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... . , .,I THE FIORETTI I .----- I I VOLUME XXIII NUMBER 2 Indianapolis, Indiana 1964-1965 I 0' j I AN ANTHOLOGY OF I I MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE I I I I THE STAFF Editor-in-Ch ief Evelynn Looney, '66 Assistant Editors Ray E. Brown, '67 Donovan Busby, '67 Sue Charbonneau, '66 Karen Angela Cox, '66 Fay Faivre, '68 Elaine Gillman, '66 Judy Swan, '66 Mary Ann Werbinski, '66 Eileen Witte, '68 Illustrators Mauna Butsch, '65, for "The Savage Beast" Marie De Passe, '67, for "Trisha" Bill Malczan, '68, for "Charlie Was Ready" and "Discovery" CONTENTS ESSAYS After Reading the INFERNO from Dante's COMMEDIA 9 Sheldon G. Houston Charlie Was Ready 18 Eileen Witte Miss Daphne 22 Jean Minneman FICTION Discovery 4 The Savage Beast 12 Karen Angela Cox Once Upon a Time 24 Sheila Mudd Trisha 26 Kathleen Donahue Fay Faivre POETRY . On My Love 6 L'Ennui 11 Michael Cancilla Pain 20 Karen Angela Cox Carol of the Rope 28 Karen Angela Cox Karen Angela Cox FAY F AIVRE, He liked to sit there on the stairs, all snug in his pajamas and in the knowledge that no one suspected his presence. The silvery sounel of women's laughter, the clink of ever-sothin crystal and ice, the humming undercurrent of many voices all speaking at once: these rose up and wrapped his little crouched form In a sleepy reverie. He circled the bannister posts with his hands and leaned his head against them, peering through a thin blue veil of cigarette smoke to the crystal chandelier. When '68 4 he sat right there, on the third step from the top, he was even with it and could see the bulbs that were hidden from people below. Had anyone, he wondered. noticed and marvelled at the light being separated and thrown to all corners of the room? No, he decided, the chandelier was his alone, a companion in the heights. He shut his eyes, not because he was sleepy but onfy to enable himself to hear the sounds without being distracted. The conversations meshed, but now and then a phrase, louder or closer than most, _was clear. "Charles sent it from abroad . . . not this boy, no sir . . : . barbarism, that's what it is, plain and simple . . . in pink, with a deep emerald backdrop . . . third grade this year . . . " The last he knew referred to him, for that was his mother's voice. For a moment he was tempted to run down the stairs and climb up into his mother's lap, there to be petted and told happy things. But he squelched the urge quickly; he would only be sent to bed again. So he stayed. secure 111 his hiding place. r f he scrunched down enough to see through the arch separating the parlor and hallway, he could see his mother, her cheeks as pink as the dres<;; she wore, her black hair loose across her shoulders. He wondered why his father never kissed her face; it was so nice and soft to touch. He saw his mother rise and smile, nod to hel friends and cross gracefully toward the dining room. Soon the other people got up and followed , and he sniffed the good smells coming through the opened door. The doorbell rang just then, and instinctively he drew back out of the light. He shivered in the draft when his father opened the door to admit the latecomer, a pretty lady all golden in the hallway light. He blinked. Had his father kissed her? He watched as his father. took her coat, then bent again and kissed her neck. The golden lady smiled, laughing up at him with her eyes. No words were spoken or needed as they turned to go into the dining room to greet his mother. He sat, wide awake, tasting the bitterness of the stale smoke, hearing the distant laughter. The bright lights hurt his eyes, and he wanted to go to bed. 5 ON MY LOVE I I love you like a million little kids rolling down hills laughing like crazy like twenty thousand butterflies with different colored wings feathered flapping like fifty bees in a field of two million flowers all full of honey in their colored throats buzz buzz buzz they visit each one . . . 6 in a completely undignified and unorganized manner Did you ever see a smiling bee? well, that's me, happy bee Like with two million flowers with you I'm happy Like assorted smiles of babies and pink chiffon and a yellow top and a purple story book and winter whiteness and cotton candy and strawberry ice cream and everything pastel pink and yellow and blue . . . 7 I love you. Everything nice to see It's all you It's all me Everything's happy Everyone's happy Sometime, somewhere . And I'm happy all over So happy I'm silly up and . down and in and out . Call me a yellow carnation . . . I love you I love you You are my mushy monster hairy bear furry funny I LQVE YOU! K AREN A NGELA 8 Cox, '65 after reading the INFERNO SHELDON G. HOUSTON, '65 I might stumble down those well-worn stairs and find the door to an underground chamber where I should not go. A dark, subterranean cell that reeks of vomit and excrement. The waste of those who entered before and drank of the wine of that profane whore who lies in her shabby bed. Scraggly, redheaded bitch lying there drunk from wine, sobbing for pity and wrenching from pain. The agonizing pain that attacks her fetid entrails. Too lazy to move from her filthy nest, that contemptible bitch lies there soothing her lesions and dabbing at tears that should not . fall. Disgusting pig, prostituted to the utter filth of snakes who crawl the streets looking for just enough to buy a few jerks of her callous thighs. from dante's COMMEDIA 9 I might stumble, God forbid, into that deep pit of perversity-into that terrible state of decay.' I too might lie by that door, begging and pleading for that filthy whore to share' her wine and wiggle to the rhythm of the snores of others who, with rats, occupy the corners of that little concrete cubicle. Like babies they sleep. Every nerve relaxed by wine and the niuscular movements of that crusty whore. They sleep, dreaming of yesterday. They dream of the iron armor they never wore and of the sword and .lance they never bore. 0 f the fine marble floors of the Taj Mahal and the pearly, inlaid panels of Shinto halls. These things they see, and more. Beautiful slaves in an Egyptian palace, hiding behind black veils, serve these vipers who sleep ' soundly now in their pit of sin and degradation. They kiss the strong shoulders of Judith of Bethulia and fondle the breasts of the daughter of Ptolemy. They kill the Caesars and conquer Rome and lose it, and win it, and lose it again. But always they return to build a Roman arch across the hot flame that sears their brains and chars their vision. Always just in time to save the treasure, to garner the . gold, to lie happily in the Dcds of flaxen-haired maidens. Poor miserable wretches remembering the past that never existed. My God! Don't let me fall into that foul, black hole of despair. Who does go there? Is there a choice? How many must fall down those crumbly stairs into that sty? Condemned to suck those flat and shallow breasts, to stir the blood of veins almost dry, to breathe the odor of rotting flesh that stains the crimson robe of that lowly whore. Must I dream the dreams of those debauchers who have fallen before? Must I lie with them on that cold, concrete floor? Must I move over to make room for a new litter of rats that have no concern for the dignity of man? Must I listen to the commands of that heathen bitch who screams in pain with every movement of her hips? Must I too crawl on my knees and beg the use of her sodden lap as a pillow for my head? My God! Don't let me fall. vVait! Please, wait? Let me stand beneath green boughs and stare. Give me light. Give me time to see the sky, the stars, and beyond. 10 L'Ennui Une place pour moi dans ce monde Une place pour moi dans ce monde Dans un monde sans amour sans beaute sans sentiment sans bonheur U ne place pour moi Cherchee longtemps Trouvee au.lieu d'amour-la sensualite au lieu de beaute-le pretexte au lieu de sentiment- la sentimentalite au lieu de bonheur-les buts faux Rien du tout U ne place pour moi dans ce monde de la sensualite du pretexte de la sentimentalite des buts faux Je connais la place . Difficile C'est ici a accepter MICHAEL CANCILLA, 11 '64 Rain was pelting hard drops against the windshield as Bart Dempsey ' guided the canvascovered truck along the slippery, asphalt road that led to Attica. The headlights reflecting in the sheets of falling water drops directly in front of him and on the wet, black road ahead did little to improve his vision or his temper. Bart glanced at his watch. It was al- most 4 A.M. He lit a cigarette and fought the sleep that made his eyes burn, wanting to close. No time for sleep. The show had to be put up early, rain or no rain. "Damn the show and damn the weather," Bart muttered. The profanity made him feel better, since there was nothing else he could do about the situation. The rain was bad for business. It made slow 12 another cage, Sheba, his mate, was lying quietly on her side on the floor but her head was up, and her yellow-green eyes remained open in the darkness of the canvas enclosure. She would be in heat soon. Her beautiful fawn-colored coat was damp, and she groaned a little in discomfort. Both lions, were getting wetter from the rain that leaked through tears in the cheap canvas that covered the truck. KAREN A NGELA COX , '65 movmg for the trucks, muddy carnival grounds, and kept people away from the small road shows. "Damn and double damn," Bart said aloud. "Mike's out of his head." There was a low rumble from the back of the truck. "God, how them cats hates rain. " In the back of the truck, Sultan paced back and forth in his cage, his mane still dripping wet from sitting in the open, waiting to be loaded. In 13 Sultan felt the throbbing in his leg from an old wound he had acquired in his youth when he was captured. What a hard time he had given them, the trappers and hunters who had taken him! He had fought hard to free himself from the net. He had roared so loud that the bravest of them shrank back in fear. His heavy paws had contracted, revealing hooked talons like gleaming knives that tore at the manmade trap that dared to hold him against his will. Even when he was put into the cage he had flung himself against the bars so violently that he splintered a bar and opened a long gash along his side, extending into the muscle of one of his hind legs. It was a long time before they could feed him the drugged meat and treat the wound. free, Sultan never liked the closed trucks and the smell of wet canvas as he was jolted along to the next town or city. Tonight the rain made it worse. He stopped pacing and lay on the floor of the cage, but his muscles were taut, expectant. He growled restlessly, his tail switching back and forth rhythmically against the bars that shut him in. Now years later, the weather was damp; and the scar hurt him, although he had forgotten what had caused it. He had been beautiful long ago. His 'mane had been black and full and shining, but now Sult~m was old. He had been passed from the zoos to the circuses; and when the circuses went broke, he'd moved on from carnival to carnival. Now 'his mane, once handsome, had strands of grey and most of his teeth were gone. Mike Dempsey, who owned the carnival, used to grind his meat and lace it with a tonic so that Sultan could eat 'it. He was no loi1ger dangerous. They fed him by hand ... that was part of the show. Sultan could hardly remember when he hadn't been with the circus or carnival; or when he hadn't danced to the whip in front of noisy crowds, or been fed by hand, or allowed someone to scratch him behind the ears. Like an old soldier who had fought many brave battles and is retire,d on a pension, Sultan accepted . . . or seemed to accept, his present, having all but forgotten his past. But like all things destined to be wild and Bart kept both hands firmly on the wheel, carefully steering the truck away from the yellow muck at the side of the road. "Sure be hell boggin' down in that stuff in this weather . . . no one for miles," he thought. As though something were trying to prove him wrong, two headlights came toward him, piercing spots of light through the wet blackness. A yellow diamond that read STEEP HILL sped by on his left. As Bart began to steer the truck up the long, steep grade, the headlights ahead blended into his threateningly and became larger and brighter. "Son-ofa-bitch," Bart cursed under his breath. "Why the hell doesn't he dim his lights!" He blinked his own lights, but the other headlights didn't respond. The heavy rain was turning to sleet . . . Bart desperately sig- 14 naled again into the yellow glare ahead. They were near enough for Bart to distinguish the for11'1 of a large semi-trailer above them, almost halfway down the hill. The trailer was weaving from side to side as the semi leaped out of the darkness into the glare of its own lights. "My God! 0 my God! He's going to jackknife!" Bart hit the brakes and felt the weight behind him joint and twist, and the big semi rushed at him, gleaming in the night like a moving steel wall. The trailer of the semi overturned, crushing the front of the canvas truck, and carried it rolling down a steep embankment into the nig.ht. then there was a loud crash and he heard Sheba scream, high in her throat . . . the scream was cut short, then ... everything was still. When they stopped rolling, Sultan found that he was half out of the over-turned truck. One end of the cage was smashed. SuI tan squeezed through the opening. He was bruised and very frightened, and his shoulder was bleeding; but otherwise, he was unhurt. The smell of blood that was not his own soon reached his nostrils on the cold, wet, night air. Sultan began to pick his way softly and carefully through the wreckage. Several yards away, Sheba's cage had been thrown clear. The cage was completely demolished. Its bars, broken and jagged, stuck out at odd angles. It was impossible to believe that they had ever been parallel or connected. Sultan padded over and sniffed at his mate. The smell of death greeted him. Her white throat was covered with blood where a sharp piece of wood, part 0 f a broken bar, Sultan's nostrils protuded. flared with the death smell, and he roared again, backing away from the dead lioness. Sultan felt a tremendous jolt as his cage lurched on its side and the impact slammed him against the wooden bars. He let out roar of fear and pain as the back of the truck began its plunge down hill, and his world turned topsy-turvy. Everything in the dark seemed to rush at him at once, and he struggled in a hopeless effort to regain his footing. SOl11E'thing jabbed sharply into his left shoulder, and he caught a glimpse of darkened sky as the canvas ripped away. Something solid pushed against him, a 15 The rain had almost stopped. Sultan Ii fted his head and sniffed the air. He could smell man not far away. He could see the cab of the smaller truck lying on its side, a little further down the gully. A white arm was visible hanging through the broken glass of a windshield. The arm was streaked with blood. There was nothing else but the smell of oil, burned rubber, and gasoline mingled with the fresh blood smell. This made Sultan nervous, and he stood for a moment switching his tail from side to side, as if trying to decide what to do. He moved a little toward the cab and the white arm and then stopped. There was the lo"\\:" wail of a siren in the distance. The semi was further up toward the road, the trailer upside down just above him. The siren grew louder. The sky was lighter .now. I t had stopped raining, and a light frost was beginning . to harden on the grass. A breeze whispered through the gully, and the death smell grew stronger. Sultan growled softly. Then, turning away from the road and from the wreckage, he padded slowly across a small field and disappeared into the wooded area beyond it. Two highway police cars and an ambulance screamed through the early morning wetness. At the middle of the hill, they squeaked to a stop just above the gulley. Five men, a sheriff, two ambulance men, and two highway policemen, emerged one by one from the emergency vehicles. They carefully made their way through the brush, down the embankment toward the wreckage. Jim Hearst, the sheriff of Huston County, surveyed the grim scene before him with the eye of a seasoned professional. "Hurry up, you guys!" he bellowed. "I ain't got all morning. " By now they had reached the cab of the semi. One of the ambulance men knelt by the blood-soaked form of a man pinned under the twisted steel that was once an engine. "Dead?" inquired the sheriff. "Yeah. This one's for the morgue all right. Poor guy. Whole chest crushed in. We'll have to have a wrecker to get the body out." Hearst nodded to one of the state troopers and the man began climbing back up the hill toward the radio car. "Damn fools to travel in this weather at night," Hearst muttered. He turned to the man who wa:; 16 trying to cover the face of the dead driver. "Let him be. He don't care who looks at him now. Let's get this over with and save the party manners for the press. I ain't had breakfast yet. " He pointed to the wreck of the canvas truck. "Let's see what' s left of the other guy. " The attendant removed his jacket and stuffed it between the wreckage and the dead man's face, covering the head. Then he followed Hearst and the other three men toward the rest of the wreck. Bart Dempsey's body was crushed between the dashboard and the back of the cab seat. The steering column had penetrated his .abdomen, and his- head and right arm had pushed through the windshield. The arm was almost completely severed. "Not much we can do 'til the wrecker comes," Hearst uttered. "Throw a blanket or somethin' over that windshield, if you've got a weak stomach. " "Hey Jim!" Hearst turned in the direction of the young officer who addressed him. "\\That is it, Carl ?" "Look what that guy was haul in' ." Hearst worked his way around to the other side of the wreckage. "Well I'll be . . ." He stared at the body of Sheba In the frost-covered grass. "Wicked lookin' animal , ain't it? Check the back of the truck, Carl. See what you come up with." The officer walked around the back of the truck ... "Hey, Sheriff !" "Find another ?" Hearst smiled grimly and strolled over to the back of the truck. Sultan' scage, the end smashed, had slipped all the way out of the truck to the ground. It lay there foolishly, its bars broken, its purpose thwarted, its emptiness all too evident. Hearst drew a long breath, and the sweat stood out on his forehead. His breath turned to smoke on the frosty air. "Well," he muttered to Carl, " ... looks like I've got a little fun on my hands." "Y ou want me to radio a bulletin, Sheriff? Be a good idea for folks around here to stay indoors with an animal like that on the loose." "No," said Hearst, almost to himself, "No .. . it won't do no good to get everyone riled. Let's go back to town for a couple of rifles. He ( Cont'd. on page 31) 17 CHARLIE WAS READY EILEEN WITTE, '68 Only three more days till school started. Charlie was excited. He liked having all the visitors at his house, especially the state militiamen. They always smiled secretly at him w hen they were standing guard at the front door. They never smiled at the strangers who stood out by the street. The newspapermen were nice, too. They played games and took pictures of everything. They were always asking questions abo ut school. Sometimes Mother would answer them and sometimes she'd just close the door. That wasn't like Mother. Reverend vVillis and some of his friends came to visit. All those Reverends made Charlie nervous. He knew he had to be good, and, of course, quiet when they were around. They were always saying that Lafayette Park School was 18 such a big step to take. None of Charlie's brothers and sisters had gone to school there. It wasn't allowed. Now it's all right. Reverend vVillis said it was all right. All the rest of the kids were going to Hubert School. Charlie was the only one on the street going uptown. He was going to ride to school in a police car everyday. Then Hank, the deputy, would walk him to the door. Nobody else went to school that way. Charlie felt speciaL He was different. Mother didn't want him to think about school. She always looked afraid whenever Charlie talked about it. He wasn't afraid. Everybody goes to first grade and he would have the deputy with him. Charlie wanted to show everybody the new school bag Mother had bought for him. The newsmen had even taken a picture of Charlie with his school bag. It was on the front page of the paper. He couldn't read the headline above it, but he'd learn that at school. He was going to call his best friend to tell him about the picture, but Mother wouldn't let him. Besides, there were so many people calling Mother now that Charlie couldn't make the house all day. He didn't care. Tomorrow was a school day. The alarm clock rang and Charlie jumped from his bed. He was ready in ten minutes. Mother served a big breakfast and sat at the table watching him eat. She wasn't hungry. Hank, the deputy, came right on time to take him to school. Mother kissed Charlie goodbye and turned to whisper something to Hank. He smiled and nodded. Then they left by the side door. The police car hurried to its destination. Charlie noticed all the mothers out with their children. He smiled and waved to familiar faces. They only stared. There had never been such a big crowd at Lafayette School. Everyone stopped talking as Hank and Charlie made their way to the open door. Someone started shouting after they were inside. Charlie couldn't understand what they were saying. Hank showed him the first grade room and left him there with one last wink. He sat in the first desk in the first row and waited. The rest o f the kids would come soon -and the teacher. Mother said they would all learn together. Charlie was ready. his call. A policeman always answered the phone. Sometimes when they weren't there, Mother would answer. She never smiled or laughed the way she used to when she talked to Aunt Betty or Mrs. Bronson. She just listened. Sometimes she would cry. Somebody broke the front room window with a rock. Mother cried then, too. Charlie was surE. he would be blamed but she just reached to him and held him close. The policeman said not to worry and they went outside to see what all the shouting was about. Charlie had to play 111 19 PAIN In childhood I thought I knew him sharp tummy pains fear of dark sting of honey bee measles, mumps, chicken pox cheeks burning face red and wet with salt tears ... and running home to parent to comfort or forgiveness 20 ~ In adolescence I thought I lived with him misunderstandings ... the party dress I couldn't have the boy I couldn't date lonely days, pimples, tripping in too-high heels grades that slipped, messy room to clean sel f -consciousness, broken heart indignity ... cheeks burning face red and wet with tears . and running home - to my room to my dreams ... to forget. And now I know him and he is cruelest of all Death of beloved, despair, responsibility, deception anger, loss, suffering, lack of love, lack of faith all I've known before ... and more . .. and more ... and more .. with cheeks burning face wet with tears and running . . . and running to . and running . . . ? ? ? KAREN ANGELA 21 Cox '6J JEAN MINNEMAN, Miss Daphne, a large mass of burnt orange fluff with a massive tail and penetrating copper eyes, is distinguished among feline societies as a red Persian. Her blood line, fur markings and rare eye coloring place her among quality show cats; and she is aware of thi~ fact . She walks with an air of regality and luxuriously drapes herself over any piece of upholstered furniture for her many snoozes. The Daf's curiosity about anything that moves and about anything into which she can get her flexible, nimble body is tremendous. A paper bag, the dishwasher, the dryer, a closet, or a drawer each affords her a world of dangerous adventure which must be approached with '65 An alarm clock does not have the charm that a cat's loud {)u~ring into my ear has at () :30 a.m. The purr sounds like an enormous truck speeding past the house in second geCir. I f the purr does not impart the message that morning has arrived, the gentle but firm touch of paw pads on my cheek usually accomplishes the task. Once again, Miss Daphne, also known as Daffy, the Daf, Your Cat, Mademoiselle la Chatte and the Princess, has not only disturbed the bliss of sleep; she also has achieved her purpose of waking me to let her outdoors. 22 caution although she has thoroughly explored each a dozen times in the past. Even before leaving the safety of the house, she finds it necessary to look in all directions, sniff the edge of the door and listen for hostile sounds before venturing forth. When her master returns home after a hard day's labors in the businessman's jungle, she bounds across the walk to meet him, then races down the driveway and rolls on her back to extend greetings of welcome. All of this signifies she is ready to be scratched, rubbed, petted and told how glad he is to see . her. A fter a few mom.ents of these antics, the Princess determinedly leads hiri.l into the house toward the kitchen, and I hear, "Your Cat is ready for dinner." Her bushy tail swishes impatiently, and her meows become frantic as she paces about my ankles while I cut raw beef, liver, fresh shrimp or cooked chicken into dainty bites, typical cuisine for Mademoiselle la Chatte. Recreation period following dinner is ritual; we play such games as hide and seek, finger through the door crack, and find the toy in the shoe. When she is in doubt as to which 23 game to play next, she stops to wash, then bounds to her master's feet and dashes away a few paces with an expression of "please" on her face. (Cats do have facial expressions, by the way.) Later, when we humans are reading, watching television or conversing, she curls up affectionately beside one of us and purrs. The packing of suitcases always creates a traumatic experience for Miss Daphne. Her eyes open wide and express apprehension and anxiety which she indicates further by anchoring her claws into the bedspread. Suitcases mean a stay for her at the Siamese cattery which depresses her. However, when we retrieve her a few days later she purrs almost constantly for several days and meows with the high pitched, coarse and grating meow of a Siamese cat. Recently the typewriter has fascinated Daffy, and she delights in balancing herself on top of the machine and peering down into the key area. ~Then I type she jumps immediately to the edge of the table and gingerly approaches the source of the sound, both of which at this moment are forcing me to cease writing ... Once upon a time, so long ago that no one from that age still lives, there dwelt in a damp and dreary cave, three cruel witches and a dragon. The poor scaly creature was forced to barbecue ill-fated travelers who were captured by the hags for their cannibalistic feasts. A s for himself, he was a vegetarian. @nt ~pnn One day (which is ever so much better than one night, because as everyone knows, dragons cannot see in the dark), a handsome prince rode down the road that passed the cave. He was in search of a princess. He stopped and asked directions. The prince soon found himsel f being tied to his sword (for Prince Shish Kabob, of course) . He proved himsel f most heroic, as handsome princes . usually do, by breakinghis bindings and slaying the three evil ones. but he surely wasn't stupid. He melted the helmet on the prince's head with a blast of his mighty breath. In terror, the prince fled the cave, with Rufus close behind. When the prince fell exhausted upon the ground, Rufus waited until he had revived. Then (being acustomed to servitude) he declared himself a loyal citizen of that land and a devoted servant of the prince. The dragon, in relief, roared out joyously. Well, as we all know, princes are not used to hearing dragons roar joyously. Mistaking the friendly dragon' scomment as being totally unfriendly, the prince began to whack away at Rufus. Rufu s may have been a timid animal, SHEILA MUDD '68 24 Sensing that he had come in possession of a very valuable servant, the prince took advantage of Rufus' devotion .( and that's a very bad thing for anyone, especially a prince, to do ) , and ordered the dragon to find the loveliest princess In  the world and bring her to him. The search proved long and difficult, for even in those days lovely princesses didn't come in plentiful supply. After six months Rufus finally returned with a maiden who had skin so pale that the barest flush seemed scarlet, hair like golden honey, eyes bluer than the brightest summer sky, and a voice so sweet that the Nightingale stopped his song to listen. She seemed quite docile until the prince attempted to pledge his love and asked her to marry him. In response, she lovingly looked at the kneeling prince and kicked him in the head. Naturally, he was rather shocked at he; lack of gentility and asked her why she had treated him so ' rudely. She answered that during the long journey from her kingdom to his, she had fallen in love with the sweet, shy, brave dragon who had kidnapped her. She wasn't in the least impressed with the prince's good looks and charm, because as anyone could see, she had enough for two people. As for riches and a title. she already had those. most of them), he felt not the least bit dejected. He simply quoted Law number 4005763 (which he had just at that moment composed), which stated that beautiful princesses with honey-blond hair, fair skin and blue eyes cannot marry dragons. Taken aback, the maiden was left without words. Tearfully , she fled into the courtyard where Rufus lay patiently sunning his scales. Kissing his scaly head, her tears fell upon his snout, causing him to sneeze. In a twinkling, she was transformed into a dragon with golden scales and footlong eyelashes. Indeed, all the time she had been a dragon, upon whom an evil ogre had cast a spell causing her to look like a human being. The spell could only be broken by another dragon's sneeze (which to dragons is the same as a kiss). Rufus and the dragon princess could be married after all (her skin had golden scales now; the law said nothing about scales) , and everyone lived happily ever after, except the prince who had to content himself with being merely rich, handsome and famous. Because the prince knew quite a lot about the laws of the kingdom (be had written 25  It wasn't fair! It wasn't fair! It just wasn't fair! Bare brown toes sent an empty popcorn box skittering into the gutter and stormy gray eyes saw it crushed beneath the wheels of a big yeIlow delivery truck. Boys got all the luck! She was a better baseball player than that skinny Joey Ryan and everybody knew it. But who always got picked to play on the team? Joey Ryan! The guys just didn't want a girl on their team. Simmering in the midday sun, the rugged sidewalk felt good beneath Trisha's smaIl feet, toughened by her countless barefoot journeys over every kind of ' neighborhood terrain. On any other day, she would have liked to sit for a moment on the wall in front of Mrs. Anderson's house and let her feet bake in the sun and feel the happy warmth creeping slowly through her. But she couldn't stop now. She was too mad. And this time she was KATHLEEN DONAH UE, '68 26 going to stay mad. She had the worst habit of forgetting to be mad and not staying mad long enough, especially when something made her feel good. But this time was going to be different. She was good and mad and she was going to stay that way until something got changed. Determinedly, Trisha stubbed her big toe hard on the cement, and the painful sting made her forget the warmth of the sidewalk and made her feel blacker and blacker inside. She was going to get it settled this time. She was going to find out why girls always got the worst of everything, why girls had to do all the work, why girls couldn't have any fun. Everybody knew girls were smarter than boys, at least those in the second grade. And Nancy Brown down the street had told her that most boys never got over being dopey. Nancy ought to know. After all she would be in the seventh grade next year. Then how come the boys still got all the luc,k? vVhy didn't all the smart girls get together and think up some way to get the fun away from the dumb boys? Like maybe flattening them all, just like that popcorn box back there. 27 She thought that was the best idea. Boy, she sure could flatten a few of them easy enough. Like that whole dumb baseball team! Trisha turned and marched up the wide, smooth front walk. Eleven giant steps, exactly. She wasn't counting now, but she knew it by heart. And almost twenty steps when mother said, "Trisha, walk like a lady." No, boys cuuld be comfortable they wanted. That did it! She was really burning now. Trisha yanked open the screen door and stepped into the cool of the house, jumping guiltily as the spring snapped the door shut behind her. She heard Mother's soft voice calling her from the little room on the right. Mother would listen to her. She would understand. After all, she was a girl too, kind of. Anyway, she used to be one, once. Quickly and quietly, she went into the room, her head filled with all the things she just had to say. Mother was looking down at the new baby in her lap, sleepily waving its tiny arms. Trisha leaned against the comforting shoulder, but before she could get started, Mother was pushing her hair out of her eyes and a asking her for about the millionth time, why she didn't wear a hair barrette. Trisha had only explained million times before about that all her barrettes had sicklooking flowers or something on them and they just didn't look right with her tee-shirt and baseball cap. She didn't have time to explain again, she had something more important to talk about, something almost as important as what she wanted for Christmas or her birthday. Patiently, she began again, but now Mother was asking her a -question. \tVould Trisha like to hold the baby? Not really. The baby was really kiI1d of dull. It didn't do anything at all. But she didn't tell Mother that. Girls always liked to hold babies. Grownups got mad if they didn't. And she didn't want Mother to get mad. She wanted to get this problem about being a girl settled. But it looked like she would never get it fixed up, the way things were going. Stretching out her arms, Trisha took the small bundle. Holding the baby meant not talking unless she wanted to talk baby talk to the baby. And baby talk wouldn't get Trisha anywhere. Oh well, it would only be for a few minutes. It always was. She guessed she could wait. Trisha looked down at the pink form in her arms. The baby was still, and with all its clothing and blankets, holding it was no different from holding her wadded-up blankets when she carried them down to the washing~machine. But that was another thing never told to grownups. I t would only cause trouble. Absently, she poked her finger at the tiny hand and then almost jumped in surprise. The baby had grabbed her finger and was holding on tight! It sure had never done anything like that before! And Trisha sure didn't know that babies had that much strength. Or maybe it was just her baby. She thought about that for a moment. Maybe her baby was something special. And boys hardly ever got to hold babies. The little fist was warm and soft and suddenly Trisha began to feel warm and soft. It was just like sitting in the sun on Mrs. Anderson's _wall, except the sun was inside her now. Trisha felt good, and when Trisha felt good she always forgot to be mad. a 28 CAROL OF THE ROPE Red painted handles turning the string whizzing and slapping hear the rope sing Rope be the measure rope sing the lie count to ten thousand and you'll never die. Slap . on the sidewalk snag in the grass here comes a blind man don't let him pass 29 Catch in the pop.y-tail tangle the curl rope-burn the ankles rope-trip the girl Rope sing the summer sing the sun's heat sing of the death-rhythm pounding her feet Jump into moonlight night is a hole count to ten thousand or you'll lose your soul Ninety three hundred jump 'til you drop here comes your mother she'll make you stop KAREN ANGELA 30 Cox, '65 ( Cont' d. from page 17) couldn't have got very far. I'll get hill! before noon." "But the kids . . . they'll be startin' for school 111 an hour. I think ... " "Who gives a damn what you think!" thundered Hearst. "Keep your mouth shut, hear? Besides," he lowered his voice, "maybe the eat's gentle like, easy to shoot. Lion's head might look good in the trophy case. Let's go." Hearst gave directions to the officer and the ambulance attendants. Then he and Carl worked their way back up the hill, entered one of the patrol cars, and began .the four and a half mile drive back to Atti6i. The sunlight broke through the curtain of clouds that had hidden . it for so long; and a shaft of light penetrated the heavy wooded area, lighting the small clearing where Sultan lay. Exhausted by his wild ride down the side of the gulley, and now beyond the scents of man and the wreckage, he had found this place. Sultan had settled down on the pinescented earth to rest. The small cut inflicted in the accident had stopped hurting and was no longer bleeding. Sultan sat up and looked around him. Birds chirped above him, protesting against the cold weather. There was still a trace of dampness in the air, and the breeze was wet and cold. Sultan shivered a little at the smell of it, and he trembled at the sound of the birds and his new feeling of freedom. Here there were no bars, no whips, no canvas, no man . . . only the green and brown forest, putting on its new fall colors here and there. And then there was ... hunger. Sultan would have to hunt his own breakfast. He trotted across the clearing and into the grove of trees on the other side. A rabbit ran across his path. It startled him, but he did not pursue it. It had been a long time since he had shifted for himself. He glided through the grove, his paws breaking no twig, making no sound. On the other side of the grove he came to a meadow of clover and tall grass. Not too far away, a few sheep were grazing. Sultan watched silently, as an old ewe and her lamb grazed nearer to the edge of the group. He was downwind of the flock, and the breeze brought to his nostrils a long-forgotten scent. Sultan's nostrils flared with the strong 31 ward him, and they were swinging lunch boxes in their mittened hands. They were laughing and Sultan could hear their small voices and see their breath on the morning air. Suddenly, the smallest child, a boy of about five, dropped a book. He turned to pick it up and spied Sultan. The boy stared at Sultan with intense curiosity. "Hey, Jeanie," he said, "looky at the big doggie." The oldest of the three, a girl of about ten, turned around just in time to see her brother walk up to Sultan, hand outstretched. " Jamie, don't!" Her cry was shrill. She grabbed the other small child tightly by the wrist, and be began to cry. "Shut up, Robbie. Jamie, come back here!" "Aw, he won't hurt me," said Jamie, walking closer to Sultan. "He's nice, aren't you?" he said. He reached out and scratched Sultan behind the ears. "Look, Jeanie, he won't hurt. See?" At the familiar touch and the tingle behind his ears, Sultan lay down in the road and put his chin on his paws. Perhaps this small man would give him something to eat. He was tired, cold, hungry, and sore. sheep scent, and his body grew tense. He felt warm all over, and he grow led deep in his throat at the awakening of a feeling within him which had long lain dormant. Skirting the meadow, he made his way toward the flock, always keeping the sheep on the windward side. vVhen he was within two or three yards, he crouched in the grass, waiting for his in3tinct to tell him what to do next. Suddenly, the breeze changed direction. The sheep stopped their grazing and were soon off in a gallop. Sultan made an attempt to strike at the back of the fleeing herd, but it was too late. His shoulder hurt, he was tired. The herd scattered. Sultan tay for a minute in the middle of the field. Finally, he picked himself up and crossed the meadow, moving slowly and carefully, his head down. At the edge of the meadow he pushed through some high, thick brush at the edge of the road. There was nothing to be seen but fields and an occasional barn. Then he rounded the bend. Sultan stood quietly and watched three children, standing at the junction of the gravel road and the asphalt highway. Their backs were to- 32 He began to purr loudly. "Look," cried Robbie, "He's laying down." "J arnie, let 'im alone now. The bus will be here in a minute," said Jean, her voice shaking. "That's not a doggie, Jamie. Let him alone. " Just then, the bus roared down the gravel road. The sound and smell of the bus were all too familiar to Sultan. He got to his feet, switched his tail, lifted his head, and listened. Then, turning his back on the three astonished children, he sprang across the road and disappeared into the brush. The bus stopped at the side . of the road to let the children Climb aboard. "We just saw a lion !" cried Jean, her eyes bright with awe and fear. "A what?" asked the bus driver. "A real live lion," said Jean. "Jamie petted him; you'd better call the police," she concluded breathlessly. "You kids and your stories. Sit down back there and be quiet, or you'll never get to school." "But there was a lion, there was!" cried Robbie. "Well, I never seen one in these parts yet. Sit down and behave yourselves. You know what your principal said about actin' up on the bus. One more word and you'll walk!" Sultan lay in the brush at the side of the road and watched the big orange bus disappear over the asphalt hil1. The sheriff's phone rang, just as Hearst reached his office . Grumbling, he picked up the receiver. "Yeh? What is it ?" "This is Mike Dempsey, Sheriff. I own the Dempsey Brothers Carniva1." "So what?" "My brother was hauling two of our show cats over f rom San Angelo last night. He was supposed to be here at 6 :30 this morning to put up the show. I was wondering ... " "Cats? Oh yeh. There was an accident about four miles down the road from town. Trooper's plane spotted it. He had a head-on with a semi. Your brother's dead, Dempsey. It'll save us a lot of trouble if you'll get over here and identify the body." The sheriff reached for a doughnut from a brown paper bag- on his desk. There was silence at the other end 0 f the line. "You still there, Dempsey?" "Yes . .. yes, I'm here. Did 33 you say Bart was ... dead?" "Look, just get on down here and you'll be filled in on what happened. One of the cats escaped and we're going after it. " "All right," said Mike. "See you in a few minutes." Hearst put down the telephone and took down a heavy powered rifle from its bracket on the wall. His thick, rough hands ran gently over the fine wood of the butt, feeling the smooth coldness of the steel barrel. His eyes gleamed with a strange wildness, and he began to sweat again. He got a box of shells and some rags from a cabinet in the corner of the office and began to polish the rifle ... gently, a husband caressing his new bride. There was a knock on the door. Hearst was annoyed by the 111terruption. "What do you want?" he growled. "We're ready, Sheriff." "You'll wait. The owner of the animal is on his way down here. All cleaned up at the scene ?" "Both bodies in the morgue and wrecks being hauled in." "Good." Hearst went on cleaning the weapon. This was Hearst's favorite ri fIe. Many a wild-eyed stag had been arrested in flight by a bullet from its flaming mouth. Around the walls of the office were the heads of three kinds of North American deer, a moose, a large black bear, and an enormous wolf. On top of the show case which held three large ri fles, a German lugar, and an old Colt revolver, was a row of stuffed birds. Their eyes stared black and shiny in the light of the office. Hearst hated venison or wild game of any kind to eat. Most of the bodies of the deer he killed were taken home by his hunting companions or left to rot. He particularly enjoyed hunting dangerous game; and he was particularly proud of the bear's head, whose owner he had tracked many miles into the north Canadian woods. He was well known for his talent in tracking, both animal and man. If there was something that wanted bringing down, Hearst could do it . . . and would do it. No man in Hearst's custody ever tried to escape unless it was sure anCl certain that he'd get clean away. Hearst never brought anything back alive if he could help it. He had always secretly envied the men of higher sta'- 34 tion and wealth that traveled to Africa on hunting expeditions. Right now he was thinking of how a lion's head and pelt would look on the wall behind his desk. People would come from all around to see it . . . and the man who shot it. A smile twisted his thick lips. He'd show them ... "Sheriff Hearst?" Mike Dempsey stood in the doorway. "Yeah ?" "I'm Mike Dempsey." "Oh .. . Did you see ... " "Yes . . . " " Hell of a shame, Dempsey. We're goin' after your little pet. " Hearst patted the ri fIe. "Thank God it was the male that got away.'" "What do you mean?" said Hearst warily. "Well, Sultan is just a pet, really, a great big kitty cat. He's so old and he's been in captivity so long I guess he's forgotten he's a lion. Don't worry, Sheriff. My men will get him. All we have to do is find him and lead him home. N ow Sheba, she's younger and wild. Be a bad case if she was out." Hearst's face was red. "Don't try to tell me my job, Dempsey. That's a savage beast out there . . . a savage 35- beast! I've got people to protect. Yoil keep your boys out of this, and you let me do my job, hear?" He strode out of the office and slammed the door. Mike stood there for a minute, astonished at the sudden anger of the other man. Then he looked at all the trophies around the office and understood. Sultan made his way through a wheat field, away from the road. Suddenly, he sensed a hew smell in the air . . . a strong, bird scent. Sultan growled. He had killed a couple of field mice, but he was still hungry. He made his way toward the strong scent. He walked through some brush at the edge of the field and came out on a dirt path, leading to a small chicken farm. There were a few crudely constructed hen houses, and a few pullets were scratching in the dirt. Sultan padded his way toward the chickens. Then he smelled man. He went off the path and crouched in the grass. A rather elderly woman emerged from the barn and walked toward the chicken yard, carrying a bag of grain and a broom. She put the broom down by the fence and began to scatter the grain. The woman would feed him. He chickens swirled around her did a leap and turn, and then like huge, feathery snow flakes , he was up on his .hind legs coming. from all directions to again. be fed. Sultan trembled at the Hearst had Sultan's chest in sight and scent of them. The his sights. It took one shot. woman finished and turned to The searing flame shot go, after scattering the last of through Sultan's body, and he the grain. let out one last terrified roar. Sultan had crawled steadily He dropped off the roof of the forward until he was within a chicken house and lay dead in few yards of the chickens. De- the filth of the chicken yard. fore he had time to strike, the "Are you all right, Mrs. birds set up a racket and dis- Miles?" Carl asked the woman. appeared into the hen-houses. "Yes ... I'm sure glad you Sultan let out a roar as somecame along, Sheriff. He'd have thing hit him from behind. got me for sure." There was the woman, brand"He's a mean one, all right," ishing her broom. l"eplied Hearst. "His keeper "You get out of here," she told me we'd have a real case shrieked. "Go qn, git!" on our hands." .Sultan mounted one of the "You got him with one shot, hen-houses to get out of the way of the broom. At the sight Jim." "\,yell, if he hadn't a been of the handle of the broom, a rared up to attack Mrs. Miles, strange feeling came over him. we would've had a harder So that was it! That was why she was here! She wanted him time." "He sure looks mean," said to perform! Standing on his Carl, looking at Sultan's body hind legs, Sultan pawed play. . . "Real mean." fully at the stick. He did two "Yeah," said Hearst. "He's or three turns one way and a killer, all right. Let's go." then another. The woman kept The sheriff, the woman, and prodding him with the broom the two other men walked tohandle, and he was trying to ward the house. please. He didn't see the three "Gosh, Sheriff," muttered men running across the wheat field toward them. He wanted Carl, "why didn't you let us to do his act so that this have a shot at him?" 36  ...

... I THE FIORETTI I I VOLUME XXIII NUMBER 1 Indianapolis, Indiana 1964-1965 . ' AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE THE STAFF Editor-in-Chief Evelynn Looney, '66 Assistant Editors Ray E. Brown, '67 Donovan Busby, '67 Sue Charbonneau, '66 Karen Angela Cox, '66 Elaine Gillman, '66 Judy Swan, '66 Mary Ann Werbinski, '66 Illustrators Sister Mary de Paul, '65, for the cover Peggy Mader, '65, for "Sam" and "The Awakening" Marie Depasse, '67, for "Main Street" CONTENTS ESSAYS 10Mary Jane Scheidler A Summer Interlude ( Gustave Flaubert and Realism 19 Ann Marie Miller Vignette 29 Eileen Witte FICTION The Awakening 4 Mary Brooke Bergan The Gypsy 16 Sheldon G. Houston Main Street 26 Sheldon G. Houston Sam 31 Mike Hughes POETRY Epigram 8 Evelynn Looney Winter 9 Diane Herbe Ritual 14 Karen Angela Cox The Nun 22 Karen Angela Cox Little World 24 Nora Fitzpatrick Hold My Hand 30 Rosemary \A/atkins I Fooled Them 36 Judy Swan - - - - - -_ _ _ _ _ _-A MARY BROOKE BERGAN, '67 4 It was less than a month after graduation that she died. I sat in my darkened room after hearing about the accident and wondered how to avoid going to the funeral parlor. I chided myself for having promised to go with Pat. 1'd hardly known Mary A nn and it seemed a senseless gesture. Shuddering at my selfishness, I thought again of my first reaction to Mary Ann's death . I was shocked of course. vVe all were. At eighteen, death had touched very few of our lives Yet, even for these few, Mary Ann's death carried a somewhat different impact. It was the death of someone our OWll age, and it brought to us suddenly the irrefutable reality of inevitable death for all of us. Death was no longer something lurking in the future, something to be dismissed from the mind as too far-distant to ever be considered. It had become an ugly nienacing fiend, reaching out its cold hand to touch one of us, and then another, insatiable, until it had finally touched us all. VVe would be no more, but the fiend, Death, would live forever. My mother's voice prodded me out of my reverie. She stood in the doorway, wringing her hands anxiously, her brow wrinkled in distress. "Are you going to the funeral par lor, dear?" Little ripples of resentment churned my stomach. "Yes, Pat's picking me up at 7 :30," I answered in a voice tight with suppressed anger. "You'd better start getting ready. You don't want to keep Pat waiting," she said, turning to leave. I stepped into the closet and reached mechanically for my pink wool skirt. Then , realizing suddenly where I was going, I rummaged instead for my black sheath. I seldom wore it. It was "too severe" mother had onCE said. But severity was appropriate for this occasion. I changed my loafers to a pair of black pumps, and turned to gaze in the full length mirror. "How pretty you look," I said softly to m}'sel f. Mother had taught me to take that last look for a final check. "You'll always face the world with a smile if you have confidence in yourself." Mary A nn was always smiling, and she certainly had plenty of self confidence. Perhaps it "vas the tremendous self assurance of the girls in her group that made them stand out. vVe were all afraid of them, afraid of the disapproval they expressed in the i r unabashed smiles of contempt. "Even the teachers were awed by them, " I'd thought in disgust. But the Group wasn't afraid of anyone. Maybe that's why the rest of us were so disturbed by them. \ Ve knew we couldn't intimidate them, because they stood together, and together they were invincible. But they weren't invincible. Mary Ann was dead, dead, despite the fact that she was a member of the Group. Death wasn't afraid of Mary Ann or the Group. I felt suddenly comforted by this thought, almost elated, as though Mary Ann's death were a vindication fo r all the humiliation the Group had caused me. I was horrified at my own callousness, but the feeling persisted. I knew then, what it was that I'd felt besides the inevitable shock when I'd heard about the automobile accident. I was relieved. Relieved that it had been Mary Ann in that car, and not me, or someone I cared about. It was so much easier not to care. made up the Group were the only ones that belonged here tonight. They all cared. They were her friends. The rest of us were just trespassers. Even death couldn't disturb the ex'elusiveness of the Group. Pat nudged me, "There's Mary Ann's family." They sat huddled together opposite the casket. Surprisingly, none of them were crying but the effort to remain calm had contorted the i r pale, pinched faces, and their eyes were red with the memory of tears. "The cas k e t ' s closed. I thought it would be," Pat nodded her head in approval. "It's much easier on everyone that way." I followed her gaze to the polished ebony box. It stood alone at one end of the room. The area around it was roped off, and this isolated it even more. There was a kneeler directly in front of the coffin, but no one was anywhere near it. It was so much different from what I had expected-no tears, or hysterics, just miserable emptiness. I followed Pat blindly toward the casket. Kneeling before it, I tried to pray. But hO\", could I pray ? It was all too hypo- "Catherine, Pat's here!" Pat was, as usual, on time. "Come on," her tone was brisk and businesslike, "or we'll be late. " We rode in silence for a few blocks. Pat drove well. She did everything well. I wondered suddenly if she would cry at the coffin, and I glanced sidewise at her profile. In the semidarkness I could . make out her features. Her mouth was set and her eyes narrowed in concentration. I decided she was too practical to waste time crymg. The funeral home was a small, unremarkable building. As we walked up the cement path, I felt my stomach begin to lurch. The palms of my hands were moist and sticky . The thought of seeing Mary Ann's friends so vulnerable was s 11 d den I y nauseating and I wanted to turn and run, to get as far away as possible. I didn't belong here because I didn't care. The chosen few that had 6 critical. Ironic that I shou ld be kneeling in front of the casket of a girl I didn't like. In fact, 1'd hated her, her needless c rue I t y, her pettiness, her damned superiority. A nd I hated her now, even in death. I could see her sardonic smile, her flashing impudent eyes. It sickened me that I should hate her now, helpless as she was. My hatred was pointless. It hadn't changed her. Maybe it had even helped to make her what she had been. Maybe the Group understood the way we fe lt about them, and their contempt was only a defensive measure, just as our hatred for them was based, not on personal enmity; but on jealousy and res~nti11ent. So, in the end, we were .no better than they. VI/ c were all selfish and stupid, because we wasted our time hatin g people we didn't know. was really like. No one cou ld tell me now, and anyway I was so tired, so empty that I couldn't care. "Cathy, don't you think we ought to say something to her parents?" Say something? Say what? It was too late. Didn't Pat understand that? As Mrs. West tightly clasped my hand, she searched my face hungrily, as if trying to see something of her daughter in me. But my thoughts tumbled one over the other. Your daughter is dead. You' ll never find her in someone else, and especially not in me. I didn't even know her. I didn't try to know her. There's nothing of her in me. How could there be? She never really touched my Ii fe, except as a face, and faces are only symbols. For me she never died because she was never really al ive, never a person-only a symbol. And a ll her friends, the Group, they're only faces, symbols. Even now, I don't know what they're thinking, feeling, and yet I presume to hate them. I looked around the room. Mary Ann's friends we r e clustered in small groups, whispering in muted voices . They'd been carefully indifferent for such a long time that th ey were Impulsively, I reached out to touch the coffin to convince myself that it was real, and it struck me, just then, that I would never see Mary A nn 'vVest again. A strange, a lmost trivial thought, but it made me dizzy to think of it. No matter what I did, no matter what anyone did, we would, none of us, ever see her again. It \vas too late to wonder what she 7 incapable of tears, but their eyes reflected a bewildered pain. I realized that 1'd been wrong. N one of us really belonged here except Mary A nn. None 0 f us had ever really known her, except as we wanted her to be. Even her own mother, vainly searching for a memory of her daughter in the eyes of a young girl. couldn't have known her. She died too soon. No, it was my own fault. I had waited until it was too late. The room was suddenly unbearably hot. "Pat, let's leave." "You look pale. A re you all right?" Her brow wrinkled in concern . ."Yes, I just want to go home now, please." A misty veil of rain fell from a hazy sky. Its coolness seemed ton11mb my senses and my brain. I remember little about the trip home except that I was exhausted and there was a duB throbbing in my head-too late. too latc. My father was standing in the hall waiting for me when I got home. ''I'm sorry about your friend," he said; and his blue eyes were so compassionate that I flinched at the sympathetic touch of his hand on my shoulder. I was unworthy of hi ::: compassion. I hadn't been sorry for Mary A nn - 0 n I y for myself. I wondered, suddenly, if she'd realized when she saw death careening toward her, that it was too late, really too late. "I wish she hadn't died," I whispered, leaning my head against my father 's strong chest, and cold tears soothed my burning cheeks. vVhat man has done, What God began Shows the difference Between may and can. epIgram EVELYNK LOONEY) 8 '66 WINTER \,V inter is a faint light shining beyond the black branches of a barren tree vVinter is one black bird soaring toward the dull grey-white clouds. \i\Tinter is the shivering of forgotten leaves in the wind. \i\Tinter is a melancholy time. \Vinter is a lonely time. \Vinter is a time of grey-black beautya time to Ii ft the head upward, to see the dark sky, but look away blinded. \ Vinter is forgotten lovers, the hopeless, the hopeful, the longing, the searchil1g, the sorrowing, the sad, the weak, the poor . me. \ Vinter is me . me when I am sad, when I am hurt, when I am tired, when I desire one ... one who will keep me, and hold me, and love me as I would keep, and hold, and love one with my whole heart. \ V inter cries out to be loved as I cry out to be loved. Love us. Oh, love us, please! DI ANA HERBE, 9 '68 A SUMMER INTERLUDE On a bright sunny Saturday morning four Marian College students-Katy, Carol, Patty and I - rocked and rumbled down a dusty dirt road en route to Guadalupita, New Mexico. to work as lay apostles among the destitute Spanish people there in the pine-covered moun tain area. MARY ].A 1'< SC HEIDLER, '67 The bed of our dilapidated army truck was loaded to capacity with bulging leather suitcases, dusty army cots and a wide assortment of cracked m ixing bowls, odds and ends of china and silverware, plus a threadbare tire. \ iVe had heard that fiats never came as a surprise in this part of the country. "That's home!?" we cho rused. \ iVhat appeared before us was a mud -brick, cracker-box shaped house. Peering inside we discovered two small rooms, mounds of dirt, rusty cooking utensils, and odd shaped pieces of fi r ewood, which revealed that the house had been vacant for 10 dingy place!" quite some time. The mud walls were gay with glossy chartreuse sheets of cardboard. Sitting a bit pompously in the corner "vas a big stately wood-fed cook stove. Splinters of wood and used matches lay scattered about. "Looks like we'll be living as our grandmothers did fifty years ago !" remarked Patty. Being brave and couragous we decided that "roughing it" would be an interesting challenge-and that is just exactly what it was. Living without running water, electricity, and refrigeration shouldn't h a v e been any problem for four resourceful college students. Carefully Katy turned up the wick. \~T e were delighted with the immediate increase of light. but then came a sudden blackout! Complete darkness surrounded us. Aft e r some confused shouts, we investigated the situation with the help of a few matches. Too much carbon had formed on the inside of the once transparent chimney, blocking out all light. Soon not only our hands, but also our faces ,,,,ere black with soot. From the first day Carol's specialty was fetching water from the well. The first time. she danced through an assortment of orange Indian pail;tbrush flowers and stepped onto the rickety platform of the old wooden well. Cautiously she attached an extra large galvanized bucket to the end of an iron hook resembling an anchor and then lowered the bucket. The gurgling and struggling sounds echoing from the bottom of the deep mysterious well were the signal that the bucket had been immersed. With measured tugs she started to jerk the rope through a creaky pulley. Carol soon discovered that transporting the water from the well to the house was another task ill vVith the approach of dusk, it seemed only logical that .,'Ve should doa bit of experimenting with the kerosene lantern , our only source of light. Huddling around the lantern we removed the chimney, lit a match and held our breath. The charred wick started to burn ,,,'eakly, choked and then died out. \Vith smudged fingers we re-saturated the wick and again tried our luck. 1\1 uch to our surprise, the seemingly hard, dried-out wick started to burn brightly. In a matter of seconds. Katy could easily suggest, "Let's turn up the wick full force to get some light in this 11 itself. vVater splashed out of the bucket and trickled down her leg at every step. Proudly presenting us with a half -filled bucket of mud-colored water, she said, "That wasn't such a rough job after all." more voluminous they became. Choking and coughing we threw open our one small window before we went leaping out the door. A nearby neighbor suggested that our stove damper had not been regulated properly -and sure enough, she was correct . " Something must be burning!" was an exclamation we delighted to hear. The fact was that we usually had difficulty in getting anything to burn in our wood-fed stove. It seemed to be a simple process to follow the directions for buildin bo ' a fire according to th e 1936 Girl Scouts Handbook we found in the house. Very creatively we built a teepee with little twigs surrounded by bits of newspap~r. Dashing about we collected about a dozen matches and started our fire. Time and again, bits of newspaper would burn brightly, then die, leaving only charred remains. vVith growling stomachs and bitten fingernails, . we continued str iking matches. Finally, there was light! \l\Tith shouts of joy we hugged one another and put the lid over our precious fir e. guarding it as any mother hen would her chicks. Two winks later, puffs of black smoke poured from our stove. The longer we argued about a cause for the clouds of smoke. the One sunny morning, before the rooster had time to crow Patty awoke complaining of ~. severe stomach ache. Being frontiers-women we brewed her a Spanish tea to relieve her ailment. Before the mornin bo ' was over, we were all feeling the effects of pinpricking pains in our stomachs too. Moise Montoya, the short, dark-eyed village doctor, diagnosed our case as mild foo d poisoning. Scared stiff, we decided that something had to be done to help prevent food spoilage. Once again we huddled together and decided that refrigeration for our meat and vegetables was absolutely necessary. I bravely suggested that we ask our Spanish speaking friend , Mrs. Hen-ea, if she would r efrigerate our food . The girls all agreed that I become their spokesman to Mrs . Hen-ea. Guarding our precious supply of a chunk of boned ham, a hal f box of A merican cheese, a 12 head of shriveled lettuce and a gallon jug of whole goat milk, we presented these foods to Mrs. Herrea for cooling. The next morning as breakfast time rolled around, the smell of freshly frying ham enticed us, so I hiked over to Mrs. Herrea to retrieve our meat supply. Upon arrival my elderly Spanish friend put her arm around my shoulder and spoke softly, "My chitquita, you no more meat." A few tear drops rolled down her tanned cheeks as she explained to me that the town drunk, old Jim Vi gil, had broken into her house the night before and had cleaned out her refrigerator. Everything was licked clean, e{Ccept for one hunk of slightly gnawed cheese! I reassured her that there were no hard feelings and returned home, still smelling the crackling ham she was frying for hreakfast. stained from daily use. Inverted nail kegs, covered with a variety of colorful materials, were our chairs. The table was neatly arranged with tin plates and Rodger's newest pattern of silverware, "Spanish Ben t. " Like true gourmets we waited for the oven door to pop open, displaying 0 u r long-awaited supper. \;Vith great pleasure. Mrs. Torres served us her special tortilla, fried rather black On top of that she piled mountains of fried potatoes. burning hot chili pepper and beans, plus crispy intestine skins! Katy, being the hungriest of us, dived into her supper, shoveling forks full of food into her mouth. \;Vithin seconds the chili peppers inflamed the lining of her throat. Tears came to her eyes as she gulped three long swallows of warm goat milk But like all summers, that summer also came to an end. It had not just been a conglomeration of troubles and freak incidents, but had had its share of joy and excitement. I had worked with, spoken to, argued with and possibly helped some 11Uman beings. I had been fortunate. I had perhaps touched them as they and their land had touched me. Although we soon learned to adjust to our nevv environment and our own cooking, we were always willing to accept invitations for dinner. Our first formal invitation to dine was with the best Spanish cook in all of Guadalupita, Mrs. Torres. Arriving at her small adobe house, we seated ourselves around a crude wooden table, spotted and 13 .ritual Mighty redwoodlittle flower Live' in sunlight live together He and I on moss and heather Mighty redwood .. little flower Each gives beauty to the other little flower Draws its being from the great root of the redwood 14 From his root-strength comes the fluid throbbing through the tiny seedling bringing new life with the union gaining ecstasy through contact . Up above me lies the redwood lies the high priest on me pressing All but crushing All consuming yet consumed with All my being \Ve are part of one another On. the moss floor of the forest ... \Vith the ritual of loving \iVith our labored, heavy breathing, All consumed But yet consuming Give our bodies [n the sunlight Highest ceremony of Nature Highest tribute to our being Mighty redwood . little flower KAREN ANGELA 15 Cox, '66 In the di stance, a dog is barking. The sharp, explosive sound reverberates against valley walls now blanketed by the beautiful chromatic colors of new fallen leaves. The echo travels quickly through the cool. morning air, hindered only by a lazy fog returning to its hiding place among the spruce and pine at the top of the mountain. and. at last, penetrates my ears. Slowly m)' feet touch the ic\". THE GYPSY S HELDON G. HOUSTON, '6 ~ 16 cold floor beside the bed and shuffle their ,vay to the open \vindow at the oppos ite end of the roo m. D ow n below, at the entrance to the smokehouse, Amanda pours cream from an earthenware crock into a saucer for the kitten s. Butch and Coal ie, the mong r els, sit under the 0 ve r han g in g willow branches, anxiou sly a wcl1tmg the breakfast scraps. The tinklin g of the lead cow's bell attracts my attention to the pasture lane where VanDevlin , the hired man, is dri vin g the herd tovvard the barn and the stanchi ons where the younger boys ar e preparing for the morning milking. Slowly, with a burst of. brilliance, the sun emerges fr om behind the mounta in and fill s the va ll ey with golden shafts of warmth; and, in the same moment, th e black iron bell on the porch tol1 s the call to breakfast. take over now that Dad and Mother are both gon e. It r eally wouldn't be in keeping with family tradition if I didn't. VanDev lin - - VanDevlin. Now isn 't that a high sounding nam e fo r a dirty old Gypsy? I guess he thinks people are impressed by hi s name. But I suppose every man has to have somethin g of which to be proud . Particularly a man like th e Gypsy who doesn't know when or ,,,,here he was born or who hi s pa rents were. A long time ago I heard m y grandfather say that the old Gypsy never was born; he just plain grew out of th e earth , and I have no reason to doubt it. They say that one time a gentl eman farmer over in Penn sylvania by the name of \ "anDevlin gave the old Gypsy ten doll ar s and a hand- carved cane and sin ce that time he has call ed him sel f VanDevlin - no fir st name or no middle name-just VanDev lin. Mornings are usua ll y the best part of th e day when one lives on a fa rm, hut the mornings recentl y have all been bael. VanDevlin ha s been teaching me how to rU1l t he fa rm . I was goin g to return to th e U ni versity this yea r, hut this far m has bee1l in th e family fo r over eig hty year s so it' s my duty to \ \T bat a sight he is. The cuffs of hi s thread-bare gray pants hang 111 loops around hi s pointed-toe, black boots. The elasti c in hi s suspenders has long since ceased to keep hi s pants up around hi s wa ist where th ey belong , and I suppose that he has worn th e same fl annel 17 shirt every day for the last three years. Of course, I'm used to him now, but I've seen strange dogs come up to him and take a couple of quick sniffs and run, apparently panic stricken from the odor of that old Gypsy. And he walks with the most peculiar hitch in his stride that I 've ever seen. I think he must have a square thighbone working inside of a round knee joint, but with the help of that handcarved cane he gets around pretty well. The one thing I have admired about the old man, though, is that he keeps his moustache trimmed just right. He says . that everyone borp in A ndalucia trims his moustache in just a certain way. He doesn't really know whether he was born in A ndalucia or not, but I suppose every aian likes to feel that he was born somewhere so I don't argue the point with him. That moustache is really his only redemptive facial feature. because the entire surface of his face is scarred by a multitude of little vacuoles which appear to be filled with translucent grease. This most distasteful feature is further enhanced by a large, repulsive, m 0 use colored \vart that grows exact- ly between his piercing black eyes. They say that the Gypsy IS the only man in the state that can smell rain coming two days in advance. I've heard that there isn't a farmer in the county who picks corn until the Gypsy says it's time to be picked. They claim he has a sixth sense. He supposedly can hear when the corn stops growing or s 0 m e such nonsense. Onetime there was an article in Prain:e Fanner about our farm, because we set some kind of a per acre corn yield record. My father gave the Gypsy all the credit because he had suggested the fertilization method that was used to condition the soil. I was away at Prep School at the time, but I just imagine the damned Gypsy thought he was something extra special when his picture appeared in the magazine. During the past years several farmers have tried to hire the Gypsy away from our farm, but he wouldn't go. He would mutter something about going back to Andalucia or that he had too much work to do to Vv"aste time talking. I suppose he feels that after all these years he has become a part of the place. And. of course. I'll let him stay. 18 J GUSTAVE FLAUBERT and ANN MARIE JVIrLLER, REALISM '65 During the Second Empire in France with its lack of political enthusiasm, its spent passions of Romanticism, and its business boom controlled by the bourgeoisie, conditions were ripe for the development of the literary doctrine known as Realism. Preceded by the Romantic realists, such as Stendhal, Balzac, and Merimee, and succeeded by most of the writers of fiction down to today, the leading proponent of Realism was Gustave F laubert. To Flaubert, realism was "a reproduction of normal, typical li fe in the form of fictions possessing universal validity." From another point of view, Flaubert characterized the real as "a world in which . human fee lings and ideas are not of any real significance." . . These two definitions show clearly the main traits of realism and can serve as the basis for examination of the characteristics of this doctrine . . To reproduce life as Flaubert prescribed, it was necessary to observe with great accuracy. Maupassant, the great pupil of Flaubert, tells how Flaubert wanted the faculties of observation to be trained: Observe so that it will be possible to show the person, his attitude and whole physical aspect, including his whole moral nature, in such a way that he would never be mistaken for any other. Flaubert's descriptions bring out both the precise general tone and the minor notes which show individuality. \\JThere this high-level observation was not possible, F laubert went to great lengths to document his works. Some of the most famous scenes in his works are those which demanded great research and documentation, such as the revolutionary scenes, and the scene of the child's illness in L JEducatioJ[ Senh'19 melita/e. Very often, this documentation and realistic detail is a foundation, a bare statement, upon which a whole structure of meani.ng and emotion is based. From this it can be seen that Flaubert was not just building up precise description for the sake of description itself; he had a higher purpose, for he felt that only by such details and great accuracy could he convey the ideas that he wished to express. Realistic description for F laubert, however, did not mean the great quantity of description that some writers, such as Balzac, would use. F laubert, rather, chose a few details which would give the reader precisely the feeling that Flaubert wanted the scene to convey, then elaborated on these details. Part of F laubert's doctrine of realism was his demand that the exact word be used. \iVhatever the thing w e wish to S8y, th er e is bt:t one word to express it, but one verb to give it movement, but one a djectiv e to qualify it. \ iVe must seek till we find this noun, this verb, and this ad jective, and never be content with getting very near it, never allow ourselves to play tricks, even happy ones, or have recourse to sleights of language to avoid a difficulty. Of course, this using the right word in the right place was not an easy goal to achieve, but as F laubert himself said "Talent . is nQthing but lorig patience," and patience was certainly needed for his kind of writing. In the statement just quoted, F laubert rejects the belief in inspiration, which is probably why he felt that precise observation and documentation were necessary before one could use the "mot juste." F laubert felt that style must be adapted to tone, and for this reason often recited his works aloud as a test of their acceptability. Characteristic of F laubert's style is his scientific precision with accuracy of detail. The great precision that he strove for could be achieved only by such emphasis as he placed on research before writing. Science and history, F laubert declarecL were the "two muses of modern times. " In his Correspondance ) Flaubert said, "Now ideas will be studied as facts, and beliefs wi ll be dissected as organisms." The conclusions of science and history were not what interested Flaubert, however: it was the method that these two studies used that interested him, for they seemed to him to exclude the possibility of maintaining any relevant beli efs about the valu e of human ex istence. 20 Identifying the goal of the writer with that of the scientist Flaubert believed that the writer should have the absolute impartiality of the scientist. In emphasizing this impersonality . Flaubert detached himself from the characters and thus undermined the significance of personal experience and destroyed the illusions that are so precious to man. This great impersonality has led to some of Flaubert's worst faults, for he seemed to fear depicting human beings showing admirable human qualities. The fact that in his works there is not found one likeable main character is considered to be his gTeatest flaw, and justifiably so. for how can one achieve the identification sought in a novel which presents only unfavorable characters? Perhaps Faubert was so impersonal because he wished to be above ordinary men and to be able to look down upon them and laugh. To do this it was necessary not to show his emotions or depict his experiences, for in doing so he would have had to admit that he, as everyone else, was guilty of foolish, irrational acts. In summary of the best-known aspects of Flaubert's is the following quote: But the .b'est-known aspects of his work-the 'realis,m,' or unflinching description of what is sordid or ugly; the ironic det achm ent; the fondness for anticlimax, for the g rotesque, for satirizing any aspect of human foolishness; the scientific preoccupation with accuracy of detail-all this seems to be at variance with the sweeping yi sion that leads him to choose his enormous subjects-human faith, human knowledge, the vanity of human wishes-and the vital imagination that spans twenty centuri es, from SalalHlIlbo to Bowvard et P ecuchet. Actually there is no opposition between the realist accuracy and the ,romantic vision, for Flaubert combines the whole for the truth that he sought. Besides influencing other writers to be realistic in their work. Flaubert's greatest contribution is in making the novel an art form in itself, not just a device for political or social criticism that it had been in France previously. Realism as a literary theory did not last long in prose and was never influential in poetry, mainly because man does not wish his literature to be so impersonal nor his characters so unlikeable as Flaubert n;ade his, but Flaubert will always be remembered as the founder of this movement and for the great influence he had on later writers. 21 Black bird Perched on edge of chair Wings folded now Eyes downcast In face of nought . . . The wings unfold It turns the leaves of books \iVith pale fingers ... Calm, pale, white fingers ... Speak of Patience Serenity Dignity Hard to see a fledgling Mouth open ... Screaming baby Laughing child, running to Daddy 22 Jam on face ... bright print dresses Young girl-hair blowing long \Vhat color was it? Brown? Red-gold? Raven ... vVas it shortOr to her shoulders streaming vVild and free in the wind? Did she walk with a lover Through the meadow flowers ... Love the colorsPerhaps wear one In her hair . . . wild and free Lovely peacock's colored plumes Turn to black and white of raven ... I feel cold inside ... And freedom and beauty Fade with the plumage By choice ... She has chosen her lover . . . And a tear falls wet .. . not for her .. . For the peacock vVho laughed with the child and the lover in the sun. KAREN ANGELA 23 Cox, '66 little world Jeans on tee shirt brush teeth oatmeal bye dad. up-trees, down-stair s, through-hedges, across-lawns, next-door, run-run, run-run . pilot-to-tower- in-a-tree help-help-fire-garden-hose ride- 'em-cowboy-on-a-broom. whiz, whiz space man bang, bang you're dead. 24 wash hands peanut butter white' mustache screen door. up-trees, down-stairs. through-hedges, across-lawns, next-door . run-run, run-run. bruised knee sling shot arrow head sand box. whiz, whiz space man bang. bang you're dead. shiny dime on-a-stick ice cream firiger-prints. up-trees, down-stair s. through-hedges, across-lawns. next-door. run-run, run-n"~ news boy dad's home roast l)eef bnlsh teeth God bless water, please Sleep now. little man. pleasant dreams. N O R .~ 25 FITZPXIRIC K , '65 MAIN STREET SHELDON G. HOUSTON. '65 I loved that little town during the summer. Earl y in the morning, the tmvn loafers would begin taking their places along Main Street. Some leaned against the black front of the A & P store; some occupied the top sides of large, bread 26 storage boxes that were located in front of the grocery; others sat on the curb or stood listlessly in the gutter. I didn't know any of them by their real name. vVhen a boy is growing up in a small town it's best to be on the right side of th e loafers, so you learn to call them by the names they prefer - like Bag or Zeke or One- Eye. I f you ever get on the wrong side of the loafers they will bully and tease you until your life is miserable. vVhen you are a boy in a small town you either learn to talk the language of the loafers or you stay off Main Street. draw a twist of tobacco, and bite-off a good size "chaw." In a short while a big bulge would appear in one cheek, then in the other. After a good de a I of chewing and rolling the cud from one side of the jaw cavity to the other, they would tilt their heads back just a little, and with the aid of some apparently complex maneuvering of throat muscles and lung control, eject into the air a long, sickening brown arch of Railroadman's Twist. The fat , big jowled loafers always seemed to do it much better than their slender counterparts. A bout noon, the loafers would leave the street and wander into the pool hall or the tavern, and Main Street would seem virtually empty. Most of the loafers talked out of the side ' of their mouths ~ith no more lip movement than was necessary to convey their message. They employed a sneering chuckle rat!1er than good, explosive laughter. vVhen a pretty young lady walked in their midst, their eyes would open just a little wider and their derisive chuckling would echo after the disconcerted miss until she was out of sight. The rumbling, Cl-ink-crank of the horse-drawn garbage wagon would break the monotonou s silence of the summer afternoon. The r ecurrent clop-clop of the horse's hoofs as they made contact with the pavement produced a captivating cadence. Intermittently, the wagoner would mutter, "Har thar, Bet -\lVho d'wn, Fetch," and the two big draft animals would stop. They always seemed so impatient waiting ther e in the The loafers had one particular collective characteristic that fascinated me. They would reach into the wide, top pocket of their blue, bib-overalls, with- 27 hot sun while the galvanized cans were being ell-lptied into the wagon. They would chase the mufti tude of flies with their tails and stamp their hoofs into the pavement as though protesting the 'ceaseless torment of fhe buzzing, black specks of winged filth that attacked them. The apathetic wagoner, however, couldn't be both ered with the problems of the animals and soon he would growl, "Bup thar, Bet-Gee up, Fetch," and the axial-symmetric woo den 'w agon wheels would slowly begin to turn tmvard the next stop. As the wagon rolled past, I could see the wagoner's two sons riding on the tail-gate. They both wore drab worn work clothes and short-top boots. Their brown hair was disheveled and their hands were sticky and grimy from handling garbage cans and trash baskets. I really felt sorry [or those two. I wanted to go up to them and ask them to come over to the lot and play ball with the gang or to meet us at the creek for a swim, but, of course, I never did. They were destined to become Main Street loafers any way, I thought, so why try to change the inevitable. Their older brother v,ras already one of the loafers, and with their father being a garbage man and all, what chance did they have? At that time I thought that some of us were bound to be loafers and some of us were bound for success and any effort made to alter this would certainly be fruitless. I hadn't been in that littl e town for several years, but recently I had occasion to pass through it. Main Street has taken on a new appearance. The A & P store is no longer there. In its place is a modern, two story office building. On its facade is a sign in gold letters which says, AAA Industrial Scavenger Seru'ce. And as I looked through the large plate glass windows I saw, occupying a prominent place in the lobby, the old wooden wagon that used to rumble up and down Main Street when I was a boy. Its wooden body is varnished now and its brass fittings are highly polished. Somehow it looks rather dignified sitting there on its bright red wooden wheels. As I left Main Street and turned on to the highway, I had to blink quickly to suppress the boyish tears that sometimes moisten the eyes of a man. 28 now a bit tottering in their old EILEEN \,vITTE, age, supported the walk with '68 dignity even though they stood in the decay that engulfed the surrounding area. Just three feet away, yet never touching, stood an olel house, the third one in the block to be condemned by city inspectors. Standing on the sometimescreaking timbers of the walk.you could survey the desolation that lay beyond the boarded windows. Bright remnants of cheap wall paper tried in vain to lure your eyes from the shattered lamps and yellowed newspapers that almost concealed the floor. The stairway remained-minus a handrail. One last hinge gripped a falling door. In the far corner stood what could honestly be called an icebox, indicating the status quo of the former residents. Seeping through all openings came the stagnant odor of disuse, accompanied by the ghost of secret desperation that haunted the rooms. But it couldn't touch you on the walk. You were out of reach. The walk meant safety of a sort. It was a good place for listening. In the evening as you sat precariously on the edge of a splinterless section, the quiet talk of weary working mothers 'You couldn't look down. It was just three boards, hastily slapped together, and only fifteen feet high but the menacing pile of rubble below, complemented by protruding boards and broken bottles, dismissed any confidence you might have in the nearness of the ground. The neighborhood kids called it "the walk." They often followed it to its end, an abandoned real estate office. It jutted straight out from ~a.p-tin Street and seemed to defy the sudden slope of the old backyard. Still-proud beams, 29 Boated back to you. The local gangs could be heard laughing, shouting, sometimes arguing. Occasional hot rods prowled the street, looking for excitement. A half-hearted game of "kick-the-can" sometimes echoed between the buildings. In the mornings, early, an alien silence hovered, broken periodically by the hard heels 0 f the two cops on the beat. They never checked the walk. It wasn't a secret place. E veryone on the street knew it was there. Some had ventured across it once or twice. Most just chose to ignore it. They didn't know the security it afforded. Still, there it stood - a fortress repelling the hopelessness that smothered everyone, that snuffed out any spark of a dream. The walk was neutral territory. Dreams still hacl a fighting chance. HOLD MY HAND . Can you hear me? Can you unclerstand? Open your eyes and see Me as I pass from this land. vVhy are you crying? It is I who am dying. You will live on \t\lhen I am gone You will see another day vVhile I will have nothing to say. Don't cry, please, don't cry Because if you do so will I I am afraid of death Hold my hand until my last breath. ROSEMARY \t\lATKINS) '68 30 MIKE HUGHES) '65 Sam was the last of his kind. a living anachronism with no place in these times. He was a professional gambler o-f the old school, an aristocrat who could smile warmly and shake your hand before taking the shirt off your back. He gambled with a studied silence and lack of expression that was almost frightening. Yet he was aggressive and never failed to bet his hand. His best game was five card stud, a game 0 f nerves and bluff. At 74, he still confused even the sharpest gamblers. \i\lhen someone would try to name his hand after he had successfully bluffed, he would often say "Bet you two to one you can't call my hole card. " No one ever did. For fifty years he had gambled with every conceivable type of person. \lVhen you could get him to talk about his experiences he told colorful tales about playing with the cutthroat members of the Capone mob or the Purple Gang. Or, referring to his best years, he might tell of playing with the leisured class in Hot Springs or Miami Beach. In more recent years he had played vvith every- SAM 31 one from the staid businessmen of midwestern country clubs to the excitable Mexican laborers o f the mill towns. Sam had won-and thrown away-a fortune. Reno. It had never occurred to him that the Big House would close and money would get tight. But five years ago Federal men had padlocked the Big House doors for good. Sam had only one weakness. He loved to play Barbooth, a dice game of Greek or igin that offered exactly even odds . It was not unu sual for him to blow the fruits of a whole night's work in fifteen minutes' Barbooth. Sam had been able to afford it. For fi fteen years he had centered his activities around the Big House, a two story gambling casino near the water front. Its ideal location drew not only .the industrial wqrkers, and professional men, but also the sailors from the ore boats and the service men from the Great Lakes. They came there for the tarts that decorated the bar and stayed to lose their money at roulette, craps, black jack and poker. Sam quickly became a legend in this neighborhood. Everyone spoke of Sam, the Greek, the coldest, most nerveless man ever to hold a deck of cards. Those were the fat years for Sam. The week-end excurSIOns to the neighboring towns to fleece the farmers and small business men, the vacations in \ ,.- egas and Sam was at the end of his rope. The death of the Big House was the death of an era. The no-limit games had all closed down and only the small, limit games with their exorbitant rake-off continued to function. At first Sam compensated by expert cheating, in which he filled the hand of a partner in the small games, but the players grew wary of men who won such large sums despite small stakes. He dri fted to the colored section to cheat at dice but slickers of their own kind had been there long ahead of him. For a time he played no limit poker with the Latins. But their foreign tongue, thieving dealers, and constant bicker ing, drove him away in disgust. 32 He became aware of his old age, his sallow skin, sunken cheeks and weakening eyesight. Recently he had had to have his diseased upper teeth removed and his gums sewed, limiting his diet to soft foods. His Balkan accent was suddenly conspicious in a society of people who had been born and reared on Amer ican soil. Sam went to see V ic. "Vic, you got to give me job as shill in you game. I'm too old to go out and hustle on my own," Sam pleaded. But the man answering was a stranger. He wore a hundred dollar suit buttoned over his expansive wai stline, fat with success. A brilliant star sapphire ring sparkled on his pudgy little finger. "San1," he answered, "I'm sorry. Everybody knows you and they're afraid of you. You would only bust my game. You've got plenty of money stashed away somewhere. You should take it and go back to the old country to retire." Sam grew desperate, "Vic, I tell you I 'm busted. I have to have place to work. " "N 0 dice, Sam. You understand." "Don't you know what busted mean ? I'm seventy-four year old and I don't have penny. Look, you always need dealer. Just give me two hour s a night. Dealin', that's all." Vic pulled a large roll of bills from hi s pocket. "Look, how much money do you need ? Fifty? A hundred ? Name it. You get it, but don't waste my time." "Keep your stinkin' money. I'm not beggar man!" Sam As Sam's luck grew steadil y worse he began to change perceptibly. He took to mumbling to himself and cursing whenever he lost a good hand or failed to lure a sucker into betting against a cinch hand. One evening he heard that V ic La Fonda was taking over the game at the North A venue Pool Room. A t forty-two, Vic was a legend. He was the onl y man around who still occasionally got big games. The money followed him everywhere he went, for he had a reputation for being a big loser. Actually he had a clever system of making money. By fronting a game and deliberately playing fast and loose he would soon attract a large number of fa st gamblers. By keeping all the regular hustlers out of hi s game he was able to lure the sucker s into his games. And he kept a hard knot of well-dressed soft-spoken professionals in the game to balance hi s losses. Due to the size of the game the rake-off served as a huge source of profit and everybody was usually happy. Best of all for Sam though, twenty-five years ago Sam had "turned V ic out" or given him hi s start in gambling. 33 was early for work, and so he stopped and looked around. It was a long familiar view to Sam: dirty clothing stores and pawn shops, pool halls and cheap, poorly lit bars, and in the middle of the block the big vacant red brick building. Its windows were darkened now and the sound of music and laughter had gone. The doors had not been open for five years and small signs of decay had set in - a cracked window, a rusty lock, a collection of debris in the passageway. The Big House. Sam began muttering and cursing as he stared at the old building. But soon it would be time for work, so he must have a bite to eat. Sam was just finishing his tea when a tall husky man 0 f about sixty sat down near him and began reading the paper. Sam recognized the old Greek. " Nicoli, " he rasped. " Wot you doin' in this part of town?" "Sam," Nicoli shouted heartily, "Long time, no see!" "You don't come here for years. You don't play no more ?" Nicoli chuckled and smiled, "N 0, when they close the Big House I quit. Games no good. I always lose my money to shouted crimson with rage. "I gotta work. I'm gambler, not beggar." Vic ' rested his chin in his hands thoughtfully. "Look, Sam I got something you can do. Easy job. It will pay your rent and give you a little money to gamble with." "Wot kind of job is that?" Sam asked warily. "Vvatch the door-" Sam stood up, his face purple with rage. "What kind of dirty deal you try to give me. I'm not wino! not bum! I got pride. Let me out of this place. " Vic s p 0 k e patronizingly, "Think it over, Sam. Ten bucks a night and a chance to be extra dealer 'when the game ru:ns late!" Sam stamped out of the place in a rage, mumbling and cursing incoherently. A few days later Sam walked down the street towards the Ninth Avenue Pool Room. He had finally swallowed his pride and decided to take Vic's offer. If he could save a little money he would go to Vegas or Hot Springs and find one of his old friends to stake him in the big games. But for now he would do this detested job in order to live. Angry, confused thoughts coursed through his head. Sam 34 "But you best gambler in town. If you lost in Barbooth you still could play poker." sharpie like you anyway. Now I'm saving my money to retire. " "But' there's good game at Ninth Avenue. Come and play a little bit." "Sam, I'm not big gambler like you. I just want to go home and take it easy, drink a beer, read the paper, but if I was smart like you and made big money gambling, I -" \i\1ham! Sam's fist slammed down on the table. He shouted, "If you got my money! If you smart like me! Huh! VV ot you do? You go to old count ry to retire, don't you." Sam grinned fiercely and his voice lowered. "Yes, if you got my money, retire and get on . big ship for home. LIKE HELL! I f you got my money you watch door in pool room for ten dollars a night. You die inside because you . can't work. Can't find suckers. Can't do anything. " , 'You mean you broke?" "Yes, broke - busted, old, worn out." "But how?" Sam pulled out his set o f matched dice and held them in his gnarled hand. He turned the dice, "You see this ? Two sixes. Tbat's what I get every time I played Barbooth." Confused, Nicoli answered. Sam jumped to his feet, his face contorted with rage again. "\i\1hat you know about it? They close Big House. There ain't no games left in this town. If they open Big House I show you. I beat everybody. I take all monev. I take all you suckers with~ut even cheating. But it's closed. They lock the door. " Sam grabbed Nicoli by the coat sleeves. "Come, I show you. The bastards put big padlock on door. " Sam pulled the protesting man outside and started across the street cursing under his breath. Little beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and upper lip. "There you see. No lights, no people. Just big, empty building. " Sam spat at the place. "Big House, huh? You not so big now !" Suddenly he began to choke convulsively. He clutched at his chest, sending the dice he still held in his hand skidding across the pa vement. "M y dice !" Sam cried, and at that second he crumpled to the ground dead. A s a crowd began to gather, une curious onlooker said to another. "DA MN \ VINOS ! They should send them all to labor camps." 35 I fooled them I fooled them, didn't I? I played their games A nd looked them in the eye A nd laughed out loud And didn't cry. I fooled them, didn't I? I played the clown A nd made them forget The broken dreams That haunt me yet. I fooled them, didn't I? I heard their lies And told some too. They think that I Am over you. I fooled them, didn't I? J U DY SWAN , )66  ...

... I THE FI'ORETTI ! VOLUME XXU NUMBER 1 Indianapolis, Indiana 1963-1964 I . ' I AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE - -- - - - - - --- ------ I THE STAFF Editor-in-Chief Donna Tatroe, '64 Assistant Editors Patricia Felke, '64 Miriam Kaeser, '66 Judith Koeck, '66 Evelynn Looney, '66 Mary Ann Werbinski, '66 Illustrators Maureen Loughlin, '64 for "The Penthouse" Kuniko Lucy Kato, '64 for "Hootenanny Hollow" Mike Leonard, '66 and Kathy Stapleton, '65 for John F. Kennedy CONTENTS In Memoriam: John F. Kennedy Article Naturalism and the Hero 14 Betty Talley In Search of Me 17 Mary Margaret Turk Fiction Ronald Roembke The Penthouse 6 The Fish Donlt Laugh 20 John M. Ford The Bereavement 24 Paul Forssander Goodbye Cleo 28 Bill Willmering Another Step 33 Dave Armborst Hootennanny Hollow 35 Valerie Miller Poetry Leviathan 12' Karen Angela Cox And Four to Go 18 Evelynn Looney "L" Station Pigeons 27 Karen Angela Cox Little Things 40 Theresa Meyer From Inaugural Address Delivered at U.S. Capitol, January 20, 1961. " . . . Let the word go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans-born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a cold and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage -and unwilling to witness or permit the slow undoing of those human rights to which this nation has always been committed and to which we are committed today. "Let every nation know, whether it wish us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend or oppose any foe in order to assure the survival and success of liberty. " ... And if a beachhead of co-operation can be made in the jungles of suspicion, let both sides join in the next task; creating, not a new balance of power, but a new world of law, where the strong are just and the weak secure and the peace preserved forever. ... And so, my fellow Americans: Ask not what your country will do for you-ask what you can do for your country. "My fellow citizens of the world: Ask not what America will do for you, but what together we can do for the freedom of man. "Finally, whether you are citizens of America or of the world, ask of us the same high standards of strength and sacrifice that we shall ask of you. With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and Hishe1p, but knowing that here on earth God's work must truly be our own. " JOHN FITZGERALD KENNEDY 4 the PENTHOUSE RONALD ROEMBKE, That was Frank Coombs for you; he had to pick a night like this to settle his affairs. Chet Brander tightened his muffler around his throat and dug his gloved hands .into his overcoat pockets, but there was no way of bal~ricading his body from the sub-zero cold. The city streets seemed glazed with ice, and the taxis rumbled past the corner with douds of frost bilIowing from their exhaust pipes. The wind carried knives; Chet winced at every thrust, and was almost tempted to forget the whole thing, but he couldnt afford it. Tonight was the payoff night, and he longed to get hands on the money that had liIlgered so long in Frank's pocket. He caught a cab and proceeded on his way. vVhen he arrived at Coombs' apartment house the arctic wind had grown even more insufferable. He was grateful when the glass doors closed behind him. 6 '66 There was something eerie about the apartment house. Chet shrugged it off. The house was new and there were not many tenants as yet. Coombs had been one of the first to sign a lease, and ' for nothing less than the penthouse at that. At the door of the penthouse, Chet stabbed the bell and muttered, "Big shot!" vVarmth flooded the doorway when Coombs answered-pleasant steam heat - and - fireplace warmth, whiskey warmth and the warmth of geniality. That was Coombs for you, the perfect host, always ready to make you feel welcome, and all so smoothly that you hardly notice the hand dipping into your pocket to count the contents of your wallet. "Chester !" Coombs blurted. "Nice of you to come out on a lousy night like this. Come on in, fella!" Brander went 111, shedding I want to show you the place." "I saw it." "You didn't see the best part." He swept his hand around the room, encompassing the wide, heavily draped windows. "I got three hundred feet of terrace out there, and it's all mine. Greatest view of the city you ever saw." He strode over to the double doors and flung them open, admitting an inquisitive cloud of cold air. "Hey," Brander said. " Come on, you won't freeze. Just take a look at this view. How about that, huh? Gets you right here, don't it ?" "What are all the bars for?" Brander said. "vVhy the window bars?" Coombs stuttered. "You know me, Chet. Never trust anybody. Now you stay out here while I go fix us a drink." Chet looked around and felt strange and restless and exalted. As if in a dream, he looked, until he realized that he was coatless and hatless in the worst cold that had descended upon the city in seven years. Shivering, he turned back to the doorway of the warm apartment just in time to see Coombs, calmly and without hurry, closing the iron terrace doors. his coat as he followed Coombs into the lavish living room. "Let me take your things. I keep it real warm in here," Coombs said. "I'll hold on to them," Brander said looking around. "Yeah, it's quite a place, Frank. Sure you can afford it?" Coombs laughed. "Don't worry about old Frankie. vVhen I told you I knew my investments, I knew what I was talking about. You won't regret lending me that dough, Chet, take my word for it. " "Then the deal worked out?" Coombs coughed. "Let's have a drink, pal. vVe've got a lot to talk about. " "vVe can have a drink later. Look, Frank, '1 came out on a l~ight like this for more than just my health. You made a lot of big promises about that dough, and now I have to know. Is it a payoff, or a stall?" Coombs downed a drink in three large gulps, and said, "It's a payoff, Chet, like I told you. Before you leave, I'll give you a check for every nickel you loaned me. Plus." "Plus what?" Coombs laughed again, and took a step forward, swaying slightly. "You'll see, Chet, like I told you. But come on, pal, 8 "Hey," he said, shaking the knob. "Open up, Frank." Behind the door, Coombs grinned, Ii fted the glass in salute, and walked away. "Hey," he yelled again. By this time he was cold and becoming annoyed with Coombs' little prank. Then the lights went out in in the apartment. It was only then that Chet Brander knew that Coombs had planned more than an impulsive prank. He wasn't going to open the sturdy door that led back into the warmth, not in the next minute, or the next hour. 11aybe even-"Frank!" Brander screamed, and realized that he .could barely hear his own voice as the wind' came by and swallowed the syllables greedily. "Let me in !" Brander yelled soundlessly, hammering and pounding and kicking at the door. Suddenly a cold gripped his flesh biting to his bones. The vicious wind whirled the frost like an icy shroud around his body. Cold so terrible and so inescapable that Chet Brander had thoughts of death and the grave. He made a circuit around the terrace, searching for some weakness in the fortress of 9 Coombs' apartment. There was none. Already his feet had become numb; he no longer felt them. He clapped his hands together, and then pounded them over his body in an effort to keep his blood circulating. "Got to keep moving," he muttered. "Keep moving . . ." He began to run. He kept running wildly, staggering around the terrace, until his breath left him, and he fell, panting, to the frigid floor. "Got to get help," he said to himself. He began a frantic search of his pockets. His hands first touched the bulk of his wallet. but his fingers barely felt the leather. He looked at it stupidly for a moment, and then took it to the wall. He wanted to write a note, but he had no pencil. He looked at his wallet, and then flung it over the wall. He lost sight of it at once, and there was no hope of rescue in his heart. In his breast pocket he found a key. It was the key to Coombs' apartment. He almost threw it away. Then he realized Coombs must have put it in his pocket in order to explain how he got out on the terrace. Coombs was clever. Brander kept the key. It was the luxury of falling, the tranquility of death, but he kept on. Finally he made it to the top; at last he made it. Moving around, his hand touched a door knob, and he cried out in relief. Then the cry turned into a moan. The door was locked. He leaned against a tall television antenna and tried to keep his senses. "They say don't fall asleep," he thought, chuckling in his throat. Suddenly, he began ripping at the antenna wires, tugging at everyone he could find. He fell exhausted, and tried to remember how prayer went. Minutes later, a light exploded on the roof. "Hey, will you look at this ?" he heard a voice say. "Must be some kind of a nut .... " "I thought my picture was acting funny, but I thought it was just the wind." "I haven't been getting any picture . . . and right in the middle of a show .... " Hands touched him. \Al arm hands. They took him inside and nursed him back to consciousness. After several hours Brander awoke from a deep sleep. his only link with the warmth inside. He couldn't part with it. He went back to the door and hammered on it until the skin on his hands cracked and bled. Then he fell into a heap and sobbed. When he got to his feet again, he was in a delirium. As he walked aimlessly a wire brushed his face. He gripped the wire with his numb hands and yanked. It was strong. If he could climb it. . . . He tensed every muscle in his body, and -held on. Then he leaped off the ground and swung his feet to the penthouse wall. F or a second, he was frozen into a motionless posture, unable to move, willing to give up and die rather than force his aching body into action again. Then he thought of Coombs' silken smile, and the hate gave him strength. He inched upwards, slowly, the smooth wire cutting like a razor's edge into his palms. It was agony. He went up another inch, and then turned his eyes into the darkness. He saw the lights of the city as so many fires of hell. Another inch. Another. He wanted to let go, and enJoy 10 "Got to get going," he said and rushed from the room and down the hall to the apartment of Coombs. He didn't turn on the lights as he entered. He went to the closet and found his overcoat, his hat and his muffler. Then he went to the double doors of the terrace, unlatched them, and opened them a scant two inches. He returned to Coombs' sofa, and sat down in the dark to wait. At 1 :30 he heard the key turn in the lock. He rose unhurriedly and went toward the door of the bedroom, concealing himself behind it. The front door opened. Coombs, muttering, stepped inside. He stumbled about tht. darkened room, dropping his overcoat on the carpet, before his hand found the light switch. Then, still muttering, he looked bleakly toward the terrace, and chuckled drunkenly. Suddenly, he ran to the doors and found them to be unlatched. He opened them wide and stepped out onto the terrace. "Brander!" He shouted in chorus with the wind. But Brander wasn't there. Brander was racing across the carpet of the penthouse living room, racing to reach the ter- 11 race doors before Coombs could return. He won the race easily, slamming the steel doors slmt even before Coombs was dose enough to see his triumphant face . But he waited behind the wire-meshed diamond pane of glass, waiting for Coombs to get near enough to know, to understand. "Brander !" he heard Coombs cry, his voice muffled and thin. "For God's sake, Brander, let me in!" Chet smiled and moved away. " Don't try messing with the antennas," he said, although he knew Coombs could not hear him. "Nobody's watching T.V. tonight. . . ." "Chet! Chet! Chet!" Outside, in the hallway, he could no longer hear the sound of Coombs' pleas. He took the elevator to the ground floor and nodded pleasantly at the doorman who was looking skyward with a frown. "Bad night, " Chet said, conversationally. "And getting worse," the doorman answered, holding out a broad flat palm. "See what's coming now?" "What?" Chet asked, looking at the sky. "Snow," the doorman said. Chet corrected him, "Sleet." Past Past Past Past the pale lilacs the young girls the sheep pulsing powerpoles arteries of Apollo Past the weepers Loveless sleepers Faceless foetuses On the edge of not proceed go 12 Sconestone Wombstone Tombstone Brimstone Stone-deaf uncaring singing end song fecal fensong know but one song singsong longsong sing the gone song go Past the blind babies Past the crisscross crucifixes Xanthippe mourns below Into the tunnel Beardown Barrel on A black bitch with a black heart sphincterismus of the city subway KAREN ANGELA 13 Cox, '66 NATURALISM and the HERO A Study of Stephen Crane's The Red Badge of Courage by Betty Talley In his novel The R ed Badge of Courage) Stephen Crane tells t1!e story of a: young soldier who, after his first experience in battle, deserts his comrades only later to return and subsequently to become a hero. The young man, Henry Fleming, gains reacceptance from his fellows by displaying his red badge of courage which, in reality, is neither a wound received in battle nor one inflicted by the hand of the enemy. Herein lies the crux of the matter: one usually envisages a hero as one who, from the outset, displays great fortitude and valor; Crane, in contrast. conceives heroism as attained by overcoming fear and cowardice. The basic ingredient of heroism in its conventional sense is courage. Taken from the Latin cor) meaning "heart," courage denotes that quality of mind which enables one to encounter dangers and difficulties with firmness, or without fear, or fainting of heart. National cultures have always treasured heroic personages. Greek tradition, for example, abound s in tales of dauntless men. Not the least of these is A chilles, the steadfast hero of Homer's epic. In Roman literature, Aeneas stands out as the ideal 14 of strength and valor. Entrusted with the mISSIon of founding the city of Rome, Aeneas withstands the storms of the sea, the dangers of the underworld, and the temptations of Dido to lead his people to their new home. Shakespeare's Juliet takes the sleeping potion and braves the terrors of the tomb to safeguard her bond with Romeo. In each of these three we find a strength of character that allows for forgetfulness of self in the face of conflict. This strength, latent before the crisis, blossoms forth to meet the challenge. Heroism, then, entails both a courageous person and a circumstance that calls for heroism. Each of our classic examplesAchilles, Aeneas, and Juliet-was an extraordinary person laboring under extraordinary circumstances. One can only wonder whether Juliet would have attained equal heroism under different circumstances; or, likewise, whether Achilles could have equaled the performance of Aeneas given the Trojan leader's particular situation. Which, then, is the more important component of heroism, strength of character or a demanding circumstance? The traditional view of the hero holds that personal valor is 110t only the more important but also prior of the two. Stephen Crane, however, would have us believe that it is circumstance that makes the hero. vVhen first confronted with the terrors of . actiye battle, Crarie's hero flees; he hasn't yet the means of facing battle straightforwardly. Henry Fleming must develop the means of attaining heroism by first meeting a conflict. Crane views the war as an impersonal force dominating the lives of the men involved in it. This attitude is characteristic of the naturalistic determinism to which the author subscribes. Explicit evidence of this philosophy can be found in passages like the following: But he instantly saw that it would be impossible for him to escape from the regiment. It enclosed him. And there were iron laws of tradition and law on four sides. He was in a moving box. Or again, He became not a man but a member. He felt that something of which he was a part--a regiment, an army, a cause, or a country-was in a crisis. He was welded into a personality which was dominated by a single 15 desire. For some moments he could not flee, no more than a little finger can commit a revolution from a hand. It is this war, this "red animal," that brings about the change in Henry. Before encountering the war, he was an idealistic, immature youth; but once subjected to the theater of war, Henry can no longer avoid the unpleasant and painful elements of life. How does the idealist respond to reality forced upon him? Henry leaves the war of muskets and broken bodies to enter a battle of mental questionings and soul searchings. Battle then ensues both inside and outside him. The result of these spiritual struggles is a self-justification of his plight. Upon seeing a squirrel flee from a falling nut, Henry realizes that he. like the squirrel, is but a helpless, insignificant victim in the wake of impending danger. He, therefore. has had no other recourse than flight. Seeing that his comrades are approaching victory, Henry returns to the regiment with his ironical red badge of courage. Though an outward sign of his internal triumph, it isn't yet indicative of physical bravery. ,!\Then, . at last, Henry achieves both internal and external satisfaction he becomes a man and a hero. The naturalistic hero and the conventional hero display similarities basic . to the very essence of heroism. For all practical purposes, Henry Fleming leading his regiment in battle and Aeneas carrying his father through the streets of burning Troy are equally heroic; each has demonstrated courage in the face of danger. The difference between them lies in the hero's motivation. Aeneas acts' heroically because he had already cultivated those qualities of mind which lead to heroism. Henry Fleming, lacking fortitude at the beginning of war, overcomes his former apprehensions because of the circumstances imposed upon him. vVhereas the conventional hero attains his stature from qualities within himself, the naturalistic hero acts from an instinctive response to the forces playing upon him. To say which of these two concepts is the more accurate interpretation of heroism would be very difficult. More important to consider is the value of courage. Courage spurs men on to great deeds. Courage bespeaks a nobleness of mind and heart and action that will extend itself from the moment of heroism to the whole of life. 16 in search of me MARY MARGARET TURK, '64 She walks, she talks, sometimes she even smiles. She had the body of a woman while still a child and at the age of twentyone, she had the mind of an adolescent. From the time of her conception, she began to fight a never-ending struggle to stay alive. Life was her eternal battlefield and she fought like an infant, helpless. Her defenses were primitive in a struggle which was far beyond her strength. Her main enemy was herself-that untouchable self which she, did not know but searched for with every faculty she could employ. In her own environment she was an oddity. Even though she was a product of the little world around her, she attempted to fight off every influence to find herself. The real me - where could she find that priceless gift of 17 which every worldly existence was trying to rob her? This lost body was desperately reaching for the only valuable possession she could selfishly claim as her very own. The only sel f she could touch was irresponsible, filled with self-pity and saturated with the worst case of "lack 0 f self confidence." Through the years she had come to hate that self she saw in the mirror, heard talking, felt walking and imaged in the minds of society. That hate had even penetrated into her own little dream world. Why? Because each little movement made her feel more like a product of a cookie cutter. She sought for herself in others and she became a clown as she imitated them to find her own self. She idolized people, found their most priceless traits and tried to make them hers, only to stumble and fall like a gangling ass that had not experienced the wonder of legs. vVas she really irresponsible and selfish? Can an infant, unsure who she is, give of herself unselfishly? I f this be so, she would only be returning to the world what it had given her and then be reprimanded for being , selfish. How can she be selfish when she has nothing of her very own to give .... The world was cold or so I thought. There was no love for me who fought for you and lost. But you are gone, Another's come. To me he bore his heart and one thing more, mine. 18 We walked among the cherry trees, Sang lovesongs to the winds, We laughed eternity away, Only later did I count my sins. J\f;fJht and :J.)alj My life without your love, my dear, Is not so empty as it seems. You took the sun that lit my life But left the moon's reflected dreams. The dinosaurs have fought, And the ape has thought, Welcome, rodent, Please pay by the tenth. EVELYNN LOONEY, 19 '66 For some reason I'm sitting here in the middle of the front row. I really don't know why, because I don't like crowds and usually sit around in the back of the room. Maybe it's because of the cold weather and my cold feet. Anyhow, I just feel like sitting with a bunch of people -not talking-j ust being near them. Sometimes I feel that way. Fish Usually when I sit in a class my mind begins to wander. I guess everybody's does. It's just something that happens. You can't help it. People are like that. You can't keep everybody interested all the time. Don't I sit down next to this girl I know, not because she's especially neat or anything. Actually, she has a real bad looking helmet. Anyway, I sit down next to her and she smiles and I smile. God, but that's ridiculous. She probably doesn't like me any more than I like her, and I'm a bigger jerk for smiling back than she is for smiling in the first place. But, then, I guess if everybody only smiled at people they liked, not too many people would smile very often. Laugh JOHN M. FORD~ '66 20 The bell rings and the teacher begins class like a robot or something. He reminds me of myoId uncle John, the way he's always using his hands to describe things. But 01' John died of sclerosis or something a long time ago. Good old uncle J olm. I'll bet there's nothing left of him by now except a few dusty 01' bones. He's kind of lucky in a way. I realize that I'm not paying any attention to the class because the professor calls on me to answer a simple question and I have to say I don't know the answer. It's embarrassing as hell when you can't answer a simple question like that. Everybody in the class looks at you like you're some kind of a freak. There's this one real jerk I see in the class who's got to have his say about everything. Somebody must have told him a long time ago that he could make people think he was real smart if he answered all the teacher's questions. He not only answers all the teacher's questions, he even answers the questions of the other students when the teacher is in doubt. And every time he opens his mouth nothing comes out except some kind of meaningless drivel that makes you think that maybe he's the "missing link." He's got his hand up now like he's trying to sa ve the class from an attack of man-eating flies . All of a sudden I feel terrible. Not for any particular reason-just rotten. Anyway, I have this queer feeling in my stomach and my head, like there's about fifty zillion tons of gravity pulling on each of them in opposite directions. I get real dizzy and I'm scared I might pass out. I decide there's one reason why I feel so lousy. Like I said, my mind's wandering and what I was thinking about was my parents. I guess I think about them pretty 0 ften since they died in that plane wreck. But that was three years ago. I guess they were just about the best people I ever knew, but then, that's sick sentimentalism. God, but I'm a baby. Everybody dies. It's late in the afternoon and the wind's playing with the snow outside. It reminds me of Robert Frost and what he must have thought about when he wrote "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." He was really wild about nature and stuff like that. I guess he could make just about anything like snow and rain seem real nice. 21 but they don't excite me too much. Oh, nature's all right, I guess, hut you can't ever tell what nature's gOil1g to do next. Nature gives you the feeling of silence and darkness, almost overpowering you, but the necessity of going on is still present. It's weird and mixed up like a lot of people I know. I guess of all the poets Robert Frost gets to me the best. He's so real and simple that he's sickening. Poe is like that too. But I like him for another reason. fight with Dianne a few days ago and they're not speaking to each other now. He sits right next to her in class. How anybody can be so nuts as to get cut out of class just because he's mad at his girl is pure retardedness. What's going to happen someday if they ever get married and have a fight? The professor in the front of the room reminds me of an old high school teacher I once had. He was about six yards around the waist and wore the grubbiest clothes you could imagine. I really had to laugh the first time I saw him. He never used to talk very" much because all he could do was half-talk and half-grunt, but he tried to help everybody. Not too many high school teachers do that. There weren 't very many people who liked him, but I sort of thought he was a pretty cool guy. A s I look around the classroom I see some students busily taking notes while others are practicing their "artistic talents" on their books or notebooks, trying to impress the tea:cher by making him think they are taking down every word he says. But he isn't impressed too much when exam time comes around and somehow they fail to be able to put down anything coherent on their paper. And they wonder why. Then they go to the teacher and ask him how they can do better the next time. Brother! These are the people that really irritate me. It's all so damn silly, it's pathetic. The class bell just rang and I realize that I haven't heard one thing that the teacher has said, but that isn't too unusual. Everybody's jamming the doorway as if there's a fire or something, and I fall in line like everybody else. It all seems sort of mad and mechanical in a way. I see that Tim O 'Brien isn't here again today. He had a Out in the hall I meet Grover 22 Eaton. He goes with Fern Fackenthal, the creepiest girl in the school. They deserve each other "VVell, maybe some other time. See ya 'round. Mike. " "How's it going, Mike, 01 ' boy?" Since my classes are over for the day, I decide to take a walk around ' the lake in the snow. vVinter's kind of like a game, with me on one side and it on the other, challenging me to test it. Nature gives the worst she's got in weather, and I have to fight back. It's fun in a way. "Yeh, see YOll around." Boy, if there's one expression that's overworked and I can't stand it's that one. He doesn't care if I die right now and get trampled by about a . million students in the hall, and he asks me how it's going. He'd probably laugh if I did die. It's All the trees around the lake all so damn stupid I could just are bare except for the thin scream. "All right, I guess, covering of snow on the Grov." branches. The sound of the "Been sucking up some snow crunching under my feet knowledge 111 Doc Figge's with every step is a warm and friendly sound of winter. The class ?" lake has been cleared for ice He's always got to use some skating and I walk out on it. I asinine expression like "suck- see a few small fish frozen in ing . up some knowledge" in- the ice around me. It's kind of stead 0 f some normal expres- sad in a way. The thought sion. "No, I haven't been suck- crosses my mind that I might ing up very much knowledge at fall in and drown, but I can't all in Doc Figge's class." get particularly aroused by the "Whataya gonna do tonight? ,idea. \iVhy don't you get some Did you ever feel like laugh'sweetie' lined up an' go sleding until your insides were in din' with Fern and me? Should knots? Did you ever feel like be many grins." laughing and rolling around in He's got a simple little grin the snow? Or did you ever on his pimply face. "No, I've laugh because you just felt like got some studying to do to- it? Well, that' s the way I'm night, Grover, 01' buddy. You 1 aug h i n g. God, but it's know how it is." funny ,. 23 They say that all men have a kind of inward, or mental, change at one time or another in their lives. Whether this change is abrupt or gradual is of no real significance. However, the abrupt change is more noticeable. THE So abrupt was this transformation in my case that it shattered my personality, shook the foundations of my brain, and affected my physical life. My religious life suffered temporarily also; and, but for my strong religious background, it would have been permanently destroyed. This disastrous transformation befell me a year ago today. I recall the day with a kind of dread, and yet with a sensation that I must relive it once again. BEREAYEMENT PAUL FORSSANDER) For many months, my wife's social life and promiscuous drinking had taken me deeper and deeper into debt. My many pleas to her were but fruitless gestures and went unheeded. When I finally realized that in the near future I would encounter bankruptcy, I made a desperate decision. E m b e z z I e men t is easy enough; especially when you are vice-president of a bank. I had access to the balance books, and the chances of getting '67 "What time is it now?" "It's almost ten o'clock, son." The eerie, echoing reply jolted me from my dream world and returned me to the realities of life. Life - man, ain't that one for the books! Funny how old :Mac called everyone son; I'll wager that he has been here since this towering tribute of man's inhumanity to man was first constructed. 24 . c..-- caught in the actual theft were small. The quirk of the matter is that I fully intended to make gradual retribution. The odds seemed fair enough so I decided to proceed with my plan. "vVhat time, Mac?" "Eleven o'clock, son." My stomach muscles suddenly tightened, and a cold chill thrust up my spine making my shoulders momentarily shake uncontrollably. Not m u c h longer now. That feeling, that ungodly chill, the precisely same kind of chill that invaded my entire being that fateful day. The same kind of chill that I felt when the guard apprehended me in the safe. That same panic, that uncontrollable consternation as I turned on the guard and slew him. "Oh, my God, forgive me," I had sobbed. "Mac, Mac, dammit man, answer me !" "What is it now, son ?" came the calm, far-off reply. "vVhat do you think? vVhat time is it?" "It's not quite eleven-thirty, son." An indescribable lonesome and dejected feeling descended upon me. I've got to control myself; at least, I can die like a man. I've got to stop thinking 26 about it. Dear Lord, help me die like a man. Forgive my unpardonable wrong. Please don't let one day, out of an otherwise good life, damn me for eternity. vVhile I am lighting a cigarette, I hear the warden and the escort coming for me. My breathing quickens. My hands grow weak and the cigarette falls to the floor. My stomach muscles once again cramp. The chill returns. The warden arrives and I struggle defiantly to regain control of myself. As he opens the cell door he quietly and calmly says: "Come on, son." I guess that will be the last time I hear that word. vVe walk down the corridors, our footsteps echoing. vVe enter the execution room, and as I sit in the chair I say half-aloud, "So this is where it all ends." They are strapping me in now. Lord, they make those things tight enough. I wonder what that first jolt feels like? I wonder if my senses will live long enough to know that I am dead? I wonder if old Mac --? Back in an empty cell the last dying ash of a cigarette emits one last puff of smoke. Cold ashes. Dust. ''L'' STATION PIGEONS Uniformed in sooty gray, The small army Struts on thin, pink feet Around the penny peanut stand Hunting for stray nuts Fallen from a clumsy hand And trampled in between the boards. They never seem to age or die But live Amid the rush-hour crowds Unruffled by winter wind. In faint distress The sentinels of Chicago Unfurl their slate gray sails; Rise at the warning Thunder on the tracks, And form a feathered arch above The Evanston express. KAREN ANGELA 27 Cox, '66 BILL WILLMERING, '66 goodby "No thanks, \tValt. I've got to study this history. Maybe some other time." Jack ambled out of the dorm and down the steps. Then he turned down the road to the park. The air was warm but the ground was cold and damp. The trees along the street in front of the dorm lifted up their naked limbs in the bright sunlight, Across the street on the lawn, between the library and the physics lab, a baseball game was beginning. "Well, study hard, old boy." Walt yelled as he put the car in gear and roared off down the street. \tVhen Jack reached the park, he walked on the grass along the river. Pushing a few damp leaves aside, he sat down near one of the sycamore trees. Jack opened his book, but then he leaned back against the tree and looked up at the clear sky. "J ust two more months and another year will be over, " Jack thought. "What a waste! Another year gone. I ought to be looking for a job soon. Maybe Phil will give me a job for the summer. Maybe he'd make it permanent if I ask him soon." "N 0, I've got to study this history," Jack muttered to himself and walked on. A few minutes later a convertible, its radio blaring loud music, rolled by, then stopped and backed up. "Hey, Jack! How about a ride?" a fat boy with speckled rimmed glasses called out. Jack stopped and hesitated a moment. Then he shouted back, 28 you get the new car?" "We just got her yesterday," Sue responded as she took the book Jack was holding and laid it down in the grass. "Now, you just have to come for a ride. " "Oh, no !" Jack protested, "I've got to finish this." "Look, it isn't every day that we get a new car," Sue whined. Then in a disgusted tone she asked, "What are you reading this time?" Jack looked away, bracing himself for the ordeal. Sue picked up the book and read, ((Medieval English Life by Percy Applegate, member of the Royal Society." In mock triumph she added, "Well, old Percy even made the Royal Society. Maybe they'll even bury him in the British Museum or something." Sue put the book down and waited a moment for "vVell, scholar! Thinking hard?" a voice broke in. Jack jerked around. "Oh! It's you, Sue. When did you arrive -?" The young girl advanced toward the tree. Her black hair hung across her forehead, like a curtain dropping on her sparkling eyes. Drawing closer, she continued, "Somebody up there told me I could find you down here." Then playfully she added, "What are you doing here where no one can find you?" "Oh, I just thought I'd brush up on my reading for history. " "I might have known. Well, now you're coming for a ride in our new convertible." "N 0, I've re~lly got to study for this test tomorrow," Jack answered. Then he inquired with a jealous tone, "vVhen did Clio 29 Jack to protest. Jack was just about ready to suggest that they go find Phil and take a ride in the new convertible, when Sue began again in quieter tones. "Look, Jack. Phil and I know you aren't happy with all these books. Gee, remember when we used to play ball all day at the park back home? I bet you never touched a book then." "Remember how we used to buy ice cream at the old delicatessen at the corner ?" Jack grinned back. Sue laughed gayly, "See, you remember too." Enthusiastically, she continued, "Look, you must have about two thousand of what your Dad left you. \Vhy don't you buy a partnership with Phil? . After all he is .your brother. " Watching Jack closely, Sue went on, "Coin-operated laundries are a big business, and Phil's looking for a partner." "N 0," Jack protested. "You know Phil and I don't get along too well." Sue broke in impatiently. "Oh, brothers never get along." "How well do you get along with him ?" Jack retorted. Sue jerked up her head so that her bangs swayed back and forth defiantly. In a mockingly serious tone she answered, "I'll have you know, mister, that Phil and I are happily married." Then leaning over as if to confide in Jack, she giggled, "Vie did have a little, teeny-weeny fight over whether the car should be pink or red." Turning deadly serious, Sue went on, "Tell me, Jack. \iVhat's there here for you? If you join Phil now you could make a fortune. Have a nice house and get a nice wife. Why do you just keep at it here?" Jack sighed. Then rubbing his hand against his forehead, he said bewilderedly, "I don't know. When I was in high school. . Jack shi fted around so that he looked directly at Sue. "When I was in high school, I had this teacher who really had a good class. He did something for all of us, you know? He loved history, and he made us love it too. But he didn't force it. He made it interesting." Jack paused and, looking down at the grass, continued in a whisper, "I always hoped I could do that some day. You know, be somebody who really means something. Who really is important." Jack looked up at Sue and added, "You know, somebody people really need and somebody who really helps people become, you know, more human, more like they should be." 30 Sue remained very silent, not stirring. "I know. You're still a kid inside, and now you're beginning to see it all the ';Vay it really is. Let me tell you." Sue grew more confident. "I once felt that way too. When I was going to school I thought that maybe some day I could work in a lab and do research. I had a teacher who liked biology, and she used to give us long lectures on sacrificing ourselves." Sue laid her hand on Jack's arm. "I felt like you did." Sue looked over at the river and sighed. "When I met Phil he showed me I was wrong. I know I would have seen it as I grew older, just as you're seeing it now. Life isn't at all like you think it is." Sue went on almost with a sneer. "I t isn't really love or all like that. It's just work and sweat, and not losing out to somebody else." . Sue lifted her head and looked at the sky, "I'm glad Phil opened my eyes." Then turning to Jack, she added, "You'll learn too. It isn't like you think it is." Inquisitively she went on, "Why don't you get in with Phil now while you can? When you wake up it will be too late." Jack rested his head on the edge of his fist and answered. "I don't know, Sue. I always 31 thought when I got this far the way would be opened and I could see how to really understand." Jack drew a long breath. "You know what it is that really makes me and Phil fight, don't you?" Sue said nothing. "Well, you see, Phil wants me to admit that I've lost. You know I always worked hard in schoo1. Everybody said when I got good grades that I would certainly be a success and Phil would fai1." Jack turned on Sue, "You know, he never studied at all. Now that Phil's got all the money, and I've got nothing, he wants me to come over to his side. Don't you see, he wants me to admit that I was wrong and he was right." Sue swung her head around and pleadingly asked, "But don't you see? He is right. He is right." Jack stuttered, "Is he right? Is he ... Oh, Sue, life is hell." Sue looked abashed for a moment. Then she stammered back, "Well, that's something from a scholar!" Picking up her thoughts again, Sue went on, "Don't you see that it's only you who's making life hell? Just because you can't put truth in a bottle, and proclaim, 'Here, world! Take the secret formula for truth discovered by Jack Redsen,' you think it's all meaningless. What about our ball games, those ice cream cones? Don't you think that was truth? How about our new car? vVhat about any car, a house, a lawn, a tree? Don't you think that's truth, too?" Jack looked up across the river at the bare trees. "I don't know. Maybe I should go just one more year." "One more year!" Sue exploded. "One more year will be too late. Come on, let's talk a partnership over with Phil. Sure you won't have a degree, but you'll still be making money. Listen, if you and Phil get this thing moving, you'll have a house like the one Phil says we're going to get soon and maybe a colored TV set." Sue giggled, "They're no good, but everybody's getting one." Sue concluded triumphantly, "Anything you want, you can buy. " 32 Jack just stared at the dead leaves on the ground at his feet. Then he turned to Sue and smiled, "Well, what kind of car did you buy?" She jumped up and exclaimed, "Allah be praised! The mountain has came back to Mohammed!" Then with uncontrollable laughter, she chattered on, "Oh, it's the cutest little car. It's got a cute little top that folds down into the trunk and neat little rugs and a radio. Everything you could want." "It must be nice ... " Sue broke into Jack's comment with a mocking laugh, "We forgot Percy." Then knotting her brow, she pretended deep contemplation, "Dr. Redsen, what is your evaluation of P. ]. Applegate?" Jack laughed and answered, "He might be worth a dollar if the prices are good at the bookstore." DAVE ARMBORST, '64 Step Another He moved slowly beneath the voluminous pile of covers and quilts, stretched out his arms wide and yawned sleepily. He looked about him at the small log room with its cold, empty fireplace and tiny, frosted window which showed the white mounds of snow covering the ground outside. He snuggled deeper beneath the bed covers, relishing the warmth which he must soon leave. And then, suddenly, he remembered. Randy flung aside the heavy covers and jumped from the tall four - poster bed which groaned in protest. Racing across the cold, dark oaken floor, he hurried to the washstand, in the opposite corner of the room, and, tipping the silver pitcher, poured a basin full of cold, clear water into which he dipped his head. He gasped from the shock. He seized a towel and dried himself hastily. In no time whatever he had finished dressing and walked over to the window where he leaned on the sill, pressed his nose aaainst the cold glass, and st , red at t 1 frozen country- Th~ first rays of sunshine came creeping through the frozen pane, and from somewhere off in the bleak stillness came. the challenging crow of a rooster calling the world awake from its warm slumber. Randy woke suddenly and lay quietly in the early morning hush; listening to the muted sounds of the household rising to the day's tasks: the muffled sound of footsteps crossing the outer room, the log door being shut firmly, the crackle of a log settling in the roaring fireplace, the clatter of dishes as Mother walked about busily setting the table for breakfast. All the sounds were dulled by his stillwakening Sel)SeS which were just beginning to emerge fully from the clinging cobwebs of sleep. And now there came wafting on the air the delicious warm, he~rty smell of sausage sizzling, pancakes frying, and coffee bubbling merrily over the fire. I 33 side. It was Christmas Day! In the other room, lying under the beautifully decorated Christmas tree, would be the presents all wrapped in gay paper and tied with large ribbons. This would be only the third Christmas that Randy could remember, and his excitement was constantly increasing. He wanted the day with its gay festivities and joy[ul surprises to last forever. And yet he could hardly wait until he heard the heavy footsteps crossing the room and the knock at the door summoning him into the other room for the opening of the day's festivities. However, there was one note of discontent in the symphony of joy surround~ng him on this day. His mother had told him of Saint Nicholas, or Santa Claus, as he was known here in America, the jolly man who embodied the whole wonderful spirit of the season, who brought gifts to the good boys and girls and spread the cheer of Christmas. Why had he never been seen? It was much easier to believe in someone you could see. It was hard enough to believe, what with some of the things ' he had heard from the older girls and boys at the local schoolhouse last week. He wanted so desperately to be- 34 lieve, to cling to this cherished idea. He was not asking much. If just once he would hear that knock at the door on Christmas Day and, upon opening it, would find the bearded old man, standing there greeting Randy jovially, inviting him to come out to see his gifts lying under the tree. It would mean so much to him. A nd his heart yearned within him, while his lips formed the silent prayer. Please! If hi s belief could only last through the day. He wanted so to continue believing! Looking up, he saw his father trudging through the heavy snow up to the house, heard the ponderous door open and close, and then the sound of footsteps crossing the wooden floor. Each footfall cut deeply into his heart, closed his lips tighter against the harsh light of reality. It wasn't fair! Randy stood there, his head hanging, his shoulders stooped under the burden of defeat, and realized that it could not be so, that when he opened the door, he would see only the lean, hard form of his father standing there, smiling bleakly. It" could not be otherwise. A nd then came the knock on the door. VALERIE MILLER, Bits of sunshine filtering through the trees made a fastmoving pattern on the red J aguar as it sped along. Like a speckled flame it darted around the corner, then suddenly stopped before a low stone house. Sidewalks' had not yet appeared in this new residential district to divide the strip of fresh black tar from the lawns. It was still a woodsy area, with plenty of room for rambling ranch-type houses like this one settled back . among the maples. Three quick blasts, then two long blares on the horn broke the afternoon stillness. This was the "secret honk" that Bart always used to tell his friend Louie that he was outside. Bart leaned over from behind the wheel to glance at himself in the rear-view mirror. He ran '66 his fingers over his Teddy Kennedy haircut which was already being lightened by the early June sun. The boyish face in the mirror grinned as Bart thought of the good news Louie was sure to have for him. After a moment. a stocky, black-haired boy appeared on the front porch. "Hey, Bart, it came!" he yelled. "It's here!" He ran to the car, waving a letter. "'vVell, whattaya say, Louie! Get in and tell me what he said. VVhy don't you just come along to the station with me to pick up Richard?" Bart scowled. "You might know I'd have to ruin a perfectly good afternoon at the train station." Louie read his father's letter as the Jaguar cruised along. Then, "So, Bart, it's all settled. 35 We can leave for the lodge pretty soon, say next weekend. From what Dad says, it should be all set up for the summer by then. Dad is going straight to the lake from his convention in St. Louis, and he'll get the boat and the water skis all warmed up for us. Man, I can't wait to get going." Louie half stood up in the car, threw back his arms, and let the wind whip his face. " Just feel that lake breeze, man," he said, and slid back down on the seat, laughing at Bart. "I t' s going to be a blast this whole summer, Louie, one big blast. Ugh, I can just hear what old Richard is going to say. Richard is such . a grouch; he frowns on all fun. You know wh~t I mean, Louie? All he thinks about when he comes home from college is that charity camp of his. I couldn't stand to coop myself up in the woods with all those screaming little kids the way he does." Bart glanced into the rear-view mirror again as he drove. He straightened the collar on his new Madras shirt with one hand, the shirt that was guaranteed to bleed. "Besides," he said to Louie with a slight shudder, "they don't even have running water." 36 The train pulled out of the station, leaving a handful of people on the small outdoor platform. Richard, a taller, more mature version of Bart, strode over to the car where the boys sat enjoying cigarettes while they waited. Bart had pointed out that there was no use getting out of the carRichard would find them all right. Richard reached down and shook his brother's hand warmly. "Well, Bart, how are you? Thanks a lot for coming. Hello, Louie," he waved, crossing to the other side of the car. "Good to see you both." Bart flicked his cigarette to the pavement. "vVhattaya say, Richard? Squeeze in here somewhere and let's get home. I'm really beat. It's just a good thing you sent your bags on ahead, or we would be even more crowded. " "Same old Bart," Richard thought, shaking his head. As they drove through the late afternoon sunlight, Richard questioned his brother about recent happenings at home, then casually steered the conversation toward plans for the summer. As if it had just occurred to him, Richard asked, "How about coming to camp with me for a while this summer, Bart? 'Barton' bit," Bart thought, as he pulled into the driveway. "It isn't just camp, it's your whole general attitude," Richard continued. "Some day, Barton, some day . . . " But just then the boys' mother came running to the car to greet them, and Richard did not have a chance to finish. Saturday morning finally dawned. Bart and Richard flung their luggage into the back of the family station wagon and, with Louie, set out for the lake, full o f plans for the summer ahead of them. Later, long after the time it takes for boys to get hungry, they turned onto the rutted dirt road that wound around the lake to the camp. They bounced along for a few minutes. Sud den I y Louie pointed to a rusty metal sign tacked to a tree. "There it is, 'Hootenanny Hollow Camp.' " " 'Hootenanny Hollow' is right," muttered Bart, as he took in the view from the road. In a small clearing away from the lake stood the only sturdy 'building the camp possessed, the ness hall. Richard explained that the charred black circle on the ground near the mess hall was the remains of last year's campfire site. Five or six goodsized logs were rolled haphaz;trdly around it to serve as seats. You, too, Louie. We're going to need a couple of extra-good counsellors.' , Bart sniffed. "N ow look, Richard. Louie and I are spending the whole summer at his father's lodge that's over on the other side of the lake from your camp. The whole summer! Louie has the letter right here from his dad saying we can come. Show him, Louie. See, Richard ?" "Sounds like a good time all right. But, Bart," Richard leaned forward in his seat to make a direct appeal, "there are going to be some crippled boys from the state school over . for a few weeks. We sure could use your help." "No, thanks, Richard. That old charity camp of yours is going to be nothing but a bore compared to this." He gestured impatiently toward Louie's letter; then, seeing the look on Richard's face, he added slowly, "Well, uh, I guess I could drive you over there Saturday. It's right on the way to the lodge." Richard was silent until they let Louie off at his home. Then he said thoughtfully, "All right, Barton, you can live it up all summer. You don't have to do anything to help anybody." "Oh, brother, here comes the 37 Circling both the building and the campfire site were several dust-colored tents, procured a few years before from the army surplus store. Richard climbed out of the car and gathered hi s equipment together. "Hi, Richard! I'm here!" One of the campers who had arrived early broke away from the group that was gathered before the rough log door of the mess hall. He started through the trees toward the car, leading a smaller boy who limped badly. " \Vell, hello, Tommy. Welcome back! Who I S your friend ?" "This is Billy. He doesn't walk very good. But Mr. Harvey said we could go fishing as soon as you came. Wanna go now?" Richard chuckled and swung hi s duffel bag across his shoulder. "Okay, men, we'll go fishing as soon as I check in with Mr. Harvey and throw this gear in my tent." He turned to Bart and Louie in the car. "Thanks for the ride, Bart. You're welcome to drop in anytime you feel like it. Sure do wish you could stay around." "Yeah." Bart took another look at the rough log mess hall and the cluster of weather-worn 38 tents. Then he glanced at the raggedy little boys. "Have fun, Richard." The station wagon rumbled down the dirt road and disappeared around the curve of the lake. Two miles ahead stretched the lodge estate and the promise of "one blast of a summer." A month passed and the two boys filled their days with swimming and skiing. "I'm going to be water skiing champion of this county yet, " Bart boasted sarcastically as he and Louie trudged up the wooded hill, returning from one of their daily outings. "How could I miss after skiing every single day for four weeks? Isn't there something else to do up here?" he scowled. "We've been swimming and skiing all I care to swim and ski for a while." Louie paused to catch his breath after the climb and thought for a minute. "Well, we could go fishing. Or maybe we could take out the boat again, except that Dad doesn't like us to when he isn't here. He'll be right back in a day or two. You know he promised to have your car back by then." "Oh, great, and in the meantime we just do the same old things over and over. Swim- to do? That's my brother over there! \Vith a whole bunch of little kids! I'm going to go see if he is okay. Want to come?" T hun d e r cracked. Bar t looked again at the darkened sky through the rain beating at the window. "Two miles," he said. For a moment he looked bleakly at his friend, and then Louie saw his e x pre s s ion change. There was real determination in his features, and courage that made him seem more manly than boyish. ming and fi s h i n g, skiing and ... " "''''hat did you expect to do at a lake?" Louie interrupted. "My gosh '!" He walked onto the terrace overlooking the water. "Say, we could broil some steaks out here tonight. That would make us both feel better." "N ot tonight, Louie. Look up at that sky. It looks like a terrific storm is coming up. Help me grab these skis, and let's get inside. Quick." It was one of those nightmarish thunderstorms that suddenly drive away the summer 1sun. Wind whip-lashed the lodge and drove the rain against it. The boys stood near the kitchen window eating san'dwiches and watching the rain. "Boy, would I hate to be out in this!" Bart exclaimed, leaning comfortably on the window sill. He reached out for a pretzel, then suddenly whirled on Louie. "Louie! Richard and the boys! Do you think they're all right? Let's go get them." "\Ve can't, Bart. Dad took your car with him, remember?" "Oh yeah, that's right." Bart cupped his hands around his eyes and stared out the window as if trying to see across the lake. "Louie, what are we going "I'll get a couple of flashlights, and you grab some matches," Louie shouted. "Let's get going!" Later, much later it seemed, the boys sloshed, soaked and muddy, into Hootenanny Hollow. Everything was dark. Bart and Louie stopped and listened intently. Above the noise of the rain and thunder they could hear boys' voices coming from the direction of the mess hall. They ran toward it in zigzag fashion to avoid the deep puddles in the road. Bart swung open the heavy door. There were fifteen or twenty small boys curled up in blankets on the tables. They squirmed and called out as thunder struck again. Pacing back and forth between the rows of tables was 39 one of the counsellors, talking quietly to this child, and pulling the covers around that one. Then Bar t spied Ric h a r d crouched on the floor with his back to the door, trying in vain to start a fire in the fireplace. "How'd you like a match, Richard?" asked Bart, putting his hand on his brother's shoulder. Ric h a r d started and dropped the flint he had been rubbing. "Bart!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet. The two stood there for a second looking at each other. "Got a job for me, Richard?" Richard's face broke into a grin. Just then little Billy crawled out of his blanket and slid down off the table. H ~ hobbled over to Bart. Taking hold of Bart's arm, Billy looked up. "Hi, man !" he said. Little Things A tender smile from someone near, A tiny violet hidden; Cheerful sunbeam on a dreary day, vVhippoorwill's song at twilight ; A nest of field mice, Newborn duckling, \ i\T oolly lamb: . Long live little things! Little things that make my way Easier, Lighter, Brighter. How mightless they before the A lmighty! THERESA MEYER, 40 '64  ...

... ; ... ~i .-{.}';'{~ .: ,. . ..~ :."~ ,: ~;c~::4~jj.::J~ .J!' THE FIIORETTI " VOLUME XXII NUMBER 2 Indianapolis, Indiana 1963-1964 AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE Marian College Library Indianapolis. In ~. THE STAFF Editor-in-Chief Donna Tatroe, '64 Assistant Editors Ray E. Brown, '67 Do~ovan Busby, '67 Miriam Kaeser, '66 Evelynn Looney, '66 Mary Ann Werbinski, '66 Illustrators Maureen Laughlin, '64 for "The Cameo" Peggy Mader, '65, for "Loneliness Is a Barren Tree" . t. ~;, .- s.. ' P L . C'1 CONTENTS ESSAYS The Memory of John Moore 6 The Chair 12 James Fehlinger The Divine Allegory 14 Tom Widner I Saw God's Valley 28 Sheldon G . Houston Karen Angela Cox FICTION Walking Through Paradise 22 Don na Tatroe The Cameo 30 Becky Brunson POETRY Loneliness Is a Barren Tree 4 Life 11 Evelynn Looney Miami, Florida 11 Evelynn Looney "But My Dear ... !" 13 Regina Hyatt Yesterday and Tomorrow 19 Edward Dhondt Lost and Found 20 Judy Swan Portra it of a Love 25 Ci ndy Stephenson Indecisions 26 Theresa Meyer The Father of My Brothers 29 Miriam Kaeser Nora Fitzpatrick 4 Loneliness is a barren tree. \tVhose leaves have fallen in the path of winter. Who.se arms stretch out to the shortening hours of the sun begging, humbly, for a few short hours of life. A tree that cries in the bleak winter morning for the glory of the summer day. A memory that seems an illusion. A hope that this bright memory will live again. So like us. Loneliness is a barren tree. Who closes it~ heart to the knowledge that the beauties of a warm summer will return. vVho enjoys the misery of its self-imposed suffering. Enjoying its cold barren beauty yet unsatisfied even with this. \1\1aitingfor the warmth for the happiness of summer. Loneliness is a barren tree. NORA FITZPATRICK) 5 '65 Remember the rag m an ? \ l\1hen I was a very little girl, every alley had one. :He'd usually make his appearance once or twice a week. He would be driving down our alley behind a broken-down nag of a horse, which pulled one of those rattle-trap buckboard affairs with squeaking wooden wheels. He sat up front on a board, and the rest of the wagon was piled with old box springs, stoves, broken chairs, rags, mattresses, rugs, papers , toilet seats, and other things unrecognizable. 7Ae I lived with my grandmother then. She had a big, brown house on Berwick A venue. A t the time, I considered the hOLlse and the garden mine because l' lived there and because I liked it. This was, to my fouryear-old manner of thinking, undeniable proof of ownership . I guess at that age , the whole world was mine. KAHEN A NGELA Cox) '66 111 a sing-song way; and with the rhythm of his horse's hooves and the clanking of the bedsprings, buckets, boxes, baskets , and other contents of the wagon and the creaking of its broken wheels, a small child could not help but feel a sense of excitement, listening for him until he appeared far down at the other end of the alley. I used to run and climb up all the back gate to watch for him. vVhen he was two or three houses away, I 'd retreat to the back steps and watch from a safer distance. He wasn't very clean. In fact , I was forbidden to speak to him. He smelled of My ragman's name was John Moore; and he had a club foot , a fact which I found both intriguing and terrifying. I could usually hear him coming before I could see him, for his cry could be heard for blocks. He'd come down the alley in his battered wagon calling, "Any old rags, old clothes, old iron! " 6 vvhiskey, mildew, horse manure, sweat, and k e r 0 sen e. His clothes were torn, and he wore no socks even on the coldest mornings. His shoes were worn right through. He wore a ragged shirt, once white, and a pair of ragged, greasy, paintsplattered overalls, held up on the side by a large safety pin. I used to wonder what he would do if hi s one suspender would break. He was unshaven and his skin was swarthy and weather-beaten. I envied him. F irst of all, John Moore was dirty. He had no grandmother to tell him to wash his neck or clean under his fingernai ls. My First Prize - Essay Division 7 grandmother didn't believe in children getting dirty. Secondly, John Moore chewed tobacco with his mouth open, revealing a gold tooth on the right side of his mouth. I was told that I could have a gold tooth if I kept my tongue out of the space where my first baby tooth came out. It never worked. The horse could have belonged to no one else. It was a sway-backed nag, ageless as John himself. It was brown with a white streak on its fore head and very ill-groomed. Its eyes were blood-shot just like John's. I guessed it was a "girl horse," because it wore a lady's hat exactly like one my grandmother had once had. J olm had cut holes in it for the horse's e~rs and it 'fitted perfectly. John's hat was grey and nondescript. He and the horse wore their hats all year 'round, even in the summer. a rather blank stare and something that resembled a smile through yellow teeth, plus the gold one mentioned earlier. Sometimes he even spit a stream of tobacco juice as he went by; and one time he stopped and tied on his horse's nose bag, but these occasions were rare. Most of the time he just clattered and clopped by our back gate. That was the extent of our contact. It was enough. I considered John Moore my friend. He was my friend because he enchanted, delighted, and fascinated me ; he was a mystery, and to a four-year-old. that made him a character very personal and very dear. Most of all, he was so much a part of my young life. I couldn't imagine a Tuesday or a Friday morning without the sound of his horse and wagon; and the cry of "Any old rags, old clothes, old iron, " was as much a part of me as my playmates, the flowers in my grandmother's garden, or the house in which I lived. Like the rest of the things in my small world, John Moore was mine. In addition to being a part of my physical world, he was a part of my world of dreams and play. I used to think how wonderful it would be to sit up high on the board of the battered wagon and do nothing I thought J ohn Moore and his horse were two of the most fascinating things in my small world. On Tuesdays and Fri days no one could induce me to leave the vicinity of the back yard until J olm and his horse had passed. He never spoke to me, but when I waved (on rare occasions when I was sure my grandmother wasn't watching) he'd sometimes look at me with 8 stay away from him. She was a typical adult. One Tuesday, during the summer I was six, John didn't come. It was one of those days at the end of the summer when children are hot and restless and have run out of mischief to get into. I was sitting on the back steps waiting for John and reading. I was very proud of my reading. I liked to have people see me reading, especially third grade books. I wanted John Moore to see me reading because this was the first third grade book that I could read all the way through all by myself. I wouldn't have to explain this to John. He would just look at me and know . But he didn't come. All that day and all the following Friday I listened for the ragman's cry and the sound of the horse and wagon. He never came again . I finally heard my mother teli my grandmother that he was found dead in the street behind a tavern. I didn't cry. I made a bouquet of the violets and dandelions that grew by the back fence and put it next to the trash burner in the alley. This was the nearest thing to a rea I graveside vi sit I could manage. The only time they ever could have guessed how I felt was when I mentioned him in my all day but ride behind the horse and sing in the streets. I never questioned where John came from or where he went after his voice and the sound of the wagon faded somewhere at the other end of the alley, but I was sure it was interesting and longed to be part of it. Of course, I knew that my wish would never be realized, since any association with him was forbidden. This made the whole idea more fascinating, together with the fact that I was deathly afraid of him. Sound unreasonable? Perhaps; but when we are children, we see the sensibilities that lie beyond reason. vVhen we are adults, we see only the reasonable and govern ourselves accord}ngly. The fact that John Moore occupied such a position of high esteem in my young mind didn't occur to my grandmother. I f it did, I never knew of it . In fact, John Moore was one of the many parts of my ex istence from which grownups were entirely excluded. To my grandmother, John Moore "vas merely a dirty, unintelligent, alcoholic old junk man. I doubt that she ever looked at him closely enough to knmv what he really looked like. She only knew the obvious-smelled the obvious, and told me to 9 prayers at night. I thought it was only proper. This amused them immensely. They were typical adults. Another ragman came down the alley the following Tuesday. He had no club foot, no gold tooth, and was much younger than John Moore. His cry wasn't the same as John's. I lost interest. He just didn't belong in my world. Later my world changed in other ways, many of which I didn't like. They say that the change from childhood to adolescence and into full-fledged adulthood includes the happiest years of a person's life. This isn't true. It is painful. vVe have to let go of so many of the things we love in order to make the transition; and somehow, the things we lose are sometimes of more value than the new stature we acquire. That is the sad part of growing up. So many things come between the eyes of maturity and the eyes of childhood. vVe lose the world of make-believe and are forced to enter the world of grim, sensible reality: the world of responsibility, ulcers, and insecurity. V.,Te become blind too easily to our once real child's world. vVe forget too easily. It must be so. Today, the ragman no longer makes his rounds and his cry is gone from the alley. My grandmother lives on the same street in the same house as when I was a child. She even has the same flowers in her garden. Although I visit her often, I know that the house is hers, not mine, even though I may come and go as I please. The world of the back yard and the garden has lost its magic, except in the world of memory. My imagination will never be as vivid as that of the four-year-old girl with yellow pig-tails who climbed upon the back gate. She is gone with her ragged "friend" and his horse into the past, never to return. But still, when I sit alone on a summer day in a certain place in the back yard. when the sun is warm on my face and I can smell the flowers in the garden, if I close my eyes and listen very closely, and try to remember, I can almost hear a familiar sound ... "Any old rags, old clothes, old iron!" vVhen I stop listening for this sound, I will have become a typical adult. It hasn't happened yet. I hope it never will. In a small way, John Moore is still a very important part of my life. 10 life Life is a sculptor, Love, his tool, The heart, the stone "\Thereon's inscribed: "Fool." Miami, Florida I hate the crowds I hate the lights I hate the mob I hate the fights I hate the clubs [ hate the drinks I hate the bars I hate the minks I wish that I were far away Or that I'd never met you , love I used to sleep and dream at night And never wake and scream at love EVELYNN LOONEY) 11 '66 the chair the king of her heart sat on his royal throne upon his head he wore his cold metal crown the imperial manacles were fastened tightly to his strong arms his straining veins shown forth his leather strapped breastplate pulled tautly against his herculean chest exposing the well knit muscular physique of a greek god around h15 sturdy calves were undecorative nylon straps all the armor needed for battle placed over his royal vestments of light gray jeans all seen by a murky green light in ceiling above a sob moved the painful silence a cry from his grief-torn mother the sole sound in the .hallowed throne room his majestic reign lasted two and a half minutes his stiff corpse rules the silence. JAMES FEHLINGER J 12 '65 "l? v~ut m'l :J)ear ... /" Pushed and pulled, shoved and carried, Swept along, persuaded and cajoled, Prodded and threatened, advised and toldWho could balk? Who could be so bold? Afraid and reluctant to refuse this scheme, Love was slain in flight "But my dear, it's the ONLY thing to do!" But who am I? Where am I going? Never mind that--it's nearly time to go. I'd like to stop and wait-but THEY say no . . Don't waste time on foolish contemplation, You'll never get ahead in life that way. "No, no," I cried--but they always say ... "But my dear, it's the ONLY thing to do!" They have succeeded, complete is the task, A majority of one was just too much to ask. Forced into the mold, too crushed to despair, "\Vho am I? \\Tho am I ?" is lost in the air. REGINA HYATT, 13 '66 i I ", 1 7Ae TOM \ iVIDNER) '64 The world of man is a house built by a divine carpenter. This finest of worlds was fashioned from the best wood with the finest tools. The craftsmanship was perfect. No other house had ever excelled or would ever excell the magnificence of this one. So the carpenter, after seven months of labor, sat back to admire his artistry. Every detail glorified his skill. Now all the house needed \\'T as for some' one to live in it. It was not long after the completion of the house that the carpenter rented it to a young couple just beginning life. They were very happy with their new home and the carpenter was very happy with his new tenants. Sometime later the builder came to visit the young couple, for he had rented the house to them with the stipulation that he might occasionally visit them in order that he too might enjoy the house. It must be said that the builder was never obnoxious in this respect. He had never interrupted their lives. 15 Unfortunately, the couple rej ected the son. They were much too proud to admit that they needed help. In no way did the son insult the couple when he offered his aid. The couple did not realize that this was the son even though the builder had told them that he would send someone to help them. Though he kept insisting on glvmg help, the son was thrown from the house and kicked in the head a few times by the couple and their children. He had never interfered in their private affairs. He merely wanted it made clear that this house was his and the couple was only renting it. But the young couple tired of the builder's visits and this time they pretended not to be at home. Needless to say, this act of indifference made the builder quite angry. He became so angry, in fact, that he saw to it that the house was torn down. The couple quickly realized their injustice to the builder and they set out to rebuild the house. The builder had permitted them to retain use of the house but now they were on their own. Where before the builder had given them gi fts whenever he visited them, now he made them need his help to the extent of begging for it. The house which the couple reconstructed was ugly. The coupie had to try to return it to its former beauty. The wrath of the builder "vas great indeed. But this time he decided that rather than punish the couple he would continue to attempt to give them aid. So this time the builder sent a governess, for the couple had died and their children were all alone. In the beginning the governess was a most wise person. She brought the children great happiness because they realized from the first that she was there to help them. But it was not long before the governess forgot herself and took her position much too lightly. In time the children became her slaves. She became very strict with them and very loose in her own affairs. Through the years that passed the couple found it increasingly difficult to manage the house properly. They had children now and the children were everywhere. So the builder decided to send his son, likewise a skilled carpenter, to help the couple set the house in order. 16 It was not long before the children became aware of the laxity of the governess. vVhen she neglected the care of the children, some of them left. Realizing what was happening the governess forgot that her own faults were the cause and accused the children of their guilt. It was many years before she began to realize her own guilt in the loss of the children. vVhen the governess realized her own faults, she began to recall that the builder would again be coming to visit. It would not do for him to find some of the children lost, for the builder was really the father of the children. He had built the house. He had given it to the couple. The governess began to clean her house--the house which was given to her to protect. II void-a paradox perhaps-but the room becomes an empty space which seems colorless to the eye because there is no light emitted from within it. It is blackness. The room is actually a house which has but one room. This room is the only room in the house. This room is the house. Inside the room a man lies on a bed wrestling with the body of a woman. Though the room is in view of the entire universe, it cannot be seen by anyone for it lies immersed within the blackness of night, The soul of man is a very large room house with elegant furniture. There are no doors and no windows. But when the soul is filled with sanctifying grace, it is inundated with a bright light which floods the room and occupies every corner throughout. When the soul is filled with sin, the room is a 17 of death, of sm. But the two bodies remain unaware of the blackness and are conscious only of each other. With the union of their bodies and the pleasure experienced therefrom, the room is filled with a red light which flows from their flesh. Their pleasure is illegal. And every object in the room is dyed scarlet as the color glows more intensely. The pleasure passes. The man on the bed is alone. Slowly he becomes aware of the mingling of the scarlet with the black. The light seems to glow an inky red. It shoots through the man's body and brings pain to the very organs which had brought him pleasure. His entire body is wracked with pain. An9 the soul suffers from the burden of the struggle. The pain is unbearable. The light increases in its intensity and tortures every part of the man;s body. From his pores ooze thick beads of pale yellow sweat. He screams in agony. The soul is aware of its damnation and the sound of the man's screams create chaos in the house. Old and worn, the house cracks in a few more places. Earlier cracks, produced by the pleasure and the pain of other times, are intensified and expand. The walls vibrate with the blows of the man pounding for help and forgiveness. But his strength wanes. A continual abuse of his body diminishes the intensity of his plea. The pounding becomes faint. Yet once more the white light floods the room. Once more its freshness brings relief to the man. Once more he continues to go his way. And once more he forgets his debt. But forgiveness without retribution has come once too often. The walls of the room suddenly collapse and the house crumbles around the man whose agonizing screams reach a pitch far above the range of the human ear-and they never cease. 1 , J 18 Yesterday and Tomorrow Like a stretching monster long confined The mushroom cloud rose up to its full height To shake a defiant fist in the face of God. Love was slain in flight The hearts from which it sprang reduced to ash. Hope died with innocence that day On speechless tongues perfecting praise . . ' Laughter had no time to become hysteria Nor sin repentance in the rush of souls to eternity. Flames of despair came to lick the flayed city While far off in groves of structural steel Jezabe1 bowed low before green paper idols. 1 EDWARD DHONDT, ) 19 '65 Lost and Found Under rocks and over rainbows, \tVhere the winding, bubbling brook flows, I searched. First Prize - Poetry Division 20 Inside books and outside windows, In the trees where winter's wind blows, I searched. In wind song, dove song, sing song, love song; moon beam, trout stream, day dream, water's gleam, I searched . . In sunrise, In babies' cries, In stormy skies, In lovers' sighs; Then one day In your eyes I found ... me. JUDY SWAN) 21 '66 WALKING through PARADISE DONNA TATROE) '64 "vValking through paradise isn't so great. It's probably full of big muddy swamps . "\iVell, now there is an intelligent thought," mused Stan. He had been sitting for hours, his eyes 22 macy am I ," he thought. "Good natured ole Stan. Ha! I could fool the world." "Hi ya, Kid," a loud salutation greeted him as he turned onto the sun deck. "Hello, Mr. Billington, nice day isn't it?" Stan offered. Billington was a rather corpulent old man who was completely content to spend half of each year in the hospital with diseases so rare that the doctors could sometimes not diagnose them. He seemed pleased with his latest siege of gastrointestinal Epicureanism, which one of the nurses had told Stan ,vas gas pains, and prided himself on describing quite vividly all his symptoms. "When do you get the results of the operation?" asked Billington looking for a lead into one of his hypochondrial discourses. "This afternoon," replied Stan. "My mother and the doctor will be here soon." "Speaking of doctors-," began Billington. "Sorry, Sir," interrupted Stan, "but it' s about time for my appointn1ent." Stan wheeled himself from the glass room relieved that he had been spared another afternoon of hospital conversation fixed on a spider who was busily constructing a web outside his window. He wheeled himself around quickly, disgusted with the disconnected thoughts which had bee n running through his mind. "Well done, ole boy," he thought. "Y ou handle that wheelchair like a pro. Like a pro?" Stan laughed out loud. "But then there really isn't anything you can't do when you set your mind to it. Sure thing. Big Stan the football man." That had become a permanent title since some overzealous sports writer had done a feature on him for the school paper. "Big man all right-president of the class, honor student, athlete-People sure used to. envy you, didn't they, ole boy?" Tiring of self-pity, Stan laughed at himself again and wheeled his chair out into the corridor. The white walls and antiseptic odor did not permit him for ' a minute to forget where he was. "Hi, Stan." "How are ya, kid ?" Orderlies and nurses nodded greetings as he navigated himself toward the sun deck. He was known and liked by everyone in the hospitaL "Boy, what a master of diplo- 23 spared any preliminary chitchat. "Stan," the doctor began, "we did a complete exploratory operation on the lumbar plexus and found that your spinal cord has been severely damaged. " "Can it be fixed?" questioned Stan. "Well, Stan," the doctor continued, "the nervous system is a very delicate part of the body. When tissues are destroyed it is highly unlikely that they will regenerate sufficiently to restore complf'te function." "Y ou mean I'll never walk again," said Sian and then he cynically mused that his statement had sounded like a lead into a popular song. The doctor nodded slowly. Stan heard his mother choke back a sob and he heard the tinkle as she clutched at the jewelry around her neck. "0 God," Stan thought, "any minute she's going to fall on her knees and start beating her breast." She crossed the room slowly and cradled his head in her arms. "Don't worry, my baby," she said, "some day you will walk through paradise." ",N alking through paradise isn't so great," Stan replied. "it's probably full of big muddy swamps. " and returned to the corridor where he smiled and spoke just as congenially as before. When he entered his room Stan found his mother waiting for him. "Hello, baby," she gushed and kissed him hurriedly on the forehead. "Hello, mom," Stan said. "Have you seen Doctor Graflin ?" "Yes, dear," she replied. "I passed him in the hall and he's on his way to see you." Stan examined his mother's face and found that she was wearing her "Thy ,NiH Be Done" expression. She had become quite philosophical and religious toward him since the accident and Stan found this rather disgusting. A short bal~ing white clad figure entered the room and moved toward them. "Hello, doctor," his mother said straining her scrobiculate face into a hal f smile. Stan studied Doctor Graflin . "This is going to be short and to the point," Stan thought. "Doc looks like he wrote the Hippocratic oath-he's not one to mince words. " "Well, my boy, you're looking well today," the doctor said as he slid into a chair beside Stan. "Thanks, Doc, but I guess you know what I'm waiting to hear," said Stan wishing to be 24 portrait of a LOVE Footprints Sunk . Into the dust, All alone And still, Trace a path Of hope To a Cross Upon a Hill, And they Portray A slip, A fall, And Blood and Love and Will. CINDY STEPHENSON, S.N. 25 INDECISIONS The foghorn's low plaintive voice calls to me from out the fog, and I yearn to answer it, to flee from my prison and fly for places unknown. 26 A sharp wind swirls the leaves at my feet and sets them sailing far out over the waves, and again I long to follow them into the misty land of my dreams. Wedges of Canada geese beckon me with their wings and cry as they pass, Come away, don't delay, fly todayAnd I reach out to them, and would stay them with my hand, but something holds me back something that hints of ties, of fetters, of uncertainty and uneasiness, and my own perverse will. THERESA MEYER, 27 '64 I saw God's valley SHELDON G. HOUSTON) '65 The panoramic view before me was magnificent. The oblique valley walls were enveloped in color. Beech, poplar, spruce, maple, and pine had united their manifold autumn hues into a spectacular natural mural. Millions of leaves, victims of frost-bite, manifested the wondrous works of God. I could almost see an invisible br~sh splotching' red and purple here-dabbing yellow and brown there; and, as an afterthought, dripping mandarin dye over the surface of the entire canvas to lend a fiery brilliance to nature's masterpiece. In the valley bottom, a lazy little stream flowed under a covered bridge, past an old gristmill, now inoperative, through a field of corn stubble, and disappeared into a forest of knotty pine. A few houses, nearly shacks, against a backdrop of dilapidated out-buildings and log fences, reminded me of the frustration and love-the absurdity and beauty of life. Except for the intermittent chirping of birds, all was still. Nature had done a masterful job. God? I didn't see Him; but I !?now He was there. 28 He built them a home of happiness and trimmed it in shades of love. He raised them in the dignity of man and the glory of work well done. He fed them laughter and knowledge of scarlet sunsets. He taught t~1em to listen to whispering winds and to face a moody nature's tantrums . . He taught them that ebony nights possess stars, that mud cannot suppress the spring, that power in the hands of love does no harm. He taught them to fear only what would destroy love, for life without love is hell. He made them heirs to the noble forest and all that is goodness and strength. A nd he did no less for me. MIRIAM KAESER) 29 '66 THE CAMEO BECKY BRUNSON, 30 '66 ing cycle." Belinda didn't really dislike food, but she detested waiting. The endless cafeteria line annoyed her, and seldomprompt dates antagonized her. "If time would just move. Things go so slowly. I spend my life waiting. I wait in line for buses, food and bank deposits. vVhy can't things be, now?" Belinda peered at the motionless campus. Her elbows rested on the cool marble window sill. She solemnly surveyed the awakening landscape. The lake, nestled between the budding maple and oak groves. caught the slivers of reddish sunlight. vVhy was it so calm, so haunting and still? A shy slice of sun stole through the partially-opened blind. It caressed the minutelysculptured profile, accenting the rose stone of the background. The attached golden band awoke, setting free a sparkle of multi-colored threads. Belinda Mallory gazed fondly at the cameo. It was so much a part of her hand, so integral, that she felt herself awaken as the delicate features glistened. Her mind raced its patterned track of discontent. She knew that her psychology book labelled it, "emotional immaturity." Realizing the fallacy, she constantly fought it, bracing herself to face the life that somehow wouldn't come, Pulling the plastic cap over her strawberry hair, she flipped the pony tail over her head. She grabbed a towel from the closet shelf. Lindy smiled thoughtfully as she clutched the halfdrained bottle of bath oil. "Mark likes the smell of this stuff," she mused, "and his opinion somehow counts." That nap, she realized, had taken her far into the afternoon. The sun was slipping into the clustered trees adjoining Shamrock's campus. The Baby Ben on the desk told her she must move. It was almost six, which explained the staid atmosphere. Everyone was in the cafeteria eating supper, or waItIng impatiently for the weekly allotment of chicken. Lindy was dressed on time, but Mark was overdue as usual. She fussed impatiently with her shoulder-length bob, and meticulously secured the strand wisping over her forehead. Inspecting her make-up, she frowned to note that her eyes appeared too gray when "So what," she muttered. "It's really not worth the effort, this waiting, eating, wait- 31 she wore this navy blue suit. The pale cheeks and delicately up-turned nose twitched impatiently. She picked up the novel she had been trying to finish all week, but her mind reviewed the letter Mark had written from State U. a few days ago. It was his reply to the summer plans she had described so jubilantly. She recalled her amazement to learn he disapproved of her fantastic plans to work and study that summer and the next three semesters at Colorado State. Mark knew how long Lindy had dreamt of working on a paper. He had been the sports editor of the high school weekly when she was editor - iri - chief. Why didn't he share her joy at the offer to become an apprentice, with a guarantee of training and long-range employment? Lindy stood up and adjusted the red scarf at her neck with determination. Here was her chance to strike out into life, she reasoned, and nothing, not even Mark Hanson's objection, would alter the decision. * * * Later that evening after leaving the theater, Mark and Lindy strolled across the treelined mall. Lindy caught her- self wondering again. Mark nudged her elbow gently. "Hey there, Lindy, it's just a movie. Tony isn't really dead. You know, I read MGM's already cast him in another film , a sequel to this one." Lindy grinned up at him, and tugged at a lilac bush that drooped over the path, heavy with its fragrant burden. She pulled off a sprig of halfopened blossoms. "It's not the show, Mark. I liked it, even the sobby ending. I 'm just think. " mg. " I figured as much. vVhat's on your mind?" "Can't tell you yet, Mark. It's too confusing. I wish I were like this lilac, then I' cl know when to bloom and wouldn't mind waiting to come alive. " Lindy giggled abruptly, fixing the lilac behind her ear. "Tell me, Mark, wouldn't I make a lovely lilac bush?" "Cut it out, yon si lly. Y on worry me, with your strange ideas and your deep, pondering moods. You're so impatient for life as you see it to come, that you don't live today. " Mark's getting perturbed, 1'd better cut it off, thought Lindy. "\"here'd we park the car? I forget. Is that it across the 32 street?" Lindy chatted on gaily as they crossed the street and climbed into the red Buick She kept up the chatter even after they reached the drive-in, pausing only to sip her root beer. "Just think, Mark, next week i~, Easter vacation, and I'm going to the farm. Then there's only five weeks of school before summer vacation!" "What about that apprenticeship? A re you still thinking about it?" Mark inquired. "Yes, I've decided to go ahead and accept, then I 'll be set for the job when it counts. " "Lindy," Mark began, "that means you won't be home this summer. You won't even be near the farm. Things won't be the same this year." "N 0, Mark, things already aten't the same. I'm getting old enough to be on my own, and this . is the opportunity I've worked and waited for all these months. This I S my chance at life." "You and your ideas about life bounding up to you in one giant step. I won't push the issue, though." They had reached the dorm. "I'll see you F riday night? I'm pitching a baseball game that afternoon at St. John's. I'll drive home from there." Mark ki ssed her gently at the door and was off. Lindy went promptly to bed, but not to sleep. As she gazed at the last quarter of the moon that almost slipped completely behind the tall spruce beside her window, her mind scanned the years she and Mark had been friends. The successive summers they had passed on their farms had enkindled a rich friendship. It was based on ex periences and understanding, a relationship Lindy had grown to appreciate more after her mother had died when she was fourteen . Contentment enveloped her as she dozed , dri fted and dreamt. Lindy's father didn't expect her to go home for the spring break from classes. She always retreated to Medford and her grandfather Jensen's farm for the vacations. Since her father 's business detained him in Chicago, the girl always sought the companionship of her grandfather. Mr. Jensen remarked repeatedly to Lindy's father how much his granddaughter was like hi s wife who had died when Lindy's mother was born. Lin's cameo had been Mr. J ens en 's engagement pledge to his beloved, and her image lived in the stone. It was Lindy's profile, too, on the 33 stone, and her own mother's death had shifted it unquestionably to her finger. Easter vacation finally came and true to his word, Mark called Friday night. Eager to learn of their news, Grandfather Jensen pressed continuous queries at the couple as they lounged on the screened porch. He questioned Mark, anxious for his young friend to air his views on Lin's summer plans. Having detected Mark's displeasure, Mr. Jensen mildly commented, "Mark, you and I must remember that it is Lindy's life and efforts. N either of us may relish this plan of hers, but both of us realize how much immediate action and fruits mean to her restless spirit. " , Turning to Lindy, he puffed heartily on the pipe forbidden by his heart doctor and said quietly, "Lin, your grandmother regarded life as you do. It took a long summer of toil and a winter of hardship on that farm for her to acquire patience. But she was a remarkable woman with a vivacious spirit. Someday you'll ... yes, someday that farm \'Vill do the same for you." That night it stormed, as it always did on Good Friday, and Saturday dawned warm and sunny. Lindy and Grandfather rode out to the farm and found the - calf, born Thursday night, chilling with pneumonia. All morning they nursed it. Mr. Jensen carried it gingerly to the barn and bedded it down after injecting a dose of penicillin into its squirming flank. "It'll pull through okay, Lindy. That little fella will outlive me, you know." They devoured the picnic lunch under the elm in the bottom field that was drained off enough for sowing that afternoon. "Lindy," Grandfather began, "this tree will fall soon. See, the heartwood is all rotted out, a sign that it's aging. It's old, like me. My dad sent me to it for switches when I misbehaved, and I buried my first pony under it. The night I had that attack last winter half of it fell in a blizzard. Yes, our lives have run parallel for six ty years now. " "Gramps, you' re thinking too mu ch lately. You're working too hard, too. I'm here for a week to see that you slow down. Now lean against your elm and rest while I get the planting started. " Lindy jumped to her feet and guided the 34 alive. Lindy sensed the abundant life. The union of the earthworm's trail and the decomposing cornstalks released a contented vapor as they welcomed the moisture. The planted seed awaited the spring rain. The walnut grove along the creek blackened sharply as the horizon grew bright and then dimmed. The roar that followed sounded a toll for the ancient elm as it dropped massively across the field. As Lindy leaped into the chilled dryness of the truck, a second bolt of light revealed the knowing and somber face on the cameo. ancient tractor down the field before he could protest. Later that evening in town a warning roll of thunder sounded as they finished the evening meal. Lindy's mind raced to the calf. Another chill would kill it. Her grandfather 's sigh took her to his side. He was sprawled on the sofa, eyes closed. "Lindy, that was a good meal, but I ate too much. I should go to that calf and . . . " Lindy cut him off, ,.y ou'll do nothing of the kind. I'll check the cal f if you promise not to move from hpre. vVe don't need two of you with pneumonia." She kissed his closed eyes. "P]pase stay here, Gramps." She ' pulled on her bo'o ts and slicker. As she steered the truck along the bumpy county road to the farm a light drizzle fell. Lindy steered the resisting truck back up the hill and across the rutted pasture. She spotted the familiar red Buick parked near the barn. In the dim light she detected Mark as he bolted out and swung the wide gate open. Having twisted the wires that secured it, he climbed into the truck cab. "Lindy ... " he began. Lindy checked the calf and threw more straw into the stall. She covered the tiny sleeping form with the ragged poncho that hung in the barn for such cases, and slid the door closed. She had to see something else before returning to town. The truck bounced along the lane leading to the bottom field they had sown that day. The damp fields smelt warm, "I know, Mark," she finished quietly, "the elm just fell too." Three days later it stormed again, stopping only minutes before the funeral. Leaving the casket in the charge of the caretakers at the little hill-top cemetery, Lindy declined the return ride to town. "No," she 35 , " {;/ " II(> t ~, Marian College Library Indianapolis. In ~. He spotted Lindy standing on the gate leading into the field. He realized how delicate she was. Her hair ruffled as a gust of wind became entangled in it. The same current swayed the pleated navy blue skirt against her legs. Nothing else moved. She looked like a mannequin in a junior high shop. Lindy turned and stepped down, aware of the slosh of Mark's muddy feet behind her. "Hi ," she smiled weakly. "I was just trying to decide on the best time to drag off that elm. N ow would mean resowing part of the field and later would leave a hole in the crop this year. I stand to lose either way." insisted to her father. "I want to stay and check the cattle and give that cal f another shot. I 'll drive the truck in before supper." If he thought it unwise to leave her there alone, he held his tongue. Mr. Mallory shook his head mutely as Lindy kicked off her heels and stepped into the boots she pulled out of the car trunk. Her trembling fingers jerked the unyielding zipper on the left foot. The rusty picket gate creaked as Lindy slipped through and crossed the road. Mark frowned as he noted the girl's destination. His sister caught his sleeve as he started after her. "Take us home and then come back, Mark. She needs a few moments to herself right now. " After the short trip into town Mark left the car at the edge of the maple grove bordering the cornfield. It had been a good rain, he reasoned as his shoes became weighted with mud. The road leading from the barn had a few new ruts, but he noted the soil in the bottom fields was well saturated. He visualized the corn sprouts that would probably be peeking through by the time they returned to school. "What do you mean by later? Lindy, this farm isn't your worry. " Mark half scolded, half questioned her. "Later is this summer, Mark, while I'm down here working. Then it will be my worry." "But what about summer s2ho01, co-oping ... and your job ? You can't let that job go on a spur-of-the-moment decision, Lindy." Mark looked confused. .. " he began "That job, again. will wait," finished Lindy. "It'll have to." 36  ...

... I t TH E.FIORETTI ! VOLUME XXI NUMBER 2 . ' Indianapolis, Indiana 1962-1963 AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE I I I I ! I THE STAFF Co-Editors Donna Tatroe, '64 Jerry Zore, '63 Assistant Editors Patricia Felke, '64 Arthur Jonas, '64 Miriam Kaeser, '66 Judith Koeck, '66 Evelyn Looney, '66 Art Kuniko Lucy Kato, '64 Maureen Loughlin, '64 Kathy Stapelton, '65 Cover Design Kuniko Lucy Kato, '64 ----~--- CONTENTS Articles And in This Corner Confessions of a TV Viewer 22 Miriam Kaeser 31 Jeanne Mohr Fiction Atque Vale 15 Dave Armborst Maria 5 Bill Willmering Jay 24 Marilyn Weinbrecht The Day Clem Whupped the Bear 33 Joe Kempf Poetry The Search 10 Ann Marie Miller Beyond the Darkness 11 Joe Osburn Borrowed from Blake 12 Judith Tishaus Moonlight 21 Evelynn Looney Love 21 Evelynn Looney Contemplation 23 Miriam Kaeser Trees after a Rain 29 Theresa Meyer Lonely 30 Nora Fitzpatrick I Wish 44 Dianne Stillman I ~i I -i_ ~ I BILL VVILLMERING walked in. "Maria, hurry and change your clothes, then run down and see if we have any mail. " "But, mother, can't I have something to eat before I go?" "No. Hurry. Don't loiter around the school, and come straight to the kitchen so you can help us." As Maria entered the office the young girl at the typewriter turned a r 0 u n dan d smiled. "Well, Maria, what can I do for you today?" In the best English she could muster Maria answered, "Dee mail, pleeze." "Oh 1 I'm so r r y, Mar i a. There is only one letter for you today. " Maria took the letter and hurried out of the office. Formerly she had to stop when each girl tried to talk to her, but today the hall was nearly deserted and the few girls she passed merely nodded. When Ma ria had passed the long row of offices, she looked at the letter and stopped. Yes, it was Mrs. Hronsky's writing 1 At last she w 0 u 1 d know about Eva 1 Maria hurried along the corridor as fast as she dared, and entering the kitchen, waved the letter to her mother. "Look, the Hronskys have finally sent us a letter. Perhaps '66 Slowly the unwieldly bus creaked up the road. Maria, sighing, turned and walked up the lane towards the distant buildings. It was good to be off the bus and away from .the jabbering of the girls whom she couldn't understand and who could only give stupid smiles to her questions. "Ahead loomed the old boarding school and the convent where she had 1 iv e d sin c e spring. A t first they had lived i nt he a tt i c rooms of the school, but now they occupied the cottage below the kitchen side of the convent. Circling around the front of the school, Maria crossed the drive, descended the stairs, and entered the cottage. "Ah, good 1 Mother isn't in," she thought. "Just time enough to get to the ice-box." But just then the back door c los e d and Mrs. Pouvochek 5 mg smile and began scraping the grease off the sides. Later when Mrs. Pouvochek was settled in her f a v 0 r i t e chair with her evening's knitting before her, she listened to Maria read the letter. After Maria had finished , Mrs. Pouvochek snipped off a section of yarn and said to her daughter. "I must write them now, and tell them that we are well too. " "Mother, can I write to them for you? Please. I could start tonight, and the letter will go with the morning mail. ' "I don't know, Mari;:l ' Ve m u s t n't leave the lights on longer than the other people. " "May I, if I only write as long as the other lights are on up there in the school ?'. "Very well, the n ," Mrs. Pouvochek answered, " but remember to do just what you have said you would." Maria hardly h ear d her mother's warning as she ran to the bureau and withdrew first one and then two sheets of paper. In her own room, Maria turned on the lamp beside her bed and began to write: Dear Eva, H ow fortunate I am finally to be able to write to you. Since we were separated from you inN ew York, I haven 't seen anyone I really know ex - they are settled and are all right. " Mrs. Pouvochek looked at the letter, then at the other cook who was stirring the soup in the large kettle on the stove. and she said to Maria, "Yes, dear. but first we must do our eve n i n g's work," and with whispered tones she continued, "Don't rush into here that way. Don't you realize you could upset something? A nd remember to try to speak English. " Maria said nothing as Mrs. Pouvochek slipped the letter into the large pocket of her apron. Reaching down a towel, _she handed it to Maria and said, "The cook would like these washed first, and then when you have dried them, you must dust the study hall while the students are at supper." "But, mother, can't we read the letter first? " "N 0, Maria, we must work first. Then we may read the letter. " As ,the cook across the room began to ladle out the soup, Mrs. Pouvochek carried the bowls into the dining hall, and Maria began to wash the dishes. "Maria, you mustn't be so impatient," the coo k s aid. handing her the empty kettle. Maria smiled an acknowledg- 6 cept mother. \ Ve are settled now in our own house, though it is still right next to the school and the convent where you sent the letter. I don 't go to school here though. I have to go into the city to a different school. I don't know why ~t is, but I do. Everyone says that I am so lucky to go there, because, as they say, it is a modern school. Oh, it's such a miserable way to do things. The teacher doesn't know any of our language, and she only smiles and tells me to be patient when I ask her to help me with my E nglish. During recess I have to tell her in E nglish the nameS for all the things she points to in the room, and then she makes me read the most ridiculous English p rim e r s. \ \TelI, at least that is better than going out-of-doors where everyone runs around or stands packed together and expects me to entertain them. You should see how ugly the school is. It is only one story tall, and all the classrooms are exactly like. The only wood I have found so far is in the few empty bookcases. Eve nth e shades are a sickening shade of green. Remember how back home we used to make fun of Sophia because she was the teacher's favorite? Now it's the reverse. I'm the favorite of the teacher's favorite. Her name's Diana, and if Sophia could have an American counterpart, she is it. In our school we have no cloakroom, but everyone has to hang his coat in a little tin locker. The lockers have the tiniest little doors that have to be slammed to close them. Do you remember that old tram mother used to take us to the dentist on every month? Rem e m b e r how the conductor used to say, "W ate h you r han d s, please. \iV atch your hands," as he would slam the old doors on the front? I'm sure if I could have spoken English well enough, I, too, would have yelled "\'latch your hands" to Diana w hen she tried to show me how to slam my locker door. Do you remember how the teacher from the central office used to tell us how dishonest the Americans really are? Of course, I didn't bel i eve his stories then, but you know I think over hal f the boys in the back of the room cheated on their last spelling test, and I saw one girl copy three 'vords directly from her speller. Of course, the teacher was too busy helping Diana correct her test to see that the rest of the 7 make corrections w hen :Mrs. Pouvochek opened the door and turned on the light saying, "Maria - Oh! you're up already. vVhat d 0 you h a v e there? Oh! it's your letter to the Hronskys. Let me read it. " Maria handed the letter to her mother and moved across the room to the closet. Mrs. Pouvochek read through several lines, and chided Maria. "Maria! How can you say such things? Don't you think that we are fortunate to be here? \Vhat do you mean telling Eva that the school over here is no good. \Vhy! you have been at the school only seven months, and already you know some English!" "Oh, mother!" Nlaria answered. "I don't want to learn English! I don't want to go to school! I only want to go where there are people I know. Oh, mother! I want to go back home." "But, Maria, we can't go back You know we can't go back" "Yes, mother, I know," 11aria admitted sinking back down on the bed and staring at the floor. "Well, then, thank God that we have been able to get here safely." class was cheating. Oh, Eva, do you remember the old organ-grinder who used to come around on warm afternoons and pIa y tun e s under the back wall of the school ? You know, I think I miss him most of all. Remember how, after the new decrees came out, when we were in the third grade, he used to look so guilty when the old teacher from the central office came out to call the police? Oh! Eva, I don't think I will ever see another organ-g r i n d e r again . . . . "Maria," l\tlrs. Pouvochek said, sticking her head in the bedroom, "you must turn off your light right . now, and go to bed." ('Yes, mother," Maria answered. Signing the letter hurriedly, she slipped it into the envelope and turned off the light. It was dark now and the hushing of the pines against the brooding bulk of the old school engul fed Maria with the full misery of the new world. The next morning Mar i a awoke in the grey hazy light of the pre-dawn, and seeing that it had grown light enough to see, she arose and unfolded the letter she had been writing the night before. She read it through once and began to 8 under the photograph (If her grandfather: "For my sweetest Maria with hopes that she will always be as sweet Cl.nd as happy as she is now." Maria laughed a little laugh that became a sob, and, clasping the book, bent over and cried, "I f he only knew. I f he were only here to know." As she bent over clutching her scrapbook, Maria thought of a way to make her day bearable. She would take the book to school and somehow she would find time to look at it. She would be back home again. So, quickly dressing, she ran down to breakfast. Later on the bus Maria felt better. She would be able to esc ape, and eve n Diana wouldn't be able to read the inscriptions or the poems her friends had written below their photos. Maria smiled inwardly to hersel f, and reassuringly patted the scrapbook concealed under her other books. At lunch time Maria escaped to the yard. Sitting down by the steps where only a few children ran by because of the rain puddles, she opened her precious scrapbook. Maria was just turning the page to the class picture when Diana came running up. "''''hat do you have there, :M aria raised her head and looking straight at her mother said, "But, mother, it isn't that way. America isn't what you say it is. If you only knew how they stare, and how they expect me to be their little doll to play teacher with." "''''ell, perhaps you aren't friendly enough!" "Mother, don't you see, we are their play-things? Don't you see that they are going to get tired of us soon? Don't you think it will be the same thing all over again?" "Maria," 1\1rs. Pouvochek broke in sobbing, "you know that God wouldn't permit it again. It will never again happen. There's nothing left to take away frQli.1 us. It can't happen." " Yes, mother," Maria said quietly. "God vwuldn't let it happen again." A fter her mother had left, Maria, who continued to sit on the edge of her bed, stared at the dim light coming but from under the shade. Suddenly she rose, and opening the drawer of her chest,. drew out a battered scrapbook. Opening the first page, Maria gazed down at the pictures of herself and Eva taken in the mountains. She flipped over the next page and came to the inscription 9 her grandfather's inscriptionfell from the book and fluttered down into the puddle of muddy water at the foot of the steps. Just then Miss Foss called the class, and as the children filed by, Maria lost sight of the picture. By the time she was able to scream for them to stop. the picture was already trampled down into the water, and all that was left of the carefully penned writing was a few blue blurs mingled with the mud from the feet of the girl who copied out her answers and the boys who traded answers during the test. Maria? \iVhat is it?" she asked. Maria cringed inwardly but smiled. "Oh, it's a scrapbook," Diana added. "Let me see," she demanded, grabbing for the boo:\:. Maria could do nothing to protest but kept her hands firmly on the covers as Diana leafed through the pages. "Oh, I must show it to Miss Foss. Do let go, Maria, so I can see it better. " In vain protest Maria answered, "No!" But Diana had already wrested the book froj her hands. As she dashed up the steps to where Miss Foss was, a loose leaf-the one \;vith HUlTying, Scurrying. To and fro , On and on and vVe go. THE SEARCH ANN lVL\RIE MILLER. 011 Searching For something Men seldom find, Searching For something Called - peace of rpind. '65 10 beyond the darkness Lo, the way\vard pilgrim I found myself to be To the windward I kept my back :V1 y face I kept alee. Cloak of. Ii fe around my neck, cloak both smooth and gay I sauntered down the pleasure hill And thought it worth the pay. Feasts I ate, and wines I drank, and loved the muses all My vitality clothed me well But it withered in the fall. ~ ow the hill is ended, the path is upward bent As my age beats me to the ground My cloak is torn and rent. \ Vith older eyes I recognize the light beyond the tor And know again I must ascend To where I'd been before. The peak at last achieved, the light reveals the morn And now that I must shed my cloak I consider it well worn. JOE O SBU RN)6-t 11 BORROWED from BLAKE I am the miserable specimen of centuries-old mutation. I am one who needs the most, but gets least consolation. I am the weary, I am the sick, I am the down-trodden man. I am called inferior since ever time began. 12 I I I I am indebted to all who surround me. am not insulted when men impound me. give my friendship, but get only hate. give my best, but can never tempt fate. I I I I am am am am illiterate, I am unlearned. not invited, but always spurned. not trusted, and yet am deceived. instructed, and yet not believed. But I am the creature to whom God has saidMan cannot hope to live solely by bread. Justice and mercy upon me will shine. By patience and kindness ,,,ill heaven be mine. I'll live and I'll suffer; God Incarnate did! And forever my virtue from earthlings be hid. The Heavenly Father will bathe me in light. AJthough not like my body, my soul will be white. JUDITH TISHAUS J 13 '65 ".A beautiful day," mused .Manilius Verrius as he guided his horse along the narrow, cobbled street hemmed in by tall, stately-looking apartments. "Yes, a beauti ful day to die 1" he thought to himself as he looked eastward toward the rising sun. Pas sin g on, the sun gradually crept up the brick walls of the plain-faced buildings, pushing back the shadows of night and loosening the morning sounds of a populace awakening from sleep -the vague chatter of voices, a clanging of utenslls, t!1e cry of an awakening child, lulling the senses and inducing a gentle, tranquil air. Manilius Verrius, centurion of the Fifth Cohort of the Tenth Legion, the imperial army of Gaius Julius Caesar, ruler of Rome and all Italy, had been sent to head a band of legionaries whose mission was to promptly put down a local, but nevertheless potentially dangerous, servile insurrection running its course in Arpinum, a wealthy suburb of Rome in the V olscian Mountains. The patrician aristocrats were rumored to be in a state of abject terror; so much so that some of them had even, in a DAVE A RM BORST) '64 wild frenzy, put to death their faithful servants in order to preserve their loyalty. The mere thought of such a condescension from their oft preserved, sacred dignity brought a bitter smile to the thin lips and cold, blue eyes of Manilius. He could even picture one of the obese nobles dashing around a table clutching at the skirts of his toga, his jowls quivering, terror in his dissolute, protuberant eye s, pursued by a ragged, dirty, howling slave brandishing a dagger in one hand and a leg of mutton in the other. The swollen distended bladder of pompousness pricked by the audacity of rebellion. Too bad that such energy would be spent in vain, and so many brave lives lost, for the only outcome of an encounter between tough, battle-h~rden ed legionaries and the wild, scattered bands of insurgents could be a harsh, bloody quel1ing of the uprising. And it was his duty as centurion of the Fifth Cohort to play his part in the bloody, distasteful drama about to be enacted. He would merely obey orders and slaughter a group of slaves who had dared to assert their freedom and challenge the sacred authority of Rome. The 15 sacred authority was embodied in the crass personage of Marcus Rufus Lentulus, legate of the Tenth Legion and immediate superior of Manilius. Lentulus had selected Manilius to head the detachment of legionaries. The crafty, jealous Lentulus, always ready to crush the spire of glory w hen it reared itself above the head of anyone else, had, no doubt, recognized a job which was ileir to no special glory, and yet susceptible to possible fail~tue and consequent disgrace. And, as if this were not enough to satisfy the greed of this noble Roman, the detachment was purposely undermanned for such an expedition. Moreover, Lentulus, . the partician ex.:.Senator, had cleverly manipulated the official records to show no such deficit in the manpower of the detachmenta clever precaution, Manilius thought wryly. Perhaps it was better not to show such open resentment towards his superi or. no matter how despicable he be. After all, he aspired to replace Lentulus upon his retirement from command nf the Legion, and the fact that he had openly criticized the fickleness and insincerity of his general would not especially endear him to the crafty, old fox, who might shatter IVIanilius's ambitions out of sheer envy. Too bad Rufus had any say at all about his successor, for otherwise Manilius, with his distinguished record of efficient service in the imperial army in Germany and Gaul, would absolutely be first choice to fill the vacated spot. vVell. when he retunied from this expedition, he would be sure toA flurry of shrill shouting suddenly broke the early morning stillness, and a silver basin flew out of 3. window above him, struck the stones of the street, and rolled into the gut ter with a great clatter. There immediately f 0 I lowed the slamming of a door , and a gradual cessation of the harsh cnes. Manilius did not halt his horse or even slacken his pace perceptibly, but merely turned his head, and, shading his eyes against the glare of the sun. stared in the direction of the apartment window from which the missile had so suddenly sallied forth. Marital quarrels were too frequent to worry about and generally harmless to the participants, although occasionally dangerous for innocent bystanders. A slight smile played across his s war thy handsome couiltenance, ren- 16 dered austere by an aquiline nose, a singular handsome countenance, sharp features, and a square jutting chin. His steel-blue eyes twinkled with the inner glow of a strong, dominant character, impossible to be restrained or hidden for any length of time. An aura of maturity surrounded his lean, athletic body, an aura which was enhanced by his military trappings-his crested helmet, woolen tunic, leather doublet with plates of metal, brown cloak worn against the slight morning chill, and heavy hobn ail e d sandals. The wellgroomed, m usc u I a r white charger with bobbed tail and flowing mane, which he rode so easily and with such dig-nity, completed his impressive appea ran c e - an appearance which reflected the might of the Roman Empire on this, the second day before the Ides of October, 58 B.C. :Manilius and his expedition wound their way through the narrow streets of the city, out along the wide, sun-swept avenue passing the stately Forum with its ornate columns, scrolls and wide marble steps, through the outskirts of the city, and along the dusty path threading the green plains and cultivated fields of the outlying districts. Some of the laborers in the fields, taking advantage of the mild morning hours, gathering in the late crop of grain, or despoiling the vineyards of their large purple grapes, stopped their work momentarily to s tar e wit h languid countenances at the passing of the column of soldiers, the mili~ tary might of Rome. Just as quickly, however, they returned to their work, such martial spectacles being commonplace in a city so full of splendor and magnificence of all kinds. As the cohort wound its way through the foothills the sun was nearing its zenith. lVlanilius wheeled his horse off to the side of the rock road and, scanning the ranks of his vet erans, called a short halt. Dismounting, he gave the reins of his horse to an attendant and strode off to the crest of the hill, where he stopped and slowly scanned the horizon. Doffing his helment, he reached up and ran his hand through his dense black hair which was beginning to grey at the temples and was fast receding from his noble forehead . Here he was on the threshold of the last stage of his career, realizing the necessity of success in order to retire into a life of leisure and affluence so neces- sary for prestige. The opposition of old Rufus towards Manilius's succession as legate of the Tenth Legion could possibly sway the Emperor's choice and force Manilius to retire as a mere centurion into the numberless ranks of the common populace. And suddenly a feeling of utter futility and destitution swept over him, destroying his confidence and overshadowing his spirit like a dark, ominous thundercloud. Surely there was some easier way along the stony path to success-one which was not prey to the doubts and fears which now gripped his mind in a vise. And, as if a detached observer, he looked down and saw himself bent under the burden of disgrace and defeat. The sudden clatter of a shield dropped upon the stony ground brought Manilius back to reality with a start, and, sighing inwardly, he turned and strode back down the hill. After regrouping his men, he remounted and led them. out along the trail. The afternoon had almost spent itself, as the column of soldiers turned a bend in the narrow trail and saw the thin wisp of smoke arising from the vicinity of one of the splendid villas. Upon nearing the site, the bl

... THE FIORETTI I VOLUME XXI NUMBER 1 Indianapolis, Indiana 1962-1963 AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE I I THE STAFF Co-Editors Donna Tatroe, '64 Jerry Zore, '63 Assistant Editors John Chapman, '63 Patricia Felke, '64 Dolores Kohne, '63 Maureen Loughlin, '64 Arthur Jonas, '64 Art Maureen Loughlin, '64 Marie Mastruserio, '63 Kathy Stapelton, '65 Cover Design Kuniko Lucy Kato, '64 CONTENTS Articles The Awful Loveliness 8 Skeletons in the Closet 16 Elsye Mahern . Connie Knoll An Extraordinary Life and a Happy Death 31 Elaine Grafen Fiction Finis 4 The Devil Laughed Last 11 Donna Tatroe The House 22 Theresa Meyer White Fingernails 33 Sandy Walsh Thirteen Stories 37 Joe Osburn Arthur Jonas Poetry Wanderlust 7 Railroad 10 Eloise 15 Marie Mastruserio Reflection 19 Evelynn Looney Melancholy 20 Theresa Meyer Loneliness 29 Pat Goley Dweller of Green Caves 32 Joe Kempf The Ba Ilad of the Rainbow's End 36 Mary Jo Boyle Maribeth Schubert . Evelynn Looney Past the stars, beyond the darkness, in the land of the night lies a valley bordered by steep cliffs. At night the valley is cloaked in velvety black; the cliffs, dark and mystic, guard this peaceful paradise. The sky glitters with thousands of twinkling stars, each one a pinpoint of brilliance. A gentle breeze si fts through the long grass of the valley floor. On the eastern horizon, the huge, red moon lifts itself above the rocky crags into the star studded celestial canopy. silhouetting on the cliff two young wolves, a male and a female. As the rising moon changes from red to gold then to silver, the two creatures, one a glossy black, the other a soft grey, wind down the cliff and quietly enter the grassy haven. A bright noonday sun set in a deep azure sky entices the spring flowers to bloom and the trees to push forth their leaves. Soft breezes blow the fragrance of the flowers over the entire valley and into the den which shelters the two wolves. The young lobo lazily stretches, then goes back to sleep. His grey mate stirs by his side in her slumber, perhaps dreaming of the times to come in this Shangri-La. ' 0 u t sid e the breezes blow and the silver stream gurgles eternally. Spring passes, bringing summer with its warm days and tranquil nights. After sunset, cool gusts from the mountains invade the valley, ruffling the fur of the two wolves playfully romping over the plain. Their big paws thump the ground rhythmically as they race and chase each other up and down the valley. Sometimes the glowing black one rolls his companion over and over. Sometimes she flirts with him, playfully nipping and jabbing at her companion. daring him to catch her. Taking the bait the chase is on. Dodging and darting they race up and down the hills, in and out of the clearings till finally, their fur matted thick with sweat and dust, they both plunge into the coolness of the stream. The hours pass and the night insects begin their final encore. The winging meadowlark happily awakens the placid valley to a bright new day. As the fading moon swi ftly plunges in the western heavens and the rising sun gingerly lifts above the horizon, the two wolves silently glide across the valley returning carefree to their 1en to sleep. The days swiftly come and go; all too soon the balmy sum- 5 mer weather gives way to the chill of autumn. The stream is now too cold for swimming. The locusts have begun their ultimate crescendo and high over,head the geese fly to the South; cool winds blow down from the mountains sending the red, yellow and orange leaves tumbling to the ground, at first only one by one, then in ever increasing numbers. Carpeted in dull brown, the valley has gradually acquired a barren melancholic atmosphere. The cliffs do not glow as brightly at sunrise and sunset as they used to. The wolves, nearly full-grown, have lost much of their puppy playfulness. Occasionally the grey she-wolf tries to romp with her wild mate, as they once did, striking playfully at him with her ' paw; but the black lobo, having taken a more serious turn, now ignores these promptings. Often he prowls alone in the mists of the valley, watching' the flocks of birds winging through the grey desolate sky and mournfully calling to each other. Brown limbs, once camouflaged by thick green foliage, are now bleakly silhouetted against the grey overcast. Black clouds fill the heavens and a few dismal flakes fall ;6 menacingly toward the cold terrain. The cliffs are stonecol d, dam p and bleak. The whistling of the wind rises above the icy tinkling of the stream. When heavy night comes, the grey wolf awakens, finding her mate missing. Dashing out into the cutting wind, she sees him defiantly atop the east cliff. He howls once, telling the world he is untameable and unchainable. Then he is gone. For several hours the shewolf keeps vigil. Brown, dry leaves blow across the dull grass making dry crackling sounds. Dark, fuzzy clouds sweep the sky, hiding the moon and stars. Hemmed in by towering, barren cliffs, the valley is bleak and lonely. Then the cold, white moon breaks through the gloomy clouds, revealing the grey one still standing on the west cliff. She longingly looks down on the valley. Summer has fled carrying with it the warmth, beauty and friendliness of the valley. Raising her head she howls. long, lonely, wavering howls. Her sad cries float away from the valley, out of the land of night, beyond the darkness, past the stars to our own world where they echo still in the breast of every broken-hearted lover. WANDERLUST Give me the wind That I may ride upon it Into unknown lands. The sun-warmed grass, The wide, rippling waters, The mysterious forests Beckon me. The dark of the earthSubterranean chambers \\There few have trod Beckon me. The pUlsing city, The faces of humanity, and The bright, blinking lights Beckon me. It is a driving force within meA living thing That will not be satisfied. 1__ _ _ _ MARIBETH SCHUBERT, 7 '63 dlwful Loveliness ELSYE MAHERN, '65 As a poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley elicits not so much words as sounds. For this reason one wishes that he might rather make a recording of Shelley's poetry. Take, for example, his "Hymn to Intellectual Beauty." \Vhen his shadow falls on the reader, shrieks of ecstasy, coos of delight and cries of despair are not unknown. Shelley felt inadequate before his VISIon of pure Beauty. He prayed That thou ... 0 awful Loveliness, Wouldst give whate' er these words cannot express. As he besought the aid of Beauty to close the gulf between himself and her, I must petition the help of Shelley to close the chasm between myself and him. He reminds me of a holy woman who in her youth was granted a vision of God, and who ever after existed only for the brief moments when the clouds again would part and she would behold all that mattered. Shelley complains that Beauty is such an inconstant lover. If only she'd keep a "firm state within his heart," he'd be immortal. And the reader is tempted to add: he'd have to be immortal to bear the emotional strain. The white skinned, blue-veined emotion is so predominant in Shelley's work, and it builds to such a pitch, that the length of the poem seems to be determined by whether he arrives at the breaking point sooner or later. The peak of unbearable beauty 8 is almost always reached in the last stanza or in the last saVe one. It is as though the holy woman kneels to pray-to pursue God. He comes to her-she swoons. End of poem. I'm not being very logical and orderly. But Shelley defies logic as moonlight defies a laboratory. He was so far away from ordinary men as to be almost an abstraction of beauty himself. But as Plato thought that virtue could be taught, Shelley considered that beauty could be learned. In a certain sense he thought himself an ordinary man. At least he thought that other men understood and felt the emotions which he understood and felt. The differences which he did see between himself and other men he must have blamed on the inhibiting influence which church and state exerted over them. He longed to free This world from its dark slavery. But the freedom which he sought was the freedom to be good: freely and willingly good. Shelley had experienced Beauty in a searing experience. It was more real than the shadows which moved around him. He thought that all men must experience what he felt. It visits with inconstant glance Each human heart and countenance. If the strain grew too great between the visible world and the real one, as it certainly did for Shelley, there was only one possibility of adjustment. The visible world would have to conform to reality. Shelley experienced beauty but he also experienced cruelty and it is interesting to note how one affected the other. He longed to give beauty to the cruel ones. His love affair was with Beauty rather than with other men. Yet she hollowed out a place in his heart for all humanity. This is the effect of love: through one we learn to love all. But I doubt if it would have had such a total effect if he had conceived a hate for his fellow men in response to their cruelty. He must have lacked, even il~ his agony, not so much a desire for retaliation but the resentment that would prolong it. 9 It is annoying to discuss the morality of poets and artists but Shelley's preoccupation with the spiritual seems to demand it. l j measured against art objective code of morality he is sure to be found wanting. But if the man is considered against his own code and vision, he is fo und to be so fantastically faithful to them th9-t the word "sanctity" springs to mind. He called upon the awful Loveliness to fill what was wanting in him. She responded by giving him the stigmata. \ Ve can touch beauty by touching Shelley. Railroad TrackB The tracks in the moonlight, The tracks that you see, A re rivers of steel, Which tempt you and me, Tempt us to travel, To follow the streams, Of twisting rivers, Which flow to our dreams. EVELYNN LOONEY, 10 '66 the devil laughed last DONNA TATROE, '64 Ted was awakened by the sound of loud voices from the kitchen. The shouts and profanities were not a pretty lullaby for a ten-year-old boy, but nonetheless they were sounds to which he had become accustomed. He leaned over and looked at little Nicky, who, despite the noise, was sleeping soundly. Creeping from bed, he moved silently toward the door and peered through a small crack into the smoky outer room. His mother, a small but hard woman, was leaning over the table, yelling with the strength of a person twice her size. She was a typical product of the Mississippi swamp lands. Her skin was dark and leathery and seemed to be stretched too tightly over her rickety frame. She clutched a whiskey bottle in her yellowed hands . and waveclit wildly as she talked. 11 "What else can I do but drink, locked up in this snake hole all day?" she shouted. "You ain't ever gonna make no money out here. You're just too damn lazy to do any real work." wife's accusations. "vVhy doesn't he say something?" Ted thought. "Why doesn't he make her stop yelling ?" "Well, why don't you say something, stupid?" his mother screamed, becoming more and more angry at her husband's silence. She was drunker than usual tonight, but then she was usually drunk so it really didn't make much difference. The big man dragged his body from the chair and lumbered toward the door. "I'm goin' for a walk," he said, his booming voice piercing the strained silence. Ted squatted motionless by the door and let the words pierce into his brain. His hands were clutched tightly about his sturdy legs and his fingernails dug deeper and deeper into his flesh with each word his mother . spoke. It was a spasmodic effort to transform his mental anguish into a physical pain which he could stop at will. Ted . was almost a mirrorimage of .his father, who was sitting hunched over the table, with his back to the bedroom door. "You're staying here," his wife yelled, changing her com; plaining tone into a demand. She ran to the corner, and grabbed the shotgun, presentinga somewhat comical picture because of the gun's great size and her strained efforts to keep it level. Ted's father laughed and once more headed for the door, but his laughing was drowned out by a blast which shook the wooden hut. The woman began a wild shrill laugh which quickly changed to a hysterical sob as she threw herself across the bloody heap on the floor. Ted was sick. The whole Ted's father was a bear-like . man with dark wiry hair and beard and black eyes set deep into his square tanned face. His shoulders, slightly stooped, emphasized his -thick arms and over-sized hands. Despite his appearance he was a self-sufficient man, believing in nothing but himself, but attached by a dumb devotion to his wife, much as an animal to his mate. Consequently, an occasional grunt was the only retort or defense he offered against his 12 room was spinning around him and he barely noticed Nicky who now was awake and crying. "We gotta get away," he thought and rushing to the bed he pulled Nicky by the arm and fled out the back door of the hut. for a moment he had forgotten the horror of the night before. He marveled at the transformation from the swamp at night, which had tried to swallow him, and the garden which in the morning light seemed to be protecting him. Nicky was slttmg up amusing himself with a small toad which he had found in the grass. Ted jumped up with a start as he remembered why they were there and what had happened the night before. The hysteria ,vas gone now and he was left with mingleq ' feelings of fear and despair. The air was cool and the ground was damp under his pounding feet. Half dragging and half carrying Nicky, he plunged deeper and deeper into the blackness of the swamp. "Gotta get away, gotta get away" - the words hammered in his head to the rhythm of his wildly beating heart. "Keep running - run faster - your Daddy's dead-run Nicky run - faster, faster," the trees screamed at him. As the two figures penetrated the dense undergrowth, the bushes seemed to reach out and grab them. "Let go!" Ted cried. "Run Nicky!" The vines were wrapping around their legs and finally with a futile lunge both boys fell exhausted. panting and crying, trapped by the green prison. "Well. we can't just sit here. " he thought. "Come on, Nicky." he said, and taking the boy's small hand. he began wandering aimlessly through the swamp trying to think of something to do or somewhere to go. "Where we goin'?" Nicky asked. his short legs running to keep up with his older brother. "I don't know," Ted snapped. "Poor little Nicky," he thought, "he's so helpless and I must take care of him." "Ted, where's Mommy?" Nicky asked. "At home," Ted answered, "but we can't go there." Ted The swamp was quiet now, and clinging to each other the boys fell into a troubled sleep. The sun was shining through the trees and the birds were ca1ling when Ted awoke, and 13 looked down at little Nicky. "He's so pale and thin," Ted thought, "I can see almost every bone in his body. He looks like Moth-. vVhat a terrible thought; he's not anything like her," Ted decided. "Ted, where's Daddy?" Nicky again asked. "He's de-, " Ted began, but quickly recovered and answered, "He's in heaven." "Well, I guess we'll have to go there, then," Nicky concluded with the infallible logic of a six-year-old. "Shut up and walk faster," Ted snapped. As they wandered through the faceless sw.amp Ted turned Nicky's words over and over in his mind. "Let's go there-go there-to heaven-go to see Daddy," Ted thought. The sun was directly overhead when the boys finally stopped to rest at the edge of a river. They had had nothing to eat all morning and Nicky had started to cry. No matter how hard he tried, Ted couldn't shake Nicky's words from his thoughts. "If we go to heaven we can be with Daddy and no one can hurt him or me anyn-:ore," he thought and on that note finally decided what they \vould do . 14 "Nicky," he questioned, "do you really want to go to heaven and see Daddy?" "Sure," Nicky answered, now completely detached from the problem at hand. "O.K., come on," Ted said impulsively, and taking the small boy's hand he waded out into the murky river. The dirty water caught them and pulled them under, churning the two small bodies over and over. On the last choking sob, Ted saw his father's face smiling at them through the darkness. vVhen Ted opened his eyes again the blackness had become filmy white and everything seemed clean and pure. Nicky was still clinging to his neck but all the fear was gone from his face. "Come on," Ted said, "let's find Daddy." The boys saw a tall man standing in front of them and as they neared he leaned down and stretched out his hands. "This is God," Ted said to Nicky as they let themselves be lifted up by the strong arms. "God, where's my Daddy?" Nicky asked with the unabashed forwardness of youth. "Boys," the man answered, "I'm sorry. but . your daddy: is in hel!." . IEILOllSIE How do you do? I'm Eloise vVith stringy hair and knobby knees, vVith gossamer wings to wing me high, To kiss a bird, to greet a fly. Bing! Bang! Bong! I always go. Vibrating eardrums never know That it's only me, Eloise, Riding bellclappers in the breeze. I'm Eloise! I'm Eloise! \l\1ith fairy teas, Three pekinese, And scar let seas, And crystal keys, A siamese cat vVhose eyes are green, And subtleties One only sees In the eyes of the beautiful children. MARIE MASTRUSERIO, 15 '63 SKELETONS CONNIE KNOLL) In the closet '66 It seems strange to be going through her belongings; but I suppose she would have wanted me to take care of these treasures that, for some reason, she stowed away in her closet. At first glance it seems to be a typical teen-age girl's closet. There are clothes huddled together getting wrinkled; some garments have safety pins where buttons used to be. Shoes are scattered around the floor amid traces of dust. The hooks just inside the door are loaded beyond capacity with things she just never found time to put on hangers. In one corner on the shelf are shoe boxes and hat boxes, their contents peeking through the lids that are at half-mast. Hanging from the light cord is a mouse trap baited with a sign which reads, "I'd like to help you out. vVhich way did you come in?" In the far corner of the closet are numerous stationery boxes which tell what their owner was really like; for in- 16 re spondence went through the mail; she also saved some notes written in class during her sophomore year of high school, and she tied them up like a bundle of love letters. side them are bits and snatches of her life. The boxes, carefully labeled and decorated with choice Christmas cards, were an attempt at the orderliness she could never seem to achieve. She certainly did quite a bit of writing! In addition to all her letters, I see a portfolio of English compositions written during her senior year of high school; tucked away with them are her first term paper and a bibliography on cremation. She was always repuls-ed by the idea of being buried. The first is a box of envelopes of various colors and sizes; she wrote such long letters that she could never keep a supply of paper, but she always had envelopes to spare. In another box is a booklet entitled It's Fun to Wr1:te Letters. I wonder what she was doing with that? She didn't need to be convinced of the joys of letter-writing; she was always writing to someone. If she had ever learned the rules of correct letter form , as indeed she must have, she completely disregarded them in favor of her own peculiar style. She used to ramble on saying anything that came to her mind, giving wild descriptions that made everyday incidents seem bizarre. People found her letters extremely amusing. She must have shared their opinion; under the booklet on letter-writing is a large pile of letters that she herself wrote. She collected them from the recipients whom she visited. Apparently not all of her cor- Her reading interests were rather unusual, or so I surmise from the pamphlets and magazine articles in another box. Here are: Simplified Parlia1nentary Procedure and How to Get and Hold the Right Job. CThat's funny! She never had a job. ) Still more interesting are: "How Will Women Look 100 Years From Now?" "Ten Danger Signals of Mental Illness" Cshe insisted that she had all ten) , and Miles Kimball of Oshlwsh - a mail order catalog. In the same box, where she could neither lose them nor use them. are her retreat notes and spiritual reading pamphlets. Well, she must have had good intentions. And lastly, she enclosed two 17 crossword puzzle books complete with answers on the back pages; as I recall, she cheated on most of the puzzles. Speaking of cheating, another treasure I find here is some information on the "Eata-Treat Diet" and Jack La Lanne's Glamour Stretcher instruction chart. (The Glamour Stretcher is hanging in the corner.) The reason she never had any results from these is evident; she had conflicting interests. Another box contains two blue ribbons for cooking. \\lith those awards are, among othet things, one for making a parasol and one for a pianoplaying contest--:-a gold medal attached to a blue ribbon . . When she received the latter she declared that it resembled a dog tag. I see that she eventually. got around to putting on ' paper the "May Song" she composed when she was five. She had a weird sense of humor; she used. to play her piece vvl' ile standing with her back to the piano. However, she didn't provide alI the entertainment; she often enjoyed plays and the like. In one of her boxes she has numerous programs from the symphony, music recitals, and plays, some of which I know 18 she never attended. It is very clear that she held on to anything that would bring back pleasant recollections; a mimeograph copy of the senior play script, a leaf collection from high school biology, and her English class autobiography. She must have had some for saving these: reason eighteen "Kennedy magazines" ; a vVashington, D. C. , newspaper which carried the complete coverage of the last inauguration; a department store box filled with newspaper and magazine clippings about the Kennedys; forty issues of a weekly news magazine which had possibilities of containing more in formation about-of course-the Kennedys. Perhaps she was thinking of writing a book about them. Another collection! Here is her private art gallery: 64 colIectors' items executed through the years. This must have been her junk box where she kept such precious articles as these newspaper pictures; one of Richard Burton and the other of the wedding scene from the movie TV est Side Story. Here is a roll of developed film; it has pictures from President Kennedy's inauguration. I remember that she never made prints of this because when she developed the film she found that the pictures, taken off the television screen, were barely visible. However, she saved the film since, when she held it at a precise angle, she could almost make out the faces. Appropriately enough, this box also contains two Kennedy campaign buttons and-where did this come from ?-an Ike and a Nixon button. This box of Christmas cards brings back a memory. She bought them to send to her friends; but they were so pretty that, in the true spirit of Christmas, she kept them. Ah! Something that no one should be without: instructions for making a candelabra-centerpiece from a wooden salad bowl and a staircase baluster! Heavens! Maybe she had just a little bit of Scotch blood in her. \i\Thy else would she have saved five large pieces of painted paper, ten pieces of red shelf paper, two empty ink cartridges, and a box of boxes? \\That was she going to do with six popsicle sticks and three leaky pens? I'm afraid these questions will remain unanswered; the one person who could have answer~d them is gone. Or is she? Is the silly teenager haunting the things she left behind, or has she actually left? Have I really changed so much in one year? A blasted ruin is all that remains, Yet the mos keeps on growing, _\nd the rain keeps on falling, And men keep on quarreling \Vhere is N ew York? EVELYNN LOONEY, 19 '66 MELANCHOL Not even the sight of well-remembered paths, or hallowed nooks that hint of promises made, nor flowered meadows. nor sunlight si fted through the overhanging bough-s, can serve to ease my melancholy. N ow they only bring a tear, a pang of nostalgia, an emptiness that heaven alone can fill. 20 What promise life held for me! What happiness heralded on Titian rays of setting sun! Eternity seemed a trifle, unparalleled with my new-found joy. I turned a deaf ear to whispered remonstrances. I cast aside those who would have loved me; I yielded; I fell. Such was my ecstasy in the summer of my youth. But oh! how swiftly the promise faded , more swi ftly than the petal plucked from a flower and cast into the stream. Churned about, rocked, buffeted by the ever-flowing tide of life, presently it has gone, leaving only a ripple, a memory. Is there yet no hope for me in this, the autumn of my despair? Is there to be no end to my sorrow? Where am I to go, to whom can I turn? The shadows ever lengthen and close in about me, and I feel no comfort, surrounded as I am by the ghosts of a suppressed other-life. Can nothing, will no one Ii ft from me this melancholy? THERESA MEYER, 21 '64 THERESA MEYER, A cold req October sun was just sinking below the treelined horizon when a taxi pulled up to the curb and stopped. After several minutes the door slowly opened and a young girl got out. She hesitated for a moment; her hand still on the car door, and glanced uneasily at the house in front of her. '64 22 "That'll be $1.10, lady," the <:lriver called impatiently. The girl turned, startled. "Oh, I'm sorry," she apologized. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting." Slowly she counted out the money. Then, taking her suitcase from the cab, she slammed the door and started up the walk. Once she paused and looked back wistfully at the taxi, which presently turned a corner and disappeared from sight. . The House was old and dilapidated. There was not a trace of paint on its weatherbeaten sides. Crumbling chimneys leaned precariously toward the edges of a patched roof. Three stories of dark empty windows stared down at the solitary figure trotting up the walk. Most of the first floor windows had been broken by vandals and were replaced by rotting boards. Somewhere in the semi-darkness a shutter banged loudly against the gray clapboard. The figure paused. "Lord! this place gives me the creeps!" the girl whispered. And indeed. even the most dauntless heart would have quavered at the scene which confronted the visitor. Trees and shrubbery grew unchecked. and in the gathering darkness seemed to shroud the house. An impenetrable thicket of tangled vines had been allowed to cover the entire front porch. A full moon, just appearing from behind a mass of clouds, added an eerie glow; and the girl, who had now reached the bottom of the steps leading onto the porch, stopped and surveyed her sinister surroundings. "Carrie Bainbridge, you're a fool!" she reproached herself. "After all, whose idea was it to come here in the first place? Who was it who wanted to write about great grandfather's famous law career? And who wanted to disprove the local legend that Jesse Stark had placed a curse on The House and its occupants? \N ell, now you've got your chance !" Carrie shivered involuntarily, and began to mount the steps. Setting her suitcase down in front of the door, she fum bled through her purse for the key. \IVhen she had found it she glanced around again, inserted the key shakily into the lock, picked up her suitcase. and opened the door. She caught her breath sud- 23 denly as a strong gust of wind greeted her. "Someone must have left a window open," she murmured, struggling to get the door closed. She stood in the darkness with her back to the door trying to summon up enough courage to go on again. "What we need around here is a light, " she said aloud, hoping the sound of her voice would drive some of her fears away. It cut through the silence like a kni fe , and echoed eerily in the empty darkness. "There must be a light switch around here somewhere," she murmured, groping her way along the damp wall. Suddenly . she uttered a tefrified shriek as something soft and warm and alive scurried across her hand. Abandoning her search. Carrie scuttled fearfully back toward the door , almost tripping over the suitcase in her haste. "N ow, why . didn't I think of that before !" she exclaimed joyfully. " I knew that flashlight would come in handy!" Hastily she rum mag e d through her suitcase, spilling clothes all about her as she did so. When her hand touched the cool metal she breathed a sigh of relief and immediately flicked it on. The sight which greeted her eyes was far from cheerful. In the dim glow of the torch the pieces of furniture took on grotesque shapes. Somewhat encouraged by this feeble light, Carrie began to examine the room. It was a large room, probably a reception room at one time. The furniture was done in heavy Victorian style. In the center of the room stood a large mahogany table, empty save for a bronze paper weight and a rusty quill pen. One of the chairs was pulled out, ready, it seemed, to receive a long-awaited guest. To the right of the table was an Immense fireplace. On coming closer Carrie saw that it contained a number of pine logs, just w.a iting for the touch of a match. "How thoughtful," she laughed aloud. "I think I will start the fire; it's getting cold in here. A nyway I could use some more light. " She took a packet of matches from her purse. touched one to a piece of paper she found on the hearth and set it to the logs. In a few moments the fir e was blazing cheerfully. Carrie's spirits li fted as the 24 logs crackled and snapped and the flames grew higher. She sighed contentedly, then pulled a comfortable looking a r mchair up to the hearth. "Funny," she mused sleepily. "All the other chairs in this room are covered with mildew and their upholsteries are rotting away. But this one is in perfect condition. " Her eyes wandered up the stone walls 0 f the fireplace and over the large portrait hanging above the mantel. The woman in the painting smiled down at the girl. Her long auburn hair glowed radiantly in the flickering firelight. Her pale face contrasted sharply wit h the black velvet 0 f her g 0 w n. Slender tapering fingers were folded over the b a c k 0 f a chair, the same chair in which Carrie was sitting now! "\lVhy, that must be greatgrandmother!" Carrie thought excitedly. "Father always said I got my auburn hair from her. She certainly was beautiful. It's too bad she had to die so young. They say she was thrown fr om a carriage when the horses became frightened at the sight of a "car. " Great-grandfather never did get over it. He locked himself up in this house and never spoke to anyone but his son. He only left the house once after that, when his best friend Jesse Stark went on trial for murder. He died several years later when the balcony railing against which he was leaning gave way and he plunged to the floor three stories below." Carrie looked dreamily into the fire for a moment, then rose and resumed her examination of the room. Near the fireplace was a door. Carrie tried the knob. It opened easily. She pushed it open and shone her light inside. The walls were lined with hundreds o f boo k s. Upon inspecting them closer she found that they were mainly law books. "Great-grandfather kept a good library, " she mused. "He was considered one of the best criminal lawyers in the country at that time. " She ran a finger along a row of dusty volumes, yellow and cracked with age. One volum e, however, made her pause. "This Bible looks newer than the rest," she murmured, "and it's not covered with dust either." Her curiosity aroused, she took the book from the shelf and opened it. She I e a fed through it expectantly and ut- 25 tered a triumphant cry when she came upon the newspaper clipping. The clipping was not dated but the headline told Carrie all she wanted to know: JESSE STARK CONDEMNED TO ' L I F E IMPRISONMENT. Carrie read the rest of the clipping, although she knew the story by heart. Jesse Stark was condemned to life imprisonment today for the murder of his wi fe , Emma. Mr. S tar k pIe a d e d innocent to the charge but was pro v e n guilty, thanks to the brilliant w 0 r k 0 f Clarence Bainbridge, prosecuting attorney. A s i x-m an jury returned two hours later with the verdict, "Guilty." Judge Albert Gregg pas sed sentence . ' .. Carrie was elated. "I ought to find more than enough material for my book right here in t his 1 i bra r y. Grandfather kept every clipping about his father that he could get his hands on. But I'm too tired to look anymore tonight. I'll start working first thing in the morning." Carrie closed the book and returned it to the shelf. She left the library then and closed the door. As she crossed the once-luxurious carpet toward the fireplace she recalled other incidents she had read or heard from her father. "Jesse Stark was furious that his best friend had betrayed him and he swore he would get revenge. The legend has it that he put the curse on great-grandfather and on all his descendants, even on The House, and that they would all be destroyed in the end. And according to the local people it has pretty well come true, especially since my grandfather was killed with his own musket. It had been handed down in our family for generations, and he always kept it on the ,vall of the drawing room. It was never loaded, but one day he took it down to show his friends and it went off, killing him instantly. And then my parents were killed in an accident only two blocks from this very house. And now they say it's nlY turn, the last of the Bainbridges. But I'm going to prove they are wrong!" With that she rose, picked up her suitcase and a candle she had found on the mantel, lit the candle and started for the stairs. "I'd better get some sleep," 26 she thought, "if I intend to go through all those books ton10rrow." The staircase wound up and up. The candle's feeble light failed to penetrate the inky darkness. The steps creaked and g r 0 a ned beneath her weight. Carrie felt her fears returning. "Lord," she whispered, "I hope I don't have to. stay here long." She had reached the second floor landing now and stood looking down into the stairwell. "This is where grandmother met her death," she murmured softly. "The hand railing was broken and before it could be repaired, she had slipped on the stairs and plunged through the broken railing." Carrie shuddered and hurried on down the hall. At the first door she paused and set down her suitcase. "This was great-g ran dmother's bedroom. I hope the bed is made," she laughed nervously.. She turned the knob. To her surprise the door opened easily and she stepped inside. Through force of habit she groped for a light switch on the wall. "Carrie, you dope," she re- proached herself, "don't you remember the electricity was turned off when your father moved to town after grandrna's death?" The room smelled of dust and mildew and rotting wood. Carrie crossed to the bureau and placed the candle on it. Then for the first time she looked around the room. It was small and sparsely furnished. Beside the bureau was a straight backed chair with several rungs missing. Near the - four-poster bed stood a sma I I vanity topped with a cracked dirty mirror. The curtains at the window had long since deteriorated and hung in shreds from rusty cur t a i n rods. Carrie's gaze wandered back to the bed and she sucked in her breath in surprise. The bed had been neatly made wit h clean white bedclothes and topped with a thick coverlet! Carrie forced herself to be calm as she went to unpack her suitcase. But her hands were shaking so badly she c 0 u 1d hardly open it. "This whole thing niu~t be some horrible nightmare," she muttered to herself. "It has to be. I f one more thing happens tonight I'll scream! I know I will !" 27 Hurriedly she undressed and put a robe on over her pajamas. Then wrapping a blanket around her, she lay down on the bed and tried to sleep. Soon after Carrie lay down the wind started to blow violently and the tree branches scratched and clawed at her win dow pane. Half-asleep, Carrie fancied she heard the wind sighing her name. And all through the night rats kept up a constant tatoo on the floor above her. She shivered, partly from cold, partly from fear, and finally settled into a fretful slumber. Suddenly she sat bolt upright in bed, a cold fear gnawing at her heart. . From somewhere below ca~e the unmistakable chiming of a clock. "T hat's impossible!" she c r i e d. "G rea t-grandfather hated clocks that struck the hour! He never allowed one on the place!" Carrie sat huddled on the bed for several mom e n t s, wrestling with her fears. The sound had died away, leaving only the usual night noises and she felt her courage returning. "I won't sleep a wink until I find out where that sound came from," she muttered. Hopping out of bed Carrie slipped on her shoes and, groping her way about in the icy darkness, found the candle, lit it and started down the stairs. The wind kept up its mournful wailing and the h 0 use trembled under its powerful blast. Carrie was halfway down the stairs when a shutter, torn loose by the wind, banged noisily against the house. The sudden noise caused her to start. The candle slipped from her grasp and in the semi-darkness she groped frantically for the handrail. Carrie struggled to maintain her balance, but in vain, and with a helpless scream plunged headlong dow nth e stairs. * * * N ext morning the local paper carried the following article: "The old Bainbridge mansion, 4301 N. Melbourne, bur ned tot h e ground last night. Authorities say the cause has not yet been determined . . . . " 28 LONELINESS To be lonely in a crowd is xegressionfrom those whoda~e . . To be lonel~. ah10ng friends is distrustof those who care . . To be 'lc)l1ely with one's own . is selfish, for they gave thei.r share. To be lonely when alone is only that which is fair. To be lonely in the presence of God can only lead to despair. PAT GOLEY, 29 '63 an EXTRAORDINARY life ELAINE GRAFEN, '63 :My name is Opalina. I am a one-celled animal and .make my home in the stomach and intestInes of a frog, amid many varieties of partially-digested insects. It is easy task to .summarize my simple composition. My body is flat, oval, nuclei-abundant, and iridescent. It is covered with a fur of flagella, which enables me to meander through the water. I have no mouth, but this handicap is cDmpensated for by the porous membrane surrounding my cytoplasm. Early in my Iife-I was still encrusted by my shell-I was fortunate enough to be swallowed by a tadpole. My cyst dissolved, and I began producing new nuclei in my minute body. This new home, the tad- an pole's intestine, was remarkably capacious. :Many types of appetizing foods passed down this two-foot coil - decayed leaf tissue, black mud, and algae. All of my time was spent eating these nutrients, listening to the flow of water through my host's gills, and scrutinizing water life as it passed by me. After a few short weeks, my home shrivelled and twisted, and my leisurely living came to a close. I lay in total darkness, unable to hear the familiar swirl of water or enjoy an abundance of food; I became dejected and gave up all hopes for survival. My anXIeties vanished when, after a sudden jerk, a live millipede appeared in my kitchen. From this time 30 iorward every sudden jerk brought some type of animal upon which to dine. A day came, however, when this similar twitch was not fol lowed by the familiar food supply. Instead, another leap and another leap resulted, accompanied by a vehement convulsion, a struggle, and peace. I am now in a slide under the powerful microscope of Mr. William Beebe. He disclosed that the causes of my disturbances were the subsequent attacks of mammal, bird, reptile, and fish . His studies of my life began by obtaining a yellow-headed vulture as a specimen for his studies. After shooting the vulture, he examined it and , found an owl in its grasp. Around this owl a snake had wrapped its body. To satisfy his curiosity Mr. Beebe dissected the snake and discovered that it had swallowed a fish . This fish, in turn, had swallowed the frog in which I lived. So, by these series of events, I have been labeled by the brilliant biologist as the most important link in a chain of jungle life. But the water surrounding me on the slide is slowly evaporating; the liquid in my cell is diffusing outward, and I do not have much longer to live. In these last fe~ moments I just want to say that in the past I had never realized my reason for existence. Now thanks to the good scientist, this purpose has been revealed to me and offers a real satisfaction to be cherished as long as I . . . and a HAPPY death 31 dweller In green caves (A moralist's escape within himself from a society in moral disintegration) For me The quiet breaking of glass among the blades of grass When it rains smears the green on the panes And blots out the sun until Monday. Hollow shapes grow black and the thunder cracks Its way thr ough the lightning slits in staccato bits Hurling me to my knees in the dampness of leaves, And I go sighing and dying to the green caves. And crouching there with my hair all down Without the sound of pursuing hounds Creeping into my deep-smiling sleep, I escape the weight of my human shape Amid swirls of green whirling and curling about. Outside the joyous mirth of my new-born birth, The chorus-girl world dances and prances, Cavorts and jumps, grinds and bumps alongvVaiting for :Monday that never comes. JOE KEMPF, 32 '63 WHITE fingernails SANDY \i\T ALSH, '66 The floor was the shiniest in all the world. You could, Nancy knew, skate on it almost like on the ice on the lake. She shuffled her feet tentatively and aimed an inquiring glance at the fluttering woman beside her. Her grandmother absently grasped her arm tighter and Nancy knew she needn't ask to play the skating game now. hair. Sometimes, when she was much littler, Nancy, used to wonder about this. Then, one day, grandmother took her uptown in a cab to a brick and glass store called Ralph's. She had tried not to fidget while she watched Ralph and a girl wit h w hit e fingernails turn grandmother's hair grey and white speckled, and then back to blue again. If she were a grandmother, Nancy w 0 u I d like Ralph to make her hair pink, like the roses that used to grow in her back yard. But not the girl with the white fingernails! She had laughed at Nancy in an unnice way. Some people, like her daddy, could laugh right at you, but in such a nice way that you would feel warm and safe. But the girl had made her feel stupid and too young. It was usually all right to feel young, Somewhere down the long e 0 r rid 0 r, a door slammed. Nancy felt her grandmother jump. That was an important thing to learn about grandmothers. They were nervous about things like spilling milk and slamming doors. Nancy had I ear ned t his quickly enough, since she had begun to live with her grandmother. Another thing she learned was that they usually had blue 33 but it was unbearable when you felt too young. Nancy felt too young now. She shivered. "Too immature ... " "N ever should have . . ." "It's always the child who suf ... j , feet. Shoes must bel 0 0 s e enough to let your toes wiggle. Nancy wiggled her toes. She wiggled all her left toes, then her right toes. You could even make a pattern! It was hard to move the middle toes and yet keep the others still. Maybe if you held the little toe very stiff .. A wave of whispers surrounded them and splashed for attention. Grandmother grew stiff beside her, but Nan c y hardly noticed. "It was all her fault!" "No, he was too stub. " "She is such a pretty child, too." Nancy was a war e now. The s e people were talking about 'her! What was that they were saying? She strained her ears. What fault? \iVho was 'stubborn? Oh! How she wishedthey would speak up just once, instead of forever whispering! Nancy sighed as loudly and tragically as she c 0 u I d manage and settled herself on one of the wobbly chairs. Eve r yon e was talking at once, but no one spoke to her. An unfamiliar lady with brown shoes and a green dress began talking to her grandmother. Nancy stared at the b row n pumps. The heels were splendidly high, but the toes were pointy. Mama used to say that pointy toes were bad for your Everyone jumped up like so many puppets on a string. A big-stomached man in a black robe came in and sat down behind the desk on the platform. Studying him, Nancy , thought of Dracula. Oh, she supposed it was the black l' 0 b e, she wasn't that silly, yet there was so met hi n g else, something vaguely frightening ... Recognition struck I ike a thunderbolt. He was the same man who had been at the other court, the one called Divorce Court. Nancy knew what that meant. Grandmother had explained to her that it was a place where married p e 0 pie who didn't love each other any longer go to get unmarried. Nancy could not understand this. It seemed to her that love was for always. She knew she would always love her mama and daddy and grandmother. Everyone had really tried to help her u n del's tan d. But 34 M a m a had cried too much when she tried, and Nancy had cried too much when Daddy tried. Grandmother would only tell her that she would understand when she grew older. Nancy had thought abo u t this a lot. She decided to hang on tight to being a little girl for as long as she could. Being grown-up must hurt a lot, she reasoned, if you can't love people and if nobody can love you. She thought of the suffering grown-ups she knew. Even the girl at Ralph's seemed piti ful w hen 0 n e realized that no one ... "Well, child, have you made your decision?" He appeared weary and rather b 0 red t o Nancy. "His gown must be very warm," she thought. The room swelled to bursting with silence. She forced herself to look at her parents. She met their eyes, each in turn, . and found anxiety there. The s e people loved her, she knew, and yet she could no longer bask securely in t hat 1 0 v e. After all, hadn't they loved each other . . . once? It was an impossible decision that they asked of her, and yet, with all the wisdom of her seven years, she knew what she must say. Resolutely, deliberately avoiding the i r searching eyes, she looked at the judge. "I want to live with my grandmother," she said. Someone, it sounded a little like her mother, gasped. "The poor baby!" A strange v 0 ice behind her said. Yet Nancy was no longer a baby and she knew it now. In that instant, she realized that feeling too young would no longer bother her. Now the only pain she felt, the pain that racked her soul, was that of someone too old. But now the man who was named Bailiff was reading her daddy's and mama's names off a stiff sheet of paper. Nancy was surprised to see her mother step up from one side of the room while her daddy came from the other. It was still hard to get used to seeing them apart. Always, they had been together. N ow Mr. Bailiff called her name in a ringing voice. She started to stand up. wavered, and finally focused pleading eye son her grandmother. Nancy could feel the old, but steady hand at. her elbow guiding her to the platform. Dracula looked at her. 35 There was a rainbow in the sky of every shade and hue; "And at the end," said Mom to Will, "There waits a girl for you." \ iVith anxious heart fair Laura felt The summer's sun grow cold; As \Nill departed on his quest To seek the rainbow's gold. He travelled long through fall's array, When leaves turn red, then brown; The time when crispness fills the air, And Nature wears a frown. " The rainbow cannot shine again," A hermit said to \Nill, "Till you perform a hero's deed, By righting wrong and ill." He fed the hungry, healed the sick, The rainbow still not seen; He thought he'd better get on home To see how Mom had been. \ Arriving there, he greeted friends, Then over Laura Dee, He thought he saw, he knew he saw, The rainbow glowing free! MARY 36 Jo BOYLE, '65 STORIES JOE OSBURN, '64 Ashley Smith was a frail, unassuming individual, who had been nudged, like everyone else, into his own cozy, monotonous rut. After leaving college, he married Alice Hamilton, a girl from a wealthy Connecticut family who were friends of his mother's. She had always told him that Alice would be a respectable catch. After all, her father was ratheF well-to-do and they were such charming people anyway. When the war broke out, 37 Ash ley was shipped to the Philippines, where he received an injury to his left leg which left it partially lame. Even this was not very heroic. A load of cement blocks had slipped from a trailer he was helping push up a grade and crushed his knee. He didn't receive a purple heart for this but he was discharged. When he returned to the States, he went to work as chief-accountant for his brother-in-Iaw. H e had bee n a faithful employee of the firm for the past eleven years. In the back of his mind, Ashley suspected that A lice had something to do with his position, but he never -questioned her about it. Besides it wasn't very important. He had a fairly good job and felt as secure as anyone else. Ii was seven o'clock Tuesday morning; the alarm was screaming. Ashley rolled out of bed, stumbled on the lampcord and reeled into the bathroom. The party last night was la,te and he hadn't had much sleep. Still feeble with grogginess he attempted t 0 s h a v e himself. "Ashley, must you make so much noise? I don't feel well and I've got a terrible head- ache. " "I'm sorry, dear. You like some coffee?" "Yes. My cigarettes are on the bureau. " Alice never felt well so early in the morning. She liked to sleep late but Ashley thought it was nice to have coffee together before he left for work. "A ~hley, remember to tell Peter you won't be in tomQr-' row." Tomorrow was the d"!-y before Thanksgiving and tl1~Y were going to have . dinner 'at her mother's. Alice's 1110th'er was an overbearing vi 6 man \vho had the unpleasant habit of reminding A shley that he should have gone much farther in Peter's firm in the past eleven years than he had, and if he had any sort of real ambition, he would have by now. But Ashley had always tried to show her the necessary civilities. He knew she was only thinking of Alice. Besides they only saw her twice a year, at Christmas and Thanksgiving. "Remember now," Alice re,. minded him. "Randy will be so disappointed if we miss the play. It's such a long trip , and we can hop over to Mother's afterwards." Randy was their fourteenyear-old son. He attended the 38 .Wharton Cadet Academy in upper Connecticut. Ash ley hadn't liked having him away from home so much, but Alice insisted and Randy had really wanted to go. She said the city schools were much too shabby, and the Academy was so much more selective. Besides they could afford it and it would be very good training for the ,military. I' The 'bus j e r ked a c r 0 s s T wen t y-Second Street and was slowing for the stop at the A venue of the Americas. A shley never enjoyed asking a favor of P.V. He always tried to make you feel as if he were bending over backwards. But the trip meant so much to Randy and it would be necessary to take the day off. Ashley swung off the already departing bus, a pirouette he had learned to do quite masterfully even with his bad leg. He entered the gray building, stepped into the elevator and pushed the button marked thirteen. "G 0 0 d m 0 r n i n g, Mr. Smith." "G 0 0 d m 0 r n: i n g, Mrs. Blake," A shley unconsciously rattled to Hamilton's secretary. Mrs. Blake was an efficient woman who had been with the com pan y even longer than Ashley. Ash ley entered his office and took off his hat and coat. He sat down and began to adjust his Eversharp. "I'll ask him right after he comes in this morning, before he has a chance to get wound up about anythirig," he reasoned to himself. "A fter all he is A lice's brother and he'll think I've gone behind his back if she mentions it to him." Ashley tried to convirrce himself that it really wasn't such a big thing and he ' shouldn't give it any more thought. P.V. was a bit staunch, but he fiked Randy and would probably tell Ashley to say hello to the kid for him. After all, P.V. wasil't actually a bad sort, and sometimes A shley even admired the cold business-like manner in which P.V. conducted himself. "Mr. Smith," came a voice fro m the box on Ashley's desk, "Mr. Hamilton would like to see you." "Thank you, Mrs. B I a k e, I'll be right in." Ashley adjusted his tie, flipped a bit of dandruff off his s h 0 u I d e 'r s and walked into P.V.'s office. Hamilton was seated - in a large leather chair. With his 39 elbows on the desk, he was studying some papers and supposedly didn't notice Ashley enter. "Good morning, sir," Ashley said rather nervously. ''I'm glad you called me in. There's something I wanted . . ." "Don't sit down, S mit h; this won't take long. Smith, do you realize that this' is the second consecutive week that your balance sheet has been incorrect? I didn't mention it last week because it was only a small amount, but this week it's off over thirty-two hundreddollars. You think I run t his, organization on ignorance." Ashley was s tunned. "But, .Mr. Hamilton, that's impossible. Why, I even stayed late last Saturday to work on the books." . 'iI know you stayed late last Saturday. That makes it all the more inexcusable." Hamilton rose fro m the chair and walked over to the window. He looked down and watched the huge revolving mouths across the street devour one person after another. "I-I'm sorry sir." "I don't wan t apologies, S mit h, I wan t preciseness. There must be ten thousand accountants in this city and I'm certain I can find one who knows how ~o add and subtract." Ashley wasn't listening any longer. He knew why he hated P .V . He had a thousand little h a bit s that grated on him. Habits like turning his back to a person when he is talking to him. \iVhen he was talking to you he gave the impression that he was yelling at you. A shley even hated his voice. It sounded exactly like Alice's. He walked over to the window. "Listen, Smith," Hamilton was screaming, "if it wasn't for my sister, I'd never have hired you. You hobble around this office like a baby bird that's fallen from its nest. It gives the clients a bad impression. People don't like to see cripples." Hamilton's voice sou n d e d I ike his mother's. They all sounded alike: P.V., Alice, her mother. They were a I way s screaming at him. He would make them shut up. He would make them all shut up. Ashley knew that the scream he just heard would be the last one. It only lasted thirteen stories. Hamilton ran to the phone. "Operator, operator ... " 40  ...

... h YEAR 1942 1962 fioretti SPRING ISSUE 1961 - 1962 THE FIORETTI VOLUME XX . ' I NUMBER 2 Indianapolis, Indiana 1961-1962 I AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COllEGE PROSE AND VERSE : I THE STAFF Editors-in-Ch ief Joe Kempf, '63 Jerry Zore, '63 Assistant Editors John Chapman, '63 Dolores Kohne, '63 Cynthia Stokes, '63 Donna Tatroe, '64 Marilyn Weinbrecht, '63 Art Marie Krebs, '62 Joe Kempf, '63 CONTENTS ESSAYS The Hero and the Triangle 4 The Legacy of Atheism 14 David E. Armborst An Almost Empty Cup 17 Judy Farmer Fluxie and the Prince 25 Pat Matkovic Elsye Mahern SHORT STORIES A Ride to Town 9 A Death Ray for the Kiddies 35 Rita Moeller Joe Kempf POEMS When the Jackass Brayed 7 Little Things 19 Kathleen Stapleton I Saw a Friend 20 Deanna Metzner Season of Farewell 21 Deanna Metzner Sunset 22 Jane Johnson A Secret Shared 23 La Verne Gray Affinity 24 Gretchen Siedling Toni 28 Theresa Meyer Lead Ga rgoyles 30 Joe Kempf Tears 33 Pat Matkovic Joe Kempf The Hero and .t he Triangle One's hero is so much a fabric of one's soul that it is possible to speak of him only in parables , The details of his character are not accidents. He is my own hero because of those details-because he resembles the hero. Yet it is important, necessary, that his r esemblance be not yet complete, for I must have a role in the drama. The hero which I speak of is the hero of the Christian drama, Christ. My hero resem- bles him, I said the hero required parables. Perhaps the content of one's romantic dreams might help. One's romantic dreams do tend to concern one's hero image. Here then is the most beautiful love story I have ever heard. It concerns two obscure saints (and I would pray much fo r one who could supply their names) . They were married to each other, she, an early Chri stian; he, a Roman guard. 4 the door against his entry. But he had only bribed the guard so that he might say good-bye to her. He was martyred for the faith and she spent the rest of her days in the shadow of his tomb. A Marian student gives us her interpretation of what a Christian hero should be This story contains every single element important to my hero. We love each other, my hero and I-but we love God more. Still the love and sentiment we have for each other is important to my picture. The nameless saint did come to tell his wife good-bye. I do not understand the Christian who loves God to the exclusion of all sentiment concerning other Christians. and a fresh outlook on love in the spiritual triangle. ELSYE MAHERN) )65 One day in the arena as Christians were dying for the faith, he suddenly received the gift of faith. He professed it by kneeling in the blood of the martyrs. Immediately he was seized and imprisoned. Word of this event was brought to her. She knew that he would die now and then live to life everlasting. She also knew that at last she had a hero. Her prayers of thanksgiving were scarcely finished when she saw him approaching. A pagan husband was one thing, but a Christian who recanted was another. She barred I have given you a picture of how my hero dies. Georges Rouault has painted a picture of how he lives, of how we live, for he is a hero and not a heroine only because I happen to be female and he is that \V hi::h I am not. The picture is named Christian Intimacy. At the left side are two figures facing each other. Their heads are bowed and they seem downcast. There is a line running down between them, separating them, bespeaking the impossibility of expressing spiritual love in this world. In the center of the picture Christ is seated. There is 5 a loaf of bread, as though in transition from Christ to the figure kneeling before him, or from the figure to Christ. To the side of Christ, but also beside the kneeling figure, is a third figure who is contributing a jug of wine. These central figures, this triangle, could be Christ, my hero and myself. My hero is a man, a very rare thing today. His masculinity does not require physical strength, it does not demand crudity. He is so much of a man that he can be tender, he can be compassionate, he can love. His masculinity is greater because of my femininity, and that is important. My hero is important for He is my hero only because what he is not as well as what he refuses to be my hero. He he is. He must not be comis my hero only because he is plete without me. I must be God's hero. We avoid the temp- able to contribute the wine. As tation of peering into each I add to him, so he adds to me. other's eyes, as the figures on He adds to my life, resolve. He the side have been doing. He adds courage over the long not only refuses to be my hero, haul. He contributes masculine he refuses all Superman he- virtues as I contribute femroics because . Christ refused inine ones. He is at one corner them by refusing to save Him- of the base of the triangle, I am at the other. Christ IS at self from the cross. In the picture Christ and . the apex. the kneeling figure are absorbed This spiritual triangle is as in each other. Yet the third old as Christianity. Margaret figure is not excluded for this Mary and Claude traveled it, is the source of the wine which Francis and Clare, Francis and was fermented from the sacri- Jane, Benedict and Scholastica fices entailed in the matura- and the nameless Roman guard tion of love. It is most im- and his Christian wife-each pOl-tant to me to be able to pair traveled toward Christ make this contribution of wine. giving each other courage on It is important that I stand at the way, silence when ne:essary my hero's side. Looking down and prayer always.'vVhen they on me makes him more of a arrived at the apex the answer man and therefore more able was always the same. There 1S to look up to Christ. only one hero: Christ. 6 When the Jackass vVhen I was still little, one day My papa, he takes me aside and say That some day when I had been dumb In a very special way, I would hear the jackass bray. 7 My papa I knew was not loco, But soon I thought maybe he was though For the jackass, he always say nothing When to market I go And listen as my papa told me so. The days pass and years slip away. With twinkling eyes my papa he say: "My son, you are a wise man indeed. For even to this day, Not once have you heard the jackass bray.~ ' Scoff did I then and thought them lies; My papa, he was a fool in sage's disguise. The jackass he will never say anything KnoW all men who are wise, Even if for a thousand years he tries. N ow I am wrinkled and old and gray; All my pride it has flown away. And I know what a dunce I was that day. My papa, he was a sage in fool's disguise, For only now can I say I am dumb in that special waySmart enough to know I am durnb enough To hear the jackass bray! JOE KEMPF, 8 '63 ;, $2.00 regular, please." IVlar j was tired, but this was the last stop. One more plea for the church fund drive. She was sure of a generous donation here at the garage. Then she could go home, kick off her shoes, pop a few TV dinners into the oven for her family and just get lazy. Marj Owens gave a discreet tug to her girdle, pushed a flyaway curl from her 30ish face and bobbed assuredly into the car dealer's showroom. Mr. \ i\Tallace grinned when he saw her coming. "I've been looking for you. Today's the last day for the fund drive, isn't it ?" "You bet. You're going to be as generous thi s year as you were last, aren't you, Chris?" " \Vell. .. " "Now, Chris, I know, times are bad all over, but the church does need repairs and redecorating. I distinctly felt a big fat raindrop fall on my nose last Sunday. Vve can't set buckets around in our church!" "Pray for dry weather," retOt-ted the car dealer, "but okay, you'll get your check, soon as I see what I can do for this lady." Mar j inspected the new car model, looked at some color combinations and picked out the one she'd buy, if she had the money, that is. Chris was certainly taking his time with that old lady. Maybe she could help. She gazed curiously. The woman was tall, almost regal looking, shoulders slightly bent. Her long black coat was worn but clean. A. white rose buclcled over the brim of her black hat. A nd there amid dignity and conservatism glared the horrible red, purple and brown Indian beaded handbag big e n 0 ugh for five picnic lunches. C h r i s was scratching his head. " ... I really don't know how you could get there-no bus-how about a tax i?" The sudden inspiration on the part of Mr. vVallace ob- A Ride to Town RITA MOELLER, '64 9 viously fell on deaf ears. The weary old feet to carry a load listener's face was expression- of memories, even sadness. The less. She cleared her throat and other bounced along becoming and asked again as if for the freer and happier with every first time, "Sir, could you tell step that meant Ii fe and a good me how I can get to Laports- world. Strange t hat C h r i s ville ? You see, that 's my home should notice, but the contrast and I've been visiting my niece was so striking. "Do you live in Laportshere and I have to go home, but I don't know how, and my ville?" Marj asked by way of conversation. son ... I have to go home." "Oh, yes." \Vith that she smiled a sad "Long ?" thank you and turned to go. "Yes." The tail of her glance wound "What's your name ?" around Marj. Before she real"Sarah." ized, she heard hersel f offering "Sarah. I had a little girl to take the old woman to Laportsville. And after it was who died. vVe called her Sarah. said, it seemed like the only What's your last name?" "Lubin. There, can I tell charitable thing to do. them ?" Although the old one's lips "\,yhat ?" were thinly turned up, her eyes "I have to tell them I got a were lifeless. "You're not going out of your way, now, are way home. " you? Is Laportsville on your "Oh, okay." Marj pulled way?" over to the curb and stopped. "You bet. I'll be glad to Three meticulously d res sed ha ve you along to keep me women were mincing down the tree-shaded sidewalk. S a r a h company." Chris looked relieved; per- opened the car door. "I have a way home, now ." haps the thought of taking her The women looking at each himself had crossed his mind and now, good 01' :Marj had other and eyeing Mar j turned come through. Bless her heart. toward the car. Sarah Lubin I'll give her an extra big check. was talking again. "Oh, you The two strolled to Mar j' s ain't the ones. I f you see my sma II for e i g n car. Chris son will you tell him I got a watched. The one pro d d e d way home?" 10 "How will we know your son?" the fat one asked. "Just tell him." Sarah's eyes were beaming now. "Thanks." Marj's perplexity 00 zed . through her brown eyes and faded away. The old one was absent minded. "Why, look at grandpa-God bless him-he'd misplaced his dentures once. A.nd he could never remember if I was married to Harry or John Owens. " She began to ease back and enjoy the daffodils and budding trees in cropped lawns as she drove along. There had always been a kind of rivalry in Glensboro to have the neatest lawn and shrubbery. vVonder who'd win the Garden Club award. Mrs. VVctgrter had taken home all the prizes the last couple of years; she was president of the club. She looked over at Sarah. "Is anything wrong ?" Mrs. Lubin was peering at the floor, at the back seat, examining her hands. "I just can't recollect what I done with my pocketbook. " Marj looked, too. Lost. The garage was probably the best place to begin the hunt. The minute she saw him, Mar j knew Chris had discovered the atrocious beaded purse . He had that "who could have lost a monstrosity like this" look on his face. Sarah's lips smiled, but her eyes had lost their glow. She murmured, "Thanks," then added, "if you see him, tell him I'm home." With this the car door slammed and all Mar j could do was shrug her shoulders at the bewildered salesman and start playing chauffeur again. She'd try a different conversation this time. "How do you like the beautiful weather we've been having?" "It'd just be all right except for the cold wind coming down off the mountains. That man on the radio said it'd be cold and my rhuematism always acts up when it's cold." Mountains! There had n't been a mountain in central Illinois for a million years . Marj's blood rushed to her face. She drove faster. It was uncomfortably warm. ,,y-hat kind of woman was this with the dead eyes and the red, purple and brown beaded purse ?\Vho was this creature sea ted i nth e bucket seat so close to her? She was mad, of that Marj was sure. But would she do anything - anything rash? She looked not only old now but grotesque. Her hands were claws as she clutched the hor- 11 rible bag. Her eyes, those beady eyes. She felt Marj's discomfort and creaked her ancient neck to give the driver an achy. supernatural smile. Thoughts s howe red i n Marj's brain, bathed her with perspiration and fear. "She's mad . . . maybe they'll think I kidnapped . . . if her son presses charges . . . the money . . . she might get violent . . . she's mad Her mind screamed, "She's mad, she's mad, she's mad. " :M ar j checked the flood. She was exaggerating but she was scared. It was cold now. "Must be the cold wind from the mountains," she winced. vVould they never reach Laportsville? The seven miles had somehow stretched, infinitely. Sarah cackled again. "I just love the horizon. Me an' my son used to go to the horizon and look off the world and there were monsters with tails and fires for eyes. My son would smile and I'd just keep o n a s win gin'. It was fun swingin' out over the edge and laughin' and teasin' the monsters." Then she was silent. At last. Laportsville. "Just tell me where to let you off." Marj sighed relief. "Oh, it ain't far to my 12 house; you don't mind takin' me. " Marj could see it all. There'd be the son - a red monster swinging by his tail from a huge oak tree. But she had no choice. "Turn here." "VVhich way?" "Uh-h-h, I forget . It don't make any difference. Now, go slow. If I see my house I'll let you know and you can come in for a glass of buttermilk. I like buttermilk, don't you? There it's a house like that one there. but it's white. I think. and that one's yellow." Marj was frantic. "\\Thy don't you go to the door and k n 0 c k. May b e it is your house. " She went on silently, "Then I can drive off before she comes back." "No, I know it's right down this street." But they were practically through the little v i I I age. Gradually the new Cristman Restaurant 100 me d into view. Desperately the little car veered into the parking lot. "No, I don't 1 i v e her e." Sarah was indignant. "VVell, I have to see a lady who works here. You won't mind waiting for me will you ?" "I believe I'll just go with you." The two walked in, Sarah agawk with the magnificent eating place, Marj aghast with terror of the big mad woman at her side. The young woman spied the phone booth, darted into it and slammed the door, unnoticed by the old one who seemed to be in a new world. \;\1ith one arm wrapped around the terrible handbag, she scrutinized every green plant. She raised and lowered a venetian blind. She poured sugar from the dispenser. She was about to start on the grand tour of the kitchen when Marj flitted to her and dragged her to a table. "Would you . like some buttermilk ?" "Oh, yes. I love buttermilk." Mar j ordered. She seemed calmer now. "Mrs. Lubin," she struggled to keep her words tactful and discreet. "How is your phone listed? I didn't find any Lubins. I f you can tell me the name or the number I can call your son and he can come to pick you up. OK?" Sarah was shaking her head and a betrayed look was on her face. "That would be a very foolish thing to do, very foolish ... don't do that ... that's a foolish thing to do." 13 "Now, Sarah." Marj stirred her coffee wonderingly. "Soon you'll be ... " But Sarah was gone. She had shot out of her chair still clutching her handbag. Mar j chased after her upsetting her hot coffee in the scramble. To the door Sarah flew, Marj on her heels. She lunged for the long black coat. She had her! But the big woman ran on and Mar j was left standing with the torn material from Sarah's coat. She looked at it, then at Sarah who was at the edge of the highway. "Sarah, Mrs. Lubin, look out!" she screeched, "Sarah, Sa-a-arah !" The r e was the sickening grind of brakes when the truck tried to stop, but too late. She lay on the asphalt. lifeless and stiff, the cause of all Marj's fear and anxiety. "Any 1. D.?" The younger officer searched the contents of the bag. "\;\1ell, there's a telegram addressed to a Mrs. John Lubin, Laportsville, Illinois. It's dated 1944.' "Wonder why she's bee n carrying that around all this time. " "I t' s from the Vv' ar Department. Says her son Charles was killed in action." \Vhen one stops to reflect for a moment upon the world about him, it is clearly evident that modern life is conducted at a terrific pace. Although it is undoubtedly one race that should be run under a certain maximum speed limit out of due concern for the safety of the contestants, nevertheless the tempo of life has constantly increased throughout history, and, in prospects for the future, outstrips even the wildest imagination. Time may become, literally, more valuable than gold. In such a vast, complex society which is so unstable and ever in a state of transition man is hard-pressed to find any real, lasting values which offer a precious measure of security. Like a lonely wanderer threading his way through unfamiliar surroundings, searching for a signpost to guarantee him that he is travelling the right road, so man, in his journey through life, needs some stable dependable reality on which to rely in order to guide his li fe accurately and securely. So much of Ii fe is uncertain and unexpected, that it seems to be a mystery novel unwinding its plot through devious and surprising avenues of intrigue which only 14 reveal their secret coherence in an anticlimactic junction. The light which is shed upon man's umbrageous path by some eternal objective truth can not be measured in mere foot-candles: it has more im- The Lega~y portant, long - range effects which stem from its mere illumination. I f fixed upon as a guiding star for his journey, it raises man above the vicissitudes of mere chance and misfortune, elevates his mind and will to a supernatural plane of inner c:llm and peace, and pro- vides him with a key to unlock the door guarding the secret of life. For, certainly, it is a secret, hidden from the eyes of the ignorant, extended to those who by constant and serious quest in both thought and deed, ready run the full course, has chosen irrevocably between belief and disbelief, for, when he claims rejection of the Eternal, he has reached an ultimate which admits of no compromise, which, by its very nature, is all inclusive, and so determines his response to all the other objects of his environment. Means become perverted into ends, pragmatism replaces morality, and confusion reigns triumphant. of Atheism is perhaps more an outgrowth of troubled, confused times than vice-versa, for man, with his human, imperfect intellect, is strongly influenced by his immediate environs, and so may change or not, according the degree and direction of his response, while nature has at least this certainty: it is sure to be in a constant state of change regardless of human determination. Man, ever incredulous and cynical, requires abundant proofs and frequent reminders of the existence and Providence of God, or else his short memory will fail him, and, like the Israelites in the desert, he will readily turn to lesser, but more concrete, spiritual substitutes in search of contentment and security. And just as Atheism DAVID E . ARMBoRsT '64 J have merited the knowledge of it. Here is where the atheist reaps the rewards of his total rejection of the Almighty. Once started upon the path of disbelief and cynicism, some redemption should still be left open to him. But, he has al- 15 certainly will his golden calf be shattered by the ultimate, awful reality of truth. For, paradoxically, the greatest measure of inner calm and peace is to be found not in the obvious environs of laxity and serenity, but where it would be least expected - in the midst of strife and torment-the strife and torment of man's spiritual conflicts. Somehow, miraculously perhaps, the turbulence of man's war to subdue and control his passions and inclinations effects a wondrous quietude in his restless spirit. It is this peace of mind and spirit, provided by religious inspiration, which transcenqs the bounds of materiality and creates an atmosphere conducive to sane, healthy mental development. It is, indeed, strange that an age which was born in the enmeshments of international "power politics" and reared in an atmosphere of intensified political pragmatism should witness a decline in the relative importance of religion. Every possible aspect of modern life which can contribute to the advancement of the power and glory of the State is utilized for such purposes. Religion has always been a powerful factor 16 in society. Men have fought and died for their respective religious beliefs, and countless others have dedicated their lives to administering religious rites to their fellowmen; famous artists and authors have been borne to the peak of success on the wings of religious inspiration; human history is inextricably bound up with the birth of a tiny Child in the little town of Bethlehem one wintry night over nineteen and a hal f centuries ago. Perhaps it is precisely because religion is such a powerful, vital, and yet, indefinite force among mankind that it is ignored by some either through a desire to escape personal inconvenience or through fear of uncertain, possibly rebellious, results. And yet, it cannot be wholly ignored. I f cast out from internal contact by man, it still surrounds him externally in the atmosphere in which he lives, the air which he breathes, and the friends he keeps. Cynics may ridicule religion, atheists may deny it, tyrants may persecute it; and still it outlives man's puny efforts to destroy it, separated from him by that greatest of all gaps-the celestial chasm dividing time and infinity, matter and spirit. J U DY FARMER) A. cup of coffee, lukewarm and half depleted, sits unwanted and alone. The coffee has that detestable neither-c61d-norhot feeling. A n oily design has formed on the few remaining sips, making the bottom barely visible. The taste, now stale and bit t e r, constricts one's throat, and causes one's tongue to feel rough against the roof of one's mouth. A d a i n t y honeycomb substance lines the side of the cup. The liquid reflects various hues, dirty browns and mournful purples which blend carelessly together, each getting darker as it merges near the center. A single drop of coffee which has escaped, and leisurely trickled down the curved side, and a faint smudge of lipstick, decorate the outside of the cup. The edge of the cup has been chipped by a careless user and feels rough and prickly to the lips. These significant marks could, for an imaginative few, tell something about the cup-the chip, a scar of difficult times; the drop of coffee, a muddy tear shed for a few happy moments which can never be recaptured; the lipstick, the remnant of a lost friend. The cup-like a tired, weatherworn old man, alone on some forgotten road sits cheerless and dejected. '65 17 p o . ' I I E,' T R Y the sweetness of life .. of love He says he'll perform stupendous deeds, But forgets little things-the things she needs: Little things like noticing her hair, Or opening a door with chivalrous care; Calling her early to ask for a date, l\1aking certain not to be late; Being truthful, comforting, sincere; Whispering words hers alone to hear. These thoughtful things expressing his love Mean more than the treasures boasted of. These are the things she'll keep in her heart Should his promises fade and depart. KA TH LEEN 19 STAPLETON, '65 of friendship I Saw a Friend I saw a friend in need of comfort. I wanted to console him, to stand by him, to protect him, to sympathize with him. But he spurned my efforts and left me standing thereBewildered. Later he came back to seek me. Re wanted to appease me, to soothe my mind, to dry my tears, to beg forgiveness. But I recalled the freshly-given wound and left him standing thereAlone. 20 J and departing Season of Farewell It's the end now. Now we must say good-bye Quietly, Quickly, Before the tears flow Li fe is dead now. Spring is gone forever, Fading, Freezing, In the breath of autumn. We will leave now. We will go our separate ways Smiling, Sighing. Hush now - tears start. DEANNA METZNER, 21 '62 of 5 U N 5 E T nature Colors, colors, Red, yellow, blue; A wisp of cloud, Expanse of sky, Moving, moving, Ever moving Down, down. Colors in glorious splendor. Red, green, blue, Drifting, drifting, Ever dri fting Down, down. Colors, colors, Indigo, violet, grey, Fading, fading, Fading into night. J A NE JOHNSON) 22 '62 A drop in a pool of crystal dreams keptkept for years, held in the reflection 0 f the moon on a violet. The sky wept and its tears fell to the earth while mist covered petals carried the smell of woods and new leaves. Sounds that the rain makes echo in an empty sky and hold an ancient story that they cannot share with earth. We hear only the soft patter until a breeze stirs and there is music. VVe hear the sound of a million harps. LA VERNE GRAY, 23 '65 The grass stretches out in dark folds, as if some earthly queen carelessly tossed her emerald velvet cloak to the ground. But e~en this rich coverlet cannot hide the soft, purple-petaled violets which bend their heads with simple grace. Diamonds left by a gentle shower slide down their slender legs to trickle away, caressing the land. I GRETCHEN SIEDLING, ~~~~~~~~~ 24 '64 An Allegory- FLUXIE and the PRINCE {with apologies to Plato} PAT MATKOVIC) Once upon a time there was a girl named Fluxie (one of those finite, mutable, material, complex realities) who was very impoverished. In fact, she was so destitute that she was almost pure potentiality, an epitome of prime matter. In the light of these facts she was as- '63 25 Prince's coat made of geometrically arranged numbers. Fluxie, though, was nowhere to be seen. She was busy at her daily duties (if one may define the act of leaving the mead-hall and tapestries in disorder a duty ) . When he arrived, the Prince was struck by the extremely untidy appearance of the meadhall. In a dignified, composed voice he said, "This disorder hints of an indeterminate secluded somewhere. Bring her to me so that she may partake of my order." No sooner was this announced than Fluxie appeared -her omnipresence was another of her annoying qualities. The Prince said: "Ah, this is the girl with so much potentiality. " Fluxie tripped to the Prince; her movements were very awkward, due to an absence of any kind of control, even motor control. People tried to help her but she kept eluding their grasp. The Prince scrutinized Fluxie. "My dear, what a state you are in! You sadly need order, but I don't think you lack principle. You are just the changeable, disorderly reality sociated with all that is corruptible and evil. Her appearance was complete chaos; she sadly needed some order in her dress and hair. Fluxie's character was marked by impulsiveness-in fact, her activities and attitude changed so often that it was evident that she would never amount to anything substantial. Of course, all of these qualities were more degrading because of Fluxie's mysterious origin. Noone knew where the poor child came from; many people however, formed all sorts of weird theories to explain her origin. One fine eon, a certain prince happened to visit the castle in which poor Fluxie lived. Upon the Prince's arrival , everyone rushed to greet this fine, stalwart specimen of substantiality. The . Prince had a wonderful ability to create impressions. Some people marveled over his dignity and neatness; others saw a fiery temper. Some onlookers thought his character was rather watery. One nearsighted lady lamented over the fact that she could only distinguish an indeterminate blur. She was interrupted by an elderly gentleman with an abacus, who exclaimed over the 26 who will make me happy, who will gratify my deep-seated psychological desire to feel needed. Will you marry me?" Fluxie said yes. Before she could change her mind, Father Demi-Urge was summoned, and he united the two in holy matrimony. Fluxie and the Prince, to everyone's surprise, lived happily ever after. A few eons later, a child was born to them-a little girl with brown hair, watery eyes, and bluetinged cheeks. lIer name was Terra. . Terra was a very gratifying offspring; she had her mother's defects and her father's virtues. Some far-sighted people remarked that Terra resembled h~rfather mor'e. but these were in the minority. Terra grew up to be a fine specimen of rotundity, with only one really annoying habit -that of running in circles all the time. Terra eventually moved to her own castle, which she remodeled into a hostel filled with youth (Terra fondly calls them her children) who are working to obtain means to continue their journey. These children are rather peculiar; probably due to a lack of vitamins they seem like faint shadows flitting about. Their eyes have an unusual cast, as if they were staring into space. Terra has a big heart. Her castle is bursting at the stones with adopted children, but Terra never refuses any of the travelers. Of course, all eventually continue their trip to the land of Happy Thoughts. Some, however, don't have enough money and return to Terra. To the disappointment of everyone's curiosity, these children are radically changed and are rather tongue-tied in telling of their adventures. \i\That happened to Fluxie and the Prince? They are still living happily ever after. People with abstract glints in their eyes can even see them today. Fluxie's curiosity has overcome the Prince's reserve: now they both get into everything. 27 TONI Leaves fast falling from swaying trees, a Chilly North \iVind churning, tossing, Swirling the leaves in its path, Piling them high in the gutters; the N ext breath sends them frolicking, Dancing, tumbling across broken Sidewalks; past .n arrow dark doorways; Past dirty listless children, hovering there; The street vendor wheeling the cart of picked-over Fruit; past the open window where sat Toni . Toni, pallid, pinched and hollow cheeked, Glancing with eyes dull and lifeless at The motley array, indifferent, emotionless. An E maciated hand brushes aside a dark lock. Fallen low over his brow. "Mummy, when Will spring come?" pathetic, listless. "Hush, A ntonio mio. Spring will soon be here. A few More days. Then we go to the country, you and I, A.nd the sunshine and the fresh air will make you vVell and strong again. " 28 Leaves still dance across broken sidewalks. Toni hears but does not see. Smokey fog, Thick, turbid, settled down, clotted the feeble rays Struggling through rows of narrow tenements. dark Ugly, squalid, Toni sighs, and dreams of sunshine. Days drag. \Vinds grow more violent. Leaves No longer dance but whirl madly in a burning frenzy . Dirty children squat no more in dim doorways. Passers-by hurry past the now-closed window, Pulling their wraps tightly about them. A flake of snow. And soon the ground is covered with the white stuff. For a time the ugly little street loses some Of its ugliness. But no ! Not for long. Dense Soot-laden snloke belched from factory chimneys Blackens, smothers the snow, trodden under foot , And Toni gazes anew at a bleak and dismal world. Every day the plaintive query-"\Vhen will spring be here? " Every day the same reply-"Just a few mort days. querido; We must be patient." And spring does come. A green meadow under the smiling sun; Phlox and buttercups in profusion; a tiny brook Bubbling down the hillside, past the weeping-willow SentineL A solitary figure, bent low, shoulders Bowed in grief, lovingly placing a bouquet of Honeysuckle and wild roses on a bare mound of earth . "You did not wait till the spring, Antonio mio. But no mind. You have your spring. eternal spring." THERESA MEYE R. 29 '6+ Little empty things enter my being And wrap their bittersweet tentacles About my lonely soul, Encasing it in a gray shroud of lead. Mesmeric fiends bury their fangs In the autumn leaves of my heart, Darkening the panes of my eyes, Smothering the sweet cacophony of the Universe. 30 Gossamer world ~ Escape not my dulled senses, But flow into the labyrinth of my meReflect upon the once shimmering mirror Of my blighted heartImprint yourself upon the silver nitrate Of my brain! Come softly creeping Into the echoing passages of consciousness And etch your myriad mosaics Across the charred wasteland of my soul! Oh fly not away Silver bird of ecstasy! Grasp the paralyzing bands of steel With your gilded beak And rip the emptiness from me With your ivory talons! Then, oh splendid nimbus, Revitalize the sepulchral strings Of my numbed lyre And let me sing of your splendor That sears the smoking embers Smoldering within the depths of my spirit. 31 Then feather the leaden aIr A.nd soar to jewelled skies vVhere diamonds hang suspended from golden threads And rubies burn in pools of liquid ebony 1 There, 0 withered hollow things, vVill I loose my tortured soul from you And bathe my spirit in emerald springs\ iVhere diamond fishes frolic in perfumed pools A nd velvet voices of fiutes Mingle with harps and silver strings! JOE KEMPF, 32 '63 Tears of the young bursting from tiny hurts even now healing joy-covering mask soon torn aside by nimble fingers , smiled upon. Tears of the old trickling from deep, often probed wounds, cup of serenity and time-tried endurance held by gnarled hands, honored. Tears of the flighty gushing from imagined injuries, here today and gone tomorrow, representing nothing in their transparency, dried by handkerchiefs worn thin, ignored. Tears of the grave rending from unhealed scars aching at cruelty and injustice mighty urn of righteous sorrow borne by strong shoulders, wondered at. 33 Tears of the hypocrite twisting from putrid nvers poisoned by lie, mark of the kiss of Judas adorning crafty lips, scorned. Tears of the honest coursing from oceans of loyalty, ointment of time-scorning truth refreshing smooth and ageless faces, admired. Tears of the selfish steeping from decayed wants, whine-ridden voice of pride gasping from throats strangled with greed, despised. Tears of the selfless springing from lakes of love, . gems cut by sacrifice and polished by calloused hands, cherished. Tears of the Virgin .welling from depths of compassion, delight of Divinity, hope of humanity, beauty indescribable, holiness immeasurable, exalted. ~ PAT MATKOVIC J 34 '63 partment had long ago lost its novelty for him. a satire- Directly across the gleaming surface of the table was General Harold Taylor, the highest ranking officer in the United States Army, second in command only to the President himself. The general was far more disturbing even than the average general, bad as that was, observed the Senator with a wry sort of appreciation. Noticing suddenly that he was being watched, the g e n era I coughed twice and nervously began to fumble with the blank pages before him. A Death Ray for the Kiddies JOE KEMPF) '63 The tall Senator, all elbows and knees, slouched back in his chair and it seemed as if his metallic gray hair relaxed with him. He clasped his hands over the drab olive of his corduroy suit and began to revolve his thumbs slowly around one another - first in one direction, then the other. Peering from beneath the cliffs of his shaggy eyebrows, he surveyed the three men sitting across the table from him with a feeling of amusement rather akin to pity. How could the government choose men such as these for a conference as important as this?, he marvelled. But the crass ignorance of the state de- To the general's right was a short, bird-like little man, perpetually engaged in pushing his go I d-rimmed spectacles back upon the bridge of his nose-whether they needed the adjustment or not. The Senator recognized this bald-eagle-like creature from a not-so-good caricature he had seen on the cover of Time magazine. Winner of the Nobel Peace Prize for outstanding achievement in the field of radiation, he recalled with an imperceptible shrug of the eyebrow. At least the man's accomplished something, acknowledged the Senator-not nothing like most of these goons. 35 Consciously preoccupied with the magnanimous task of drawing the tip of his mustache to impeccable perfection was the President's personal advisor, Frederick E. Manly. He was oblivious to everyone and everything in the room except the point he was able to impart to the growth on his upper lip. VVhen the general coughed, the President's personal a d vis 0 r ,,,,ould condescend to a slight "Ugh, germs !" grimace for a moment, and then return to the occupation of preening his male ego before his private and imaginary mirror. The worst grab came, however, realized the Senator, when one was forced to gaze upon the reflection of the President's rightha~d man in the polished tabletop. Even one abortion like him was more than the universe should have been forced to bear, thought the Senator sadly. Closing his eyes, he silently offered his condolences to the rest of humanity. On the Senator's side of the table were the three other men who, together with the Senator, made up the Agency for the Exchange of Scientific 1niormation; men who, like himself, were too intelligent and had to be placed in positions where they could do no damage. The AESI, for all practical purposes a useless body, was just such a perfect pigeonhole where "smart" young could be stored until they dropped from public attention and became powerless to "interfere" with the capable plans laid by more capable men. The Senator, however, was unique in the group, for he alone suspected that something extraordinary would take place in the room that day. He suspected, yet he wished he were like the rest of the men around him who didn't. He wanted to squeeze the world from his eyes like they did and ignore the foolishness and bungling that kept the nations of the earth at each other's throats. At times he found himself wishing the ridiculous agency of which he was head would be abolished and each of the puppets sent his merry way to oblivion. But no one saw fit to do so, and the "competent" statesmen snickered b e h i n d their backs at the good joke they had p I aye don the i r "smart" young friends. But the Senator bided his time, meanwhile becoming an expert on such priceless scientific information as the proper 36 technique for she a r i n g a n Akaya, a goat-like beast with smelly hair which survives only in the Ural Mountains. But the Senator waited, his thumbs revolvingThen, three m 0 nth sag 0, Russia had shocked the world with the announcement that it had developed a deadly ray, previously unknown to man. Russia's scientists described the ray as the most potent force ever unleashed by humanity, capable of converting microscopic particles of matter into unimaginable quantities of kinetic energy. With the news, the United States and Great Britain seemed to shrivel on the map; espionage agents shook their crewcut heads and stared dumbly at one another; cursing generals and incoherent politicians pounded their polished desktops and demanded a-c-t-i-o-n; newspapers editorialized; men on street corners argued violently; senators campaigned for mothe rho 0 d; toy manufacturers made fortunes on death ray disintegrators; scientists prayed to their slide rules and puzzled furiously-and the Senator twiddled his thumbs and smiled. But the general reaction, which can only be described as confusion in search of direction, was orderly compared to the melee which ensued when, six weeks later, Russia announced that it was ready to reveal to the world the secret of the death ray. Jaws dropped when this was followed by a third announcement that the information would be made known through the Agency for the Exchange of Scientific Information. \Vestern egos began a caut i 0 u s re-inflation; espionage agents (some of whom had n ear I y spied themselves to death during the preceding six weeks) exhaled lungfuls of relief; generals collapsed on their glittering desktops; newspapers continued to editorialize (some pro, some con) ; men on street corners stopped arguing and s tar ted swinging; politicians abandoned mot herhood for brotherhood; death ray disintegrators got bigger and more elaborate (so did the bank accounts of the toy manufacturers); and most scientists merely read the papers, while a few were quoted by them as being "on the verge" of the death ray discovery themselves. They were highly indignant that the secret was now going 37 . to be gotten in a highly dishonorable way. The man on the corner was happy, but a few diplomats, s 0 m e thinking statesmen, a handful of politicians and a few newspapermen completely familiar with Russian tactics were at least intelligent enough to be puzzled and a little wary of the Russians' overly-friendly proposal. But they merely scratched their pat e s, and wrinkled their brows in deep consternation, made beautifully ambiguous speeches and statements for the press to release, and went no further. "We shall see," they wagged their heads and sagely predicted. "Yes, we shall see," agreed the SenatorPreparations were begun immediately and a special site was chosen for the conference -a secluded village in Maine, with no distinction other than it was extremely remote and boasted a landing field upon which the battery of newsmen could converge. Top intelligence men had conferred with the President and his advisors and all had agreed that it was too great a risk to hold the meeting at the Pentagon, in New York, or close to any great metropolis. \Vhat would 38 happen if the Russian delegates carried some fantastic sort of weapon or decided to turn the death rayon the United States? vVould they have any defense for it? It was risk enough to have the Russians in the country, it was unthinkable to allow them to get within striking distance of our cities! The site in Maine finally had been agreed upon. Overnight, the town became the focal point of the nation. Everyone of its 746 inhabitants was interviewed by at least one radio or TV network. I t was amazing how a detailed history (for perhaps the most un-historical village in the country) could be fabricated in a day. The bewildered town and its equally bewildered residents had a preview of the population explosion which experts were predicting was still 50 years away - an increase of 200% within a week. Half of that number was created by a wandering group of discontented transients who no longer found it exciting to watch three-mill ion-dollar rockets vanish over Cape Can a v era l's sandy shores in a poof of smoke. The other hal f was due to newly-arrived newsmen and security police, who appeared suddenly on the scene in everincreasing numbers. The official Russian delegation arrived in New York on a 4-engine jet liner the day before the conference. The delegation consisted of one man. There were no bodyguards, no recognizable top officials, not even any top scientists. Just one very lonely looking, fat little man bundled up in a heavy black overcoat, topped in a black derby and carrying a sma 11, black briefcase. The crowd of thousands was so unprepared for the sight that it for got t 0 cheer; the band dropped to a sickly whine and finaiIy faded out altogether among the fe