raced toward me, engine roaring. But this time my laughter drowned out all else and I saw the look of horror on his face as the car slammed through me and went skidding off the pavement, careening, careening wildly, the lights weaving crazy patterns in the black night. I heard him scream once-only once, and then there was only the sound of fine rain on the pavement. Somewhere across the stone city, lying on a wet street under pale yellow streetlights, a twisted body in a soaked trenchcoat and dirty tweeds smiled once more and died. FATHERHOOD Spoken 'vV ord of Truths unheard; Obedient, dependant Son of Parentage Omnipotent. From depths, the cry. Full time is nigh, Eternal Rhetorician. Song of His Hands, 'vVord, Beautiful, Race justified. Emmanuel. SISTER 30 ?d. MONA) O. S. F. )60 The Perpetual Magnet BYRON MURRAY) 31 '63 32 The cries of anxiety and fear tear at my heart and I cry, "No God, it is too great for me, I can not stand the pain of being human. I can not suffer the retribution of my sins." Run, run. I must. I will leave my body and hide my soul. My heart screams, my entrails bellow, my eyes bleed, and my soul shudders. Hide, hide; I must. I will speed into the forest and disappear. The bramble bush of lightning fury follows me and screams to me within itself, "You fool, you foo l, you think you can esc ape my wrath." The bramble bush fades into the night, and as it leaves I hear it laugh at me and make faces. I cry out to God, "God, God, I i1ate you. " I spit upon Him and say, "You have done this to me, 0 God. You have made me ache and burn inside. You have made me human and I am weak. You whom I hate, make me a dog and then I can live; then the fire and screaming inside me will end." God looks at me and tears fall from His eyes. He touches my lowly body with His strong and sensitive hands and says, "Oh, my son, my poor son, don't reproach me, your God. Don't you know I could strike 33 you dead with a thought? I love you in an unfathomable way. I offer you the world of tomorrow - of contentment; love Me and taste of it." God bends down and kisses my soul. I cry to Him of forgiveness and draw back the spit I have cast upon Him. God forgives me, for He is Love. Again I cry but my tears do not burn; my soul does not ache. My tears go outside and inside of me and fall upon my sou l. soothing it and making it content. To the light, to the light I m u s t go. Oh, how beauti ful it is; how good it feels to my being. Now I can exist; everything has meaning. My body and soul are together again. My entrails no longer bellow, my eyes no longer bleed, and my soul no longer shudders. I have fallen to the ground and God has picked me up. I shout upward, "0 God, I love you." As I say this, I wonder why I say it; then I remember that I say it because I must, because I must. I know that someday I will fall again but My God will be there to pick me up and kiss my soul if only I have love for Him. God will do this; God has power, is Power, has love, is Love. Smoke clouded the room, the jukebox blared out from the corner, the steady bouncing of a ping-pong ball was hypnotic. But the two college men, deeply engrossed in conversation were obli vious to all other sounds except their own voices. "Hey, we having a test in comp class?" "I hope not! \!\1hy?" "Thought I'd cut. Got a big math test after that, and I didn't have time to study. " "Good idea. Think I will too. I'm pretty sure I've got another cut left. " "Mayas well take it now . Only another week left. " "Yeah. Got a c i gar e t t e ? Thanks. I don't know how I'll eyer pass those finals next week. I just don 't have the time to study. " "Boy, you know it. All that jazz about college being nothing but fun is really 'way off." "You s aid it! Got any ca rd s?" "Yeah. Hey, :Mike, Joe! How about a couple hands of bridge? Oh. ' No Time for Studying DEANN A METZNER, 34 '62 "Those two are really characters. Studying all the time! There's only two hours left before lunch. Heck, it takes that much time just getting settled to study. They'll never get anything finished !" supper, and then we played pinnocle for a while-gotta relax someti'Jille t' iCy ou know, what we need around here is unlimited cuts. The guys at State don't have to show up for anything except exams. " "Yeah, with all that studying and classes and stuff, you need a little exercise. I mean, being cooped inside isn't healthy /" "Y ou really got something there! That way we'd really have time to study. I mean, consider what we have to do in a day." "Yeah, yesterday for instance. I got up at 8 :45, Spanish at 9, history' at 10, lunch at 11 ; chemistry at 12, and then the baseball game ... " "Sure, a guy has to support his oWn team, doesn't he?" "Right! Then I had to go to 35 "Sure !" "Then we went swimming "Right! By then I only had three hours to get ready for today's classes, and you know you can't do all that in three hours. But a guy has to sleep sometime!" "I just don't see how it can be done. There just isn't enough time to do everything. And then the pro f s think all we do is goof around. That's what really tees me off !" "Yeah! Hey! I'm late for my math class! \iVhere does the time go ?" The Secret of Happiness An old man told me one fine day, "Happiness is just a mile away. Greet everyone with a pleasant smile, Then you 'll never walk a lonely mile." All thtCough my life his words have guided me. I use the old man's recipe, By greeting everyone I see vVith a smile that seems to say, "Isn't it a fine. fine day?" FRANCIS ROTTET) 36 '60  ...

... THE FIORETTI I I VOLUME XVI NUMBER 1 Indianapolis, Indiana 1958-1959 AN ANTHOlOGY OF MARIAN COlLEGE PROSE AND VERSE THE STAFF Editor-in-Chief Sylvia Johnson, '59 Assistant Editors Sue Farney, '61 James Jenks, '60 Judy Parrish, '60 Ruth Ramsdell, '59 Elaine Thomas, '60 Lay Out Sylvia Johnson, '59 Rose Chan, '59 CONTENTS Articles Joyce and Dedalus: Enigmatics 4 Louise Diver The Star of Balliol 26 James Jenks Such a Fine Day 38 Bernard Dever Fiction A Spring Day in Watkins 9 Richard Simko Excerpts from a Diary 18 Ei leen C. Sm ith Mis-Step 21 Normalie Richards Too High a Price 29 Rose Chan .It Might Have Happened 34 Loretta Staab Death-Without Honor? 42 Peggy Delaney Poetry Conformity 8 Ruth Ramsdell Distorted Vision 8 Ruth Ramsdell Fool 17 Jim T. O'Donnell This Morning 25 Marguerite Branday I Am All Things Great 33 Philip Allen God's Amazing World 37 Brenda Hopper Une Priere 44 Rose Chan J D o E y c E A N D D A s: In his autobiographical novel, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, J ames Joyce sketches a "luminously clear" picture of the artist, Stephen Dedalus. But a readin g of the Portra'it raises the question, how clear is " luminously clear" when we are peering into the mind, soul and very being of another person. Fascinated and enlightened about hi s character, perhaps, we can still only fali back dismayed and exclaim, as novelist Joseph Conrad did, " how incomprehensible, wavering and misty are the beings that share with us the sight of the stars and the warmth of the E N I G M A T I C s LO UISE DIVER, 4 '59 sun." vVhy, these other human beings are at least as baffling as ourselves! Clear as a dark cloud they are. How do I understand James Joyce? vVhat do I make of the young artist, Stephen Dedalus? First, I will have to say that I have considered the novel autobiographical and use the names of Joyce and the Portrait's artist, Stephen Dedalus, interchangeably here. There are disagreements among J oycean acquaintances as to how clearly Stephen's consciousness reflects Joyce's own, and I disqualify myself from that controversy. Perhaps a re-reading of the Portrait and subsequent enjoyment of the author's other works and readings about Joyce will change my opinions, but presently I offer this tentative analysis of the enigmatic James Joyce, as he reveals himself in the enigmatic Stephen Dedalus, opinions based chiefly on his reaction toward things Catholic. Joyce, as H. G. vVells has said, was an undisciplined genius. His genius enabled him to perceive the spiritual significance of events, sayings, scenes. His genius intoxicated him with the beauty of words; therefore. he recorded his perceptions so artistically as to intoxicate also his readers. His flair for words makes reading him twice seem necessary: once for the sheer pleasure of drinking in words and a second for reaching their meanmg. But the genius of Stephen Dedalus stopped short of convincing him that discipline itself was reasonable, for Joyce was and remained a rebel, a nonconformist, at home and at school, in his country and in his Church. He was and remained solitary in sin, and he repented alone. Ego-centric and selfcentered (someone said unsufferably so) Joyce remained. What mattered to Stephen Dedalus was Stephen Dedalus and Stephen Dedalus was not about to be subjected to the discipline of the Jesuits nor to the Church. In rejecting Catholicism, he did not claim ignorance; he simply said ((non serviam." So I would presume to say that Joyce's refusal to serve was due to a sort of ignorance of the very core of that religion which he rejected, for among its messages Catholicism surely has this one: the most confining prison is a selfish life. Joyce appears to have thought that Catholicism hampered his freedom of thought, artistry, movement. I claim, and claim no originality for paraphrasing an unremembered French au- of thei r own f ree, mighty w ill and do the will of another . No wonder that-ex teriorly -the religious all looked alike, walked alike, talked, and , J oyce imagined, thought alike. They had been reduced by a common denominator : love of God . But even t he judgment J oyce passed on them they bore willingly. That willingness to be " j ust another of the religious" was also part of their self-effacement. It is hard for a non-conformi st to understand such selflessness. J oyce seemed also to think that the life of a priest was dull , routine, sterile. In a way, I cannot understand why he thought so for he had exciting intellectual pursuits and hi s exper ience of the remorse and deadening of sin had surely di sillusioned him somewhat about a worldly life. W hat made him think that spiritual activities, prayer , meditation, the ministrations of the priesthood would be sterile? He thought prying into and r ecording on paper hi s own soul's state was something worthwhile or he would not have written Portrait. D ealing with soul s is the business of the priesth ood. Did he think that the creatures artists begot on paper, canvas, stringed instruments or in the fl esh would outlive the goodness, purity, generosity, charity thor, that it is freedom which enchains us and law which sets us free. But this truth can only be realized by giving it an honest try. P erhaps J oyce could be accused, with the r est of us, of not having given Christianity a f ull try; and never having tried it, there remained some deficiency in hi s under standing o f it . A s examples, I cite J oyce' s concepts o f obedience and of the priesthood, both of which seem reactions to the Jesuitical environment surrounding him as a young arti st. F or all hi s intellectuality, interior mu sings and r everies, J oyce seems to have fail ed to perceive that. the J esuits were 'striving to be obedient religious and devout pri ests because they loved Someone more than themsel yes. \iVhat did their love ask of them ? Or wh at is love ? There is in love at least this : a desire to be united to and conformed in some way to the beloved fo r the well-being of the beloved. There is a surrender o f self involved. Thi s element of love made these lovers of God willing to sacrifice natural pleasures and choose celibacy; willing to g ive up worldly goods and share a common , meagre supply; willing to sacrifice that supreme human good, the use 6 ing, attractive? James Joyce's intellect, his saturation in Catholicism appeal to me. I admire and desire his gemus with words and his powers to reveal himself interiorly. Here again, though, it occurs to me that he is undisciplined. He uses words not only to convey thoughts but to evoke moods, feelings, sensations, desires, without the words h a v i n g carried the thought to go with them. Is there in this a sort of perversion comparable to our present advertising campaign's psychological attack to get theater patrons to "buy popcorn"? My admiration and appreciation for Joyce moves me to inquire further. vVas he not, in rejecting Catholicism, rejecting the "hand which fed him"? \Vould Joyce have been anything without it? Surely, the Portrait could not have been. Finally, I ask, successful author that Joyce was (on the outside looking in), what would have been his greatness had he been inside the pale of love? Would a Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man, after Joyce had endured the personal trials, humiliations and sufferings which he did, have shown a tempered and mellowed-sweetly soul, the same soul which was so sensitive and untamed in youth? those blackrobed zealots begot in the spirit? Joyce seemed not to have had any concept of spiritual fatherhood. He was on the outside of love, looking in, and love never quite makes sense unless one is in love. vVhat Joyce rejected and refused to serve was not the Church nor the Jesuits, but the Church and the Jesuits as Joyce understood them. His intellect was over-developed; his powers of loving and giving had not been allowed to add the unique understanding which they alone can provide. Somehow, an integral man attains the "happy medium" where the inteilect moves the heart to love, and love urges the intellect to understand anew. Perhaps if it were better for one to outdistance the other, the foremost should be the heart. St. Thomas, whose intellectual attainments hardly anyone questions, said at the end of his career that all his tomes of theology were like so much straw; what he had learned, he said, he had learned at the foot of a cross where L 0 v e had sacrificed itself. Joyce's famous " epiphanies" remained,in the intellectual order; they needed to be applied also to the heart. Do I respect Stephen DedaIus? Admire him ? Is he appeal7 c o N F o R M I T Y Fingers once pliable, now hold me fast I struggle from their grasp Beg for escape The while fearfully praying Is this the human race? Judging by color, race, and creed, God !-that I may never be one of these. Conformity, unbind me, let loose your hold, Release me from this unbearable mold. Choking, gasping, wrenching from those hands I struggle I plead Help me ! Help me! Give me YOUR hand. DISTORTED VISION Lady of distinction with your "savoir faire" Sophisticated, stylish, possesssing airs Long have you labored for a polished veneer Sacrificing all that you've ever held dear At last you've attained it, this sought-after goal, And now you're free - So act your queenly role. But do you not know, your throne is of sand? Your sceptre can be taken by one unwrinkled hand? You wonder, you question, am I telling the truth? Yes, you've lost it forever, the power of Youth. Ruth Ramsdell, '59 8 a spring day In RICHARD SIMKO, '60 Horace Barrett was a mildmannered man of forty-two. His one hundred and eighty pounds were distributed mostly in the middl e of a five ootseven inch frame. His chubby appearance, added to an ever r eady smile and a pair of sparkling blue eyes, gave him the appearance of a beardless Santa Claus that people almost always took a liking to on initial contact. H orace was a family man. W hat the folks in any littl e town would call a " home-body. " His charming w ife and three children adored him. He was a fa ithful church-goer, a credit to hi s community, and one o f the best sal esmen working for the A merican Salt Company. No one would ever think of Horace as an evil man. It was near noon as Horace swung hi s two-year-old Ford onto the main street of the bustling little community o f vVat- Watkins kins. He had decided to eat dinner before starting his calls to the grocers. The town was beginning to stir as the simple folk of 'W atkins prepared for the noon hour break. Noone paid any attention to Horace o r hi s car as he pulled into a vacant parking space near a likelylooking cafe. Stepping out of the car, Horace took a deep breath of air, stretched his tired legs, dropped a coin in the parking meter, and leisurely stroll ed up the street to the cafe. It was the first time he had ever been to the town, and he casually surveyed the buildings and the people as he walked. Horace Barrett liked what he saw. He entered the cafe and sat down at the counter. The diner wasn't very crowded because it was not yet noon. Always good to beat the crowds and not have to put up with the pushing and shoving in the rush. Horace Barrett avoided crowds whenever possible, fo r hi s size and shape made it a little difficult for him to hold his own. He smiled at the counter man when he came to take the order. "Good afternoon to you, sir," Horace offered affably. The man looked at Horace with the innate distrust and suspicion that a small town resident has fo r a stranger. "Howdy, " he answered curtly. Then as an afterthough t, he added, " Still ;l1ornin'." Horace glanced at the silver wrist watch on hi s tanned arm and smiled. "So it is. So it is. " The man failed to see anything to be smiling about and said nothing else in the way of conversati on as he took the order and shuffled off. He slid the piece of paper through a window , stared once at Horace, then sat down in a chair and picked up the morning paper . At the same time, another resident of \i\!atkins was picking up the morning paper. Delbert P lews was fifty-two years old and a bachelor. I-lis eyes were never still. They constantly flitted from one place to another, from one side of the room to the other. This was partially because Delbert had bad eyes and had difficulty seeing objects on either side of him . Doctor Meadows had said something or oth er about peripheral vision , but it meant nothing to Delbert but a hi gh fallutin word. He owned a pair of glasses, but pride wouldn't allow him to wea r them in public. H e ran his hand nervotlsly through his thinning hair and glanced quickly about the room before he sat down with the paper. Delbert had been scared as long as he could remember. H is father scared him with beatings; the farm an imals scar ed him because of their size and appearance; marriage scared him because of the responsibiliti es; onl y the coaxing of his brother \ i\!ilbur had enticed him to go into the grocery business with him. Delbert P lews put on his glasses and read the headlines of the morning paper: TEENAGE WATKINS GIRL RA VISHED ! Even th at scared him although he had no earthly reason to be afraid. Delbert read the whole story carefully until he knew all the detail s. The lurid crime fas cinated him; the 10 into the spring sunshine. The street was still crowded with folks hurrying to and from their lunches, doing some quick shopping, or just out for a stroll. Horace glanced at the headlines describing the sex crime, read part of it, then turned to the sports section to see how the major league pennant races were progressing. He had no place in particular to go and fell behind a young boy and girl walking down the sidewalk with their arms about each other's waists. Horace folded the paper and slipped it under his arm as he came to the corner and waited for the red light to change to green. The boy said good-by to the girl and told her that he would pick her up that night at the appointed time. They were facing one another , the girl backing into the street with the green light. Something-Horace never knew what - made him look up the street at that moment. He hadn't seen or heard anything, but he had sensed what was happening. In a moment, the whole scene flashed into Horace's brain. The girl, waving farevvell to her boy friend, backing into the street; an old red pickup truck obviously coming too fast to stop for the light; the parked thought of the man running about loose frightened him; the moral injustice of the act aroused righteous indignation in him. Something ought to be done about it. But what? \VeIl, he'd run down and talk to his friend, Chief of Police Dexter, about it. He might even learn some more about the crime. Delbert removed his glasses, placed them in the leather case, and slipped them out of sight in his desk drawer. He pulled on a jacket for fear that he would catch cold in the nippy May weather and went outside, locking the door behind him. He climbed into his old pick-up truck and went rattling down the street. .Horace Barrett had eaten his meal in silence, conscious of the curious stares and questioning glances of the diners who came straggling into the cafe after twelve o'clock. Having gone through this before in other towns of comparable size, he sympathized with the people. Feeling that possibly a friendly gesture would thaw the icy composure of the surly counter man, Horace left a fifty cent tip under his plate. He merely gave the man a friendly smile when he paid his bill. He picked up a paper, dropped a nickel in the coin slot and "ialked back out 11 left eye to the hairline, and his senses were dulled by the fo rce of the blow, but he was conscious. Later, he remembered thinking at the time that his wife would have been proud of him had she seen his heroic deed. Horace Barrett was a hero. He had saved a girl's iife. Delbert P lews had never really known what fear was until he suddenly saw the obese form catapult at the girl and strike the front of his truck. He was too frightened to even think of running away. He hadn't seen the red light. He hadn't seen the girl. He had only seen the man when it was too late. He had run a red light. He had narrowly missed a young girl. He had struck a man. A man who wasn't moving and who very obviously was bleeding profusely all over the street. They put you in jail for that. Even the electric chair. Delbert Plews knew real fear for the first time in his li fe. People suddenly gathered like buzzards around carrion. Suddenly over the buzz of excited voices, an idea came to Delbert P lews. The man lying in the street was dead. Noone seemed to know what had happened. T he story in the newspaper returned vividly to hi s panicky mind. Someone was shaking car by the curb, obstructing the girl from view until the driver would be upon her when she stepped from behind it. Without a moment's thought or hesitation, Horace Barrett knew what he had to do. And he did it. He was pudgy, awkward and clumsy, but his body functioned from necessity. He pivoted, took one step and huried his body through the , air towards the g irl and struck her with his outstretched hands in the small of the back. The girl had been in the process of turning around with her back to the truck when Horace leaped. She was off balance and the force of his leap carried her from out of the path of. the truck. She hit the pavement in the middle of the street, scraping the skin from her left arm and leg, and tearing the dress at the hip. She screamed as she struck the pavement, causing heads to turn. A t that same moment, the front of the truck caught Horace Barrett broadside, knocking him through the air for twenty feet. He hit the street, seemed to bounce once, then rolled over three or four times before he stopped. His suit was torn in several places and his right arm was broken and bleeding. His forehead had a three-inch slice running diagonaIIy from his 12 him. It was Sam Mitchell, the barber. "What happened, Delbert? What happened?" Delbert took a deep breath and dove in. "It's him. The rapist. I saw him springing at the girl as I came down the street. There was a red light but I went through it to try and stop him. He's the one all r ight. " Several people had noticed the rapid movement of Horace and the girl, and hastily backed up the story. "Yes, sir, I seen him. vVaited on the corner. \Vhen she turned her back-wham-he jumped on her." The counter man had rushed out when he noticed the crowd at the corner. He added his bit. "I noticed hini. acting funny in the restaurant. Seemed too friend ly and all to suit me. Probably one of them fell as what holds it back for awhile, then just breaks loose." More and more the talk went in this line. More and more people gathered. More and more sure they were of what had happened. The girl was still too dazed to know what had happened. Her boy friend had seen what had happened and returned to her side. Slowly he helped her away from the babbling crowd and up the street to the doctor 's office. A ll of this time the object of the talk was lying alone on the street. The incongruity of a man attacking a girl at a busy intersection never occurred to them. Slowly, Horace regained his wits, and tried to raise himself up. At the movement, the crowd noticed him, and, realizing he was alive after all, suddenly quieted. The counter man yelled. "He's alive. Come on boys." The weak pathetic movement he made as he struggled to raise himself fanned the smoldering rage of the crowd to a burning flame. "He's the one that butchered that poor girl last night." "Attacked E loise right here on the street." "Somebody call Chief D exter. " "N ever you mind. VI/ e can handle this." "How do you know he did it ?" "Delbert P lews saw him after E loise Jenkins, and hit him with the truck." "VI/ e ought to kick his head . " 111 . "I noticed him in the cafe. Looked mighty sneaky-like to t11e. " A ring of human flesh surrounded Horace Barrett as he lay in the street, not yet compre13 one here. To whom could he go for protection? The police ~ \!\There were they ? He looked around him . They were shouting and pushing. He had to get away fro m th em. \IVhere ? Anywhere. Run. Run. Run. RUN. His good left arm slammed into the man in front of him, and th e man ch-opped. Hi s legs churn ed. A woman reached out and grabbed hi111. He brought hi s heel violently on her toes and she relinqui shed her hold. He bowled another man over as he crashed into him. RUN. The majority of th e crowd was stunned by this sudden burst of action , and failed to move as they watched him break aw ay and go scurryi ng up the street. "Let's go get him, " a man yelled, "we cant iet that rapist get away." As though they were one mobile force, the mob started moving, gathering speed as they pursued the hunted man down the street. He felt no pain from the arm now, but he had to keep wiping the flowing blood fro m his eyes. H e could hear the mob screaming behind him, and he pushed his churning legs a little harder. Storekeeper s, hearing the commotion the mob was making, came out to see what was happening. Horace slowed as he neared a hardware store. hending what was happening around him. He got his good arm under him and tri ed to push up. "Help me," he cried weakly. A man 's fo ot shot from the ring, catching him in the armpit, and he felt a wave of pain engulf his body as he crashed to the pavement. \ iVith t his encouragement, several more feet kicked him in the face, chest and groin. Some of the feet had high-h eeled ladies shoes on them. D elbert P lews froze as he watched the atrocity before hi s eyes. It was now too late to admit that he had made a mi stake. P ushing the blame on a dead man was one thing; this was quite differently another. . Horace Barrett "vas j erked to his feet, and the broken a rm hanging at an odd angle sent spasms of nau sea into his stomach and he vomited on hi s suit, the people. A fist came flyin g at him, but only caught him a glancing blow. H owever, it seemed to snap him to his senses. These people didn't like him. They hated him. For what? They meant to do him bodily injury when he already was in need of medical attention. W hy ? His mind raced. The r ealization came to him that he would have to get away. Quickly. \!\There? He knew no 14 The owner rushed out and, hearing the shouts of the mob, attempted to stop him. Horace scooped up a garden hose, and, as the owner came at him, he swung the hose, the steel nozzle catching the man full in the mouth. He screamed and fell backwards, blood gushing from the hole in his face, where his front teeth used to be. Racing around the corner, he saw an old blind woman in his path. She turned at the noise of running feet. He had no time to argue over right-of-way. His hancl hit her in the chest, knocking her with a rattle of aged bones to the ground. Pencils and pennies went flying, scattering over the sidewalk. As she groped for her life's possessions on her hands and knees, the 1110b rounded the corner. The first few tried to get out of the way. But the woman was trampled under the stampeding hoofs of senseless robots with no thought but to avenge the cleath and honor of one of their townspeople. Horace Barrett was the trapped animal now. He looked for any avenue of escape. He was fast losing his energy. He knew he couldn't go much longer. He saw an old barn down at the end of an alley. That would have to be it. He could go ~10 farther. Maybe he could reason with these people. Find out why they were chasing him. Maybe they would leave and he could sneak out after nightfall. He staggered through the barn door and shut it. As he slid the crossbar in place he heard the mob turn the corner into the alley. They knew where he was hiding! What difference did it make? Dismissing the thought, he quickly checked to make sure all the other exits were locked. Maybe he could wait them out. Then came the angry shouting, the garbled threats through the thick wooden doors, the pounding and beating on the doors. Horace Barrett sat down on a musty bale of hay. \1\1hy? Why? Why? He looked at his wa tch. One-thirteen. \,Vas that all the later it was? Twentyeight minutes before he had just performed the most heroic act of his entire life. Endangered his own life to save the life of the young girl. And now this people, this mob, was after him with blood in their eyes. Maybe I can talk with them. He staggered slowly to the cioor, holding his right arm which was beginning to throb. "Please," he yelled at the din outside, "let me talk to you. I haven't done anything. \I\ihy are you chasing me?" 15 A roar of vengeance went up as they heard his voice f rom inside. Then a yell of triumph as though th ey were cheering. He continued shouting to them, but he might as well have shouted at the wind . That was w hen he smelled smoke. He looked around frantically, but couldn't find the source. Then he saw it. The roof. They had set fi re to the roof. They really did intend to kill him. The magnitude of th e thought startled him . H e was goin g to perish at their hands. And he would probably never know why. The roof was blazing now. The barn was old and dry. It would burn easily and quickly. The boar ds from the roof fell and i'gnitecl the hay on the floor. He could hear them jeering. They were all yei lin g for him to corne out. A ll but one. Delbert P lews stood staring in horrified fasci nation at the thing which he had wrought. The smoke was so thick that 1-1OJ'ace could no longer stand it. Some of the embers from the roo f fe ll around him and the Iny i1l1medi ately blazed. Horace knew that he had to get out or the barn then or burn to death. As he macle his way across th e floor, th e burning hay set fire to his clothes. He ran as best he coule! to the huge doors and unbarred them . As tll\: door s opened, hi s clothing burst into fl ame. His face contorted with pain; he screamed and ran out of th e barn. He stumbl ed twenty feet from the barn and fell at the feet of hi s tormentors. They backed away, cringing f rom the sight of the flaming man and smell of burning flesh. The old wooden barn from which he had emerged like an avenging demon from H ades became an i 11 ferno and collapsed with an earth-shuddering crash . Exactly forty-four minutes a fter the highest moment in hi s li fe, Horace Barrett died at the h:l11ds of a mob. Like an apparition, E loise and her boy fr iend appeared in fro nt of the crow cl. The lad looked at the scene around him, wild-eyed. "\Vhat are you doing? 'W hat have you done ?" he screamed, A man placed hi s hand on the boy's shoulder. "Son, you'll be glad to know we've done away with the man who raped that girl last ni ght and attacked your g irl today. It' s a fittin' end fo r the likes of him, I say," "You're all crazy!" he bellowed, "I saw what happened, He saved E loise from getting hit by the truck. He saved her life! A nd Chief Dexter said they caught that rapi st fellO\\' 16 over at Bear Lake this morning around ten o'clock. You've i

... THE FIORETTI VOLUME XVI NUMBER 2 Indianapolis, Indiana 1958-1959 AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE THE STAFF Editor-in-Chief James Jenks, '60 Assistant Editors Peggy Delaney, '60 Sue Farney, '61 J.udy Parrish, '60 Elaine Thomas, '60 Art Mary lou Szuter, '61 CONTENTS ESSAYS The First Driving Lesson 4 Charles Robinson My "Two" Sisters 6 Mary Alice Chance Science in the Coffee Cup 12 Bill Logan Jerry 13 Betty McWilliams The Brothers 16 Sylvia Johnson Not Only Paul 24 Peggy Delaney A Brief Analysis 26 James Jenks The Cat and the Canary 29 Louise Divel- Long Distance, Please 40 Judy Wehrmeister The Voice from the Stairs 43 Louise Diver SHORT STORIES Dange rous Precedent 9 The Intruder 30 Louise Diver Rose Chan POEMS The Challe nge 8 Ambitions 15 Mary Lou Szuter The Retreat of the Beats 22 James T. O'Do nnell Snow Scene 28 Mike Welsh Man 38 Rebert D. Jackson I Thirst 44 Ruth Ramsdell Nancy Zore There comes a time in every young man's life that usually causes the first major break in parent-son relations. It comes with the desire to drive the family car. Johnny, our budding young d;iver, usually breaks the ice with a subtle approach as this: "Dad, all the guys are getting cars to drive to school, and I was wondering . . ." "We only live two blocks, J01111, and you can walk!" "But, Dad ' I need a car," John retaliated: "What for?" John had violated a lawyer's first rule: never decoy yoursel f into a question for which you don't have an answer. His only alternative was to stalk out of the room in order to show his father he had so many uses for a car that the question was too obvious to answer. John let his father think about it . for a while, for our boy is too clever to keep pressing the point with his father. He took the line of least resistance which all sixteen-yearolds will do. John's line of least resistance was forty-two years old, had black hair with a touch of grey, and the apple of her eye was her one and only son, John, a 4 The First Driving Lesson CHARLES ROBINSON, '62 fact that the latter relied on tremendously. Several days after speaking to Dad, John reverted his attack to his mother. "Mom, you know I'll be sixteen in two more weeks and I was wondering if ... " "Son, we can't afford to buy you a car. VVe just don't have the money." Boy, she cut me off. I've got to think, John thought. Then it struck him. ,. How about you letting me drive your car ?" "vVe'll see," was all she said, but John knew he had won. \Vhen any mother says "\i\1e'Jl see," she might as well say "O.K." In a few weeks occurred the grfMest event in any si xtf'ellyear-old's life. Johnny W:lS going out to driv e. Visualize the scene: Mothei- standll1g ill the driveway firing instructions 10 hoth of them: father and SOil. hear because he is wondering when Dad is going to let him have the wheel and Dad doesn't hear because he is wishing he were home watching the basketball game on television. Finally, the moment arrives. \ Ve are now fifteen miles from l1owhere, out among the sheltering pines and Johnny is adj l1sting himself behind the w heel. Good old John, with all the contidence of sixteen years, promptly turns the ignition key, presses the accelerator and the roar of the engine is music to his ears. After putting the car i 11 gear and assuring Mother, for the seventeenth time, that he'll be careful, he begins to release the clutch which will send him and his two passengers sailing down the road. There is a sudden jolt, thel1 another, and then silence. Dad informs J ohnny needlessly: .oN ow be careful and look bo~h w,~ys and don't go fast and ... . "I'll be careful. Mom," was the reassuring reply. "Yes, dear," answered Dad \vith the favorite cliche of henpecked husbands. She looked at both of them a nd then said: "Wait a minute while I get my coat. I'm going too." She had to protect her prodigy from the wrath of Dad, although she had never driven a day in her life. Now the three of them are moving down a country road. Mother is still firing words of caution which Johnny doesn't "You've killed it," which is an idiomatic expression meaning that if we had a newer car instead of this old rattle-trap (three years old) it wouldn't have died on us. By this time Mother is near hysterics and Dad uses the incident as a good excuse to hurry back to catch the second half of the game. Thus ends John's first driving lesson. 5 "c-r -Jwo 11 S isters MARY ALICE CHANCE, Why did she do it? She was such a popillar girl in high .school, always so active and happy. vVhat makes a young girl like this one join a religious order, especially just after graduation? \i\1hy didn't she want the exciting life of a college . student instead of the Ii fe of a religious behind gray convent walls? As I sat in the drab parlor of the convent, all these questions, and many more flashed through my mind. It was visiting day and the first time we, our family, had seen my sister for three months . Listening to her talk , I began to recall the happy days of OUf '62 childhood. She is the older Iw two years, and we are, I suppose, typical sisters. Oh, we had our arguments and fights and spankings, but she was always there when I needed her. Maybe she spoiled me ; she certainly pampered me, for no matter what happened, she was there to build up my hopes, to share my joys, to wipe away my tears. As the years passed, \'v'e grew up together. And only one who has or has had an older sister can begin to realize the fun we had. \ i\1 e wore each other' s clothes, arranged each other's hair, plucked each other's eyebrows, and did all the other 6 characteristics enabled her to be a good Catholic girl, and finally gave her the strength to follow her vocation. wonderful things that life allows girls to do-only we did them together. It seems so long ago, yet I remember distinctly the magical night of my first formal dance. I attended only after my sister's continued insistance. She let me wear her formal and applied all the finishing touches to my appearance. She was a friend. a comforter, a confessor; but mainly, she was a big sister. A nd because she means so much to me I would like to share her with everyone. Her faith is like a daisy, delicate and yet stalwart. Even though a Catholic high school education was denied her. she lived ' her religion in h~r school life and in her associations with her fellow stuclents. Hope fil1s her whole life as the sweet scent of roses fil1 s the room where they stand. Li fe is 110t an easy thing and she had her bad days, too. In fact, she had a few more than most people; but she never faltered. she never hesitated. She had to choose between rig h t and \vrong daily, just as we all do. hut her choice was always for God. Her charity is like a flower that blooms every day of the . year and disperses its beauty to those around it. :\nd these 7 A smile never left her face, and she showered kind words on those around her. She studied hard and made very good grades, but more important she learned how to live with others -a lesson we all must learn. She dated a little, but seemed to be waiting for that special Someone to come along, and He did. He called her, not 011 the telephone, or even audibly, but He did call, and she gave up all to follow Him. N ow as Sister Mary Virgil sat talking gaily to our parents, she bubbled over with happiness. She was happy. happy as someone in love. for she was in love. in love with God, and so much in love that she gave herself to Him. But. dear sister, our days of being together are gone, and each 0 f us has chosen her O\\7n way to happiness. 1 leave you reluctantly, but hope to share you with many. I hope that those others who meet my sister through me will also better understand why a girl like this should give up al1 to follow Him. her Love, her Someone. The Challenge 1f I should speak the thoughts that fill my mind And free these captives of my covvardly soul. I dare not hope for criticism kind From listeners who must assume a role. My words would fall on dull, misshapen ears Untuned to wisdom of obscurity vVhose form was hewn by hammering of years A common form-a false security. For thus, the mind of man is always weak To thwart the standards of majority; vVith patterned minds, they puppet-like \vould speak Of non-conformists-fools' minority. I'd judge it worth the risk of ridicule To prove one listener, not 1. the fool. NANCY ZO'RE, 8 '60 Dangerous Precedent 1.0 UISE DIVER, Judge Dan Thompson rolled back the taIl, black chair tiredly, pushed himself up from its leather cushion. Straightening his Jeft leg by a firm claspingdown on the knee, he stepped off the rostrum. It is time, he thought as he walked to his office at the rear of the Court. '59 9 time to give up this business. \i\That Margaret says is true, "Dan, I know you think I'm a broken record," and usually he would keep looking out the dinette window, watching the robins. Sometimes he heard the remainder of the "record" : ... "some men can take that work. To them it's just a pay check, and they let it slide out of their minds like water off a duck's back. But you, Dan, you try to give every case the benefit of all you have studied and read and learned the past 35 years. You've earned a break. And if you want an office of your own, you could" ... Closing the door between the court chamber and his office, Judge Thompson walked the worn path to his desk, pulled open its wide middle drawer. Hebeilt down to look into the drawer in which he was shuffling papers purposefUlly. There it was, the plain , white sealed en vel 0 p e, unaddressed. He wedged it firmly into the right lower corner of his desk blotter, then sat down. The chair squeaked as he, tilted back, interlocked his fingers close to his face and put the paired index fingers to his lower lip, the pose the Judge always took when he weighed thoughts as if the to 10 and fro movement helped resolve problems. "If I could interpret squeaks," his secretary had once said about the chair, "I would know in advance your decisions." The Judge was glad tonight that his secretary was not there to hear squeaks, possibly read thoughts. He had a decision to make. tonight, before going home. Rather, since the decision was made, he had only to decide just how he should carry it through. Maybe he \vouid say tomorrow morning, "It will surprise you, Margaret, to know that I am going to retire." Then he would tell her that he had written the letter, that it was ready to be sent tomorrovy. Dan Thompson was very sure of Margaret's reaction. "\iVhatever finally made YOll make up your mind?" He was equally confident that she would accept his casual answer. "I just decided that you were right all the time. I do need a rest and besides, aren't you glad! Maybe we can get off on that trip to Europe next fall." \ \That had happened today would remain hidden from Margaret as safely as it had been secreted in the past. Not only would Margaret he spared knowing of Phyllis Barnett, hut Phyllis Thompson Barnett would never know that the decision which had cost her the custody of her own little. blackeyed. eight-year old had been a deliberate decision of her own father. 'Vhen Phyllis Barnett had stood at his high desk, he betrayed no emotion. But there, and unmistakably so, was the child, now a woman, Dan had never expected to see. His eyes greedily studied her lovely face. Dan Thompson v,'ould have known her had he not seen the hirth certificate. The blue eyes, that complexion, a second Nora if there ever was one. The Judge's intense study did not go unnoted. "MeL" Phyllis had asked, "did you notice how Judge Thompson looked at me? All the time. well. he seemed to he trying to figure me out. As if he just couldn't understand why we couldn't have married and kept the baby. Mel. he doesn't understand at all. he couldn't know how my folks acted. I know that there is no use to hope. ~Ie1." Although he was less observant, Mel shared Phyllis' feelings. J u d g e Thompson would not grant them custody of Judy. His carefully phrased decision fell knell-like: ... that the parents of this child relinquished her freely, willingly . . . that she was fondly cared for am;l knew only the care, kindness and affection of her foster parents, James and Alene Sanders, these last eight years ... that for the best interest of the child . . . and, furthermore, in order not to establish a precedent dangerous to the welfare of children and a precedent dangerous to our legal, adoptive processes ... "It is therefore now ordered by the court that said child, Judith, be and is hereby adopted as the child and heir of said James and Alene Sanders," ... Judge Thompson had dismissed the parties quickly, coolly. Quickly, before the reservoir of tears Phyllis so bravely withheld burst forth. Coolly, while Dan Thompson, Judge, had ascendancy 0 v e r Dan Thompson, Father. Dan loosed his locked hands to glimpse the watch: 5 :40. It was late. He would take a taxi to make up for some of the time. And if Margaret noticed the unusual mode of arrival. Dan would say, "Can't a retired judge splurge for a taxi once in a while?" 11 Did you ever consider the involved scientific and mathematical principles shown in the simplest of everyday occurrences? Your morning cup of coffee, for example, could require a lifetime of study to determine all the equations involved. First the chemical and physical equations in the brewing of the black liquid. The slight stirring required to distribute the cream and sugar molecules increases the light reflection and produces bubbles that resemble small clear plastic spheres floating in a muddy brown ocean. The path oi these spheres describes curves; and the small curves within curves caused by und~r currents which resemble modulated limacons would require an analytical . geometry formulation or the use of the integral calculus and hyperbolic functions to devise their formula. Vve would need the physicist to explain the strange attraction which makes the hubbIes suddenly dart to the side of the cup when they finally float within a quarter of an inch of it. Taking all this into consideration, how much does man know about the universe? But then again. if it's early 111 the morning. who cares? 12 Science .In the Coffee Cup BILL LOGAN, '62 Jerry is my little brother. His full name is Jerome Paul. Jerry is nicknamed Dennis the Menace for various reasons. If you ask ] erry how old he is, he will say four years, eithy months, and fifthteen days. He is very exact about things. Especially . about his age. He is almost five and he feels that when he is five he will be grmvn up becanse he will begin going to school the following Septemller. Jerry is really quite a character. He repeats practically everything he hears, especially television commercials, adult conversations, etcetera. The other day as we were eating dinner, Jerry'.s excuse for not eating his salad was, "It makes me feel unbalanced and if I'm unbalanced I won't be able to ,valk and if I can't walk I won't he ahle to help Mother around the house." Jerry BETTY VVILLIAMS, '62 in a box completely covered with shirts and socks, all our pennies. Mother asked Jerry what he was going to do with the pennies. He very calmly said, ''I'm going to save them until I am old enough to 'spend them." That is pretty good thinking for a young man only four years, eithy months, and fifthteen days old. Jerry has a particular knack for getting into things. Nothing in particular, just anything that he knows he shouldn't get into. For example, we keep cookies and candy in a cabinet above the ice-box. Now this particular ice-box is six feet tall and there is ahol1t half a foot between the ice-box and the cabinet which is set back about two feet from the icc- A few members of our family save pennies. In fact we are almost fanatical - about saving pennies. Once, for some strange reason, our pennies began to disappear. vVe looked and looked, under chairs, in closets, under mattresses; we just about turned the house inside out. One , day when Mother was cleaning out Jerry's drawers, she found 13 box. The other day when I got home from school Jerry Paul was sitting on top of the icebox having the time of his life. His mouth was full of cookies, his pockets full of candy, and his hands held an assortment of crackers. When I asked him what he was doing up there he mumbled (his mouth was so full he could do nothing but mumble) , "Eating!" I surely wasn't going to argue with him. Every day during the summer Mother takes the children to the local country club to swim. For about two weeks Jerry hounded Mother about taking a screw driver to the pool with him. For about two w~eks Mother's reply was no. But finally, simply to shut him up, she gave in and let him have a screw driver. On this particular day when Mother went to take the children home from the pool the man at the desk told her that she was wanted at the Club office. Upon opening the office door she found her number SIX son ( Jerry, in case you couldn't guess) sitting in the manager's chair with a sheepish grin on his face. ' In the office there were also three very nervous men. I , say nervous because they had just spent the last hour with 14 Jerr)'. Mother said the men were very polite and tried to be calm. I wouldn't know; I was afraid to go into the office with her. Lying on the manager's desk were two drain covers and three drain filters. \Vhat happened to the other cover Jerry wouldn't say. but I understand they caught him just before he unscrewed the main plug to the junior pool. Traffic boys guard the street corners in our neighborhood, After kindergarten one afternoon Jerry came home and told Mother that the traffic boy wasn't on the corner. vVhen Mother asked why. Jerry said he was sick with a cold or an upset stomach . "In fact," Jer said, "he died of a heart attack this morning." Jerry has quite an imagination. Bedtime comes all too soon for his royal highness. Like all other little boys J er can think of a million reasons for staying up. He will argue, fight. and cry; but when he is defeated. he is defeated. As I walk out of his room after kissing him good-night, I hear his lullabyvoice saying "God bless you" and I realize that Jerry isn't just a little boy. Jerry Paul is part angel and that makes him very, very special in our eyes. I Ambitions Ambitions creep up on me; Like fantastic jungle creatures they prowl about waiting to spring, And in the flickering sunlight of my pretend world I gloat in my talents. Oh they have a way with me; Those ceaseless works that seldom turn themselves alive but silently stalk through my thoughts, Excusing their presence with tomorrow, tomorrow. vVill the haunting emptiness of a vainful reverie plague me forever more? 1iARY 15 Lou SZUTER, '61 In the study of literature. nothing is more difficult than trying to form an honest personal evaluation of one of the so-called "classics," the acknow 1 e d g e d masterpieces of world literature. The Brothers i(armna,'Jov) by the great Russian writer, Dostoyevsky, 1S such a work and the problems encountered in reading and understanding it illustrate this difficulty. For this book, like so many others of equal value, has a ready-made reputation and it is hard to avoid being influenced by the countless critics who have helped build this reputation. Their efforts have been combined to form a stereotyped vocabulary of praise that quite naturally comes to mind when Dostoyevsky is mentioned. Besides the danger of succumbing to the s e cr:tical cliques, other obstacles arise in the reading of this book. The very vastness and complexity of the wnrkare discouraging. \Ve are tempted to view The Brotliers Karml/az ov merely as all impressionistic panorama of Russian life and thought. It is comparable to a large tapestry viewed from a distance, seemingly a jumble of color and shape, forming one gigantic scene. But when we approach it closer . .we discover that the 16 The SYJ.n.-\ JOHNSON, '59 :scene is made up of individual figures and groups, each telling their own story in finely drawn details. The tapestry of words which makes up The Brothers Kara'Inazov can be separated into individual groups of stories, all of which are centered on the IZaramazov family. The main plot is built around Dmitri, the oldest brother, and hi s contlict with hi s father Fyodor which ends with Dmitri being accused and convicted of the old man' s murder. Dostoyevsky t a k e s Illore than nine hundred pages to tell the story and many other characters become involved in it. Dmitri' s brothers, I van and .\lyosha, are important both in relation to the central plot and in their own right. The Karamazov brothers are larger-thanlife characters and are easily :seen as embodied ideas. This last and perhaps greatest of Dostoyevsky's works is also the final expression of hi s ideas about life and the solution to its riddle. Each of the Karamazov hrothers tries to solve the puzzle of life in the events of the hook. Life and its meaning deeply concern all three: they are all philosophers, and it is to the :1 11thor' s credit that this role docs no t seem unnatural to any B r o t h e r s 17 of them. Even Dmitri who follows most closely in his corrupt father's footsteps is able to pause in the midst of his debaucheries and contemplate with awe the conflict of his own soul. He tells his brother Alyosha of this mystery of opposites: " . . . a man with the ideal of Sodom in his soul does not renounce the ideal of the Sb.donna, and his heart may be on fire with that ideal ... Yes man is broad, tOQ broad indeed. " Dmitri)s such a man. \ Vide, though perhaps shallov1J in soul, he can turn from moments of deep despair and guilt to joyful absorption in his sins. His passionate feelings are his only guide. Dn~itri is driven by them to perform wildly irrational acts in complete seriousness and sincerity. The comical1y pathetic means he devises to obtain the mon ey he owes Katerina I vanovna rev e a I his emotion-driven irrationality rmd his peculiar sense of honor. Dmitri would rather humiliate himself before a peasant, or before the merchant Samsonov, whom he has every reason to hate". and avoid. rather than betray 11is personal honor. As he says, " ... I should be a scoundrel. but not a thief. Y011 1)1;1), say what 1'0 11 like. not a tHef !" His unthinking behavior evell18 tually makes it possibl e for him to be condemned for his father's murder though he is not guilty. Dmitri is essentially a noble character despite his faults. His expansive nature, impulsive generosity, and capacity for suffering has seemed to many to be typically Russian. To Dmitri, living is something sensual and violent: he chases wildly after life through alleys and gutters, and as he describes himself, falls headlong with heels up into the pit of degradation, "pleased to be falling in that degrading attitude." His youngest brother, Alyosha, plays a more tranquil and contemplative role in the drama of li fe. This sensihn:, boy had felt strongly drawn tG monastic Ii fe and spent some time as a novice in the monastery in his home town. But the elder of the monastery. Father Zossima, orders him to enter the world again and try to bring peace to his troubled f8mily. \lyosha is able to preserve the monastic calmness 2nd sweetness of his nature surrounded by the turmoil and ugliness of the events which eng-11il: him. Faced with the corruptn ess of Dmitri and his father. a1ld I van's bitter atheism, Alyosha still treats hi s family with tenderness and affection, censnri1l .r: not them but their evil actions. Alyosha's love is not passive. 1'or him, to love is to act, and he throws himself wholeheartedly into helping to solve the problems of his loved ones. He becomes the messenger between the feuding members of his family and the reader receives a touching impression of him hurrying through the streets of the town in his long monk's robe, his face serious with the weightiness of his task. It is to Alyosha that . Dmitri and I van turn when they must speak their tortured thoughts and confused emotions. Burdened with the responsibility of their confidences and impelled by his desire to help, Alyoshaoften finds himself embroiled in situations beyond his understanding. His attempt to straighten out the enormously complicated relations between Katetina I vanovna, and Dmitri and I van, fails and he admits sadly that he knows nothing . about such matters. A lyosha's lack of maturity is revealed in this and in other instances. This, combined with the sometimes unnatural serenity of his character, gives an impression of incon1pleteness about him. Indeed some critics think that Dostoyevsky did not intend to develop Alyosha completely in this book, but to use 19 him as the central character in another novel. In Dostoyevsky's diary, there is a hint that Alyosha was to be the subject of his unwritten masterpiece, The Life of a Great Sinner) in which he was to live through a period of sin, yet be saved by the faith and strength which is partly revealed in The Brothers Karamazov. Dmitri and Alyosha boih love life in their own way, but the third brother I van says of himself that he loves the meaning of life better than life itself. He is an intellectual, a philosopher, constantly probing and searching for an answer to the "eternal questions." He is typical of his generation, of the young Russians who met in salons and taverns and talked of nothing but ". . . the eternal questions, of the existence of God and immortality. And those who do not believe in Goel talk of socialism and anarchism, of the transformation of all humanity on a new pattern, so that it all comes to the same, they're the same questions turned inside out." I van has solved the mystery of life: for him the eternal questions cannot be answered. Like Dmitri, I van sees a conflict of opposites which cannot be reconciled. but this conflict pervades all of Ii fe and is 111tolerable to him. In a famous passage called "Pro and Contra," I van tells Alyosha of his disillusionment. It is not God which he cannot accept, but the world which God created, a world in which even one innocent child is allowed to suffer unjustly. Even though such suffering is the price of eternal harmony, it is too high a price to pay. It is not within man's means to pay so much for the entrance ticket into such a world. I van says, "It's not God that I don't accept, Alyosha, only I most respectfully return Him the ticket." Chapter V in "Pro and Contra," the legend of "The Grand Inquisitor," is said to contain a somewhat obscure attack on the socialists of Dostoyevsky's day, his particular enemies. In this chapter Ivan attempts to refute Alyosha' s eager claim that Christ and His teachings are the foundation of the world. and the suffering of innocent children can be forgiven because Christ had forgIven 11is own tormentors. I van's legend is an ohvious attack on the Roman Catholic Church, which he describes as "correcting" the teachings of Christ by taking away man's free will and thereby giving him 20 peace and happiness. This, Dostoyevsky implies, is also the plan of Russian socialism which he says is stupid but terrible, "for the young are with it." In a letter to N. A. Liubimov, he presents I van's story as what now seems an almost prophetic warning as to the course of Russian socialism: "Bread, the tower of Babel, (i.e. the future kingdom of socialism), and the completest overthrow of freedom of conscience -----.:. that is what the desperate denier and atheist arrive at." The inexperienced Alyosha is unable to answer I van's potent argument: indeed he is forced to admit that if the world is as I van describes it, then he cannot accept it either. Dostoyevsky' gives the task of answering I van to another man of God, the saintly elder, Father Zossima. In the book following "Pro and Contra" called "The Russian Monk," Father Zossima is dying, and his final words to his congregation contain Dostoyevsky's philosophy of life. and his refutation of I van's argument. The monk preaches the doctrine of love, of acceptance of life. He recognizes the injustice and suffering _in the world but accepts them because they fit into the divine plan. This plan includes suffering, for each man is responsible not only for his own sins but also the sins of others, and must seek out and welcome suffering in expiation. Suffering is made easy, even beautiful, by love. .Dostoyevsky considered this the most important part of the book. He spent more time writing this chapter than any other and said for its sake the whole novel was written. The weakness in style of this vital chapter compared to the convincing strength of "Rebellion" and "Pro and Contra" is probably due not to the weakness of Dostoyevsky's convictions but rather to the importance be attached to their expression and his at-. tempt to fit hi~own thoughts to the character of the Russian monk. Father Zossima saw the meaning of life in accepting suffe1-ing in love. Dmitri too, who is greatly changed by his ordeal, is convinced that he must bear his share of pain and guilt. He is wiIIing to spend the remainder of his life in Siberia, paying for a crime he did not 21 commit. I van is also changed but there is no conversion in his case, only increased doubt and despair. Confronted by his own guilt and ugliness mirrored in Smerdyakov, he is further tortured by apparitions of the devil , who appears to him as a shabbily dressed Russian gentleman. The devil mocks I van, repeating and ridiculing his youthful theories and laughing at his enormous pride. I van recognizes in the apparition his own pettiness and cynicism but he cannot admit he was wrong. A Iyosha sees the struggle: "God. in whom he disbelieved. and His truth were gaining mastery over his heart, v.Thich still refused to submit" ; but his prayers do not help to resolve it. The book ends on an indecisive note. YAi e do not kno\v what will happen to any of the principle characters. But the final scene with A lyosha and the children is bright and full of hope and we can only repeat the boys' cheer: "Hurrah for Karamazov!" The Retreat Life---:-like a square question mark, man. The vVorld-a foul ball, man. People-like running nowhere, frying shoes. The Beat Virgin hair laureled with hair, Draped in the togae of sweat shirts, Musing with Homeric eyes. 22 of the Beats The Retreat Down to the dungeons of despair. Up with the walls of fantasy; the black bricks of escape, the yellow mortar of cowards. Potential lions damned in turtle shellsOstrich-headed in a sandless world. The Bleat Uncombed hair crying sophistication. Sweat shirts wet only with wine. The world presents its plea; It receives oracles of nonsense. Retreat, beat, and bleat. JAMES T. O ' DONNELL, '59 23 __________________~ PEGGY DELANEY, '60 Last night, I told the -Lord. Usually, I spend my time on everyday things , like praying that is doesn't rain on wa shday or that the insurance won't need paying just when we don't have any extra money, and praying that I'm being a good wife and mother. But last night wa s different. Last night I TOLD the Lord. I said, "Listen Lord, the time has come to stop this nonsense. You know, Paul has been sick entirely too long. Of course, it's \ ' our world and I know 'You're sl11arter than ,ve human beings, and we all expect some suffering in our lives. but enough is enough! Let's let Paul get well now, s h~l ll vve? "I'm sure You know him , Lord. You sent him to rne in the first place, remember? You Jet us fall in love and marry. and You sent us the children. Even if You fo rgot abou t us 24 after that, so many people are praying for Paul now , I'm certain "Y our attention is being drawn to him again. "I didn't mind (well, I tried not to mind) when he first got sick, Lord. It was a big expense and I could see the lines begin to tighten around Paul's mouth, lines caused by worry he never spoke of. But we managed. Paul kept us happy. Paul said that things would work out fine. I believed him I guess because I wanted to so much. Only sometimes, when there was no one to see but me , he'd turn his face away and hide it in his hands. "I suppose I knew then that things were almost hopeless, that it was just a matter of time. It was different, though, before the pain. I could keep up the game we were playing with Ollr friends, with the children, with ourselves. But I haven't the strength to go on, Lord, not if I have to stand by and see him suffer like this . I haven't his courage. So much for one to suffer alone. "You don't know ""'hat it's like, Lord. You never watched someone You love moaning in agony, unable to help themselves or have anyone else help them. You can't imagine how 25 it feels to know that a person so close to You, a person wht is almost your whole life is going through such lonely anguish. "It isn't fair, Lord. He's never done anything to deserve this. Ii is whole life has been lived for You, with You. He's been like Your sanctuary light, whose flickering serves as a reminder of Your unseen presence, leading others to where You are. Please let him live the way he did before. You must love him, Lord, and You couldn't let someone You really and truly love suffer and die this slow, painful death. He's needed on earth, Lord. You're All-Powerful, so please Lord, I want a miracle." Had I whispered the words or had I shouted them? The room was still, hushed, telling me nothing, uninterested in my cry. I rose slowly and, my mind still full of confusion, I looked at the thing of wood and metal that is the crucifix. And suddenly a voice, endlessly peace ful, quietly sorrowful. coming from nowhere and everywhere, coming from the wood and the metal and myself perhaps, said only this, "Did you hear what they did to My Son?" Crillle and Punshm,ent enjoys popularity not only because it is from the I<_ussian school, which speaks for itself, but it also serves to enlighten the reader as a searching analysis of human nature. Without these noteworthy points, the work would probably be relegated to the huge mass of mediocre 1 i t era t u r e. Fyodor Dostoevski, however, is assmed of a lasting place in the rank of literature's great as he wields his forte - the conflict between the two natures of man. Adhering to the tenets of realism -and not sparing detail f or exactness sake, Dosteovski vividly portrays midnineteenth century Russian life. Besides presenting an insight into the thoughts of the time, he emphasizes mans universal nature; yet, the reader does not lose, -even for an instant, the nationalistic flavor so vital to this novel. f<'rom the simple thesis that man pays by suffering for his crime against men, Dostoevski evolves a complicated plot that utilizes psychological realism which is best portrayed by Raskolnikov - a tremendous study of a sensitive intellectual A Brief Analysis JAMES JENKS, '60 s driven by poverty to believe that he is exempt from the moral law. Dostoevski uses Raskolnikov as an instrument to transport the reader from incident to incident. This method of plot development differentiates Crime and Punish111ent from other novels which rely on accidents to carry the plot. By this same technique Dostoevski reveals his sympathy for the social downtrodden as exemplified in the person of Sonia, a young prostitute, and he provides realistic descriptions of 26 slum life ill a large Russian city during the mid-nineteenth c~ntury. veloped little by little to reveal clues both to Raskolnikov's physical stature and to his neurotic inclinations, Vve become acquainted with his problem immed~ately after the murder; in fact, part of his problem, his disgust at the plight of the poor, is hinted at in the very beginning of this work. The plot of this novel is chiefly concerned with the mental conflict of Raskolnikov, the main character. Though in the murder of the widow pawnbroker and her step-sister there is evidence of physical conflict, the author exploits the mental sef-searching tendencies The stereotyped character of Raskolnikov. At first blush, has no part in Dos:oevski's one may condemn Dostoevski plan. Rather each character is as being too effusive with de- a distinct being of the species, tails in developing his plot, but man. Sonia displays the apathy never does this effusiveness that pervades the thought of suggest lengthy tirades. By this the lower classes. Not only is style Dostoevski eliminates the her apathy apparent, but one alexcuse of excessive plot. so sees in her the ",'arm , tenThe enormous and interest- der heart of the lover. ing study of characterization Dounia presents the typical, affords the critic a chance to and somewhat universal, theme expose the true mettle of the of love for brother - "blood author. The main character, is thicker than water." She Raskb]nikov, reveals the genius sacrifices her happiness for of the author. In glimpses the Raskolnikov's sec uri t y and character of the capricious benefit. Theirs isa healthy reRaskolnikov unfolds. Some lationship - at least for her critics have said that when part. the character is revealed in Dostoevski with his artistic bits, interest is suspended until the final word. Such a com- genius introduces the reader prehensive statement signifies to a thorough exposition of the author's greatness or the Russian Ii fe and thought while conveying an interesting story critic's ingenuousness. However, the character is de- -- a must for people who have not read this book. 27 Snow Scene On this blustery winter day [ wonder at the funny way The snowflakes fall. Blowing up and dmvn in swirls Drifting all around in t\yirls Nature's ermine pall. Snow-heaped houses. roads, and trees ~hifting shapes in the winter breeze _\re all that I can see. ~ly frosty breath clouds like a fog; _-\nd through the haze of curling smog Comes Nature' s soft caress. The snowy scene, so clean. so fresh. So \,,,hite. so pure, is newly dished From Nature's store of loyeliness. ~IrKE \VELSH, 28 '60 vVhen Tweedle Canary was in front of the windovv one wintry afternoon. she sang all the melodies she knew. HudclIec1 close by the fireplace was Browsie, the cat, who was shrugging his fuzzy coat and twitching his long whiskers. "Must you sing every afternoon?" he asked in annoyance. "Yes," twittered }\1rs. Canary, "for my Mistress likes my singing." "But there is no need to sing so long and so ioun. " he yawned and continued. "it spoils my naps." "If I sing loudly enough my Mistress can hear me no matter where she is." .' "Ah, yes. a'n d so she does, but she is shelling corn in the barn this afternoon. She cannot possibly hear you." "You are very right, friend Browsie. but if I do not practice. I cannot sing so prettily." "You . are a foolish one, feathery one." Mr. Browsie tacked his claws into the carpet and stretched his shiny. black forepaws, "you are a fool to work so hard when your Mistress does not even know it." Then placing his head on his sleek paws. Browsie added sleepily. "\Vhy, I haven't caught the mice in the barn for three 29 The Car and the Canary LOUISE DIVER, '59 weeks, and Mistress keeps me very well." Tweedle, paying no attention to Browsie's bragging, was just opening her beak to begin anew when a broom landed squarely on Browsie's back. \Vith another swift movement he was swept right into the snowdrift at the corner of the porch. Over the lazy eat's loud protest. Tweedle heard Mistress shout. "Out of here, you lazy creature. I can't stand cats who Jet mice eat all my corn!" S \ V ISH ! Swish ~ The Intruder ROSE CHAN. '59 ..Sage and I watched the sunrise this morning. I also saw it set, but did he? I wonder. It was 4 :30 a.m. when he woke me. I am not particularly crazy about the idea of sacrificing sleep for the appreciation of this wondrous natural phenomenon; but somehow Sage always manages to have his way. In a jiffy, we were on the roof, leaving behind us the sighs and moans of the slumberers in the dormitory. The sky was grey; here and there a star still shone ori bravely, as though trying to defy the fast approaching dawn. Not a breeze stirred, but the air was chilly, and leaning against the solid parapet of granite only seemed to accentuate the coolness of the mornmg. Sage stood beside me gazing intensely into the dim horizon. vVith the collar of his gray jacket pulled up, only the upper part of his face was visible, and it looked grim. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and except for the constant opening and closing of his nostrils, there was hardly a sign of life in him. Of course, this is quite typical of Sage: taciturn and often lost in thought. People have remarked about his friendship with me, so talkative and in many ways a contrast to him. Perhaps it was on these dissimilarities that our mutual understanding was founded. I remember I once asked him "vVhat made you pick m~ among all the other boys? You know we're awfully different in character and ideas." "I didn't choose you, nor you me," he replied icily, without even looking at me. "We're simply two loose twigs that have drifted together in thi s world stream." Sage always gets so bitter when we talk about things like that. I guess it's hecause they 30 remind him painfully that he is the product of an unhappy marriage. "My father is a perfect gentleman, everyone tells me," he said to me one day. "The only thing wrong with him is that he married my mother for her money." I can still see that cynical. hateful expression on his pale face as those words slipped through his clenched teeth. J remember I tried to change the subject, but he ignored my effort and contInued. "My mother needed a handsome amI devoted escort for her numerous social activities and my father was generally considered as 'Apollo' incarnated. though poor as a churchmouse." He bit his lips so fiercely that I thought he was going to tear them: and the vein . above his left temple became a blue lumpy swelling. "For heaven's sake, stop it!" I wanted to scream I remember. but the formidable silence sti fled my words. I stood there stupidly and watched him suffer. "Through their many arguments," his voice was hoarse. "J soon learned that I was not only a burden to my mother's social Ii fe, but also a disappointment to my father's dreams. She didn't \"ant any children, least of all timid me, with none of those irresistable charms of my father . . . She had hated me ever since I was born." He paused. I didn't have the courage to look him in the face. "But ironically enough," the strange voice went on, "I loved her dearly. To me she was the most beautiful creature in the world. I seldom saw her for she was mostly away from home. Perhaps that was one reason why I was so afraid of her. I never dared to approach her, and an angry look frol11 her was enough to make me cry. My tears irritated her more than my presence. "I used to have a pictute of her in my room and whenever I felt lonesome. I would talk to the picture, telling her all sorts of things which I'd never dare to say in her presence. There were times when I even went to sleep holding her photograph close to my heart. I loved hee with such a fear and reverence that even the ground she walked on became sacred to me. N 0body knew about this except Mrs. Kinde who ha.d taken care of me ever since I was a baby ... I had often asked her why mother didn't ]ike me but she would merely shake her head and say, 'Your mother is 31 a very busy woman, my dear boy. Now run along!' "Perhaps if it had not been for what happened three years ago, I would still be loving her as I did before." His voice dropped. The muscles on his face twitched convulsively at the painful memory of the inci'-lent. His eyes were shut. I (ould not bear it any longer. "Stop it, Sage, stop it! Please!" I cried frantically. "Let me go on, Roy. I want to talk about it. It has oppressed me too long: I must let it out. Perhaps I can forget it then." I saw in his usually h3rcl piercing eyes a softness, a humhIe pleading. "It was a warm summer evening three years ago." His voice was gentle with reminiscence. "Mother was drinkirig tea in the dimly-lit living 'r oom, waiting for dad. They were invited to one of their usual dinner parties. Mother was annoyed because dad came home late; he explained nonchalantly that he was detained by business, but mother was not impressed with such a standardized excuse. She complained bitterly, and this irritated father who went upstairs angrily. "I was' sitting quietly in a cor n e r 0 f the living room " 'atching mother sip her tea. She did not seem to notice me for she said nothing. I watched her closely. She was wearing a flowing f r e n c h-b lu e satin g 0 wnw h i c h matched her d rea m y pale-blue eyes. Her long golden hair, twisted exqui sit ely into a bun, and adorned with a little crown of glittering stones, intensified that majestic air so typically hers. Fair and slender were her bared arms, and her tapering fingers looked as fragile as the china cup she held in her hands. She was too exquisite to be true. A sigh of pride and satisfaction escaped me when I remembered that she was my' mother. "This startled her. S h ,~ looked around and saw nTe. " 'What in heaven's name are you doing in that corner?' "'N . . . Nothing, mother,' I stammered, almost petrified. "'\t\1ell, don 't sit there ancl dream like ' a sissy. Don't you have any 'friends or anything to do?' She sounded extremely annoyed. "'But I wasn't dreaming, mother.' I defended m y s elf eagerly. For a moment, I almost forgot my fear. 'I was looking at ... you, mother.' "'At nle?' Her voice be-trayed her ' surprise and the gleam of curiosity overshad32 owed the irritation in her eyes. This provided me with the encouragement I needed. " 'You look so beautiful! I think you're the loveliest lady in the world!' "'Oh . . . thank you Ed-win.' "I was such .a stranger to her that she almost forgot my name. But at that moment, I preferred to think it was my praise that caused her confusion. "For sometime, neither of us spoke. I don't remember what mother was doing. but I can stilI see mysel f crouching in that corner: my face flushed with embarrassment and my heart trembling- at my own iml)ul siveness. " 'You know, that is the first compliment you've ever paid me.' . She broke the menacing silence; she seemed to have regained her composure for she was sipping her tea once again, 'I guess it's partly my fault that we don't know each other hetter. Come nearer, and let me take a good look at you.' "Her voice was gentle-no. it was almost tender. If it had not been for my male ego, I would have wept. Slowly, I walked to her chair and stood hy her in silence. I was afraid to betray my emotions by speaking. " 'My, how you've grown! I dare say you must be as tall as your father! . . . How old did you say you are?' "I could see the embarrassment on her face, but I was in no mood to hurt her feelings . "'Fifteen, mother,' my deep voice echoed in the quiet room. " 'Fi fteen years! That's a long, long time.' She murmured to herself. I could tell her thoughts were far away. Suddenly, she shook her head violently, and shut her eyes as if trying to brush away some unpleasant vision. Just then. the clock on the mantel struck. It was seven o'clock. " '\i\That in the world is taking that father of yours so long?' She cried impatiently. 'Run upstairs and tell him to come down immediately because I don't want to be late !' "I did not move right away. I was studying the change' of expression in her face. The sweetness' that had suffused her countenance a little while ago was gone. In its place, I could only see the cold and cruel heauty of finely chiselled feattu-es .. "'\\Tell. don't jus t s tan d there! Go!' 33 "But she was too lovely to leave behind. Besides, she was my mother and I wanted her to know I loved her. \tVith a fiercely throbbing heart, and a body trembling like a last autun111 leaf. I bent and kissed her on the cheek. Then turning abruptly, I headed for the door. I n my excitement, my swinging arm knocked the cup off her hand. " 'You clumsy f 0 0 I!' she cried in livid anger, looking at her tea-soaked gown. "Terrified. I stared at her as though I were nailed to the tloor. She tried to dry her tea~tained dress with a napkin. Liftiilg her eyes, she saw me still dumfounded, standing in fr.ont of her. " 'You wretch! ... Get out! T don't want to see you again! Get out!' "The words \vere as ugly as the speaker was b e aut i f u 1. Hardly able to withhold my tears. I ran out of the room. and threw mysel f on the bed, trying to soothe my injured pride by indulging in that fa\ ' 0 r i t e occupation of most v.'omen. Yes. I wept: loud and hard. till my eyes were dried. "If that was the last time I cried in all these years. that evening was also the last time T Im'ed . . . . "Somehow, my mother's desire was to a g rea t ext e n t granted: after that night, except for some rare occasions, w e s e I d 0 m encountered each other. She and dad stayed out oftener and later at night, and had I not been awakened now and then in the night by loud noises from their room, I would almost have believed they had left the house for good. They quarrelled very often, and my name was mentioned not infrequently. It was through these verbal battles in the depth of the night that I discovered their sentiments toward me. "Poor dad, he was so disillusioned. He thought he had reaped a unique harvest of beauty and wealth when he slipped the ring on mother's finger. But he found too late that where the source of manna was, there lay the authority. Mother was the law: he was to escort her everywhere she desi red, and had to keep up the pretense that they were the happiest couple under the sun. To this pressure he succumbed. Luxury and empty prestige extinguished his pride; he is too weak to fight, and he'll be a discontented slave for the rest of his life. "Perhaps I discouraged his resistance as much as other 34 things did. He thought he could to keep her since I was going have a son \\"ho would follow to live here in the dorm. And his footsteps in business. But father couldn't care less one he forgot to instil that fanatical way or the other. How could he? He doesn't even remember ambition in me." Here he chuckled. I looked he has a son; or if he does, it at him but he did not see me. is because his legal councillor He was far away in the world reminds him of it on necessary of reminiscences, uniquely his occasions, or because mother keeps him awake at night, reown. "He soon found to his great minding him repeah~cl1yof his humiliation that I hated busi- good-for-nothing son, a; chip off ness; and he has never forgiven the old block." me. However, he has been very He laughed. But the laughter generous to me: providing ev- was cold, mirthless and unery material comfort and need nerving . . . . which an only son can desire. Sage is very intelligent; he But all this could not make me knows it and is proud of the love him. I can't make myself fact. Vve are only second seforget his motive in marrying mester freshmen, and yet he mother 1101' can I ever sympa- has already made himsel f fathize with him for attempting mous in the University as the constantly to drown his sor- most outstanding scholar of the rows in an intoxicated forget- year. In fact. that is how his fulness. nickname originated. Some of "The only person who cared the hoys "Sage" him through anything about me at home was admiration but most of them Mrs. Kinde. Even when I was do it out of envy and sarcasm. little, I did not h a v e man y Sage always holds himself aloof friends and so she became my from the crowd, and people sole playmate whenever I got mistake that for conceit. It is tired of being alone. She had really timidity on his part. That been more than a mother to me is a pity, for he is such a valall through these years, and to uable friend to have. her, I'll always be grateful. But Perhaps Sage read what was I was destined to begin my col- going on in my mind, for as I lege Ii fe and career alone: for Ii fted my head, I met his eyes: she was dismissed last fall. sad but penetrating. As if anMother didn 't thinl~ it necessary swering my thoughts. he spoke: 35 .. People always blame me for b e i n g sullen, unfriendly and cynical. But do they expect me to be a lark when I am made to feel that I am an intruder? Do they know what it means to be 'unwanted'? Do they? Answer me!" He choked and angry tears rolled down his cheeks. That was the first time I saw him cry, and it was a painful sight. I wanted to console him, but without hurting his pride. I could feel to my very bone that words at that moment were completely out of place. Yet, 1 felt ridiculous just standing there. Fortunately, my d i I e m m a was solved wh~h Sage suddenly stopped sobbing. Lifting his head, he brushed away the tears with his fist. I offered him a handkerchief; he looked at it and his lips broke into a grin. It was the same gaudy handkerchief which I had to put into Miss Julie Snob's purse secretly on the first day of the freshmen initiation, and which I had to reclaim from her in class, under the nose 0 f Professor Barkis, nicknamed "The Bear." It was an unforgettable see n e 0 f embarrassment and hysterics. I didn't think it was very funny then because I had to play the fool but Sage would roar with laughter every time the incident was mentioned. * * * The last time I saw Sage today was before dawn, when we went up on the roof to see the sunrise. Since I did not have any classes in the morning, I went back to bed without breakfast. Sage usually meets me at the Student Union for lunch but somehow, he did not turn up this noon. I could not wait for him because I had class. My second afternoon class was Physics, and after the final bell had rung with still no sign of Sage, I became extremely uneasy. Sage has never cut classes and it seemed most unlikely that he would start now. All through the lecture, I tried in vain to think of some valid reasons for Sage's absence. If time seemed to crawl during that lecture, the rest of the afternoon was eternity itself. Sage did not come for Creative vVriting nor was he there for Theory of Equations. To go through those classes with the whereabouts of Sage a mystery was like sitting on a pin cushion and waiting for a gallon of water on a bunsen burner to boil. . . . If I did not know how to fly before. I learned it that af36 ternoon.. No sooner had the dismissal bell rung when I was already half way down the corridor. Instead of taking the usual fifteen minutes to go to the dormitory, I created a new record of only five minutes. 1 could not bear the thought of standing idly waiting for the elevator to take me to the third floor, and so with the little breath and energy I had left, I managed to finish the three flights of stairs without apoplexy. When I carne to our room, I found the door ajar, as if somebody leaving hurriedly had been unsuccessful in slamming it shut with one swing. "Sage"! I shouted, pushing the door wide open. The empty room returned my call, and became quiet again. Falling exhausted into my chair, I closed my eyes and rested my listless body. I must have fallen asleep for when I opened my eyes again, the room was pitch' dark. Groping with my hands. I felt for the desk-lamp. Before I had time to accustom myself tot h e sud den b rig h t n e s s of the room. I caught sight of an envelope addressed to me on the desk. The handwriting was Sage's. 37 VVith trembling, eager fingers, I pulled out the note. Noon Dear Roy, In a few minutes, I'll be gone from here - for good? - perhaps and perhaps not. This is not a rash decision for I have planned it for quite a while. 1 must apologize for having kept it a secret, but I realized that you would dissuade me from it if I let you know ahead of time. I don't know exactly where I am going but it'll be somewhere far, far away. I feel and know I must leave here. I want to forget the past; I want to start all over again like a new born baby. And to do that, I have to leave these familiar surroundings and atmosphere which constantly bring back excruciating memories. You've many a time talked to me of your God and His Divine Providence. I f He really exists, and if you believe what you say, then pray to Him for me. I want to love. not hate. But I have lost the key to the secret door of love. So pray to your God and ask Him to help me. I f I succeed in finding what I am seeking, I shall return. So good-bye and good luck. Your friend. Sage They lived like beasts in holes, \"1\1earing skins. Grunting, They said thrown stones would bring food. A nd they threw stones. Crushing skulls. They lived in marble halls. Draped in fine cloth. \ \lith classic diction They said swords and spear s would hring wealth . .-\nd they fought, T earing fle sh. 38 They lived behind castle walls, vVearing iron. vVith noble breath They said black powder would bring peace. And they touched it with fire, Mangling bodies. They lived in towers, touching the sky, Wearing ties. \ i\[ith diplomatic charm, They said great bombs would end all war. A nd they dropped them on cities, Leveling all. And they lived like beasts in holes. ROBERT 39 D. JACKSON~ '60 Distance, please Everyone does silly things. There is yet to' live the person who has gone through life without making at least a few blunders. Sooner or 1 ate r , everyone makes a mistake. However, it seems as though some people are more liable to misfortune than others. These are the ones for whom life is really miserable because no matter what they do, it turns out wrong. 40 JUDY \iVEHRMEISTER, '62 Jane, my roommate, is an excellent example of this type of person. Since I've been living with her, she has pulled any number of boners; but a couple of weeks ago, she outdid herself. Let me tell you about it. When Jane left Detroit to come to school in Indianapolis, she had to leave her dearest fri.end, Kathy. They had grown up together and were quite close, in fact, practically inseparable. \iVithin a few months of Jane's departure, Kathy's mother died. N aturally Jane was saddened by the death of her best friend's mother, and wished to extend her condolences. After waiting a week, in order that Kathy might get over the shock of her loss, Jane placed a long distance telephone call to Kathy in Detroit. After expressing her sorrow , Jane carried the conversation to various other subjects. She hadn't seen Kathy in several months 41 and had so much to talk ro= her about . .Kathy must have been as happy to hear from Jane as Jane was to call, for they talked and talked. It was such a pleasUl'able experience that the two girls become thoroughly engrossed in their conversation. oblivious to everything around them. In the midst of their conversation, the operator cut in and calmly informed them that they had been talking for 45 minutes, and asked if they cared to talk any longer. Kathy uttered a sharp gasp and became speechless, but Jane was up to the occasion. She was able to manage a weak "No," and hung up the receiver. It wasn't until the operator's interruption that Jane even recalled the fact that this had been a telephone call to a place 300 miles away. and not just down the street. Jane rushed back to our room , and had no sooner explained the situation than the telephone rang sharply at the end of the corridor. I looked at her bewildered face and said. "That's probably the operator: you had better answer the phone. " My words trailed behind her. for I hadn't even finished speaking when she bolted through the door and down the hall. Someone else was just answering, but Jane snatched the receiver from her hand, so that the whole dorm wouldn't know about her blunder. "Hello," she whispered, quite out of breath. "Is this the party who just completed a call to Detroit, Michigan?" the operator asked. "Yes," replied Jane. "Hold the line for a moment, please,' the voice continued, "we are adding your bill." "Adding my bill ?" cried Jane. "What bill? I didn't talk that long. I already paid them 70 cents." "Please deposit $9.60," the icy voice directed. "Nine dollars and six t y cents !" she choked. "Look, I(!dy, I already deposited 70 cents and I only have a quarter left in my hand. " "Your deposit of 70 cents was for the first 3 minutes; you talked 45 minutes. Can you get the change or not?" asked the operator sarcastically. "No, 1 can't get the money, because we can't go out of the dorm after 8 o'clock at night and it is already 9." "I'm sorry, but I'll have to call the dean of your college then." "Oh, no, Jane shouted. "\Vait a minute." She ran to the housemother's door and quickly explained the situation. The housemother agreed to talk to the operator and advised Jane to gather as much change as she could. Like a begger with his tin cup, Jane with her pad of paper and pencil began knocking on doors and inquiring how much change each girl had. Hurriedly she scribbled down each contribution and in a wild frenzy moved on to the next door. She h2dn't canvassed more than 5 or 6 rooms when the house mother told her to call operator 23 when she had collected the required amount. Half an hour later, with 10 sore knuckles and a housecoat pocket full of change, Jane returned to the phone booth and began the long process of depositing the 38 quarters and 1 clime. A large group of girls had gathered around the booth as a result of the "change campaign" and as the coins jangled into the machine, flash bulbs popped. The loud clanking of the quarters made a sharp contrast to the last coin, the dime. which just went plink. A loud cheer and a round of applause echoed after Jane as she headed back for her room with the remark, "I'll never use that phone again as long as I live." 42 The Voice from the Stairs LOUISE DIVER, .. Mary, are you up?''' "Yes, Mother, just . a mmute." I had not really been asleep for almost an hour. In a dreaming, uncaring kind of way, I had been hearing the progressions of early morning sounds so familiar to home, and to me, and to my world. And those particular noises inevitably lead to "Mary, are you up?" I had heard the indistinct mumblings from my parents' bedroom. I didn't know what was said, but I think that Fath er was telling MOlner the time. The floor creaked beneath Father's feet as he shuffled from the chair to dresser in th( ritual of dressing. Next, Mothet pulled tight the bedroom door al]ld moved swiftly to the kitchen where Father had taken the 43 '59 shaker from off its hook. shaken the heavy iron grates until they let fall yesterday's ashes. He threw in bits of wood kindling, a little kerosene splattered, a match scratched against iron, and a whoop of fire roared up the chimney. The kitchen pump missed a stroke or two as Mother drew water for coffee. Almost simultaneously, coffee pot and skillet were set on the stove. The spitting, sizzling bacon was frying in staccato when Mother's voice climbed the stairs and sought me in bed. Again, "Mary, are you up?" Oh, it would be lovely to be home again. "Yes, Mother, just a minute. " And to be ten, just ten year5 old. Passing through ivied walls with footsteps lingering, I questionVVhat most of all have you given me In these four years that I've known your embrace? Yau smile and say-"\iV ait." Passing from your sheltered portals, I stand and stare at the desert of life before me. Then begins ~he long journey through blistering sands, Yielding no fountain which can satisfy my craving, Thirsting always for ' the Infinite. RUTH RAMSDELL, 44 '59  ...

... THE FIORETTI I I VOLUME XV .- NUMBER 2 Indianapolis, Indiana 1957-1958 I AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE I I i I -- I THE STAFF Editor-in-Chief Judith Hirn, '59 Assistant Editors Marguerite Branday, '59 Philip Doherty, '58 Sylv.ia Johnson, '59 Robert Kistner, '60 Ruth Ramsdell, '59 Art Editor and Lay Out Sylvia Johnson, '59 CONTENTS Articles The Uncle Faces Inflation 6 The Bridge to Nowhere 15 19 Hylda J. Berryman 22 32 Richard Simko Escape into Darkness One Nation Under God I'm Always Right Larry Hammerstein Sylvia Joh nson Emilie Ann Clevenger Fiction Famous Last Words 8 The Decision 27 35 Revenge Richard Simko Marilyn Ann Beck Paul Tooley Poetry Birches 4 7 Ten Beautiful Words 14 Illusive Beauty Marguerite Branday Mary Rita Schlichte Margaret Darnell Fountains 18 Robert Kistner Snow Innocents' Revenge 26 Margaret Darnell 31 4) 14 Margaret Darnell Centenary of Our Lady's Apparitions at Lourdes 13 Anita Dreiling Commemorative Tribute to Bishop Joseph Chartrand 25 Paul G. Fox Quest The Happy Sea Jim T. O'Donnell James Allison The po~t does not speak of death, Or pain or sorrow, but with each breath Breathes forth a song of triumph and of joy: A song of life, of love without alloy. ,Vhy do I cry? The.painted dancers in muted green Through misty veil of tears are seen. Gossamer sylphs from a fairy world On canvas bright their beauty unfurled. vVhy do I cry? 4 The music filt'ring through the air A joyous message carries clear: "Lift up your heart! Sing! Rejoice! Beauty and love have here found voice. " Tell me why I cry. Beauty, your stay is but too fleeting. My heart jumps up, triumphantly beating, Freed for a moment from the bonds of sin, For a tiny moment I grasp the Divine The Eternal Beauty, the Golden Mine From whence all beauty in creation springs. Beauty-frail moth-I crush your wings That is why-I cry, IVIARGUERITE BRANDAY, '59 the uncle faces LARRY HAMMERSTEIN, '58 inflation Alas, poor nickel, I knew it when . . . . Hav.e you any idea how that sturdy, once valuable coin, the nickel, has shrunk in significance? I read an interesting article the other day by a newspaper reporter. The writer, remembering the days when a nickel made a little boy feel rich, took a tour of downtown stores with a "pocketful of nickels and an open mind." Among the things he received for his efforts were a pencil, a spool of thread, a donut, some odd assorted trinkets, and a sneer from 'a cab driver for a five cent tip. \iVell, ' after this rather distl'essing news, I decided to do some research of my own. The noble nickel, I found, had long been the backbone of good relations between in-laws. Millions of nephews had asked their uncles for nickels. \iVhen uncle came across, nephew was pacified, and family life was as it should be. Since the advent of the nickel, cases of family feuds in this country have dropped to an all time low. Now, however, since the price of popsides has soared up past the five cent mark, even this nickel-giv- ' ing may be doomed to the ages. Even faced with these facts I could not believe that the age of the nickel was really past. I know it will still buy a pack 6 of gum, and I still see ads that say something like, "The candy with the hole-still only a nickel." I determined to prove that the coin of the buffalo and of Thomas Jefferson is still an important part of the American scene. I traveled to a dimestore and with deep satisfaction I found a spoon, a small plastic cup, and four little screws, all for just a nickel. It was the sink stopper that shattered my rising confideI1Ce. Though only a nickel, it didn't have a five cent sign by it. I asked the girl why, and she said, "I guess we don't have enough five cent. signs." That simple . statement told t!1e story. I noticed there were . plenty of ten cent signs around. The small, thin dime has taken o v e r fro m the nickel. Of course, you can still use a nickel for a telephone call (if you have two of them), or a bus ride (if you h a v e f 0 u r 0 f them) . But it's the dime now that has taken the lead. And where will this inflation lead us? \iVill the quarter be next, and then the clumsy hal f dollar? \iVho will invent the first dollar bill vending machine? And what self-respecting nephew will ask for a nickel in the future? \iVill he ask for seven cents for a popsicle? No, he will ask for a dime. And what if uncle says, "I don't give a dime." There is one tiny ray of hope. As I left the dimestore, a man stepped up and asked me for change. He needed a nickel for the parking meter. BIRCHES Silver, slim Huddled together yet lonely, Silent, cold Stretching thin fingers to the winter sky, Listening, hoping Waiting for the kiss that comes with April Longing for the Spring to " Taken, grow and live. MARY RITA SCHLICHTE, 7 '60 FA,M'OUS LAST RICHARD SIMKO) WORDS '60 The double column of bluc- of dust. The horses, the faded uniformed cavalrymen moved blue uniforms, the gray, broadalong the dry trail, slowly op- brimmed hats with the sweatening the zipper on a huge bag stained crowns, the two supply of dust that spilled into the still wagons. I t scratched your air. The azure canopy over- eyes every time you blinked; head was broken intermittently it gritted in your teeth every by cream puff clouds tip-toeing time you munched on the hard silentl y toward the pur pie biscuits; you . could feel it in mountains on the far horizon. your boots whenever you wigMajestic pines stood as mute . gled your toes to make sure the . sentinels along the trail as the circulation was still going; it men and horses plodded up- sifted through your pretty yelward. For the several hours low neckerchief around your that they had been moving up- face and into your nose and hill, the quiet had been broken made you sneeze; it mingled only by the occasional chatter- with the sweat to form muddy ing of the squirrels and the streaks inside your shirt and eerie whistling of the hawks trousers. But the troopers were wheeling endlessly over the tree only vaguely aware of this mintops. or discomfort. The dust hid most of the They might have noticed it beauties of nature. It rose more had they been green reslowly into the oppressive heat cruits or officers fresh out of of the mid-morning sun, then West Point, but they were tired of the struggle, and set- neither green recruits nor intled silently back down on the experienced line officers out to Everything in the tame the \i\Tild West. Their troopers: convoy was covered with a pall eyes peered through the dust as 8 they rode slowly to keep from raising a large dust cloud that might signal their arrival to some alert, keen-eyed scout. They were looking for spoor. The spoor of the quarry. The 1110st cunning, elusive quarry that they had ever hunted, The [ndian. up; the ambivalent disgust and respect you fc:t for your fellow troopers; the occasional nag'ging desire to, at least, talk to a female; memories of home. These things were to be expect;ed and could be prepared for, but the Indian was an ever~ constant threat, and 'it "t~ok eternal vigilance for fl ~:na~} ' to make sure that his scalp di~n't wind up on some brave's belt', Of all the distractions, the memories of home were the hardest to control. The tempting contentment that came with the reliving of treasured moments. The warm summers spent at the swimmin' hole, tlle happy winters sitting Clroll~d the fireplace with Pa 'tellin" stories about Indians qnd wit'c hi es and wonderful places far a way, Christmas, birthdays, Mom always cleanin' and ,bakin', 'the smell of Pa's pipe' ~ft'er supper, your first horse, playing h()ok~y, the little girl that always blushed when you caught her looking at you in church on Sunday. This all had to be kept in a far recess of the mind ,while on patrol. Start day,d reaming and you wound up asleep. , Six feet down. All the men were familiar with the customs and habits of the breed of men they were fighting. They had seen Co- He could be anywhere. lie might be lying on his stomach ill that little dry wash over there on the right; he might be skulking behind that la vender clump of sage on the left; he might be waiting just ahead to ambush them; he might this v~ry ' moment be sneaking up over tl1at last rise behind to wipe ()Ut the entire company, That is why the dust is a minor ailnoyance like many of the other l~ardships, The summer sun that could blister a mati's face in an hour if he should be wi/t hout a hat; the winter snow that obliterated all tracks and trails and often left men wandering aimlessly t 0 fi naIl y freeze ,' to death; the torrential ~'ain~ ' that made the ground a quagmire of muck and spilled the rivers over their banks; the rattlers that could slip inside your blanket at night for warmth or drop out of a tree jllto your lap; the endless hours in the saddle; ,the tongue lashings of the CO when you fouled 9 were killers. .. Moving downhill through the green forest made the going easier now. But one ,other thing made it easier yet, This, they knew, was their last patrol for thirty days. The entire company ~as to be, given a thirty day furlough starting as soon as they returned from this last rri"ission. Each one of them had been planning for the last few days h0':V he would spend his month of leisure. Most of the men were planping to take . the steam boat down to 'San Francisco where there would be wine, women, and song, and just about anything else they wanted as long as they CQuld afford to payfor it. There .were . a few exceptions. Corporal R e e s e ,w as planning to go down to California and visit the many missions scattered along the coast. His last letter from his bedridden wife back in Vermont had aroused new hope for , her recovery. He figured that perhaps the Lord was waiting for a sign of faith from him. He would do anything to put back into her eyes the sparkle as it was when she was a young bride. Sergeant V e r pIa n k was thinking of the month he would be able to spend with Shining chise, Mangus Colorado, Nickaze, Geronimo and their legions of screaming, b I 0 0 d-thirsty warriors. They knew how they fought, what they thought, w hat they believed, how they lived, how they made love, how they trained their young braves. There was no facet of the intricate Indian culture that had escaped these men. They knew their opponent and knew him well. That is why they were alive. They possessed the physical signs of their knowledge of .Indian lore also. I f you looked closely, you could find them on the men. A horizol)tal s,car on the head of one where an qyeranxious warrior thought he was scaJping a dead man. Only this dead man had shoved a Bowie knife between the ribs of the scalper. Callouses on all of the hands from the long hours, sometimes days, on the trail. The gaunt look in the face from living too often on half, quarter, or even eighth rations. Bullet and arrow scars almost anywhere on the body. \i\Thip marks on the back of one where he had been tortured until he prayed that the goo d Lor d would strike him dead. And in the eyes of every man was the hatred of the adversary that IS necessarv in a killer. They C' all 10 Hair, the twenty year old Indian girl who lived in the village outside the fort. She was a welcome relief and contrast to his shrewish wife he had left in Illinois. Compared to that shrieking, nagging hulk of a woman, the quiet, doelike grace of Shining Hair gave her an angelic aura. Sergeant Morris and Lieutenant Wagner had agreed to help each other build their own cabins for their families. The fort was so overcrowded that there was little privacy, especially for an enlisted man. These two men were concerned with dev~sing little personal touches to the new home. Both families were in 'a state of happy confusion over the anticipated new dwellings. The men felt the warm inner glow that comes to a man when he knows that he has been a good provider for his wi fe and family. At the front of the column moving now t h r 0 ugh cool grassy meadows, even the colonel was making plans for the rare furlough. He had been demoted from general to colonel for speaking his mind on matters which his superiors considered out of his realm. He would use this opportunity to get a personal camp'a ign under way to have his g~neralship reinstated. Just b e for e nightfall, the horses whinnied restively as they smelled the fresh water of the river long before it came into sight. The troopers shifted uneasily in their saddles, impatient to dismount and set up camp now that the end of the long journey was at hand. Emerging through the green pines into a shaded clearing by the side of the quietly flowing river, the colonel raised his hand-the signal to haIt. Lieutenant Wagner spurred his horse forward to the side of the colonel to receive his instructions. "Yes, sir?" Colonel Custer surveyed the surrounding landscape with his critical gaze, then looked at his junior officer and said, "We shall make camp here by the Little Big Horn, Lieutenant. I want you to organize a patrol to go looking for those redskins. You'll leave at dawn tomorrow." "Yes, SiLj Should I send out a couple of linen to scout around before night falls?" Again Custer scanned the surroundings, then spoke with a certainty that comes only from long years of military experience, "Don't bot her. There isn't an Indian within twenty miles of here." 11 12 "And a great sign appeared in heaycn; a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon was under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars." This quotation taken from the Apocalypse has been attributed to the Blessed Virgin and is especially appropriate in this centennial year of the apparitions of Our Lady at Lourdes. Between February 11 and July 16, 1858, the Blessed Virgin appeared 18 times to Saint Bernadette Soubirous in the hollow of a rock in the small town of Lourdes in Southern France. On March 25, the feast day of the Annunciation, the Blessed Virgin declared to the v.rorld, "I am the Immaculate Conception." .. It should be impressive to every student of Marian College, which is dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, that Mary chose a humble peasant girl as the instrument for her message to the world. No matter how insignificant our role in life may be, we too are instruments of the Blessed Virgin. By our good example, nurtured by Marian's ideals of sanctity, scholarship and gf'ntility, we are spreading her message throughout the world. 13 the Hushed Dawn comes sleepily through the Mist TEN the Golden trees Murmur their quiet Lullaby to a Tranquil earth BEAUTIFUL lazy clouds in a Luminous sky wait for the Melody of morning Chimes. WORDS MARGARET DARNELL, ' 58 THE HAPPY SEA As I was strolling by the sea, A wave skipped up and laughed at me. It jumped and splashed around my feet. Then rolled and ran in quick retreat. But as I took another pace, A new one sped to fill its place. How can they say the sea is sad, They who do not know it? The sea is happy, gleeful, glad, And only wants to show it. JAMES ALLISON, 14 '58 7Ae . SYLVIA JOHNSON, '59 I've just seen a movie, a very good one. At least it impressed me, and others too. It has a flock of Academy Awards to its credit and has been acclaimed by critics and the public alike. Does this movie really deserve its fame? \i\!hat is the uproar all about? 15 \Vell, the movie is about a bridge, a railroad bridge across a muddy, changeable river which twists through the jungle of Siam. This bridge is the central figure in the plot. One of the characters wants to build it strong and lasting and another wants to blow it skyhigh. The story is set during war time and the two men are fighting on the same side. But the bridge means something different to each of them. To the destroyers, an American soldier and his com man d 0 group, the bridge is an important link in the enemy defense. The railroad that crosses it will carry men and supplies which w i I I add tot)1 e e n e my's strength, increase their resistance, lengthen the war, keep them longer from their homes. It is not the bridge, it is only a bridge" a part of something that must be destroyed. And not the rain nor the jungle nor death nor anything human is going to keep the m fro m destroying it. The bridge that these men are struggling through the jungle to wreck is the same bridge that Colonel Nicholson of the British army has built, with great pride and effort. He and his men are prisoners of war and the bridge was built by 16 forced labor, but the colonel doesn't see it that way at all. It is the work of British soldiers and it is a good bridge, one to be proud of. But it is more than that. To the colonel the bridge brings an echo 0 f "Rule, Britannia" and "God Save the King" to a steamy tropic jungle. It symbolizes the white man's burden carried with a stiff upper lip. It stands for a gentleman's honor, a soldier's code upheld in the face of hardship and brutality. That this is an enemy bridge he has built is not important to Colonel Nicholson. Its building has saved his men from physical and mental disintegration, welded them together in a common endeavor, and now helps to maintain them as true British soldiers. Beyond that nothing else matters. The bridge begins on one bank and ends on the other. In the colonel's mind, its significance begins and ends there too. It is a bridge to nowhere. Inevitably these two forces, the builders and the destroyers, come closer and closer to conflict. The bridge progresses steadily, rapidly toward the deadline when a certain important train must cross and the cacophony of jungle noises is accented by the ring of ham- mers and the shouting of men's voices, Struggling to meet the same deadline, the little group of saboteurs hurry toward the bridge and their passing briefly disturbs the sodden peace of the jungle. At last the day arrives and both groups are ready. The builders celebrate the completion of the bridge with a rowdy, torch-lit entertainment while the destroyers make a silent swim to plant the deadly explosive at the bridge's base. Finally, even as the train is heard approaching, Colo ne 1 Nicholson discovers the hidden explosive. Someone is going to destroy his bridge; he must s~ve it. He struggles with the man who is trying to set off the charge. The Japanese soldiers spray the saboteurs with machine gun bullets. The destroyers are killed and the bridge is saved. But in a final ironic twist. the Colonel, who was hit by a stray bullet, staggers, stumbles, dies and falls on the detonator. The explosion wrecks the bridge and the train plunges into the river. The last scene is a quiet .one: the broken >hridge. the h a I f submerged train hissing as it settles slowly into the \\Tater, the river littered with debris, and the water washing over the bodies lying in the shallows. The green jungle hems it all The gigantiC struggle in. seems rather foolish now. What were they fighting for? Simply a bridge, or more? And who was right, the British colonel who built it or the American who destroyed it. As the bridge was a symbol of different things to the different characters, so this movie has varied meanings to the viewers. It is a colorful travelogue, an exciting adventure picture, a psychological drama, even a satirical treatment of men 111 war. But whatever it means, the movie is not one to be easily forgotten. The memory of the sound of jungle chatter interrupted by the roar of a train and the tramping of marching feet moving to a gaily whistled tune will linger for a long time. And who could forget the sight of Colonel Nicholson walking across the bridg'e, his boots clicking, his stick swinging, and his face alight with satisfaction and pride. 1/[ost of all though, I'll remember the bridge itself, the b rid g e to nowhere, "The Bridge on the River QU:1i." fountains A patter From a cherub's lips ; A splash that pours From Vestal's urn; A geyser soaring Abandoned-free And falling To crystal mirrors Set to dancing; Lattghing-Singing Babbled notes That flow in ripples Gently rocking Fallen leaves. ROBERT ' KISTNER, ;"'1 ' 18 '60 ESCAPE INTO -, . -D ESS' .. ] ' ~- HYLDA Have you ever been lost? Utterly and terrifyingly lost? And fear ... ? Have you ever known fear? ' Stark, awful fear? You think you have been lost, "lost" in the streets of some large town; you think you have known fear , the fear of missing a train or being de- 19 J. BERRYMAN, J '61 tected in a lie perhaps? Stupid~ puny creatures! You have lived safely, in ignorance of the infinite sensations of fear and solitude v,rhich I have known, experiences which changed the course and substance of my life. After..having suffered a ner- vous break-down, I took a holiday from the school where I taught and went to recuperate in vVales, far away from the stupid, mocking, school-g i r 1s who were responsible for my ill-health. I stayed in the valley of Mynydd Bach. My guide-book described the surr 0 u n din g country-side as "splendid" and "majestic" and called the inhabitants "warmhe~' rted" and "friendly," but I found the mountains grey and forbidding, and the sympathetic Vvelsh fools sickened me. I was very nervy and irritable as a result of my recent illness; my head ' ached contirlUously and people still sniggered at me. Like the girls of Tamworth High School, people whispered and talked about me. They thought I didn't know. But I was clever. I knew. In the small hotel where I stayed the guests used . to talk about me and look at me. They pretended to be friendly but when my back was turned they sniggered and mocked me. Fool s 1 I saw through them. One day, when everything had conspired together to vex and morti fy me, and T was on the verge of screaming aloud, I came .across two servant girls in the lounge. They had been talking about me, I could see, 20 and at my approach they started to giggle ... The one nearest to me had a mocking face, her mouth was open and her harsh laughter rang through the roof. I gripped the tableedge tightly and felt something at my finger-tips; it was a heavy marble ash-tray. I picked it up and threw it with all my might . . .smash! . . . into her mocking face. "You dare to laugh at me!" I screamecl . "You dare laugh at me !" I flung out of the hotel and set off fuming up the mountain side. T.he path grew steep and I was out of breath, but I still trembled with, fury and nervous agitatjon, a~1d did not turn back. The sun sank 100v in the sky. On and on I trudged unheeding, over stones and sparse mountain grass. At last I turned and made my way back to the valley, which was now out of sight. I knew I was far from the hotel, and quickened my step. There were so many hollows; each time I came to the top of a ~Hope, : I hoped 'expectantly to see the valley ' '{ai' below, but each time I was dis:.. appointed. By now my pace had quickened to a run; over boulder-strewn grass I jogged. into dips, up slopes. Mybreath came in gasps, but I never reached the top of the slope be:.. yond which the valley lay. The fear of being lost, which I had refused to admit, was now surmounted by the fear of night which was approaching fast .; I went on quickly, trying to outrun the darkness. I stumbled twice; once I fell, . each time I picked myself up and ran on blindly with my throat cracked and sore. I began to weep, blubbering unintelligibly - fear was clawing at my heart, gnawing in ~Y . stomach. I sank to the ground. In a black abyss of despair, I sat tense and alone. watching the stars come out and the skies turn from grey to a deeper velvety black. The scattered trees took shape. Grotesque they seemed but very real. Petrified wit h f e a i I waited for them to glide towards me. How many minutes I .sat thus peering into the gathering gloom of the bare mountainside. who can say? How long I remained paralyzed. searching wit h w i I d eyes for any sign of movement and straining to see the gliding of phantom shapes in the darkness, who can say? But it was indescribable horrow. I was alone; fear brought my heart to my mouth, choking me, and stopping me from crying aloud. By now my 21 tears had dried. I ceased to murmur prayers to heaven, but sat tense and terribly afraid. Each moment was an eternity, not of hellish nightmare, but of stark, painfully vivid reality. A t last, when the velvety clinging darkness of night closed in, enveloping me in s i I e 11 C C and filling the air with expectancy and dread, I leaped to my feet and ran into the night of swirling darkness and black vapours. On I went, unseeing, until a white shape loomed up before me and I threw back my head in agonizing fear. Piercing shrieks and demonlike laughter rang in my ears-it was my own voice I heard. I screamed and screamed while the echoes:-. ,were throwl~ . . .. . .'back .t by the mountains, making my head ring, and the fearful crescendo gained in volume until my head swam and I knew no l11ore. * * Sitting here now, even with the sun I i g h t checkering the walls and a view of people and green grass outside, the imprint of that experience is stamped indelibly . upon my mind. Only time can erase the awful clarity of that night on the mountains, say my doctors: thus, I remain, an inmate of Tamworth lVlental Asylum. EMILIE ANN CLEVENGER, '59 "A great crisis has arisen in our nation, for our leaders have had to seek advice from a greater power! At long last our country's executives have had tq .turn for guidance to someone Inore powerful and with greater influence than themselves." Thus could have spoken the ancient Greek boy or the long forgotten Roman girl in a description of an event that was recorded in the history of their civilization. But, it was never s p 0 ken, whether because of pride or fear we do not know. These two great empires saw ONE NATION UNDER GOD 22 ruin, decline, and decay because the rulers forgot that there was someone greater than the mselves. It is now that the American youth are making the same statement with bright hopes for a peaceful future, instead of thoughts of the fall of the great nat ion in which they live. Theirs is a well founded hope that the national leaders will not so readily forget that it is Almighty God vVho will direct the nation which has bee n placed under His protection. I am an A merican citizen. Young though I may be, I have every right of a citizen. I have the right to speak as I wish; it was granted to me in the Bill of Rights ' which my forefathers composed and signed. Therefore, I can describe the action of our political leaders, not in fear as the Greek and Roman youths. but in praise for this thing which my governmental representatives have done for me and my country. I was also granted the privilege to exercise my right to w 0 r s hip God. Today many atheistic rulers have denied that right to their people; therefore, the representatives of America have thought it expedient to have God's protection and patronage on our land. a minute 23 portion of the universe He has created. Today's youth must verify these beliefs of all the free people of these United States, in order to demonstrate to those peoples of the atheistic countries, that true peace and hope for a tranquil world lie only in faith in God. Our nation has been united under God since our first days as an infant country independ- . c ent from its mother. All Amer-, icans from the cold aqua shores of the Atlantic to the warm blue beaches of the Pacific-are grateful for this privilege. When a crisis comes our leaders will act as one with speed, wisdom, and prudence to live up to the pledge which every loyal American family makes to the flag, our symbol of liberty; but, only with God's help. The Romans and the Greeks may have been too proud to call on the Almighty but we are proud enough to want Him to give His best to America. We, the youth and future rulers of these United States, who daily pledge ourselves to the nation united under God, are thankful that our leaders do recognize that for peace and security God's assistance and protection are necessary and eminent. 11 -- I I I I I [ ! 24 On this twenty-fifth anniversary year 0 f the death of Bishop Joseph Chartrand of Indianapolis, we express our appreciation of his work in a brief tribute. Bishops are human. Beneath the majestic carriage of a consecrated man of God lies a personality shielded from many, shared by few, and intimately known hy none. Such could be said of many bishops. Their high office of spiritual shepherd keeps them aloof from intimate contact with the faithful. But it could not be said of Joseph Chartrand, D. D., sixth bishop of Indianapolis. His was a life of the "personal apostolate." The magic character of his personality reached out to embrace and to imprint a marked influence upon anyone with whom he came into contact. Widely kno~n in the Catholic world as "the Bishop of the Blessed Sacrament," Bishop Chartrand was largely responsible for the spiritual enrichment of the Indianapolis diocese in an era of general lukevvarm devotion toward frequent reception of the sacraments. vVhen Pope St. Pius X restored the practice of early and daily Holy Communion the people of Cathedral parish which had grown by that time were ready. It eventually became known as the parish of daily Holy Communion. The present day influences on the diocese of Indianapolis were fostered by the zeal and farsighted planning of Bishop Joseph Chartrand. Those who knew him still treasure all their memories of this great leader. Those of us belonging to a later generation can appreciate the daily evidences of his "personal apostolate." PAUL 25 G. Fox SNOW :MARGA.RET DARNELL, '58 Snow falls, spills out from clouds tipped over by angels. Snow dances, whirl s into the arms of stark, barren trees. Snow flutters, struggles on warm pa,"ement dying in cold silence . .26 the decision The air held a promise of spring on this early March day, as Beth Markus huddled on a bench near the statue of MaterDei. She loved this spot more than any other on campus and had often come here during her previous three years of college. - Now, as a sen i 0 r at Mater-Dei, she came once more, miserable yet somehow relieved. Tears splashed dow n her cheeks, and a bitter smile played upon her lips as she began to thi~lk of all that had preceded this moment. F our years she had known :Mark and had liked him from the first. A f riendly, clean-cut boy. She hadn't seen too much of him her freshman year; now and then they chanced to be on dance committees together. Of course, he had been in her French c1.ass, and they would sit and banter French casually" at times to the point of <;lisconcertjngtlwir 27 French teacher. She had to chuckle, even now, as she recalled the chagrined look of :NIr. DuBois, when either she or Mark had used an impolite form. Her sophomore and j ullior years she had come to know him better. They dated occasionally, taking in a show in downtown St. Louis, or, if the mood hit them, they would just walk, talking and window shopping with Mark playfully hopping down the street like a little school boy. Those dates had been fun and a part of growing up for both of them. Then, suddenly, it was her senior year. She hadn't seen Mark all summer and with only an occasional letter passing between them, she was uncertain whether he would return to Mater-Dei. She had supposed that he would return,as this was his last year of pre-med, and from there he hoped to be accepted by the St. Louis Medical School. She recalled that her heart had skipped a beat on that burnished faIr day as she glimpsed the top of his crewcut sunbleached hair. It was registra- MARILYN ANN BECK, '60 tion day and, oh, how wonderful to be back. She looked again and it was in this instant that he, too, caught her eye. That big, adorable lug had yelled like a banshee, and soon the crowd, with whom he had been, welled into a mighty, thunderous army, s h 0 uti n g greetings and tossing hats into the air. A ll her friends had returned, and almost immediately she had been caught ill. their midst and pulled farther and farther from her parents. They had smiled, shaking their heads in gentle understanding. They somehow knew, as only wise parents can, that their daughter had not really left home but in reality had only -arrived. She was an adult now and no longer their little girl. I t took only a short time to accomplish what the red tape of an administration office demanded. Then, she, with the help o f her Mother, had breezed t h r 0 ugh the unpacking process. Suddenly it was time for her parents to leave, and there she had stood, waving a fond farewell, as they pulled out of sight. She felt a little tinge of guilt in the complacency she felt, even as they left. She was uncertain as to why, and then it seemed unimportant to have an answer. She was grown up. 28 Pursuing her thoughts, she had been momentarily oblivious to her surroundings; then she suddenly snapped back to reality, as she felt a hand on hers. She gazed up, and her heart leaped for a second time that day. It was Mark, sweet and considerate as a I way s. She would never forget the look in his eyes as he said, " Cheer up! It will be a good year; one you won't regret. It will just take a little getting used to." He had propelled her down the pathway leading to the same statue in front of which she now sat. She smiled wryly at the thought of the many times she had come to Mater-Dei. Always when happy or heavy of heart, she had sought MaterDei for peace and consolation. N ever before had she failed to find an answer, but now she wondered. Mark had been so comforting to talk with, that evening which now seemed so long ago. She had explained to him that, far from being homesick, as he had thought her. she seemed wrapped in a blanket of contentment, happy to see her friends and him again. That evening set a precedent. At fir st they resumed their occasional dating. But as the earth turned from dusty brown to sparkling white, their relationship, too, took on a luster. And always when they wished to talk seriously about a problem or just share p r i vat e dreams, Mater-Dei was their refuge. I t seemed to Beth that the Mother of God was guiding their destinies. That's why she couldn't understand this ending, so final, so bleak. She couldn't remember when it had happened. She knew, of course, that it had been a gradual process; real love always is. Love must grow and be nurtured just as any other living, pulsating thing. A nd, oh, how she knew that it wasn't a one-sided affair. Good, tender Mark had Tein forced every word with quiet devotion. His gentle kiss was a pledge of future hap pin e s s, when they would belong solely to each other. Yet one thing always pushed its reminding sel f into her conscious mind. Something she tried to disregard as being possible. True, they had discussed it ; perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he had talked; she had o nly listened and at the end tried to console. Yes, she consoled him, prayed for him every inch of the way, while her own heart felt as if it were being vnenched from its very depths. vVhat could she do, what could she say? Mor'' than her happiness, she .~anted his. But still, the po~sib'iiity. of his being a priest, l , . ~. ' toward Mater-Dei. He was already seated on the bench. Suddenly she knew. His very expression of deep peace and contentment, mixed with gravity and tenderness, told of his decision. Her crunchy footstep on the gravel path gave him the signal of her approach, and he looked up slowly, arose, and came toward her. He had taken her hands in his and, determined as she was not to cry, she felt her eyes moisten. Within five minutes her whole world had come crashing down upon her; her dreams were ripped apart. As he made way for her on the bench beside him, he began his s~ory in a quiet voi.ce. "Beth, I-I don't know how to say this. I don't want to hurt you, and yet . . . After all these months of prayer and indecision, I know what I must do. I've t a Ike d to you; I couldn't begin to explain what you've meant to me, especially during this time. But I feel llOW, that I know God's will; I'm going to be-to be a priest. "I love you, you know that. I-I suppose that sounds like a contradiction, but it isn't. I can see, at least, that neither of us would be happy if we were to be married; not that 30 we don't love each other, but rather because we do. God has seen fit to let us share our happiness for a short \vhile. Only in His good time will we come to completely understand and accept. I have never led you on; you knew everything there was to know. I only hope you won't hate me. As for your future, someday you will find someone who really deserves you; you, who are so sweet and lovable, will make someone a wonderful wife and mother of his children." He went on; he said more, but she couldn't remember, she didn't want to remember. It wasn't fair of him, it wasn't fair of God. Then suddenly, as tears spilled from her eyes, she turned to Mark, kissed him gently, telling him that she understood and that if he were happy, she in turn was also. She had told him to go then; not because she hated him, but because she felt a need to be alone with her own thoughts. She had to pick up the pieces. He disappeared down the path, leaving her huddled before Mater-Dei. Her heart was filled with the bitter ashes of burned hope, but there was no rancor or even real unhappiness. She could be generous, too. She would be. Innocents' Revenge Future potential Samsons' eyes are burnt blind by the blazered pulp at the candy store. Reincarnate Herod trades in red and white sweetness (only toothaches, tummyaches) , black and grey perversion (cancer of brain and reins) with holy innocents. Rachel raves in Rama while the milk-white future pillars of the land are ground to mud by the pulp mills. We the people need not tie a millstone round Herod's neck. Blind eyes and shaved minds will one day shaggy headed shake the pillars, topple stumbling blocks, kill Philistines. JAMES 31 T. O'DONNELL, '59 -:;(,l,"Oh, he thinks he ~ s so smart. H e thinks he's always right!" ~ <:- " ':-'''''. ~ "'DUrmg the relatively short tirrie you've been wandering a'in1lessly around this wqrld, you no doubt have come in contact with this sarcastic bit of backbiting. I f you have never said it, you certainly have heard some~ne else say it. Of course, you say, who hasn't heard that? So what? So why get worked up over so minor a thing as this? I'll tell you why. Because I happen to be one of the people ( or is it per sons? ) that they are talking about. that's why. Only I don't think I'm right, I am right . . . I make this . statement, not thr.ough any egotistic sense of false pride, but with the deepest, humblest humility. Some persons ( or is it people?) simply .have a knack for doing something. Michaelangelo had a knack for drawing, Rip van \i\Tinkle had a knack for sleeping, Nero had a knack for burning cities, and Portia had a knack for facing life. I have a knack for gazing into the vague, m~sty labyrinth of the future and coming , up with an almost infallible prophecy-.. Nothing to brag about, really.' l ust a knack. I'm not always I'm RI C HARD SIMKO , '59 right, mind you, but so often. that my associates find it di sgusting. So do 1. Take for example, the day I graduated from high school. The principal, a rather anemic fellow who suffered from extreme myopia, was reading off the names of the graduates to come up and receive their diplomas. In a graduating class of over one hundred and fifty, it can be easily understood the number of Deltphs, Golymfps, Czarsczs, and vVofneskis there were along with the Joneses and Smiths. N ow my name isn't hard at all. S-i-m-k-o pronounced Sim' coe. The Warden, as we fellows of the rowdier set called him was rattling off the foreign names like the Notre Dame football coach, and he knew my name like he knew his own, for reasons that we won't go into now , lest we digress. Nevertheless, I leaned over to the fellow next to me and confided, "When he gets my name, he'll foul it up something awful." AlwlIYs Rigllt A few minutes later, my friend must have thought that I was clairvoyant. The Warden picked up the diploma, read the name, started to speak, 33 checked the name again, squinted through the three-in-.:h lenses in his spectacles, then blurted out suddenly, "Surambo!" The other day, I was return.ing from a long shopping tour with my girl friend, Sharon. \Vhen we were still struggling t h r 0 ugh bustling shoppers, three blocks from the car, I had a vision. "There'll be a parking ticket on the windshield when we get to the car." Well, you can just imagine the look of startled admiration on her face when we got to the car and found that I had been 100% correct. I really wowed her wit h m y extraordinary powers of prediction a couple of nights later when we were returning home fro m b i r dwatching about one i nth e morning. I had been anxiously scanning the road ahead for sigi1s of a gas station because the gage had been on E for the last three miles. Suddenly from out of the inky night came the sight of a filling station. Sharon sighed with relief. "Don't go sighing yet," says 1. "At this hour of the night, he's sure to be closed." A fter banging on the door unsuccessfully, I could tell that my prowess as a seer had made quite an impression on her. Then the other night, we were at the basketball game. The alma mater was playing their traditional rival. The opponents were ahead 71-70 with three seconds left in the game. One of our boys was fouled and he had a chance to win the game. Over the hush of the crowd, I told Sharon rather loudly, so that all might gather the benefit of my foreknowledge, "He'll miss and they'll get the ball and keep it before we can get another chance." After we had gone down to defeat, 71-70, there were loud murmurings around me and pointed fingers. The crowd seemed to be transforming itself into an unruly mob which might do something which both they and I would later regret, so I quickly gathered my girl and my coat and made a hasty departure underneath the bleachers. You would have thought that I missed the free throws. One of the most contributing factors to my public advancement as an oracle came at a party. Being the wallflower type , I didn't go in much for drinking, boisterous singing, and frantic dancing to Elvis Presley records, but if my friends enjoyed themselves in this way, who was I to complain? However. I saw a light go on in the bedroom next door 34 around three A.M. In an effort to save my friends a bit of nasty public embarrassment, I suggested, during a brief lull, that they hold down the noise or somebody might call the cops. As usual, they 0 n I y laughed and called me a partypooper. The next morning, as we sat staring out through the bars of the city jail, I found that I had made a few believers. Then just yes t e r day, I washed and polished the old horseless carriage. I wanted it to look particularly nice because I had a date for the first time with the sharpest looking girl I had ever laid eyes on. I told my neighbor with a flash of insight, "This thing-'ll be wet before I get downtown." He looked up at the clear, blue sunlit sky and shook his head slowly. He knew better than to actually disagree with me, but doubt was written all over his face. He should have known better. Five blocks from home, I stopped for a red light, and a beer truck pulled up next to me. I failed to notice at the time that there was an open case of beer bottles, full, teetering precariously on the uppermost shelf. The truck had bee n bouncing over the city streets in the warm sun for no one knows how long. As the light 35 turned to green, the driver sped away. The sudden motion dislodged the case, and it fell onto the pavement next to my car. The side of the car absorbed the blast of the flying glass as twenty-four bottles of beer exploded. I looked out of the window at the side of the car. Covered with wet, s tic k y, foamy, Wiedemann's registered beer. I could cite dozens of other similar instances where I hit the nail right on the head. The power of prophecy is a wonderful gift, but I'm getting a little sick of it. I do wish that I would be wrong sometime. It would be wonderful. If you remember, I said previously that I wasn't always right. One day the whole family was going on a picnic. Everything was in preparation. The children were all dressed and out of trouble, the family car was recently washed. The bulging hampers were in the car, and everybody felt in a gay, festive mood. I'm afraid I spoiled this a bit by mentioning, "As soon as we get there and get everything set down, it will . " ram. But I was wrong this time. It didn't rain. That was the day the tornado flattened the entire county. REVENGE PAUL T OOLEY) The sun wa~ high and hot. The hills were long and low. The muffled clop of the dark stallion raised dust from the trail and a slight breeze carried it to the front of the rider making a thick, but soon settling, cloud. The tall, lean and sundarkened . rider stared blindly from under the brim of his new stetson. The black hat matched the rest 0 f his outfit from the charcoal faded shirt to his dust-covered dark boots. The shiny, wet-looking, black holsters were slung low, tied, and set off by the ivory-white handles of the guns. Leon Abear was headed for '60 town to kill the men who had, a few hours before, killed his brothers, Thanis and Tiggy. In his solitude he spoke outloud. "Guess the town people sent that traveling minister to tell me about the killin' cause he was a man of God. Damn people should a' know'd I'd rather heard it from a friend or the padre 'stead of a stranger, ya' don't think of somethin' like that unless it's one of your own." He stopped talking to himself as he reached the fork in the road. He turned the black stallion toward the mission-and town. Abear's thoughts turned to 36. his brothers and he realized that the ranch would be a lonely place from now on. No more of Thanis' drunken laughter after a stale joke or his teasing of the hounds. No more would Tig shoot cans behind the barn and yell like a wounded cat if he hit six in a row. No more. His facial expression of fond sorrow turned into a blank look of hesitation. "My God!" Tig, he remembered was a good gunhandler and was not so much a bible man that he wouldn't shoot a man who deserved it, and Thanis-he had shot a man while riding with a posse. ,Yes, he remembered, Thanis had shot Bud McCord after the bank robbery . ."My God!" he stammered again as a cold chill ran up his back. \i\That business did he have going after the killers of his brothers? They died side by side. He thought that he was just a match for Tig, if he was that good, but not near a match for both of them. The men who killed them could surely kill him. He chased these thoughts from his mind for he knew he must try or never live with himself again. Doubt was gone but the cold feeling remained. Once again his thinking was broken as he realized he was in front of the 37 missIOn. Abear thought that now, if ever, would be a good time to see the padre, Padre Beluxioux. The shadow of the steeple's cross fell to the ground and again thoughts of the past came to him. He remembered that every Sunday the cross's shadow vms in about the same place as he and his brothers were coming out of the church but far to the left when they were going in. The Abear brothers were always very close to the padre since their parents' death in the "old house" fire when the boys were eighteen, sixteen, and thirteen years old. That was five years ago. Abear opened the I a r g e, Spanish-type doors. Looking in, he saw that the church was empty and he thought of how unnecessarily large the church was. Abear stood still, staring, and the floor creaked to his right. With a natural impulse ,h e started for his gun but checked himsel f .as he realized it would be the padre. The padre pretended not to notice the sudden action, the tension, or the strapped down guns. In a near whisper he said, "My son, I am glad to see you. You have come to make preparations for the funeral and to pray for your brothers. I wiII try to help you with everything because I realize there is work for you to do at the ranch and-" "Padre, 1-," Leon started with eyes down. "I know, my son," the padre interrupted, "you think you must avenge the death of your brothers, but vengeance saith the Lord and remem-," "Padre," Leon interrupted again, this time louder than before, "you understand how it is. Please help me out. Take care of the boys' bodies and don't make it harder for me to do what I'm going to do." The pad r e shrugged and sighed, "Yes, my son." "Exactly what happened?" . '''Your brothers came out of the Rio De Oro Saloon, where I wish they kldnt been be fore a thing like this. And then it happened." Leon Abear fought a mist bef ore his eyes and a tear dropped off his high cheek bone, "\\1110 and how . Padre r ' I don't know how," the padre answered gently, "but it was - remember when Thanis was with the posse and shot the McCord man-Bud they calleo. him ?" "Yes." "It was his brother John, but he was only seeking revenge just like you are. You're both wrong. Leave these things to the law and the Lord." "Bud McCord robbed a bank and was rotten, all rotten! Thanis and Tig weren't. Thank you, Padre, pray for my brothers. " "And for you, my son. God be with you." Leon rode into town and things were different. He noticed, first, how short the ride seemed and then that the town was in a scurry. Men that generally waved at him just looked. Men who seldom noticed him were all eyes. He rode down the middle of the street very dramatically but with cold chills. He passed the hotel. He passed the Old Spur saloon. He passed the sheriff's office and wondered if the sheriff had run, like always, to another town for help at the word "McCord." Abear passed the lawyer's office. He passed the general store. He came to the Rio De Oro Saloon and stopped at the end of the rail. Slowly swinging down, Abear pushed the holsters into perfect position. Glancing up he saw two pairs of eyes watching him around the corner of the saloon window; another over the dirty yellow swinging doors. 38 He stepped up to the walk and his blood boiled as he saw that his brothers' blood still stained the wooden planks in front of the doors. He pushed the doors open. "Abear!" came the 1 0 u d. mean,half-crazy yell. He froze solid. The yell was a demand for attention. It came from behind him. Abear turned. He was numb. The chills were gone as death fear took their place. There, in the middle of the street, was the answer. His brothers hadn't stood a chance. Shotguns don't miss. McCord stood behind his, powerfully. A sneer curled his lips. . 39 "The last Abear," he bawled contemptuously. "You don't mess around, do you, McCord?" came Abear's thrust from behind a lump in his throat. "You're not the type to fight a fair fight; just like your brother Bud, you're a rat." Abear concluded, wondering whether he could win or not. He wouldn't crawl. "I'm alive though," sa i d McCord, widening his smile. "Now, 'Mister I a s t-o f-t h eAbe a r s,' whenever you're ready." Abear knew he had to try at least. The noise was deafening but Abear didn't hear it. QUEST follow the tornado. chase the sinking sun up to the clouds, down to the pits of hell. tear apart the larkspur. taste the salty foam. seek stars or grasp eternal flame. coming, going, wondering, sobbing. stop. stand sti1l ! look within the nearest tabernacle. MARGARET DARNELL, 40 ' 58  ...

... THE FIORETTI I VOLUME XV NUMBER 1 Indianapolis, Indiana 1957-1958 I II II ! !I AN ANTHOLOGY OF I MARIAN COLLEGE I PROSE AND VERSE I I I ! THE STAFF Editor-in-Chief Mary Byer, '58 Assistant Editors Marguerite Branday, '59 Margaret Darnell, '58 Philip Doherty, '58 Miriam Gannon, '59 Joseph Hertz, '60 J~dy Hirn, '59 Sylvia Johnson, '59 Art Editor Jane Davis, '58 Illustrator JANE DAVIS, '58 FOR "ESCAPE" AND "JACKIE" I_ __ ~ .. -~--.---~~--- ~ --- -- ---------- CONTENTS Contents and Articles Art of Today The Voyage A Strange Home The Living Past Then and Now Galveston Interlude Doodling in Thought 8 10 24 28 31 35 38 Isabel Hernando Robert Kistner Bernard F. Dever Jean Prather Sylvia Johnson Jeanette Scarff Marilyn Beck Fiction Escape Jess Remembered Jackie 5 19 39 Paul Tooley Louise Diver Marlene Sur Poetry On Corpus Christi Morning Psalm of Liberation To Barbara The Sun That Wakes Transient Happiness Ode to Fancy Why An Artifact 7 21 22 26 27 30 37 43 44 Louise Diver Normalie Richards Margaret Darnell Philip Allen Mary Ellen Eversman Ruth Ramsdell Margaret Darnell Margaret Darnell Richard Beck ESCAPE dra\,vled, "sure, there'll be a trial. Yes, a trial." "\Vhen? \Vhen will it be ?" He noted the indifference reflected on the face of the guard. "I n twentv-five -'vears ?" he addcd \,.".ith scorn. "Mavbe. Yes, maybe in twenty-five -' years. They're in. no hurry. " And the guard aVOIded his searching look. Detrick's e a s i 1 y excitable heart ran cold as he thought of the murders he had committed. Nine beautiful, young women with gaping bloody slashes in their white throats. He hated beauty for he was ugly. Detrick did not understand. His mind was torn between what he knew he had had to do and the might of the law. He also did not understand the guard. One minute tormenting. the next consoling. He read the note again. "Escape-stones." How? How? How? muttered his lips again and again. He was gro\ving frantic . He knew that he must maintain his senses and learn what the words meant. On the guard's last round for the nio-ht he walked by slowly, . seriously, looking at the prIsoner , and then he nodded. The nod was not at Detrick, but at the wall. "The waiL" he whispered to himsel f. I-lope replaced frustration. "T<:scape - stones -' PALL TOOLEY, '60 The shadow of the bars from the door of the cell fell upon the desperate face of the man who gripped the bunk's support until his veins ",,'ere gnarled ribbons ao-ainst his skin. Large project/:) . , ing eyebrows screened plercmg eyes set deep into his large but thin features. His mouth, wide and massive, had a twisted, sinister smile, Through his distorted mind ran ideas of revenge against the revenging. Not only his mind but . his heart and soul were warped, tormented and full of hate. A sound like a groan from a wounded beast escaped -between his lips. A trial was due him. He knew he was guilty, but no one could prove it. He was too clever, he. The prison guard had laughed when he had asked about a trial. But he would show them. He'd show them all. He'd be free yet. "There'll be a trial?" he asked. "A trial? Sure," the guard /:) wall." Detrick crawled to the wall in sure understanding of the message. He began examining the wall. Misery drained from him! A large stone block was loose--and another-and the next-and the next. With mounting haste, he pulled the heavy blocks from their places. A tunnel! Detrick stared down into it, panting from exertion. The tunnel was wide and slowly pointed down. Perfect! The digger remembered that the prison sat high on a hill. He crawled, fearful and nervous at first, and then with impatience to shorten the time. The tunnel was becoming narrower but the passage was still possible. Suddenlythe urg~to kill 'came over . him, kill something-anything. The setting was right, so right. It was quiet, very quiet and dark. The only sound came from the pebbles rolling down in front of him. Detrick did not feel the sharp rocks that ripped his clothes and tore into his knees. Freedom was near. Blood from his torn skin and stabbed knees trailed the ground. Detrick could use only his hands for propulsion in a pulling fashion. "Damn the man, the idiot, the imbecile! why couldn't he dig wider ?" came in explosive gasps. Detrick forgot that without the man there would be no escape at all. He forgot all except escape. He struggled. His eyes soon bulged, then strained; his heart jumped, then skipped one, two, three beats. Light! Detrick saw the needle point of light a great distance ahead, but it was there like a beacon. Excitedly, he pushed ahead. Moreover, now he became conscious of the rocks cutting his stomach and chest, his tattered clothes and the blood dripping down his face from his head. But light! He came to a smooth, slippery, sharply curved side of rock that pointed down steeply. The light here was brighter but the cave was narrower. Detrick slid down gashing his head once more only this time the worst. At the bottom he lay, eyes open. N ow the light was brighter. He glanced toward it. Straight up, one hundred feet or so of straight smooth slippery rock. No going forward to freedom. ~ 0 return to captivity. The sun rose higher. Now it stood directly above the hole and it laughed at Detrick. He laughed too, for the sun dies daily and Detrick will die but once-in the pit. He lay back and rocked with insane laughter while the skulls of nine other escapees which lay there smirked at him with fleshless lips. 6 I On Corpus Christi Oh, Love, U nhent, Madly spent, Diffused. Oh, Love, D isguised, Unrecognized. Refused. Oh, Love, Take us, Remake us, Sate us \Vith Love. LO U I SE DIVER, 7 '59 Until very recent years the superior quality of the work of art was obvious to everybody. I t took no special insight or technical knowledge to tell the difference between the product of a master and that of an amateur. However, this no longer applies. Technique? Of no importance! Color? "Put it anywhere!" said the painter Braque. \Ve have to admit that mere sketches frequently go on public exhibition with the same hanging as Michelangelo. Juries no longer demand the high technical standards of the past. The question is whether a so-called debased technique is one of the features of modern painting and sculpture. Do the more radical, modern masters have significant skill to call upon it if they want it? The answer is yes. Anyone who examines the entire catalogue of work by a famous contemporary will find a number of conventional paintings splendidly executed. A more important question must then be raised: Why is the artist satisfied with something less than he might have done? A R T o co 1f) F T o D A y An explanation may be derived from the experimental trend established by the Impressionists and carried further by Cezanne. A picture is consid- 8 ered as a mere step in a program of investigation. Demonstrations which at first seem outlandish often make perfect sense if one can merely identi fy the problem the artist set himself. Another explanation can be found in the Romantic insistence upon excitement and its emphasis on spontaneity. In place of completeness and finish , the expression of a creative personality is caught at a moment of intense focus and inspiration. Pictures executed in this wayspontaneously-test the power of an artist more mercilessly than any picture painted with meticulous care. But the present abandonment of . traditional ~tandards may have a deeper significance. V"; e are an increasingly brash people for whom a brash art is a natural thing. vVhen our entire society is moving away from the propriety of the High Renaissance, are we to be surprised that art abandons the decorum of technique? Abstraction is one of the constants of modern art. To a very slight extent, abstraction and distortion are the same thing. Distortion exaggerates fact. Abstraction denies the need of art to be connected with anything observable in the world by the normal and accurate eye. Cezanne once wrote that aIr aspects of nature can be reduced to "the cylinder, the sphere, and the cone." It is uncertain what he meant, but the remark has its origin in Plato's dialogue the Philebus. The abstract movement in modern art has a solid foundation in the most ancient and noble authority, and it reflects the artist' s endeavor to capture the fundamental form of things. It is a pity that the Platonic origin of the contemporary abstract movement is seldom pointed out. Instead it is considered as the product of radical and even insane minds. As a matter of fact, it was Plato who referred to artists as 'imitators. ,. Plato considered the representative artist as imitating something whose real existence is beyond sense experience. He considered the resulting painting good only for those who know how to judge by color and figures. Looking back over the past, the twentieth century artist feels that the exploration of representative technique no longer offers the hope of growth and increase which is the end result of all great art. It is for this reason that he has turned to the ancient but unexplored field of pure and basic form . 9 THE VOYAGE ROBERT KISTNER, . The tinkle of expensive crystal mingled with the soft lights and hushed murmurings of San FranCisco's "Top of the Mark" -a majestic eighteen stories above the already lofty Nob Hill. Below, a myriad twinkling lights spread in a widening sea until they were swallowed by mist creeping silently over the city; and an endless worm of cars threading across the amber-lighted Bay Bridge disbursed into the melee of a Saturday evening's traffic. Outside, it was chilly, as San Francisco 10 '60 often is-even in May; but in the warmth of this magical eyrie of the elite, the weather report seemed of the very least importance. "Guam?" The word arched from a mink-swathed brunette seated at my elbow. She lifted her Manhattan delicately to her lips as she murmured sensuously, "You had better take plenty of warm clothes, darling. My cousin was in the Aleutians two years ago and complained that it was dreadfully cold !" The remark in itself didn't surprise me in the least. I had become so accustomed to the assumed locations of that particular island, that any spotcheck from the Arctic Circle to the coast of New Zealand seemed reasonable enough. I doubt that I would have known better had I not sought out the exact location from an Atlas the day I received orders for Guam. "Mom," the Albanian proprietess of "The Ship" -a sailors' bar on Kerney Streetthough sympathetically overwhelmed to the point of treating me to a free drink, had no idea where it lay; but two of her "boys" seated at the bar did. I had but to mention my destination and double shot of Old Grand Dad appeared as by magic by my half-filled glass as condolences from the pair. They had, by all indications, been there only recently and were even now pitching down a double shot apiece apparently to obliterate the memory. "How unlucky can you get ?" muttered one shaking his head sadly. "Yeh," affirmed his cohort dazedly. "How unl ... unl ... how bad off can you be?" He swilled his shot magnificently, gripping the bar for support. "No babes ... nothin' ... but a 11 that heat 'n ram n rain, n ram .. "Heat and ram, echoed Mom through her Middle-Eastern accent, as though they provided the unbeatable combination. As by prearranged signal, the trio sighed meditatively and fixed their sorrowful, un focusing eyes on me-a most uncomfortable arrangement-and I, mumbling something about a dinner engagement, made a somew hat hasty departure. My spirits were low as I boarded the ship that carried me beneath the towering Golden Gate Bridge, past Land's End and the light-house, Sutro Heights and the Seal Rocks, leaving behind the magic city sprawling in quiescence in the afternoon sunlight. What "Elba" was this to which I was being exiled? A fter so many disheartening descriptions of it by disheveled sots-"veterans of Guam," they said-I was growing more and more fearful to walk to the ship's rail lest some secret inhibition hurl me overboard. Land had only barely disappeared from view when the ground swells began their dastardly business. Ninety percent of the ship's passengers had never been to sea, and were grimly antIcipating the sailor's scourge of seasickness. It was barely twilight - only sixty miles off the continent - when the first of the land-lubbers broached on his odious mission of spreading the p I a g u e throughout the ship. He had felt it coming while still two decks below; and with knees buckling, hands clammy and face blanched, he competed in a luckless race with his rebelling stomach for topside and airbut lost the duel with only yards to go. Two men just coming below, and who had witnessed the whole tragedy, retraced their steps to the weatherdeck and the side where they stared blankly .atthe pulsatil1g water for a moment before bowing low in surI:ender over the rail. Below, gravity had managed to spread the news; and in the airless compartments, the epidemic had claimed its victims. The lavatories were choked with the post-ejectors and preejectors and those who just tho ugh t they might; and throughout the ship there were the ominous stipplings of those who could go no farther. But as the Barrett churned into warmer water, leaving the swells behind, the ravaged passengers, although still pale and \\Teak, 12 found their stomachs resting more comfortably. Then, each hour brought a new adventure. By day, dolphins raced with the ship and Bying-fish launching their splendored bodies in brief, sparkling Bight over the water plunged again into their inkblue domain. Night unfolded the phosphorescent glow in the wake of the ship, the myriads of stars-their meteors spilling from the orbits, and a new moon just sliding from view at the horizon. Yet, with a steady diet of them, one can tire of the most breathtaking views; and after a few days, the dolphins and Bying-fish, the stars and meteors took on a monotonous air. Sight of land and a day in Honolulu bolstered my spirits somewhat. The Lurline had docked that morning and Kauakala A venue at Waikiki from Diamondhead to Kapiolani swarmed with sun-pinked tourists resplendent in orchid leis and drooping sun hats. I discovered that an afternoon at vVaikiki-sipping a refreshing drink from the Hotel Surfrider's luxurious bar, wading in the ankle-deep pile of the Royal Hawaiian lobby carpets, dining in tropic splendor at Don the Beachcomber's, or making futile attempts at riding a surf- board on the frothing crest of a wave--is sufficient to "sell" even a penguin on life in the tropics; and the following morning when the Ba'r rett sailed from Pearl Harbor, she carried at least one person aboard who was determined to lo'vc Guam or give up the ghost in the attempt! On the thirteenth day after we had last seen the Golden Gate, word was passed for the troops to lay below to their compartments for, of all things, a disembarkment drill. Hundreds of curious eyes scanned the horizon from varied vantage points expecting, perhaps, to see "Bali H'ai ... her head pokin' up through a low-flying cl9Ud" ; but finding nothing but the endless purple sea and lowlying cumulus, they shrugged and wandered below. I have observed that many of Naval commissions credit the enlisted man for performing the task of breathing without bungling the job; but that is where the proficiency ends. Beyond that point, the situation requires at least a "full" Ensign to lead the men by the hand. Assigned to our "gallant," we were instructed by him to assemble ourselves in alDhabetical order ("That's A-B-C's," he elucidated) and pretend we had our seabags with us as we journeyed two decks up, in single file, to the prescribed exit. After a compartment preceding ours had involved itself in a congestion not unlike a New Year's traffic jam on Times Square \'!hile going through the motions of disembarkment (still four hundred miles at sea) leaving its charge d'affaires shrieking orders and wringing hands trying not to march his mutants overboard, it was decided by the high command that this phase of the maneuver \'!ould be omitted. Spared the parade, the rest of us were instructed to take particular note of who our partners were so we would know precisely where to assemble the following morning. It was somewhat like practicing for May procession, and I caught myself several times anticipating the receipt of a crepe-paper-covered bucket filled with rose petals. Our lead man, a lanky Texan named A bercrombie, was entrusted with our safe departure from the ship and was conducted by our newly-recomposed Ensign to the door through which we 'w ould presumably disembark. The plan was without flaw. apparently. I doubt that the Normandy invasion received more careful study. Af- 13 ter all, consider, if you will, the disastrous effects possible if Edmonds disembarked before Eabert! The long, ear-shattering blast of the Barrett still echoed through the rain-soaked Guamanian hills as the mobile gangway was wheeled into place. Minutes later, the teeming throng below was further confused as scores more poured down the gangway and into the a~ms of those they had journeyed so far to see; but in the Navy it is custom for the (enlisted man to wait. Hurry as fast as one can drive himself, to get there as early as possible, to wait until the situation becomes ridiculous. A disembarkm.ent from a troop ship is no exception. Vve were a wakened at five that morning (two hours before the commissioned and dependerlts were called), washed, shaved, dressed and dined by dawn (which came up like thunder at about six-fifteen) and for what? Why to wait, of course! As the dependents thundered down the gangway, the troops sat-as they had been for an hour and a half, on their seabags, waiting to go somewhere-anywhere. The Bos'un was right. It was going to be a long day. 14 \!\Then the long line of whiteuniformed sailors at last filed from the hold and into the rain on the gangway, the crowd of welcomers with their smiles, and cheers, and colorful leis, had long since gone, leaving the cargo handling crews to man their cranes. Where an hour before, hundreds of joyous people had milled about, now all that remained were crushed flowers trodden under a thousand feet, bits of paper too heavily soaked to fly, and the rain-always the rain. Such was Guam. I was beginning to appreciate that double shot of Old Grand Dad. I had invisioned Guam as an island unique in its lovelinessits swaying palm trees nodding in agreement to the tropical breezes, miles of sugary sunkissed sand framing opalescent lagoons and coves, lovely nutbrown maidens - hibiscus in their hair ... "C'mon! Get the lead out! " barked a voice behind me. "We want to get the hell off this scow." " Guam," I mused aloud. "Guan1 ?" "Yas, Guam!" rasped the same unpleasant voice in mimicry. "Are you goin' to move or am I goin' to have to move ya ?" 1. strayed down the gangway dragging my seabag behind me still mulling over the word, hoping it would sound and represent differently than it had, but it persisted in its composure of the same four disgusting letters. Guam. Those of the Barrett had first seen the island that morning before dawn as a flashing beacon off the port bow; but as the light grew braver, the faint outline of a black somber, cloudcapped island came into view. With each minute the tropical dawn gathered brightness until the great ball burst from the ocean flooding the panorama with golden light. Another blasting horn quaked the monotonous noise of the winches as a vehicle, of a sort, shambled to a halt. Though some objection seemed to have arisen, it was made plain that we were to ride in that "cattle car, " as one perturbed sailor had called it. It was an experience without precedent. The floorboards had long since rotted away, affording an excellent, if alarming, view of the road passing at our feet and provided adequate space to hurl about a gallon of red, muddy water inside with the impact of every chuckhole. \lVe jarred along for a distance at this saturating pace and then slammed to a halt in an area fairly alive with activity. Our second arrival was somewhat more pleasant, though equally impersonal. The rain had subsided for the moment, leaving assorted puddles about -suitable for passing jeeps and autos to splash in. The men, at this point. were past caring; therefore, curses no longer seared the air as a wave of spray further drenched an already sodden uni form. We stood. heads bowed in submission and weariness, in ragged formations, hoping to hear our names: the glad tidings that There lay the coral reef with indigo waves arching their snowy necks ~ exploding in frothy effervescence; the coves and lagoons, their beaches curving like the crescents of new moons against the luxuriant coCOllut palms; the jungles-foreboding and dark, holding the mysteries of centuries and a handful of Japanese stragglers that refuse to be convinced that peace exists between their nation and ours; the cliffs-rising hundreds of feet like walls of a gigantic fortress to a royal blue sky-smeared with heaven's fleece . \Alhat was the song? "Here am I, your special island 15 ingly bent on the extermination of the race, leaving in their wake the quick and experienced still afoot, but the slower and less observant of the species lying under a tree awaiting an ambulance. The truck swerved amid a frantic scream of rubber against pavement as an antiquated jeep (held together apparently by faith alone) darted in a frenzied pattern to avoid being hit. The glass partition between the driver and me prevented then what could be an accurate quotation now; but I would assume that the literary policy would probably have overruled it anyway. The driver, noticing that his gyrations had unseated and all but thrown me out 0 f the truck, poked his head from the window and asked if I was all right. "Oh, I'm fine," I lied, rubbing my elbow. "Is that the usual sort of thing around here?" I asked, nodding after the retreating jeep. "Yas," he grunted. "Y' gotta keep an eye on these treeclimbers or they'll run ya off a cliff." I took immediate, careful, and reassuring note that we were in no way jeopardized in this regard as we were at most four feet above sea level and would once again give us homes -if only temporarily. The process seemed endless, but as the afternoon wore on, the numbers diminished as they were hauled off in more "cattle cars" for places with weird and abbreviated - sounding names. There were those of us who were further exiled to Saipan, Tinian, Rota - small coral specks called islands enjoying the same area as Guam. Some were so fortunate as to get assignments lugging crates with the Cargo Handling Battalion; others, fascinating duty aboard garbage scows and tugboats; and I, in due course (and oddly enough) , was finally granted the station I had been assigned to since the receipt of my orde~-s: The Naval Communication Station. The journey to my new home, though in the back of an open truck, proved quite interesting in that I could gather almost every spectrum of local color by oscillating my head as we plunged headlong into the jungle of automotive discord. For an island that can boast of fewer than thirty miles in length and only one-fifth that in width, there is an amazing roll of vehicles. They swarm over the island in relentless patterns like ants on a lemon cake, seem16 The truck had stopped and I was conscious of the bubbling of the radiator for an instant before the driver opened his door and announced cheerily, "'Nell, here you are!" such prevailing, I estimated that the worst possible fate that we could come to would be gettin o ' a little wet as we rolled into th~ bay. The traffic was getting dense as any on Market Street at five o'clock and seemed to be comprised mostly of wrecks such as the one we had just aimed for and missed. A sprinkling of newer cars and privately owned taxis added a zest heretofore lacking in this game of legalized "chicken." It was neck and neck-rather fender and fender -all the way. The jeep incident had quite unnerved me and it was a relative strain when I took a stab at nonchalance and lit a cigarette to help cover mv anxiety. ' We had apparently left all civilization behind and had been environed by dense jungle. when a sea of white quonset huts suddenly appeared in a clearing hacked out of the undergrowth. The truck slowed at a gate guarded by a torpidlooking sentry and then, as the man found energy enough to lift his hand in a half-hearted entre-dans) accelerated, swinging past a large, white, palmflanked sign that proclaimed broadly "N. C. S." followed by smaller print which collectively - d "G uam. " L est we f orget. lea, He was right. of course. There I was. Not wanting to deflate his good humor, I thanked him for his consideration in bringing me to this somewhat aboriginal encampment, and together we stood. gazing thoughtfully at the grounds: he with the satisfied smile of a man who had done another a good turn, and I with the somewhat hideous leer of one who had just been presented with a hand-painted chamber-pot. Investigation revealed that my "home," as I forced myself somewhat unhappily to call it, was an old quonset hut already occupied by several men I recognized as my former companions aboard the Barrett. Their greetings were enthusiastic to the point of being upsetting as they quite confirmed my suspicions that this place was none other than Hades itself cloaked in the guise of a tropical Elysium and they were only too happy to have someone to share their misery. The one bunk that remained 17 unoccupied had been placed under a leak in the roof so that the mattress would absorb the moisture as it poured through the vent and also act as a sound cushion to eliminate the Chinese \iVater Torture atmosphe~e, and was. therefore, not too well suited for repose. I found , a replacement in an adjoining hut and soon had all the comforts of home-a comparison which gagged me considerably. I found myself sitting bolt upright amid' a gritty snowfall. The coconut, for all its itchy after-effects, proved itself a boon as the symphony had been startled into silence and now there was only the restful patter of rain beginning to fall, and the quiet, fluttering rattle of palm leaves disturbed by the wind. I smiled contentedly listening to she rain, now pouring in a mild torrent; and then realized with alarmiilg suddenness that I had failed to move my bunk from beneath the leak, and felt at that same instant the cold splash of water on my side. I spent a rather fitful night. unaccustomed as I was to the sounds of the jungle. It was as though a whole symphony orchestra had unfolded, filling the place with its eerie music. At length, I tried gaming with The operation was brief and myself, imaginirig how all this fairly noisy, but reaped comwould sound in the, Hollywood forting benefits as I observed Bowl: the frogs with their with outstretched palm that the throaty melody, the night birds water was missing me by about mewing the thinly spun music eight inches and was splashing of the violins, the lizards chirp- ' merrily, if not annoyingly, in a ing their intermittent nonsense, growing puddle by my bedside. filling the gaps as piccolos ... The frogs, delighted with the It was quite a game at that! I precIpItation, reinstated their was just dozing in my lethargy round followed in irregular when an octette of tympani snatches by the chortling giggle shattered the night as a coconut of a lizard somewhere over my struck the metal roof directly head. Would that I were Grieg! over my head and rolled with I would surely have found inreverberating pulsations across spiration; but as it was, I was the corrugated surface and onto very, very weary and fell asleep the ground. The impact had shaken loose particles of rust praying earnestly for another that had clung to the metal, and coconut. 18 J E REMEMBERED S S LOCISE D IVE R, '59 ~'-\ fresh coffee smell filled the fi ve rooms of .:\ rnold' s bun galow where J ess . put down the paver, pushed 'back hi ~ chair , and stepped oyer to open the closet. T here were the red-black mackinaw, the oily cap, leather gloves and buckle over shoes. J ess woul d be glad when it wa rmed up a bit, at least enough that the overshoes could be left behind. But, now, especially while the brid ge \yas being fi nished, he had better drag them a round. He pulled them on over the heavy work shoes, buttoned the mackinaw, and took from the icebox the lunch No ra had fixed. Yes, N ora. He should tell her goodbye. g irl, had held J ess' hea rt since six th grade. J ess could remember ""atching Nora the fi r st day she came to class. \Vhen she handed the teacher her transfer, J ess had leaned fo rward to hear her whi spered message, "Nora." So that was her name ! T heir ma rriage, it seemed, had just been taken for g ranted fro m that time. They were poor when th ey marri ed, and they still were. But did any of their fri ends have more? None 0 f them \"lere lucky enough to have boys like Nora and J ess' two, P udge and Jimmi e. Their little house was paid for and pretty well in shape. ~\nd J ess had Nora . Nora , a brown-skinn ed little He decided not to a waken 19 Nora this morning. His hand only touched the warmness of her cheek and hair, and then pushing the covers close in to her shoulders, Jess moved quickly past the door of the boys' room. Pudge, asleep or awake, was always amusing to them. Sometimes even Jimmie, although only eighteen months his elder, could appreciate Pudge's success at clowning. Jess laughed quietly deep inside when he saw the tiny train Pudge still held clenched in his fist. Only a few hours on the job and then Jess would be with N ora and the boys as usual. That it was time for Jess to be home Pudge anQ. Jimmie never needed to be told. As soon as he reached the porch, a whirl of . little boys and little boys' voices vied wildly for Daddy's attention. N ora would wait, laughing with Jess at the everrecurring exuberance of their two. "God, I love that wife and those kids 0 f mine, " Jess pulled tight the back door and looked at his watch: 5 :40. Maybe he would try the 10th Street bus this morning. The extra distance wouldn't matter if he could catch an earlier bus. A brisk walk never chilled Jess, just that standing in half-water, half-mud by the mixer was what made his feet freeze. The 20 ride was so familiar to Jess that he somehow saw without seeing the cafes, warehouses, factories and railroad yards along the way. Out the window of the bus Jess could see that the men had already fired the makeshi ft drum stove. Jess pulled the cord, swung his lunch pail from the seat, left the bus and headed toward the construction shack. Jess did not see the swift Hercator whose driver had anticipated the light's change by a leaping acceleration. One horrible screaming screech, a deadening thud of flesh with steel, and stillness came over a mangled young body lying sprawled by a frozen roadside. Light, piercing and sifting, searched his soul, and then came the words : "Jess, come." The awful command sent a reeling review of his life spinning before Jess, a timeless, minute account of Jess A rnold from birth to his children's births, to the five-room house where Nora slept, to last night . .. "GOD, OH GOD," Jess' lips burned, "I forgot it. Nora, the kids. Oh, my God, let me go get that letter. Just until that is mailed. wait God. Let me go get" . . . God heard the anguished father's plea. Jess could go. The letter was beside the "Now, God, I am ready to come if you want me," Jess was always simple like that. "Jess, have you been a good husband? Have you loved your wife and children?" "You know I have, God, I have been a good husband and until the very end. I have taken good care of Nora, and Jimmie, and Pudge. And thanks for letting me mail that letter." ... Pudge was shoving Jimmie with all the might in his baby h~nds, "Gimme my tootchoo!" N ora could only faintly hear the scuffling. Sleepily brushing aside her hair, she reached to answer the insistent jangling of the phone. Nora noticed that Jess had remembered. He had remembered to mail the l11surance payment. "Hello," she said. phone where they had placed it last night with mutual assurances that neither would forget. N ora still slept. The blankets rose and fell evenly with her almost silent breaths. J e s s turned to look at Nora. No, no, he would not touch her. He noticed that Pudge had let the train fall to Jimmie's side of the bed. Jess left home as before, retracing only the part of his path which went to the Brighton Post Office. The neat, selfaddressed envelope fell through the "out of town" slot, a freshly-inked stamp impressed a fact: MARCH 15, 5 :43 A.M. No one saw the hand which had dropped the letter, no one except the priest who carefully folded the lifeless limb over a crushed chest. MORNING As Night Turned off her stars Aurora was awakened by feathered heralds Chirping their tribute To Apollo The god of clay. NORMALIE 21 RrcHAlws, '60 PSALM OF .:\Ielancholy shadows outside a tear-spattered pane. Rain torn leaves lashing, whispering, ,yeeping. The sorrows of death snrrounded me, and the torrents of iniquity terrified me. 22 LIBERATION Trees whipped by the winds groaning; leaves folded close like angelic pinions. The sorrows of hell ensnared me, and the snares of death entrapped me. 1: :>_ 'Year v_ heart beatillO' slowly inside a mortal temple. Hands clutching tightly a beadecI' bouquet. In my affliction I called upon the Lord and I cried to my God; and from His temple He heard my voice. Soul released freed from the Curse; reaching for immortality, grasping heaven. A nd He led me out into an open space. He saved me because He was well pleased with me. :MARGARET D ~<\RKELL.S8 23 I stood on the deck looking off into space as the great liner cut a path through the choppy black waters of the Irish Sea. I was standing alone, unaware of the world about me, as the ship headed for its port of Dun Leoghaire, tenaciously nosing towards its home like a proud bird dog swims with his catch in his mouth. All was quiet, but had a cold and almost lonely effect, as if they were calling me to come into the warm bright saloon, and leave the black night to itself. But I was not tempted; I had no impulse to move from my present environment to a sphere of gay and laughing people, people who were visiting their homes In Ireland before returning to A STRANG E HOME BERNARD F. DEVER, for the mellifluous August wind that whistled past my ears, and the breaking of the waves against the bow of the ship. Everything was covered with d.ampness, which is prevalent in the British Isles, and the predawn darkness was so black that it smothered the ship in its grip. The streams of white light from the portholes behind me '60 their labors in tlie factories and shipyards of Liverpool. I was happy in my solitude, my melancholy retreat, whereby I would inflict upon myself thoughts of my home, my happy childhood, and the wonderful stories my grandmother had told me of her childhood in Tipperary. This must have been the way she felt as she sailed 24 from these very same shores that I was now approaching. Why should I be morose? Had I not traveled over half the world in these last three years? But yet the thoughts plagued me, and I wanted nothing more at that moment than to stand there alone. As I lingered by the railing with my thoughts in another world, the scene around me was changing. The sky behind the vessel was turning pale as the dawning orange light absorbed the eastern horizon. The masts and riggings of the ship became a complicated network of shadows, strangely outlined in white by the dampness which bathed the ship. The sea turned from bl~ck to purple; and whitecaps came into view out of apparent nothingness. The liner turned from its northwesterly course and headed due west. Then suddenly the golden edge of the sun swam up from the sea, and I woke up to reality as all the drab colors changed to the brightness and warmth of a new day. The rain - washed clouds hung from the sky like great balls of cotton candy. My moroseness turned to excitement as I looked up and saw before me mountains appearing on the horizon. At first they appeared exultant in color, but 25 as they became larger the early morning mist gave them the appearance of a dew-green lawn. At the base of the range was an indiscernible image which soon became a city of rooftops and church steeples. A s we turned into the harbor the ship passed under the cannons 0 f an old fortress perched on the rocky cliff above. On top of one of the hills behind the city were the ruins of an ancient castle, whose faded walls looked as though they had weathered many a coastal storm. From the castle a road wDund down into the city. Following its route cut into the hillside, were whitewashed thatched cottages. As I stood in awe at this panorama, my thoughts turned once again to my grandmother and her stories of Ireland. It was then that I realized what had been on my mind. It was not homesickness that had possessed me, but that sweet, silent remembering one's experiences before he reaches home after a long journey. This did not seem like a foreign country as the others had been. It was just like coming to a home that I had never seen, but always known . It was then that the saloon doors opened and I was lost in the noisy, happy crowd rushing for the gangplank. To Barbara You are as trne as the bluest sky On a '\Vann summer morn I see your smile; I feel your touchA love within me is born 1\I1y joy in summer is in you You, so tender and sweet For the thought of you near me Makes my day complete You are in the evening sunset -Haloed with golden light You become most real to me A.t this hour preceding night For you are the beauty of the dusk And somewhere you are there I speak your name-you answer not I kiss the cool night air PHILIP ALLEN , 26 '60 The Sun That Wakes The sun that wakes from gloomy sleep And stands revealed to all the world Extends its rays the earth to sweep Its mighty banner all unfurled, It rushes forth to meet the hills That revel in each glorious ray To all the world its light it spills And ushers in a new-found day. It shines and gleams on field and town Caressing every bush and tree vVith aureate hues all up and down And makes the earth a golden sea It sheds on all its lustrous light Then slowly fades, replaced by night . .MARY ELLEN EVERSMA.N, 27 '60 How many times have you read pleas for the value of Latin and Greek? A rather rhetorical question, it is admitted, for if you look in the right places, your answer will be "many." The first place may have been the opening pages of your old Elementary Latin Grammar of high school days trying to convince you in advance of the timeliness of your future toil. Since then it would be difficult to enumerate accurately the places you may have read impassioned articles on "Why Study Latin?" or "The Value of Latin and Greek in the Business VVorld," "The Utility 0 f the Classics in Modern Life," and so on and so on. Some of these discussions were doubtlessly well written arid almost convinced you; others, you mentally noted, boasted authors who were either unreasonable in their statements, or were writing in the fond hope that their department head would read the article and recommend them for an advance in salary. Most of these essays fall into general categories. The first group stresses the usefulness of Latin in the professions: law, medicine, and teaching. The second, asserting that sixty percent of the words of the Eng- 28 THE LIVING PAST JEAN PRATHER, '58 lish language are derived from Latin, recommends Latin as an aid to better English. Another characterizes Latin merely as a step toward the study of modern languages so vital today (due to the increasing tendency to unity in the world) . Still others quote statistics of varying interest, which actually prove nothing and leave one still viewing the fact that there is a definite trend away from the classical studies, and wondering why. While these authors are all correct in their diagnosis as far as it goes, the have come to the sort of intellectual life, if one may call it that, in which attending classes is a boring interlude between card games, TV shows, dances, and sports events. This is not to say that all of these things are not of importance too, but they must be relegated to their proper place in the hierarchy of values. We are at the point where we must stop deluding ourselves. Intellectual sloth is as oTievous a vice as intellectual o . pride, and failure to appreCIate and use a good for its proper end betrays a shallowness of thouoht and an inane willingness to charge along with the herd in its mad dash to nowhere. This, then, seems to me to be the state of affairs, which unfortunately is not diminishing; quite the contrary, it increases even in areas which should be free of it. truth of the matter is that nearly all stop short of their goal. The value of classical studies has been argued for generations; yet it appears to me that the answer for the decline lies not in the classical studies themselves, for they are just as good now as they were in past years, but rather in the curious state into which the modern mind has unfortunately fallen . This current disdain for Latin and Greek is a part of the whole; the whole being a type of mental laziness which allows satisfaction with mediocrity and scorns the idea of culture as being somehow snobbish, and the cultured intellectual person as being an "egg-head," to mention that tainted and overworked term. The whole idea of humallitas is almost repugnant. As one writer has said, people fear to be cultured, for culture is equivalent in modern thought to aristocracy and this has no place in democracy. The classics tend to make people cultured, so abolish these-they have no real use anyway. More and more people fall into this fallacy every year, and become c~ntel:t with a superficiality whIch IS astounding. Many of today's \Vhat is then to be done about it? Shall we sit back in idleness and listen to the prattle about the utter uselessness of studyinoo- the classics, and to. the frequent charge that Latin IS an archaic language which should be dispensed with as soon as possible? It would seem that a far better course is to illustrate the value of the classical languages and hope that they find students 29 fertile minds in which to expand. \Ve should remove the stigma from the word "intellectual." Perhaps ''Ire should stop using the term and restore instead "scholar," a word which has kept its ancient and honorable repute. Scholarly people realize that the classics are a good in themselves, not contingent on some immediate "use," which in that sense of the word means monetary remuneration, much as one would learn shorthand or automotive mechanics - these things would have immediate use; one learns them for this reason but not for broadening one's culture. It boils down to a problem of proper ends; people are trying to twist the ends of the classical disciplines out of focus, and make them appear to be something which they definitely are not. Why should we attempt to prove that Latin is vitally youthful, immediately "useful" and "easy"? Its true realm is elsewhere, where its stateliness and beauty lie forever. TRANSIENT HAPPINESS Viewing the mountainous rocks he stood. Yet enticed by the vision of golden sand He climbed upward, over the rock-bound land. Across the beach he ran-marking gold, Then he fell to his knees grasping shimmering sand, Spilling happiness from the palm of his hand. Then the sun sank. RUTH RAMSDELL, 30 '59 THEN NOW SYLVIA JOHNSON, '59 How much difference does the passing of time really make in this world of ours? Have people and places changed much . in the last fifty years ? "Yes, of course, things have changed! At least, I think . . . but no, wait, I'm not sure. I guess I really don't know. " Well, shall we try to find out? Let'.s consider a certain place, particular people and a period of time and compare the present with the past. A random selection from an Indianapolis map, and we have a place, 3200 Cold Spring Road. The year? Well, 1935 is a good enough start. In 1935, this address was known as Riverdale estate, home of Mr. James A llison, industrialist, millionaire and philanthropist 31 well known throughout Indiana. vVhen the fabulous mansion was built in 1912, it was an object of much interest and speculation. Local citizens gasped at rumors of inlaid oak floors, a marble aviary, huge stone fireplaces and a private telephone system. The description of the Allison home remained rumor until 1936, when activity began to stir at Riverdale. The house had been unoccupied for a number of years, its owner spending most of his time in Florida before his death in 1928. Now it was announced that the estate had been purchased by the Sisters of Saint Francis of Oldenburg to be ' used as a Catholic college for girls. VI!ell, that was quite a 32 change, and in just two years' time. A millionaire's palatial home was transformed into a girls' college. Riverdale was now Marian College and the mansion was Marian Hall. In the original library, with its pressed-leather walls and fantastic pottery fireplace, Sister Mary John, the first dean of Marian, had her office. Across the hall was the chapel of Mary Immaculate. once the music room, where one of the finest organs in Indianapolis had been played for the entertainment of guests. The solarium, which stretched across one side of the house and overlooked two of the five lakes, became the library. Madonna Hall Reading Room was located in the white rilarble aviary, in the center of which was a large pool. The various other rooms-five bedrooms, dining room, parlorswere made into lecture halls, offices and art and music studios. \iVhat about the people who were the first occupants of Marian Hall? What were Marian's first students like? \,yell, in September 1937, the student body numbered thirty and by October of that year it was ninety strong. The girls attended liberal arts classes and their athletic endeavors included swimming, hiking. archery arm riding over the bridle paths on the campus. In 1938, the first issue of the school paper was published. It was called the Phoenix: after the statues of the legendary bird found guarding the steps into the reading roorn. The early copies of the Phoenix can give us some fascinating facts about Marian's first students. For instance, in 1941, the Phoenix staff took a poll to di~, cover the most popular pastime! at Marian. These were the resuIts: dancing was first on the list, with the Tommy Dorsey and the Glenn Miller orchestra>! the favorites. Many an evening was spent listening to the radio in 1941 for this pastime was runner-up, and most students tuned in to Jack Benny's J ellc. Hour and the College of Musical Knowledge. Reading such books as Magnificent Obsession and Madame Curie was Hext and sports was lowest as a favorite occupation of only four percent of the girls. Special events such as dances, plays. chili suppers and rummage sales were highlights in the social life o~ these years. But all was not fun and laughter in those days. Marianites had their serious side and there was plenty to be serious about. The threat of a world war was creeping into their live:; at'ld they were very much conscious of its danger. This threat was recognized in the first issue of the Phoenix in the spring of 1938. Hitler had begun his march through Europe and the editor of the paper urged united prayer to hold this destruction in check. \:Vhen the world was swept into war, Marian was carried along with it. The Phoenix expressed its concern in many ways. Reports and editorials on the war effort dominated lighter things. The students questioned their own place in the upside down world, holding pens and books while others carried guns. So they picked up knitting needles, bandages and, ' shovels and jO'ined the battle. Sweaters and socks were knitted and sent overseas, first aid was practiced, and victory gardens were planted on the campus. Let's leave the past for awhile. We know the Allies won the war and we're sure that Marian shared in the victory as she shared in the battle. But let's return to the present, here and now. We've followed a particular group of people living in a certain place for about ten years. Now we can ask our question again. How much difference does the passing of time really make? The girls who loved to dance to Glenn Miller's music and listen to the Jello Hour have their counterparts in the girls and boys who are still devoted to both dancing and Glenn Miller, but have forsaken the Jello entertainers for Pat Boone and his cohorts. The occupants of Marian Hall no longer canter around the campus on horseback. Smooth roads replace bridle paths and the roar of a car motor is heard instead of the clop of horse's hooves. The war has almost been forgotten. The terrible events which so concerned the students of the 1940's are now met in a history book, for Marianites of the 1950's face other, different problems. Considering all these contrasts, we would have to say "Yes" in answer to our question. Things have changed. \:v e are different people, living in a different world. But . . . think again. Are we really so different? Granted that the things around us and the situations we face have changed. But do people, human beings, ever really change? Are Marian College and its students in 1958 drastically different from the Marian of years gone by? I'm not so sure they are. 34 Galveston Interlude JEANETTE SCARFF, '61 . Have you ever felt the whole world was your backyard? If you have, you know it is a wondedll1 and powerful feeling. A unt Rose and I shared this special feeling as we watched the sun rise above the blue-gray water, while we were walking down to the beach from our near-by motel. We were glad to be alive and on the sandy white Gulf of Mexico beach in Galveston, Texas, the beautiful and tropical "Island City." vVe saw the early morning ghost-like mist drifting up from the gently Bowing water. The 35 sleepy sun was struggling to shine through the mist, giving the beach a rosy cast. The closer we drew to the water, the more excited I became, as this was my first experience of swimming in salt water. All the stories of the funny way salt water feels, and the effect it has on swimming kept running through my mind. When we reached the water and the time actually came for me to run into the waves, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I stood there, half of me wanting to jump right in, and the other half con- tent to stay on the beach. Finally. after much encouragement from Aunt Rose, I stuck my toe into the Gulf of Mexico. The water was wonderful, deliciously warm and luxurious even though the sun had just risen. Together, Aunt Rose and I braved the water until it reached our waists, and I was quite surprised and delighted at the funny way the waves bumped and bounced us about. It seemed as if we were rubber balls bobbing in a huge tub. As the waves and whitecaps, big and little, came rolling and tumbling toward us, I suddenly remembered my fears of a few moments before. I laughed and was glad one half of me was stronger than the other half. L~ter .that morning, as the sun began to climb high in the sky, we lay on the white sandy beach, toasting in warm sunshii1e.Marching up and down in front of us, like a soldier on patrol, was a small seagull. He displayed his fine garb of gray and white feathers as though he .16 were a kingly peacock. He began to rummage through the sand, poking and hunting here and there, reminding us of a little old beachcomber. He was quite distant and aloof, preferring to remain in his own company, instead of joining us. Finally, he became tired of his work and flew away, leaving us behind with just a memory. The hours went running by, and it seemed as if the day were over before it began. As we left Galveston, we took a last look at the Gul f with its waves rolling and tumbling over each other like playful puppies. I hope I can return some day, but if I'm not able, I'll remember Galveston with much pleasure and happiness. I'll remember the little seagull always searching in the sand, much the same as humans searching through life. Also, I'll remember the beauty and mystery of the water, the sun shining on the whitecaps, the mist rising in the early dawn light. A memory to be treasured over the years . Ode To Fancy My fancy stirs to hear the droning rain, to see the sky leaden with clouds. Starved without use she devours the images and phantasms cGnjured up by sodden leaves blown against the window. Roaming along the tearful sky, she stoops to pity a hasty flower hanging its rain-shattered petals. MARGARET DARN ELL, 37 ' 58 You ask what is silence? To me silence is many things. It is a black velvet wedge of the sky; the brown, dusty floor of the earth. Silence is the growth of crocus in the spring; the death of stately poplar in the autumn. It is the friendly wag of a puppy's tailor the playful antics of a neighbor's kitten. Silence is the peaceful sleep of a new-born babe; the puzzled face of a tenyear-old brother. Silence is the love of a man and a woman; the companionship of a husband and wife; the security of an aged, wrinkled couple. It is the hush of an angel's prayer. Perfect silence is the presence of God. There is the silence of great hatred, the silence of great love, the silence of joy, and that of pain and sorrow borne only in patience. I cannot, I dare not imagine the ui1iverse without this allimportant ingredient. If I could never retreat in reverie, if my city should never pause, I could not face the incessant turmoil, the constant pull of forces within myself. It is impossible for me to grasp the full meaning of such an implication. Doodling Again, what is silence? Silence is never the booming quiet; it is always the hush, the whisper, the hint of things to come. Silence is never foreboding, never ominous; it is beautiful and makes everything it touches so. Even death is beautiful, for is it not silence, peace, and promise of a better life? Death can never speak of itself or answer the unanswerable questions. But does that mean it is the less profound? Oh no! It is the more so, because Ii fe had the capacity of speech and yet left only the unanswered in its wake. When Death folds his cloak and quietly covers a loved one, there is the silence of the lonely heart; then the silence of time itself, which brings a quiet peace. . Silence is a tool in the hand; I use it to meet my li.eed of the moment. In frustration, silence is my refuge; in sorrow, my consolation; in happiness, it IS a glow that warms my heart. What is silence? Silence lS nothing; it is everything. MARILYN BECK, In 38 Thought '60 JACKIE :MARLENE SCR , Jackie came back this morning at eleven o'clock. Of course she was too perfectly brown to look real and she certainly hadn't gained any weight. Her reddish hair looked different somehow, but I'm not good at describing just how. And I'm not supposed to call it reddish; she insists on auburn; sun-onbronze Jerry used to say. Silly, I think. . "\IV ell, there she was, all smiling and smart-looking in sandels and a blouse all splattered with anchors and starfish. Her toenails were pink, too. She seemed about the same, though kind of dreamy, like she was thinking of something we didn't know about. She said the traffic was absolutely fierce and I saw 39 '60 a small dent in the back fender. I'm sure Mother didn't notice it. I helped her unpack and she positively swooned over the touch-up job Mother did in her room. The ceiling is painted white and the wall s a sort of apricot color, or was it "Peach Blush"? She had her records playing right away, and golly, it's just the same place again. A nyway, in the biggest suitcase was an adorable stuffed tiger with enormous green eyes and the softest fur imaginable. A unt Martha gC\.ve it to Jackie and I think it's divine. And I finally got her to let me wear her shell necklace, she said to celebrate my catching Bixy. Oh, I don't believe I've mentioned Bixy yet. I guess I'd been waiting for that boy to ask me for a date for almost six months. He didn't like dragging girls around he said. But then the graduation dance came up and he had to ask someone, Mother's order. "Vell, that was the glorious beginning. Now we double date lots of Saturdays and get along real crazy. But back to Jackie. All she wanted for lunch was a piece of angel food cake and orange juice. I thought she'd have lost that old craze for orange juice, but it's still there. It could be worse. She could like tomato juice and that would be the utter end. Bi.xy's sister is on a liquid diet again. Heavens, she gobbles down everythi~g in the way of food one day and only drinks water the next. That girl is not psychologically stable. Old Miss Gump .is always accusing someone of that and it sounds pretty senous, It's two o'clock now and Jackie will be seeing Jerry for the first time in three months in half an hour. I'll tell you about it. Jerry and Jackie graduated together this June and they've been going almost steady for a long time. I want to te11 how it all began because I think this is the funniest thing. You see, Jackie's usually so calm and stately-like, never getting trapped in embarrassing incidents as I forever am. At the time she was working in the library in the evenings, and this particular night the whole high school minus one was there for themes or something. \Vell, Jackie was carrying a tall stack of volumes on economics and recent international documents, stuff like that, over to the desk, and rammed smack into poor old Jerry who had just emerged from the stacks. I still wish I'd been there to see it. The studious silence shocked by giant bound books falling everywhere and Jackie yelping in horror under them all! The goon Jerry just roared in laughter and hauled Jackie up. He was going to help her put them away but Mrs. Clavis booted him out; she's so touchy about her stuffy library. The very next da y Jerry asked Jackie to go with him to a show. Then, once started, it went along smooth and nice. Summer came at last, and I'm no longer a child) but a freshman, world-wise and mad about Bixy. A nyhow, Aunt Martha invited Jackie to her guest house in Connecticut. She was off in a flash. Naturally this sort of put a kink in the Jackie-Jerry relations. Jackie 40 told me they had decided to look at it sensibly and maturely. I'm not quite sure what that meant, but she and Jerry were free to date and promised to meet again the same day Jackie came back. And I'm certain she hasn't written him, she detests letters. I can see why, too. Once I sneaked a peep into her diary and it was dryas biscuit crumbs. "Peggy! Are you busy?" Jackie's voice. I guess she's back at getting me to do her work. I groaned and got out of the hammock and obediently scuffed into the kitchen. "Oh, Peggy, will you help me with the lemonade? He'll be here in fifteen minutes and these messy lemons are getting on my skirt. " I took the slippery half and began squeezing out juice, while Jackie went to get the cubes from the freezer. I had to admit she looked swell; maybe I'll grow up to look pretty like her. But probably not. Freckles can be an awful torment. We got the pitcher full of lemonade finally. \Vasn't too sweet, either. The cookies were tiny and fancy, like you see in the Ladies Home Journal. Jackie was showing signs of nervousness by now. She kept twisting the bracelet around on 41 her wrist and Bustered around the table outside like a dizzy bumblebee. Then we sa w Jerry's car coming down the street. I turned toward the house but Jackie grabbed my arm. "You can stay, Peggy." She added quickly when I looked surprised, "It honestly wouldn't look natural if you're not here." I saw that the car had a nev" paint job and looked a bit less like something you'd find in the Smithsonian Institution. It pulled to a stop in front of our house and I glanced at Jackie. She looked queer, like this must be something she was dreading. The poor thing was scared Jerry would be changed and it would all end right here, I guess. Jerry was now standing on the front lawn, tall and radiating health, his sport shirt open at the neck. But he was not alone. A black-haired girl, the kind they call petite, I believe, walked beside him. She wore a white striped sundress and her hair \vas drawn back to a spray of Bowers. It didn't look good to me. They marched over to us, and Jerry was smiling at Jackie and I could see l~e was just a little strained, too. "Jackie, you look wonderful. Connecticut must be flowing with milk and sunshine." Jackie did okay. "Hi, Jerry. How've you been?" "Doing great. Managed to swing a job with a construction company here in town. " Then he turned toward the simpering little piece at his elbow. "I'd like you to meet Therese Mellec. She's new . to our town; only came here shortly after you left, Jackie." Poor Jackie! She stuttered, "Glad to meet you, Therese," and pulled out the chairs around the garden table. A nd then we talked. Well, the whole deal was a rather horriel pretense to my notion, Jackie put up a great show. In fact, if I hadn't known what a disaster this Therese was for her and Jerry I'd have thought they were the best of friends. In my opinion Jackie merited an Oscar for that performance, But I didn't have any social obligation to be nice to this black-haired bit and so I wasn't. When Jackie ducked in to bring out the lemonade I was left to take our side of the matter. The Therese gir I flashed her pearly teeth at me. "Your sister has a lovely tan, Peggy. I just can't seem to get one this year." "Do you live in a basement or something?" Jerry frowned at this one. I think he was getting the drift. "No, but I work in an office most of the day and it's not easy for me to get even a little shade of brown. Doesn't come overnight for me." This was a perfect opening. "Yes, with only the moon out it is rough." The silly girl laughed and then Jackie came out with a tray, so we were all busy there for a while. The hypocrite Therese had to praise the lemonade and cookies, but she was biting the hand that fed her, I thought. Eventually she and Jerry got up to go. They'd had a very enjoyable time and so-on and soon. 42 Jackie made the gracious good-byes and Jerry went riding out of her life with a blackhaired flip. I helped her pick up the glasses and napkins, brooding about the whole business. Jackie suddenly looked at me and said sternly, "Peggy, you behaved in an awful way to that poor girl. She certainly couldn't strike back and I know Jerry would happily have shook your teeth out." I snorted. "You don't sound grieved about it. I wouldn't be all sugar to some creature who'd lure Bixy away like that. " And Jackie only laughed! "Oh, so that's it. \i\Tell, my dear Peggy, that girl was a big relief to me. Here's my confession. While I was away I met a boy whom I liked so much I forgot all about Jerry and our high school fun. I only dreaded that maybe he would feel no differently about things and 1'd have to go through letting him know how it was. But Jerry knew the best way to do it and it was so much easier." She pulled a small picture from her pocket. "His name's Bob and he' s going to work here this year so it couldn't possibly be nicer." Sisters! How do you figure them out? WHY \iVhy men, mountains, moon beavers, bricks. birches ? Why ants, apples, anything! V\lhy sands, shells? why you? me? I want to know! MARGARET DARNELL, 43 '58 A"n Artifact Borrow from Nature Paper, pins, rubber and rock; Color, cloth, leather and leaf; Wire, wood, tin, and tinsel. Remember Rhythm and Unity, Balance-Proportion, Variety and Subtlety. Pray for Impulse and Inspiration, Patience-Perseverance, Industry and Imagination. Now! From Man comes An artifact. A new, elemental experienceA Collage! RICHARD BECK, 44 '59  ...

... 0RETTI THE FI1 VOLUME XIV NUMBER 2 Indianapolis, Indiana 1956-1957 AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE THE STAFF Editor-in-Chief Mary Byer, '58 Assistant Editors Marguerite Branday, '59 Philip Doherty, '59 Miriam Gannon, '59 Joseph Hertz, '60 Judy Hirn, '59 Joan Peternet '58 Art Editor Marianne Peternet '57 Illustrators MARIANNE PETERNEL FOR . COVER DESIGN MARIANNE PETERNEL FOR "JAMES" FRANCES PERREAULT FOR "ON PICASSO'S GUITARIST" CONTENTS Essays and Articles Sold! American! 13 Louise Diver The Children Do Not Play The Situation A Sister 17 20 26 Joseph Hertz Joan Peternel Peggy Delaney Special Features "France-Pagan?" Introd uction Leon Bloy Paul Claudel Charley Peguy Francois Mauriac George Berna nos 39 40 42 43 45 46 E. M . Emilie Murray Isabel Hernando Maria Lagadon Jos8ph R. Turk Barbara Hertel Fiction James 5 Symbols Are Real 32 Joan Peternel Louise Diver Poetry Silence Undefined Foretaste The Free From Afar The Loss On Picasso's Guitarist Saga of the Unknown Student How like the Wind Objective Case Contemplation 12 12 16 19 23 24 28 30 38 48 Ruth Ramsdell Louise Diver Joan Peternel Anita Alter Margaret Winsor Emilie Murray Carylou Siedling Carylou Siedling Carylou Siedling Philip H. Allen ly, and moved around the room, touching things absently. "Ahh ... you know how nervous and excitable Jamesy is. He thinks he's getting brain fever if he's got a headache. He's been obsessed with the idea of death before- maybe that's a sign of genius. Remember he thought he was gonna die two years ago when we were sophomores? He'd drive that rich kid's sport car up and down Lake Shore Drive on gloomy days, looking at the lake." "Yeah." Charles I 0 0 ked moody. "Well, he can't help it. He's different. Poor guy never seems to have much fun raising hell as any of the rest of us. He's too-too feverish about things. Maybe all writers are like that." They turned their heads and stared at the empty typewriter. "He's a fanatic, all right," J. J. mused dreamily, "he's always roaring around with his eyes shadowy and his high-strung temperament sticking out all over him. Looks like the ghost of Hamlet. Last week he took the El around the Loop four times in a row-'getting impressions' he said, his eyes blazing away." "Mmmph! He was so quiet yesterday." "Oh, he's always quiet. " J.J. JAMES JOAN PETERNEL, '5.8 Well, he's not here in his room," Charles said, "He must have just cleaned it; it looks pretty neat for a change." He glanced at the orderly desk; the typewriter set straight like an altar. The bed was made, the few pieces of furniture dusted, the El Greco prints less crooked on the walls. Charles frowned at J. J. "I wish I knew what's the matter with that kid. I know something's eating him. He's so restless." J. J. squinted and nodded. "He told me yesterday he thinks he's going to die soon." Charles sniffed nervous- 5 walked around the room, restlessly. "With people he doesn't know real well, anyway. Some of the kids at school think he's a silent, morose genuis. The girls do, anyway." "Yeah," C h a r 1 e s laughed shortly. He frowned. "It's just that he likes to watch and listen rather than talk." He tried to look nonchalant. "Read yesterday in the Trib-some critic said J amesy' s poetry and some of his short stories look like the work of a potential literary genius. Something like that." "No kidding!" J.J. exclaimed. "Uh huh." "Boy . . . " J. J. breathed. Charles sniffed, allowing himself a happy smile. "Uh huh," he said. "vVell . . . think we oughtu go out and look for him? It's foggy out and - it's gonna get dark pretty S00 11." J. J. looked out the window; not to see anything, just to look. "Okay, mayce he's down 2.t the University bar. This melancholy mood of hi s worries me. It's up to us to take care of him, you know." J.J. nodded, biting his lower lip. They left. A moment later James banged into the room at high speed breathing hard. He was dressed the same as his friends-black leather jacket on grey flannel trousers. But he looked different: not tall but sturdy; flushed cheeks and bright blue eyes streaked underneath with staying-up-late; tousled, curling, dark-blonde hair. He looked angel ic ... in a sensuous way. A nd he always gave the impression of being lost. He went to the almost-clean window and gazed out at his dep2.rting friends ; the fog glided in behind them. 'H e sighed and slid his nervous fingers into his tousled hair and rubbed his head ... shifted restlessly and stroked the short, straight bridge of his nose with his index fi nger. Then he leaned his elbows on the window sill, and resteci his mouth 0;'1 his clasped hands; moodily, suspiciously, watching the fog grey the city. Th ere go my fri ends. Let the171 go. T his {,lace is dor!l T)/ith fool-ish) bewildered fog And 1 seem a j)(lYt of the fog ) A ghost. Th e sky is mottled and stirred) T he w inds are stirred) D eath is out) seeking . .. fvl e? Who would care if I did die, he thought, Charles and J.J. and Virge. The father had forgotten him. James tried to re- 6 member his mother-she had always had an odor of kleenex and good cologne about her. Her nostrils would become white and pinched before she laughed or cried, both of which she did often. But . . . the father had forgotten him. Charles and J.J. tramped along the street gathering anger as they went, because it was cold, and James - where was he? Fog clung heavily to the street lamps and buildings, like bayou moss. "I give up !" Charles said. He motioned with his chin, "Here's the University bar. Let's have a beer, I'm thirsty." "Okay." James whipped around from the ~indow and stood in the middle of the room, his arms crossed angrily, his face dark with thought. He felt that death was on his heels. But the world is my lover. His mouth opened to smile and he ran his tongue over his lips. He frowned: he was thinking of all the people he had not loved, had not spoken to, had not looked at. He tried to effect a sudden recklessness and carelessness, but his eyes clouded wistfully, almost tearfully. Plerrse) God) not yet! Virge concentrated on combing he" hair. "You know," she said to the glassy-eyed teddybear on the bed, "I'm thinking about Jimbo. But you know what he'd call it? He'd probably say the delicate machinery in my head is clicking away. Or something like that. He's a real genius. The critics think he is, anyway. And he thinks so. But Genius hasn't been around for two weeks." She pouted. "He likes to stroke my hair -he thinks I look like Rita Hayworth," her voice softened. "He's so mmmmm. Oh, I broke my comb." She looked ruefully at the two pieces of comb, put them down, and glanced out the window at the grey wilderness of fog. She sighed and smoothed her trim black sheath, looking back at the mirror and shaking her head to see the long dangleearrings jump. "I don't know why I like .Timbo so much. I guess I love him. I'm really only going out with this other character to make him jealous. I don't know why I love him. Hereally doesn't have very good manners-he's so moody. And he never seems to have much money. And he gets fresh. But he's sweet. And he's Catholic, too-I might marry him." She smiled happily, turned aronnd, and walked toward the 7 bed. She picked up the teddy bear, an old toy, a relic of childhood; she hugged it. "I want to be his slave I" she whispered fiercely, her eyes shut. The teddy bear stared blankly and was hugged tighter. In his darkening roo m, James prowled around like an angry animal in a cage, rubbing his eyes. Probably read too much, he thought, but stopped short, remembering. I have to write more. Rave to create moreN at create) but . .. Writing is finding truth and beauty A nd gracefully pointing it out to others. Writing is loving people enough To do that for them. He bent his tousled head and thought about Virge. He could never figure her out. Sometimes he was tender to her, sometimes deliciously cruel. But she seemed to like him anyway. He shrugged. "I'll go out," he muttered, his eyes tortured. He started for the door and realized that he had not taken off his jacket. He clapped his hand to his head and made a face. He laughed-a low, quick, nervous laugh. He left his room, almost running. Charles and had finished their beers and stood in front rr of the bar, looking around aimlessly. "He's not anywhere," Charles said, "What is he, a ghost ?" "Hey! Here he comes now I" J.J. tried not to smile, but did anyway. "At a slow trot," Charles laughed. "Jamesy, you exasperate me! Who's chasing you?" J ames stopped, smiling uncertainly. "1-1- " Thrilling: An end) an end to this chilling Fear that disgusts me. "You what?" "H uh?" He seemed surprised to see someone there. "Oh, uh ... I don't know," he laughed, looking from one friend to another, hopefully, scratching his neck nervously. They laughed and shook their heads. Charles pushed him around roughly in the hope that no one would see how much he loved him. "What you been doing with yourself, anyway?" asked. "Well . . ," James smiled, considering, "Well, I've been struggling against the world, the flesh, and the devil, I guess." "Yeah?" Charles smiled insinuatingly. James' e y lid s dropped. "How do you s t rug g I e against the world, J amesy?" J. asked. rr r "Oh .. ," James glanced up at the sky, "I guess I struggleagainst all the people who say there's nothing to life. The deviI's out because," he shook his head and waved his hand, "I've always hated the devil and so I don't have anything to do with him." "So these are your latest profound thoughts, huh?" Charles said. "Gonna put them in your writing ?" "Oh, I don't think when I write, Charlie," J ames said earnestly, "I feel. I mean, I write by instinct. I'm an intuitional writer. What I say when I write comes from deep within where thought is, at the most dreamy ... " "Oh, oh, he's on his soapbox again," Charles said ruefully, "Hire a hall." "No, I'm interested," ].]. protested. "What exactly does writing do for you, J amsey?" "'Nell," James fidgeted, licking his lips, "it-it makes me a whole man. It makes me," he emphasized his words with his right hand, "unconscious of ordinary things. Makes me feel -like a fire burning all alone except for the sky and the wind." He realized that his eyes were blazing, sniffed and looked at his friends sheepishly. "Hell, I don't know." Charles laughed. "So . where would you like to be right now?" "Ohh, I don't know," James said, stretching sensuously. "Uhh ... up in the star." "The stars aren't out, yet. Come on, let's ha ve another beer." "Okay," ].]. said, "How about you, J amesy ?" "N ah. I'll wait out here. I want to watch the people for a while. " They left him and went inside. He waited silently, hunched a little to keep warm, tapping a foot rhythmically. He noticed a young very goodlooking boy walking past, straight and tall, a proud smirk on his face. Narcissus type, James smiled cynically. Walks like a ram-rod, though. Poets are always S0111ewhat bent As inspil'ation is a weighty thing. His eyes jerked to the right, where an elderly, sour-looking man was entering his sights. James recognized him as a professor he had had for a poetry course in some past semester at the university. "Hello, sir," James mumbled. vVhat's he doing here. The old man stopped and stared bleakly at him. "I know you," he said shortly, "You're 9 the one getting the good reviews on your writing-while you're still in school!" J ames looked at him curiously. . "I always say what I think," the professor snapped, "I'm an extremely honest man. I think these people who are making such a fuss over you are premature and ridiculous. You're too young to be a successful writer. It's unheard of. One must work for years ... and even then," he looked away, "even then, sometimes, you don't make it." James looked at him, wideeyed, his lips parted. "And your so-called angelic charm is wasted on me," the old man said, peevishly. J ames frowned. "Oh, let me alone," he muttered, hardly moving his lips. "You're angry with me?" The old man moved closer, his eyes dead. " Listen to me ... you young would-be writers think that because you string some impressive-sounding words along a sheet and are published once or twice-you think you're -are a genius?" James felt dizzy. "Are you that unknown, the born poet who feels love and life and death as the vibrations of music are felt by the deaf?" "Death ?" "Ha! You would be better to forget poetry-leave it to the real genius." He left quickly, as if ashamed, and was caught up by the snake-like fog. James snapped out of his dizziness and glared after the old professor, wrathfully. He felt that he had been scoldedwhich always made him furious and rebellious. He organized his thoughts and calmly and silently swore at the professor for a moment. He forgot the professor and gazed dreamily at the neon and the blackening sky. Virge almost walked past him; when she saw him she stopped, awkwardly, and stood near, watching him nervously. "H-Hi , Virge," he said softly, noticing her. He smiled faintly, glancing warmly at her face and at the rest of her. "Why didn't you -come to see me for so long?" she said, accusingly. She looked at him from the corner of her eye, clasping her hands together. "1-1 was busy," he murmured soothingly. He moved closer to her, slipping his hand inside his jacket, Napoleon-like. She turned a little, away from him. "Don't do that," he pleaded, his heart aching, "Don't do that." "Well, I have to meet someone else now, anyway. Another 10 man. You wouldn't know him. He-you wouldn't know him." She turned her head, watching him closely, and lifted an eyebrow in pleasure when she saw his face crumble. He began to burn with anger. He tried to appear calm. "Well, what are you waiting for. Bitch." ((Jimbo/ she pleaded, adoring him with her eyes. "Go on, get the hell out of here." He started to light a cigarette, but gave it up be~ause he was ashamed of his shaking hands. Virge walked unsteadily down the street and around the corner. "I'm sorry," he said, his face haggard. "I didn't mean it." He looked at the empty street, lifted his eyebrows and sighed. The neon was brighter and disturbed him. He began to wander around, exhausted by sadness. No one loves me tonight. Death seems close. In the stroke of the church Bells. He found himself standing in front of a church, his arms hanging limply at his sides, his shadowy face upturned. He went up the stairs and inside, make a quick sign of the cross, and sat in the last pew. He stared toward the front of the dimly-lit church where the little red lamp flickered. He bit his lower lip, his eyes bright and interested. He was alone, watching. The red jumping light flashed long, leaping shadows on the walls. His eyes became bewildered . .. his face lit up ... he cocked his head to one side. "It's not death that's hounding me," he said aloud, wondering. He sat for a moment longer, then left the church and wandered again, slowly, thoughtfully. He sat down on a curb, carelessly, his tousled head in his hands, his eyes lost in dark, dreamy wistfulness. It was very dark, but the fog had lifted, leaving the night clear. He stood up, suddenly, his eyes tortured. He had to write. I t was in him. He searched his pockets feverishly, madly. No pencil. No paper. His body began to shake and he clenched his fists in front of himself. "Power!" the word was wrenched from him and thrown up into the face of the night sky. "Power of creation . . . within me," half muttered, half moaned. ((Why do you torment me t he screamed. His anguished voice echoed down the streets. But his eyes were triumphant-he shook a first at something and laughed, burning with joy. J J 11 SILENCE UNDEFINED . Earth's dome enveloped in velvet blue and studded with shining stars Spread heaven's celestial rapture at a child's predestined birth And then there was SILENCE. Earth's dome enveloped in crimson hue reflected the redemptive oblation, Which announced to all the funereal day of a God-Man crucified And then there was SILENCE. RUTH RAMSDELL) '59 FORETASTE Wrested by desire, \IV ri thed by separation, Welcome, Death, if you are The plan for souls ascent To inebriation. Vveariness waning, Waiting waylaid, The ravishments now forbidden Will be stolen from child faces Purely displayed. LOUISE DIVER) 12 ' 59 Sold! American! I watched this man, Mr. Smoothe, when I was a little boy, and he came to our town with the Medicine Show. In those days, the Medicine Show was a highlight in the lives of little boys. A clown, a banjo player, a salesman (this was Mr. Smoothe) and two or three characters in a short skit made up the troupe. They opened on the vacant lot nearest to the downtown stores and closed their show on Saturday night after the shoppers went home. Attracted by the ringing "Camptown Races" of the banjo, we surrounded a wobbly little stage onto which Mr. Smoothe made a flashy entry. I remember him well: gray spats, a narrow black string tie with ends falling down to the second button on his white shirt, an almost log-type, gold watch chain pulled from side to side of his vest, a gray cutaway coat with black trousers. He waved a tall, black hat toward a curious audience as his resonant voice enveloped us in our own Medicine Show Outdoor Theater. "LADEES AND GENTLEMINN ," the very trees at the sides of the theater stayed motionless . "LADEES AND G E N T L E MIN N , " Mr. Smoothe knew we were captive. "If you gentleminn think that YOU can do nothing about that receding forehead, that slipping 13 hair, about that bald, shiny spot on the top of YOUR head, if you ladees think that YOUR husband looks like YOUR father, if YOUR husband is getting old before he should, then YOU want to know what I have right here with me tonight. This, L A DEES AND GENTLEMINN, is a bottle of Dr. John's Hair Tonic, the most unusual hair grower ever discovered." Mr. Mea, the town's grocer, was obviously interested, and Mrs. Mea's, "Go on, John, try a bottle," only seconded his decision. After all, did a balding man, a man as young as Mr . Mea, have a choice? Besides, Mr. Smoothe had convinced Mrs. Mea about Dr . John's. John Mea lurched his suit coat forward by a shrug of the shoulders, gave it a smart tug in front, and went home that evening carrying 14 ounces of Dr. John's Hair Tonic. Mr. Smoothe had not changed much at all, not even much of his dapper ensemble, when I saw his picture several years later. I was sitting in the barber shop next to our town's young attorney, B. T. Thay. A s Thay busily leafed a soiled copy of Fleet, I caught sight of a familiar - face in a full page ad. B. T. Thay was attracted to the ad, but I doubt that he recognized the face I did, that of Mr. Smoothe. The picture showed Smoothe leaning against a fireplace in an exquisitely-appointed library and was captioned, "THOSE WHO CARE, DRINK OLD MELLOvV." In small print, it lied further identification: "Brig. Gen. Ben j. Harrell Townley, USA, Ret. " After Mr. Thay got a shave, I took the high seat, and I watched him as he strode out of the shop, crossed the corridor and went in Tom's Place. His eyes scanned the top shelf, moved down and back across the next shel f and then stopped. About the middle of the shelf, he pointed, "Give me a fifth of Old Mellow." Tom took down the bottle and inserted it into a tall paper bag for B. T. Thay. I never saw Thay again, but Smoothe kept turning up. A picture here, a radio commercial there, this fellow Smoothe would endorse anything. His experience served him well when television came into focus, for when I watched TV the first time, the animating voice was as familiar-- sounding as falling rain. Mr. Smoothe was not now calling the worth of Dr. John nor Old Mellow. Mr. Smoothe's new business 14 was selling Plords, . . . "the only car on the road that can give you extra mileage, more comfort, prestige, safety, and social position at a price you CA N afford. Yes, with the money you save, L A DIES AND G E N T L E MEN ," Smoothe had refined his speech a bit, "you CAN afford to have all the other conveniences drivers of Plords should have!" When I saw Mr. Allovus driving a Custom-green, and cleanwhite Plord the next week, I remembered that he had viewed Plord's Variety Show with me the week before. I didn't think any more about Mr. Smoothe for a good while. I guess you could say that I just took him "for granted." When . I went back home for the dedication of the new school last week, I recalled that this building was on that hallowed spot where the old Medicine Show used to play. And I even remembered what Smoothe had said about Dr. John's Hair Tonic when I saw sitting in front of me, balder than a kitchen crock, Mr. Mea. After the ceremonies, I saw Thay's wife. At least I thought it was Mrs. Thay, so I leaned over to Aunt Alice to get an infallible verification. "Oh, yes, that's B. T. Thay's wife. My, but she's aged since he left. You know B. T.'s taking the cure, really was hitting the bottle before she packed him off to Ruma. " We edged away from the crowd of old friends just as a flash of chrome passed the curb, and I caught the rear view of a Kimpsler Special. Aunt Alice volunteered, "Hmmp, he'd do well to pay part of his bills and paint that shabby old place of hi s instead of borrowing money every season for a new car. " I think the whole town knew that Mr. Allovus was barely able to keep his family fed. It was not until then that the whole thing struck me, the whole crazy picture of Mr. Smoothe I mean. I don't know where he is right now, but I'm looking for him to have the choice commercial on that new FLITETIME TV Show. Smoothe would find no inconsistency, I am sure, in now saying that Kimpslers are THE BEST cars on the road. At any rate, wherever he is and whatever he is doing, I would be willing to bet my toupee, a pint of Old Mellow, and my '45 Plord, that Smoothe still has a head of thick, black hair, a cabinet of well-mellowed Old Mellow, a Ritz Model Plord, a bank account, and the ability to influence! 15 THE FREE His soul was a wide-eyed mute in chains Enslaved by other slaves ... But one dark empty moment came A blaze of burning thought Borrowed f'rom a free man. He woke from dreams of nothing Stretched and felt the power within ... The birth of genius is slow and languid. He broke the chains with fiery eyes He broke them suffering wretched ... The chained en'vy the chain-breakers. His senses burned His soul yearned He found himself Discovered thunder Inside his soul ... With fierce eyes With wistful eyes He whispers: I will be a great poet. I will be. I will. JOAN PETERNEL, 16 '58 The Children Do Not Play JOSEPH HERTZ) It was midday as the Merchant Marine transport, the USS A1arine Adder) churned slowly through the calm, brow~ waters of Inchon Harbor. The picturesque scene confronting two thousand American soldiers was seemingly torn from the pages of a South Sea adventure story: that of cruising into a peaceful harbor on a sunny and cloudless day; the swells created by the ship gently rolling the clumsy dugouts manned by natives; and a dark and forbidding backdrop of green-foliaged mountains. A seeming paradise indeed. Now, having glided to a stop some one hundred yards from shore to await debarkation rituals, the awkward native boats came closer to our great, grey ship. To the surprise of all aboard, we found they were manned, not by adults, but by children, scarcely a dozen years '60 in age. Their shouts to the GI's in an incohorent tongue was to no avail, but the outstretched hands spoke o f universal begging. So the men of the Adder obliged by tossing candy and coins overboard. True to their eager pleas, these dark-skinned youngsters 0 f South Korea began diving deep into the murky waters of the bay and returning triumphantly to the surface with the justly earned booty in hand. However, after landing craft had deposited the two thousand strong on the shores of this "fairy land," the serene enchantment t ran s for m e d as swiftly as the turbulent blue waters of the Yellow Sea had changed upon entering the mouth of the harbor. A closer inspection revealed the country as she really was-a war ravaged land suffering untold agomes within her borders. It 17 didn't take long to realize that those "happy-go-lucky" children in the bay had no intentions of making our cruise as scenic as possible, but were diving .for candy out of sheer hunger. And it didn't take long to notice that the luring backdrop of emerald mountains was now disfigured by trenches, sandbags, and gun emplacements with ugly snouts of anti-aircraft muzzles pointing skyward. Reality had brought wandering minds back to the present. using those same tiny outstretched begging hands and looking with those same pleading eyes. This is the way they survived. This was their daily life. Month after month, the crippled led the blind and the wholebodied cared for the aged. The torn and tattered clothes worn under the seething rays of the summer sun had to suffice for the sub-zero temperatures of the winter. Bare feet, bare arms, bare heads and empty stomachs Then boarding an antiquated amounted to the survival of the poor-excuse-for-a-train, which fittest. Thousands of orphaned was comparable in comfort to a children joined the wolfpacks nineteenth century "Fargo Ex- of all ages to run the gauntlet press" stagecoach, the two thou- of war. What couldn't be sand strong steamed N orth- begged would be stolen. In the North to the "dragon's lair." eyes of American citizens, these And as each clicking section of children were hardened crimirail took us closer to the front, nals at the age of three. Brother it also gave us a closer look at and sister would roam the counthe pathetic sights of war's try, hand in hand, looking for deadly trail, her victims. The anything that might be loose, distant sounds of hard working for anything that could be pried artillery merely added to the un- loose, for anything that could easiness of seeing God's crea- be sold on the black market in tures living like dogs. exchange for today's rations. Tomorrow was another day. Our route of travel seemed to First, they had to survive the be that of a "milk-run"-a fullfledged fifteen-minute stop for present twenty-four hours. every fifteen minutes of motion. So, as our "streamliner" ratAnd at each stop, children by tled on through the countryside, the hundreds would crowd the the shell-crated villages and sides of the tracks voicing those makeshi ft huts were left behind now familiar cries for food; and the snarling, frightening 18 and nerve wracking echoes of war told us our destination was near. In spite of knowing that our own tests of survival were at hand, the visions of a sick people still rang clear in our minds. The despair seen on the faces of ancient ones too old to start anew remained. The minds and hearts of homeless babies crying for parental love and security far exceeded the screaming of shot and shell. The army manuals are most thorough when it comes to aiding in a military vein, but they haven't written a line on how to tell a little girl of four that you can't give her food to eat, a place to sleep, or clothing to keep her warm at night, in spite of her pleas. The mighty warriors have come to "slay the dragon," but the rescued are nQt l~v:i.ng happily ever after. FROM AFAR I see him running across the lawn as a boy on a bright spring day. I see his cheeks grow pink with warmth as the soft breeze brushes his face. I hear his gay laughter of happiness as it sails into the soothing wind. I hear his smooth-sounding voice as it flows into the spring air. But he sees and hears nothing of me as I stand in this lonely place. A NITA ALTER, 19 J60 The Situation JOAN PETERNEL) Let's talk about young contemporary authors today. Fine. 1'd like to address a question to the entire group; do you think there's a definite trend toward writing about a character searching for individual freedom? I do. Franc;oise Sagon-who is the outstanding young French writer, I think-does this in Bonjour Tristesse. A young French girl is afraid her blase, indulgent widower-father will marry a conservative, reforming woman, and so end the freewheeling existence father and daughter are enjoying. By some rather vulgar plotting, the girl indirectly drives the older woman to suicide. And saves her freedom. No. In - destroying another person, she says hello to sorrow, Ubonjour tristesse)" and has to live with guilt the rest of her life; therefore, she is never again free. 20 'S9 Then Sagon isn't an Existentialist. If she is, she's a borderline one. The book is morally good, not morbid or pessimistic. Sagon hasn't got much style, but then she's young; besides, the story is always more important than the style. Well, what about A Certain Smile) Sagon's second book? I don't think it's at all moral. The main character is Dominique, a student at the Sorbonne who's having an affair with another student, and who then has an affair with his uncle. Yes, but Dominique says that passion is her . enemy and that she's really looking for love. And it ends with her being punished by having the older man discard her. Actually, I thought the book was ridiculous, but childishly appealing. Sagon's honest, anyway. She's cynical, rebellious - I don't think she really likes the fast society she lives in. She's a good example of Expressionism which has succeeded Realism. She finds the world in chaos and wants to build a new one. This is really far from the cynical, flippant, old Hemingway school. Well, what about Truman Capote? He's one of the most outstanding young American authors, I'd say. I think he's a deeper thinker than Sagon ; harder to read; more interestmg. It all depends on what you like. Capote stresses psychological effect, such as dreams, abnormal people and so on. Yes, psychological realism. That's a sign of Expressionism, too. He's Expressionistic in that he expresses the soul, his own probably-its deepest, most secret life. Capote's work is intuitional. The meaning pops up into the consciousness sometimes an hour after you read the story. His story Miriam is about a widow of sixty who lives a very pat life. She meets an odd little girl, Miriam, who astonishingly comes to live in her apartment without waiting for an invitation. The widow is horribly afraid of Miriam, but can't say why. That's the end. Miriam has taken over. 21 I think Miriam was a symbol of insanity. The widow lived a very lonely life; she had had a dream of Miriam leading her down a mountain path to an unknown destination. I think the story expresses a soul's fear of insanity. The Headless Hawll is one of Capote's best stories. Vincent, who works in an art gallery, is followed home one day by a strange girl. The following winter she comes to the art gallery and gives him a weird painting she's done. She gives her name as D. ].-and disappears. He meets her again in the spring, asks her to come home and live with him-which she does. He finds she's suffering from a persecution complex; when she tries to kill a stranger, he kicks her out. But she still follows him all over. I think Vincent felt that he'd lived a dull life. He was frustrated because he'd never done anything real. Also, he has dreams which reveal his guilt because of sex ,relations he had had with his cousin, a boy who later killed himself, a deaf girl, et cetera. I think D.]. had been an unbalanced child who had run away from home and been supported by various men who picked her up. How does the story end? I have it right here in my notes. Vincent's walking home from the gallery, stops under a street lamp, even though a summer storm's breaking. Vh . . . it starts to rain but he's still there. Here's the last sentence: "Presently with slow scraping steps, she came below the lamp to stand beside him, and it was as if the sky were a thundercracked mirror, for the rain fell between them like a curtain of splintered glass. " But what happened? I really don't know. It seems they went back together again. I really don't know. Hmmmm! What about the Englishman, Colin Wilson? \tVith The Outsider, he's leading the trend toward serious thought about the search for individual freedom. \Vhat exactly is an Outsider? An Outsider doesn't take life as it comes; he's interested in extremes - high speed, pressures; feels a power within; is religious . . . or imaginative; has an appetite for purpose and direction. T. E. Lawrence was an intellectual Outsider: he was an English writer. He was brilliant. Van Gogh was an emotional Outsider-had a "mystical love for nature" which is 22 reflected in his work-emotional, sensitive, searching, experimental. I think the Outsider is tormented-almost all men have the herd instinct, thinking that what the majority does must be right. The Outsider is lost. He's always looking for something ... a home. \tVhat does the Outsider want? I think he wants to understand the human soul and . . . he wants to know how to express himsel f. The Outsider doesn't have to be an artist, though. I guess he'd have to have an imagination. Van Gogh committed suicide and T. E. Lawrence was killed in an accident with his motorcycle; he loved speed-it seemed to release him from the strain of over-intellectuality. Can't an Outsider ever solve his problems in a more peaceful way? Sure. \tVilson says that an Outsider can solve his problems pretty well by seeing himself as a predestined poet or worldbetterer. The way lies forward, vVilson says, into more life, into acceptance of the ordeal of life. Do you think Jimmy Dean was an Out sider? Maybe. THE LOSS Li fe was the Night Sky Filled with starsEach twinkling orb, a delightful experience, Waiting to be examined and fondled By eager, baby handsAn endless walk into dayo Life is the Midday With glowing sunThe golden beams urging activity While the stars are unfelt By hurried, groping hands Striving to hold back the coming dark. 1L<\RGARET WINSOR) j7 23 On Picasso's Guitarist Ancient man, in sombre blueness, \Vhy cling so to a shape of wood? Is it life-giving? Does it comfort? console? Can there be a song so worth the singing, that you clutch your guitar Even at this weary moment! Old man, teach me this song Place my hands on the strings: Youth needs a hymn to chant~ A creed to believe. Die content, weary one, Your music lives. EMILIE C. MURRAY, ~57 A Sister PEGGY DELANEY, '60 Jackie is her name and rock and roll is the stage. She has one of those new Italian haircuts and while it is too early to tell if she'll ever be one of those real "glamorous" brunettes, when her blue eyes begin to sparkle, I groan for all the poor boys she'll meet and charm. A typical "just-turned" teenager, she is of the "borrowing" variety. When the bedroom looks as though a small tornado struck it and your best pink sweater seems to have disappeared, it's a pretty safe guess that "Sis" is out. Jackie possesses the usual growing pains. Her legs are finally being co-ordinated with the rest of her body but they still have a way of tangling at the wrong times. Her body, once all angles and planes, is slowly taking on soine soft curves. Like all teen-agers, tragedy dogs her footsteps. \iVhen "HE" calls, she is out. I f she walks to the store in blue-jeans and an old jacket, she runs into a boy she knows and almost dies of embarrassment. She is constantly outgrowing her clothes and has freckles which she is sure disfigure her face beyond repair. vVhenever I had a party at Jackie's age, it was a quiet little thing. It came and went without much trouble. When the "Brunette Bombshell," the family name for my sister, throws a party, the whole town trembles in anticipation. Because invitations are "archaic" the phone is tied up for a week before the gala occasion. It isn't that it takes a week to call everybody. It's just the "backwash" on the inviting that takes so long. By the time each of the six or seven girls invites a date and reports who it is to be to Jackie and by the time she calls the other girls and tells them, well. you have quite a good deal of time spent and some angry peo!>le who also like to use the phone occasionally. The day before the party is always reserved for "What are you going to wear?" calls. Of course, the family has been briefed beforehand on 26 their conduct. Vve all get scripts which read, "Enter with a plate of sandwiches," or "Exit, with empty Coke bottles." The first and last of my sister's parties that I attended left me thoroughly shaken, friendless, and confused beyond all normality. I stayed home that fateful night to help Mother, having been assured most warmly, if somewhat absently, that I would be more than welcome at the party. After serving some Cokes to the guests who were engaged in all manner of odd dancing to the tune of even odder music, I sat down in the living room. Trying to make conversation with one very shy girl, I noticed that she wore braces. "Don't worry, " I told her confidently, "Jackie had them, too." At this the girl's mouth hung open with surprise. The very thought of my beautiful, pixielike sister having braces was incredible to her. "Come on," I said, rashly thinking I was helping things, "I'll show you." Taking the poor frightened wren into the dining room, I proceeded to drag but one after another of the family photo albums. The pictures of Jackie and me as children weren't very flattering to say the least, but they were funny. The picture of Jackie with her braces and her straggly hair was just so funny that we got to laughing and then, all at once, the whole party, minus my sister, was staring over my shoulder. I say minus my sister because she was in the bathroom trying to decide whether to leave town in a boxcar or have hysterics. Since the party was still on and she was the hostess, she contented herself with sending me murderous glances, interspersed with a look strangely reminiscent of a dying cocker spaniel. Because our family burial lot does not contain a headstone inscribed, "Miss Jacqueline Delaney," you are safe in assuming that she survived. Do you see the things that can happen to a present day, rock and rollstruck teen-ager without deadly damage? Jackie is as gay and as full of fun, as restless and as unpredictable, as the parties she gives. Everything is important to her. Everything matters and matters terribly. I like to think of her as the typical teen-ager. She doesn't make the headlines for anything more- spectacular than recovering a lost billfold. She is as changeable as the weather and as normal as the sunrIse. She contains a promise 27 of womanhood that will channel her energy into actively serving her community. Her tastes and -ideas will change but basically she will be the same person. ORIENT~-\ TION: And that basic person is good and wholesome. Sister, you drive me crazy at times but, to borrow a very trite expression, "Y ou're the greatest." Come with me to the land of the free love and nickel beer (a four cent sale if you have an I.D.). Come to college. Shout the password Blast! Chum -po Get off my back, you Pie-Eyed Piper. I f this is a rat race count me out. I'm not afraid to stand alone? Saga of The Unknown Student I 2~ ACCOUNT: Dear Mom & Dad: ACCOUNT: Dear Anybody: ACCOUNT: Dear Diary: ACCOUNT: Dear God: Look out, cruel W orId, you can't change me into one of your puppets. I am an individual, I am free - I am free - I am! Rushed to classes. Forgot to study. Hurry. Worry. I am a freshman. I'll tell the World. Cut boring classes. Could not study. Cram. Damn. I am a sophomore. Get that into your thick head. Slept through classes. Did not like prof. Snore. Abhor. I am a junior. Don't you forget it. Daydreamed in classes. Thoughts far off. Confusion. Disillusion. I ah a senior. Remember me ? CARYLOU SIEDLING. 29 '57 HIQ W "LIKE THE WIND The W orId is so like the wind and I am afraid of the wind. Sometimes it is with me; Sometimes it is against me. There is so much I want to tell you so much I dare not say. The wind has a way of twisting itself about my words squeezing and choking and crushing all the ~ove I had enclosed until there remains nothing but the empty, dry, meaningless hollows. 30 \tVill you not also believe the unheard to be sweeter than the heard? Then help me. Please! I need the sound of your voice to give me assurance; I need the strength of your hand to lend me endurance. Then I shall not be afraid-ever. Tell me you want me you need me you love me not for what I could be nor for what I should be but for what I am. You are the stronger yet I cannot tell you. You would laugh and believe me to be playing a game. A nd so my thoughts are soundless; I am still. And you shall never know how I had wished and hoped and prayed you would choose to be with me. God love you, for you are an Insider. CARYLOU SIEDLING) 31 '57 Ellen's face was hidden by her handkerchief as the old Dodge backed away from the tottering garage and onto the street. After gaining turning space, Mr. O'Hara pulled away along the curve of Shade Drive. He was watching the street ahead, but he was seeing only the black-headed slip of a girl beside him and hearing only the quick-caught, half-sobs she could not silence. He wished that he could turn back, drive up by the finger-printed side door of 2406 and call to Kevin, Dolores, Paul, Timmy and the twins, "She's come back. She's changed her mind and come back to stay. Ellen wants to stay and never leave us. Isn't that wonderful? Give her a big kiss, Liddie and Liz! Oh, boy, she's going to stay!" Instead, he swallowed once more and in a voice ever so consciously made to sound as if nothing had happened remarked, "These houses have all been built since I bought our place." The conversation went on surfacely. As their destination neared, Ellen Mahony's life at the O'Haras' dropped to the background of experience. It was only five weeks ago that she had seen 2406 Shade Drive the first time. She could never forget those SYMBOLS ARE REAL LOUISE DIVER) '59 first hours that sunny autumn afternoon she arrived. Mrs. O'Hara was still there, but the house was empty and quiet. The older children were not yet home from school, and the twins were pIa ying outside. They ha9 been too busy playing in a dilapidated sandbox to notice Ellen's coming. Ellen's suitcase had been left in the tiny, front room at the top of the stairs when she returned to the kitchen. Mrs. O'Hara sat, both elbows on the table, a cigarette dangling from her ringed left hand, her right fingering a cup of cooled coffee. They were in contrast: Ellen, the plainest of the plain, wore a full cotton skirt and white shirt, sensible shoes. Powder, mascara, rouge and lipstick failed miserably to hide the lines of Mrs. O'Hara's unhappy features. A black jersey blouse, jeweled with a few lJPIS ldAJdA ~:),Byq B ,/A" MOT sl! lB SU!nbdS dl!l{M pUB ABJ~ 32 at the corner." A final long exhalation and a crumpling of her cigarette finished directions for Kevin's dispatch to school. Three younger than Kevin had also to be seen off to school. "Do you fix their lunches?" Ellen's questioning continued. She wanted so much to be a good mother to these children. A whole barrage of queries tum b led out spontaneously: "What do you usually give them? What time do they come home? What time do you eat supper?" . . . She had better jot down some of these ideas before it all became jumbled. "What time does Mr. O'Hara usually get home?" "Well, that just depends. Sometimes he came right home; other times, he used to drive by the shop to pick up orders for the next day." Ellen noted the past tense: "he came home . . . he used to." "He'll be good to help you. Don usually did the laundry and evening dishes for n1e. " "Couldn't you, don't you want to, somehow patch up things between you? Oh, I don't want to mind your business, but it seems such a shame, not so much for you and Mr. O'Hara as for the children. Surely there isn't anything so seri~us that it can't be worked out. Maybe if and high-heeled, strip shoes completed her going-away ensemble. Ellen rinsed a cup of its dregs and poured herself some warm coffee. "Warm mine up, will you?" Mrs. O'Hara pushed her cup forward. Ellen obliged. "Maybe you'd better tell me about the children's schedules before you leave," Ellen was more than a bit frightened to be replacing their mother. "Well, Kevin is the first one who has to leave-about eight. You know he catches a special bus to get to McPhearson. You'll have to watch him closely too because he don't like to dress warm, even when it's zero. On those coldest days last winter, I'd look out and see him coming home many a day without his coat or cap. There wasn't a week went by that I didn't have to buy him a new cap, and he even lost a good suede jacket Don bought him." "Does he know where to catch his bus?" Ellen had been warned that Kevin, the eightyear old, was mentally not quite right. She didn't know exactly how much she would have to do for him. "Oh, yes, he goes to the stop alone, but don't let him leave before five of eight or else he gets into trouble with the kids 33 you talked .. . ." Ellen's plea was stopped. . "Look, we tried that, and I'd still try if Don would. But he don't want to, Now I need to rest and get away from it all. I need a complete change. It's time for that. God knows I tried a long time ago, and ... ," she lighted another cigarette and tossed the match past the ash tray. "See that mess over there above the stove ?" She pointed to a big grease stain on the wall, an axle design with spokes emanating from a solid spot. "That's where he threw spaghetti in one of his rages. And look at this, " she almost toppled from her chair reaching for a pan from the stove drawer. "See this dent? And that ain't the only one. That's from hitting them on the stove when he was mad;" Ellen's eye caught the thickness 0 f the pan. It was no thirty-nine cent tin. Mr. O'Hara must be powerful to bend the side of stainless steel utensils. "And I 've seen him take Kevin," the tirade continued. Ellen wasn't hearing. She really was frightened, now not so much of her inadequacy as mother of a family, but of Mr. O 'Hara. After all, she had met him only once. Maybe her acceptance had been hasty, may- be Mamma and Papa had been right, and A unt Cissie, and the "gang." Perhaps it would have been best if she had spent these last precious weeks with her own. Maybe, maybe ... The atmosphere see m e d strained when Mr. O'Hara came home, and Ellen, feeling very much out of place, made a sudden disappearance upstairs as a last attempt to leave man and wife alone to effect a reconciliation. The hope was faint, and when angry words became audibly clear, she knew that even this little hope was wasted. She returned to the kitchen, bade Mrs. O'Hara goodbye and wished her the best of luck. vVhat could she say to a woman who, leaving home, a hu s band and six children, went dry-eyed unconcernedly to load her shabby luggage into another man's car? Was Ellen's, "Give us a call," superfluous? Mrs. O'Hara rode away without even caressing the jahbering Liddie, who by then was trailing to and fro with "Where are you goin'? \ \There are you goin', Mommie? Can I go, Mommie?" Liddie was first to seize Ellen's heart. How could any mother leave her'l'J Liddie saw and seemed to sense something of Ellen's feelings as 34 the deserter rode away, waving gaily to the older children coming toward home. "What a life! What a woman! Or is she?" Ellen mused. vVhatever musing Ellen did those next weeks was done as everything else was-on the double. The tall frame house was in need of attention, outside and inside. Exteriorly, 2406 was a new neighborhood's eyesore lifted high on the side of a hill at the curve of Shade Drive so, it seemed to Ellen, as to be seen by all. A symbol of rack and ruin, the marriage gone skidding, the home destroyed. Its east yard washed down to a twenty-foot ravine which had served as a dumping ground. This accounted for the old tires, bottles, deflated football, oil-soaked boards, and even less attractive items which the O'Hara children had dragged into the yard. Is there a child who doesn't love dumps? Mr. and Mrs. O'Hara's six were normal in this respect at least: they appreciated selecting their own toys. Kevin enjoyed it to the full--full pockets, full dresser drawers, boxes full in the buffet, bottom of the ice box, even his pillowcase full. The chaotic first evenmg came to a close after Dolores, 35 the six year old daughter, reluctantly dried supper dishes and six children rebelled at what was obviously unique in their lives-baths. Ellen was tiredly reflective as she pushed herself up the dusty stairs, opened the door to her room and began undressing. "vVhat," she asked herself, "have I gotten into?" She reached for a hanger. There were no hangers in the closet, only an old violin, an empty gin bottle, a GI canteen, a half box of matches, a souvenir sombrero from some carnival. "I wonder if I shall ever get this place straightened up." Ellen was pessimistic as she draped skirt and blouse over the bed. The soiled bedcoverings repulsed her. She turned them, found the cleaner sides and folded them where they would be next to her body. The routine of retiring barely interrupted E llen's thoughts. And all these things Mrs. O'Hara had said about her husband. vVas he really like that? He does look powerful and could, Ellen thought, without much trouble, bend a heavy skillet. Everythingcabout him is big, big shoulders, big feet, hands, large facial features. Even his voice boomed when he sang Timmy a lullaby, "My son, Tim, goes to bed with his shirttail in .. ." Mrs. O'Hara had said that he was cruel; Ellen . had seen only patience and the love of a father in Don O ' Hara. She liked him, but the doubts had been sown in her mind. "Here am I, miles from anyone I know, stranded from safety, in a strange city, on an unknown street, in an unfamiliar house with six children and a man I do not know. Of all the queer situations I've been in," Ellen's sense of humor came through, "this is tops." Good sense would not fail her. She would take the precaution of locking her door. There was no key. As she pulled the knob to look on the other side, the knob came out. "Fine, fine." A nother thought came as she reinserted the knob and succeeded in opening the door. She would remove the doorknob on the hall side so that access to her room could not be easily had. There would be at least the warning of some noise to awaken her. She checked the window's height from the front yard and considered that if worse came to worst, it would be possible to crawl onto the porch roof and drop to safety. A last shudder expressed Ellen's feelings as she stretched weary legs and pulled the covers about her shoulders. Thoughts of prayer and unsorted, mixed-up, observations of her new family soon found a sound sleeper. It was 5 :30 when a heavy knock on the door and a deep voiced, "Ellen, it's time to get up," brought consciousness. Mr. O 'Hara walked downstairs to make coffee. All the days began at 5 :30 when Don called Ellen, made the coffee, took Ellen to St. Therese's for Mass and went on to his job. Each ended with Ell en's, "Goodnight, Mr. O'Hara," as she trudged upstairs. But between these hours Ellen saw the ugly results of a selfish woman's failure to be a woman, to be a devoted mother, to be a loving spouse. It was a month's meditation on fidelity or, perhaps, infidelity. The evidence for such a charge had come quickly. A close look at the ears and heels of Paul had shocked Ellen's sensibilities a bit; but before the first week's end, she knew that these were only surface neglects. By then, she knew the signs of malnutrition, the treatment for worms and how to poultice a boil. She learned more; a mother must be a teacher, a story-spinner, nurse, doctor, song-singer, joke-teller, cook, artist, seamstress and 36 laundress. And while a mother is being these, she must be in love with God, with husband, with her children. Certainly loving these children was easy for her. All the baby prattle, the boils, the affection of Liz and Liddie, Kevin's unpredictable outbursts, Mr. O 'Hara's kindness were now part of Ellen's past. Did she regret her stay? No, Ellen was grateful for all she had been taught, and she could well put her know ledge into practice. Forget them ever? Never! A full view of the station opened ahead on Market Street. The conversation had lagged as if both Don and Ellen were mutually, though silently, agreed that its superficiality could not be sustained. "Ellen, if there were any way ... ," the words were not new to Ellen and Don knew it. He glanced apologetically, "If this thing doesn't work, you know how I'd feel about your coming back. The children just love you. I've never seen them so happy, and I've never been happier in my whole life than since you came to stay with us." "I'm sure that the new girl will take over where I left off. She seems like a wonderful girl, and I think it will be like home to her . You know her parents are dead. " vVhat Mr. O' Hara had to say, he would say, and Ellen's turn of converse would not stop him. " I don't know why you've helped me through this rough spot. I just know it's been wonderful. I can never repay you, and I know you wouldn't take anything if I could. Maybe sometime I can do something for you. " Time was running out; a profusion of heartthanks spilled forth as Don walked along the long platform, handed the suitcase to the conductor, and stood looking down at her. He thought she looked more like a little girl than ever. She held out her hand for goodbye, but he, taking it, put his other hand under her chin and lifted her face so that their eyes met, said only, "Goodbye, Ellen honey." He had strode almost out of sight before Ellen turned to give the conductor her ticket. "This is the train to Glen Falls ?" A broad-mouthed conductor grinned yes, "But you want East Glen Falls stop," and looking at the black suitcase, "It's Maryknoll Novitiate you want, isn't it?" "Yes, that's it. Will you ' be sure to let me know when we get there?" 37 OBJECTIVE LASE \\Thy me? Why should I climb so very high and never quite reach the top? Then, too, why should I have that something worthy of beginning? Dear God! Never mind. I see Your point of view. CARYLOU SIEDLINGJ 38 '57 "FRANCE- PAGAN?" in France cannot be underestimated. Writers who by temperament would not create similar works have a recognizable thread of thought in common. The prevailing idea is that of redemption through suffering. The suffering is primarily psychological and spiritual, and the principal characters usually have to resolve a conflict of their desires and the moral law. Frequently too, the characters are in a distinctly Catholic setting with a problem that is basic to human nature but intensified by the character's knowledge of the Church. Contemporary literature is the most individual literature of any literary period. "Schools" of thought are no longer important to the development of the writer. Emphasis is frequently placed only on the basic ideas expressed and style is a personal concern so long as the style fits the thought. Thus to group several contemporary authors is a difficult task at times. However, in France there has occurred what critics have called a Catholic Renaissance. The importance of Catholic beliefs in the writings of several of the most important writers 39 It should be noted that this Catholic literature of France is far superior to that which we ha ve known. This is not the sugarcoated, preachy and sentimental variety to which we are subjected in the name of Catholicism. This is Catholicism as it affects individuals, Catholicism as it should be livedvigorous, intense and leading to sanctity. American literature has not yet produced a Catholic literature of this caliber; England has only Evelyn Waugh and the controversial Graham Greene. This group of writers in France uses realism, symbolism, descriptions that border on naturalism and any other current in literature that will serve the purpose of Catholicism. Presented here are five of the authors who have been most frequently translated and have thus attained the most widespread reputation. They have been chosen on the basis of this availability to the student plus the fact that these are the recognized authors of France both by their own countrymen and by readers of perception around the world. It is, no doubt, only just that the nation' that has given us both rationalism and naturalism should also have the honor of presenting us with the most important Catholic writing of the past few centuries. Several works of the last decade have been written on the deplorable moral standards of France, styled the "eldest daughter of the Church." But the literature coming from this country denies that Catholicism is dying in France. And as in all good families the right of the eldest daughter to speak and be heard cannot be denied. E.M., '57 leon Bloy Leon Bloy has written few books, but the vividness of his presentation and the strength of his ideas make these few memorable. His works are often classified with the social novels but his ideas go beyond that of the average social critic. In his novels one finds all the elements of social criticism-the satiric portraits, the accurate description of ways of life, the pitiful conditions that are due to the inequality of distribution of wealth and a consideration of these evils as they affect men's destinies. In Bloy, however, there is another strain that is 40 stronger than any of the common elements of social criticism -a deeply felt hatred of mediocrity. Self - satisfaction, the bourgeois sin that most appalls him, is shown as an actual social evil, not merely a personal fault. that one is almost disgusted with the picture. It has all the ingredients of the best naturalistic writings and it is difficult to see how such a story could be uplifting. But the story of Clothilde's battle against not just poverty but the impossible moral conditions that poverty, extreme poverty, is responsible for is a spiritual experience. Somehow in the uncommon filth of Bloy's gutters one is washed of false ideals and complacency. There are two principal novels of Bloy that the student could find both interesting and profitable. Le Desespere (The desperate or homeless one) and The Woman Who Was Poor are related insofar as they both present the person of MarcheClothilde is rescued from her noir, the artist who cannot find unfortunate existence at home happiness in this life but can and brought into a society give much to his friends be- where money is used to improve cause of his penetration of life's the human mind, to upli ft the meaning. Le Desespere first pre- spirit. But the society of Marsents this character as the one chenoir and his friends also reof principal importance. By veals the pseudo-intellectual and many critics Marchenoir is con- false artiste to her. Later dursidered to be a self-portrait of ing her married life one learns the author, and the most im- of the hardships that poverty portant ideas and the most orig- can bring-sickness, blindness inal thoughts are usually to be and death. The bourgeois gosfound in his conversations. sips also receive sharp treatThe Woman liVho liVas Poor ment from Bloy as he shows is the more popular of the two their unreasonable efforts to books, partly because of its hurt her life. It is a tribute to more interesting story and be- the author that this story does cause it fulfills the standards of not become melodrama but rethe art of the novel more com- tains the restraint of genuine pletely. The book begins with a tragic writing. One experiences , description of a Paris slum that the emotion of Clothilde but is so exact in its picturing of still is unprepared for her final filth, poverty and human misery glorious statement that there is 41 only one sadness, not to be a saint. Bloy did not appreciate the artist who wrote only of earth. Rather he felt that all that did not worship the Absolute was useless. Besides his novels, some eight volumes of journals have been published. Pilgrim of the Absolute quite clearly shows him as a social reformer who was interested in conforming man's habits with his ultimate goal. For him, like others of this period, the theme of redemption through suffering was ever present. The beauty of his books is in this combination of the urgent reforming attitude with a unique and impressing style. E MILIE MURRAY, '57 Paul Claudel The dramas of Paul Claudel are unlike anything in the tradition of the French theatre. They follow none of the conventions of classical tragedy, romantic drama, or realism. They were composed in isolation, far from Paris, and in a seeming opposition to the taste 42 of the day. Claudel created a dramatic form which is unique in French literature and which somewhat resembles the dramas of Shakespeare and Lope de Vega rather than the tragedies and comedies of his own country, which so closely followed the classical models. Claudel's dral11a is not a combination of the comic and the tragic. His work is simultaneously dramatic speech and poetry. The characters in his drama speak like real men and women who feel that humanity forms one body and that each man is responsible at every moment of his existence for all other men. In all his plays Claudel shows us one 0 f the most difficult and mystical of all dogmatic teachings, the communion of saints. For Claudel the universe is one at every moment of man's existence. He has sp')ken of the "passion of the universe" which he feels, and of the exaltation derived from contemplating the millions of things which exist at the same time. The most constant theme of all of Claudel's dramas is the role of love-both material and supernatural-in life. His heroines are all remote, mysterious, unknowable, fascinating, standing between man and his God. For Claudel the relationship be- tween man and woman, and between man and God, is an eternal relationship. If salvation is the goal of each human existence, love is the means to attain that salvation. He represents human love (Le souZ,ier de Satin) Partage de Midi) at times so total as to exclude love of God, but he also shows how erotic passion, as it grows in intensity, must end in the frustrating realization of its inability to completely satisfy the human heart. CIa '.Jdel (8.11s woman the promi se which C2.:1not be kept. She is fiEite, v,rhile man's desires and longings are infinite. This need for the infinite, which is the basi s of aU love, is constantly disappointed in the limitations of humal1 love. T l:e role of woman in ClaudeI' s (~ :;:ai11as is that of leading 1.1J.11 tov,-ards God. Her mission in the work of salvation is to in c': T clate divine tenderness and divine solicitude in the world. Thwughout his drama Claudel is sa ying that love of man for W O~1an is love of an illusion, love of something which only seems to exist. The Romantics had preached that love is God; Claudel reverses this phrase through the example of his passionately human characters to bring the Scriptural message that God is love. ISABEL HERNANDO) '58 Charles Peguy Charles Peguy had a message for the world and he delivered it fearlessly through his prose and poetry. It is impossible to interpret his works apart from himself Jor "he thought his life and lived his thought." His personality is apparent in all he wrote. He himself says that he does not need to sign his name, as it is indelibly written on every . line 6f his poetry and prose. Peguy was born of humble parents in Orleans on January 7; 1873. His father died before his birth so he grew up under the care of two women, his grandmother, who did not know how to read but who was a good story teller, and his mother, who recaned chairs at the cathedral. He was a senous child, an excellent student, a genius, but he was a solitary. He had been baptized and brought up a Catholic, but he lost his faith during his years at the lyceums under the influence of atheistic professors. 43 Peguy's first work, Jeanne It is the need to hope joined to d)Arc) which is reminiscent of the need to suffer which formed the medieval mystery plays, was the basis of his Catholicism. . written before his "conversion." The starting point of hope for The pulse of the whole work Peguy is the point of greatest is the idea of suffering. It be- suffering and despair-the cry gins and ends in pain, both na- of Christ on the Cross, "My tural and supernatural. The God, my God, why hast Thou idea of damnation, the perpetu- forsaken Me?" In both Jeanne ation of human suffering, which d) Arc and later in Le Mystere at the beginning and end of de la Charite de Jeanne d'Arc) Jeanne d) Arc forms a perspec- the nun Mme Gervaise refers to tive of the Hundred Years \iVar these words in her attempt to extending into eternity, was for lift Joan of Arc from her state the youthful and compassionate of despair. Peguy the great obstacle to beIn Le Mystere de la Charite lief. He remained a poet of sufde Jeanne d)Arc) one expects a fering, and it was in suffering drama on the Ii fe of Joan herthat he felt most joined to the self and her interior martyrdom Church. Few poets, even Chrisbefore those judges and accustian poets, can have laid "such ers who represented the Church; stress on pain or have accepted this was the most sublime seit with such ardor, as of free cret and the heroic test of her choice." He not only felt that sanctity; it was not the subject man on earth was by nature inPeguy had treated. One sees evitably unhappy, but he dismore than Joan 0 f Arc in the cerned in himself a natural vo"mystery" of her charity-one cation to suffering. In his sees Peguy himself in the mysbeautiful poem, Priere de contery of his renewed or refound fidence) which he made at the faith. This faith so new, so time of his pilgrimage to Charfresh, so simple in its pietytres (1913), Peguy speaks of Peguy was happy to allow it to his great temptation, and he exspeak for itself, to tell its story. plains his resistance and his reHe reveals the substance of his nunciation. faith, and the love that aniThis implacable need for suf- mated it; without seeming to do fering did 'not lead Peguy to so he instructs the potential disdespair or stoicism, but on the ciples and believers who made contrary to a religion of hope. up the readers of the Cahiers. 44 He thus found a way of relating, first through Jeanne, then through Mme Gervaise, the whole story of Christ, from His birth to His death, the Passion of Jesus and the compassion of Mary, the Apostles' vocation and their greatness, the inexhaustible source of grace and sanctity that is in Christ. This simple account - unadorned, unified, yet filled with love, adoration and anguishflows, almost without any interruption of the dialogue, throughout the book. A t first, Peguy's concept of charity was noble and unselfish but entirely human. Later, however, it caught the spark of the Di vine and led him back to Catholicity. He was never "converted" in the usual sense of the word but rather he returned to himself. In 1941, he was killed at the battIe of the Marne leaving us these stirring and prophetic lines : Happy are those who died for the carnal earth, But provided it was in a just war, Happy are those who have died for their own corners of the "earth, Happy are those who have died a solemn death. MARIA LAGADON, '57 45 Francois Mauriac Franc;ois Mauriac, born in 1885 at Bordeaux, was raised by an austere Catholic mother and grandmother. He emerged as one of the most controversial writers of the century. As in the works of Graham Greene and Evelyn Waugh, it is Mauriac's treatment " of characters and situations as a Catholic, rether than as a literary man, that concerns those of the same faith . Granted that he has recognized mastery of style, it is his solution of moral cases that either prejudices this public for or against him. A prominent French critic, Charles du Bos, has divided Mauriac's career into three periods. A lthough Mauriac first wrote poetry, he abandoned it for the novel as a better means of expression. But his poetic genius, which saturates most of his works, is not lost. This first period, one of youth and fervor, reaches a devout melancholy in 1922. The works of Mauriac's second period are most controversial for here he combines both the spiritual and the natural, giving them equal footing. Mauriac shows a great adeptness in treating sins of the poisoning her husband through a series of small doses of arsenic. Being apprehended, she is declared innocent by a court bribed by her relatives. Their reason for saving her was to save the family name. Therese is doomed to the custody of these people until she escapes to Paris. Therese's escapades in Paris are treated in another novel, The End of The Night. In this novel she becomes a degraded victim of lust and one fated to make her own daughter's life miserable. These novSince 1928, Mauriac has els are certainly composites of gradually let grace playa more the psychological understanding effective role. Some maintain of which Mauriac seems to have that it only looks that way. Re- an endless amount. JO SEPH R. T URK) '57 gardless, he has an even greater penetration of the psychology of sinners, especially in sins of sensuality. Sins of the flesh are treated with a feeling of abhorrance; yet, blindly and fuGeorge Bernanos tilely grasped at as a means of procuring at least some happiness in this vale of tears. The striking personality of Therese Desqueyrm1,x, a good George Bernanos is still living example of Mauriac's works, is today. One of this century's a great psychological novel of foremost French novelists, he the cunning of a murderess of exerted a strong influence in the same name. Here is a wo- exemplifying the need for man thrown into surroundings Christianity. The enduring apdistasteful to her femininity, peal of his works is due largely that of a highly domineering to his extraordinary visionary bourgeois family in a typical power and remarkably intense small town. She tries escape by gi ft of presentation. flesh in the light of the suffering Christian. In a seemingly impossible battle the characters are apparently forced by the violence of passion to act against their conscience. In fact, redemption has a jansenistic flavor. A special intervention of God is about the only way out. In Mauriac's treatment of sin the question arises whether he considers virtue too difficult to treat artistically, thus creating a wrong impression; or, whether he fully believes in the moral helplessness (If his characters. 46 Being a Frenchman, his compositions often go unnoticed by the average English-speaking reader. However, it seems quite probable that such would not be the case if people were more familiar with the man himself, with the type of writing he does, and likewise, aware of the many translations easily accessible. Therefore, I should like to point out just some of the outstanding characteristics of his works. Born in a small province in northern France, the background of most of his novels, Bernanos was content to spend the majority of his time there. He concerned himself primarily with contemporary problems, endeavoring to spread his message of integrity through his works which express many profound comments on the social problems posed by poverty, riches, sin, and suffering. Excellent characterization is the distinctive mark of his novels, many of which ' are polemic in nature. As a result we are given a keen insight into the many controversies taking place in France in the 19 century. A mystic, Bernanos is frequently preoccupied with the forces of good and evil working against each other, the struggle between human passion and the grace of 47 God in the souls of his characters. His puissant use of descriptive detail to note the transforming effect of vice and virture upon individuals, whether it be a priest, or an unscrupulous sinner, is a point of continuing interest in his inspiring stories. For Bernanos the necessity of penance, humility and particularly, prayer, plays an important role. His gift for warm expression combined with a deep admiration for Christianity gives his novels a universal appeal which proves the timeless and living value of the author. The literary genius of George Bernanos is brilliantly portrayed in such novels as The Dl:ary of a Country Priest and Under the Sun of Satan. In both works he plunges into the depths of the human soul, analyzing the drama of the struggle for its possession between God and the devil. The realistic sketches of the sordid as well as the pleasant 'pictures of li fe give his works power and pathos in the presentation of the ultimate of good and evil. He might be considered as one of the few who successfully attempted to express the need for faith in and lov~ of God. BARBARA HERTEL, '57 CONTEMPLATION Men plan in men. They plant dreams in this material ground, And upon harvest is found A stalk that bears not fruit. Yet what fools we are. A re minds of men sound? Again they sow in the past year's ground To reap once more the hollow seed. Awaken dreamers! Happiness knows not birth In such empty, barren earth. Plant not your life in dust! Remember man, that you are mortal The dreams you realize today Tomorrow in the grave decay And man again is dust. PHILIP H. ALLEN) '60  ...