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... Marian College THE FIORETTI VOLUME XIV NUMBER 1 Indianapolis, Indiana 1956-1957 AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE p~---- -. ~ . \~N ,--, -,,-- -" CO THE STAFF Editor-in-Chief Margaret Winsor, '57 Associate Editor Emilie C. Murray, '57 Assistant Editors Mary Byer, '58 Philip Doherty, '59 Miriam Gannon, '59 Judy Hirn, '59 Art Editors Marianne Peternel Joan Peternel Illustrators MARIANNE PETERNEl FOR "HEIRS OF THE WIND" JANE DAVIS FOR "CATHY" CAROL GOINS FOR "THEIR FOURTH GIFT" I , CONTENTS Essays and Articles Valuables Symbolism of T. S. Eliot Mark of Greatness Indian Summer Day Food-A La Jamaica 10 19 30 34 36 Grace Mickler Emilie C. Murray Louise Diver Geneva Whiteman Marguerite Branday Fiction Heirs of the Wind Cathy Their Fourth Gift ---. 5 13 38 Joan Peternel Rose Chan Miriam Gannon Poetry \j I '<) , ~ ...") ~ ~ Peace Epitaph Comment Ode to a Chimney Man Conversion A Farewell Hello Azure Awakening to Life Jimmy 9 11 18 23 24 25 29 35 37 48 James O'Donnell Carylou Siedling Emilie C. Murray James O'Donnell Margaret Darnell Margaret Darnell Philip M. Doherty Emilie C. Murray Ruth Ramsdell Joan Peternel Book Reviews The Satin Slipper Old Yeller 26 28 2572 0 Joseph R. Turk Judy Hirn "Because I don't like the idea of vou and your sister riding aro;nd on those motorcycles like crazy fools. You don't know how much I worry about . " you, fl y1l1g around ... HEIRS "Oh, hell, nothin's gonna happen," he said smoothly, squinching up his eyes like Brando. OF THE "I just don't like it," the mot her said, sniffing. She watched her son; he folded his arms, and gazed out the window, thoughtfully c hew in g gum. WIND Oh, we need to be free) whispered the gypsy , wings., "Have you been doing any ?" the mother asked the son. "That's one reason why;Tm glad you're going to college in town. So you'll study." "Hmmm? Oh. \iVell, I read a lot at first, Mom, until I discovered that just plain living is more fun than anything else." He grinned and looked at her from under his eyebrows; he liked to shock people. She was fro w n i n g, but laughed when she saw that .he was flirting with her, a trIck he used with everyone to get his own way. She tousled his hair and put her arms around him. ~t)ldying JOAN PETERNEL, '58 They were twins, a boy and a girl, and they had always been quiet, withdrawn, and serious. But the year they went to college they became alive. She was going to be a writer, and he was going to be an actor."And another thing, I don't like some of your new friends," the n10ther said. "vVhy not!" he demanded, dramatizing his fiery eyes. 5 young writers and actors and artists and musicians to come to discussions at her apartment. She gave them wine and listened to every word they said. They loved her. Jean always had the place lit like this for the kids - with candles stuck in old wine bottles. The warm candle-light and the soft darkness at the edges of the room drew them together, made them close. The twins came in with the others, saying hello all around, and sat down on the floor. They sipped their wine and- watched Jean. She was talking, the cigarette in her fingers burning itself down. "Yeah ... going away to college was like being Columbus discovering the New World," she said. "I wanted to do something big.)) Jean never just said a thing. She would look at the ceiling and frown, or rub her nose, or ruffle her hair. They were fascinated. "I wrote poetry," she said, looking at them. "Some of it was good by my friends' standards and some of it was bad by anyone's standards." The twin raised her head and smiled. "When I first started writing," she said, feeling the young penetrating eyes swing to her, "I wrote such awful "I guess women just can't resist a man who's a little boy, too," she said. "You're just like your father was." She sighed and stood back from him. He smiled slyly, looking at her from under his eyebrows. Winter was half gone in Chicago and it was cold, slushy from last week's snow. It was night, cold and star-lit, when the twins came out on the porch, in tight faded jeans and leather jackets. They sat on the railing, looking around restlessly, waiting. "Where the hell are they?" the girl said, hunching her shoulders to keep warm. "Here they come 1" he shouted, grinning, "I c'n hear them a mile off." They ran down to the curb. Two motorcycles pulled up, and they jumped on behind the drivers. Then they were gone, and just the cold wind remained, blowing down the street and around the houses and at the window of the room where the mother of the twins sat, alone and dreaming of the past. Oh) we are free) said the cold gypsy winds. The motorcycles sped down the street and over to Jean's. Jean was a professional writer, fairly successful; she was older than they, but she encouraged 6 stuff. Like .. ,0' _she grinned, " . . .'the rain puddles are rusty in the yard of the lumber company:" They laughed. "I know," Jean said, "that's what mine s_ounded like, too. I tried to be everything when I was young: amusing, tragic, wistful, wise. I tried to be everything. I never could quite figure things out. " "I think everything we do when we're young is done with a mild question mark," a Jewish boy said, looking at the twin heads, bent and tousled and red-glinted by the soft yellow candle-glow. "Yes," Jean agreed with him. She always agreed with her children. "All my friends in college were enthusiastic . . . eager . .. vain ... very optimistic. We were always arguing. The only thing we agreed on was the food. Everyone thought it was terrible." She smiled on them. There's a special light shining around these, she thought, because they're so young. "Don't you think it's important to express one's sel f, Jean?" one of the girls asked. "Oh, yes." "Don't you think it's the most important thing we can do?" the girl persisted. Jean smiled and thought a moment. "\tVhen I was as young as you I thought that way. I thought that writing was the most important thing in the world. I-I've found that it isn't that important. Art and music and writing ... well, it's necessary to express yourself in some way, but ... love ... is the best thing we can ever find on earth." The Jewish boy looked up at Jean and smiled faintly. "I wanted to write a huge book on racial prejudice when I was in high school. I prayed that I would be inspired to write a great book . . . I was very proud. I know now that the most anyone can ever do is just live. Writing should come from living, from the heart ... not from cold analytical thinking. " More wine went around the room. The twin made his warm eyes look a question at Jean. She knew his little trick and smiled and asked him if he wanted to say something. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I was just gonna say that maybe if we would always live as i.f we were going to die very soon, we would learn to be happy." She smiled at his earnest face. "It would give us recklessness," he went on dramatically, "and freeness. Maybe that's what genius is made of." The other kids murmured approval. 7 "Is that why you roar around on those motorcycles like madmen ?" Jean asked him. , He cocked is head at her, thoughtfully. "I don't know shattered the dark peace of the night. The twin held on tight, his head thrown back, his mouth open to drink the wind. He was breathless with the big feeling of being blown by the wind. He knew they were going fast, because he could not see anything, just a black whirling movement ahead, a long dark tunnel becoming narrower and narrower until . . . there was nothing anymore . .. He felt as if he were standing up, floating, but some vague failing instinct told him he was flat on his back. He couldn't hear anything, but he could see a maze of ribbons before him, crazy weaving ribbons . .. and suddenly, very dimly, the face of his sister. The ribbons . . . were violently torn apart. He felt his heart wrench. The ribbons fluttered away, growing fainter ... fainter . . . The twin stood up, looking down at him. The screams of the sirens were going through her and through her. The darkness all aroung; she could , see only him, her 't'w in'. She turI1ed, putting her hands through her hair and gave an anguished cry tolithe night. Oh, he n eeded to be fr ee said the Voice . H e was an heir of th e f;Vi nd "Don't you know?" she en'" . couraged. No . . , he saId very slowly, " I ... I like speed. A nd . . . it makes me feel free. It makes me feel as if I-as if I wer~ in space alone with nothing but the wind and God. " Oh, the young ones strain to be free like the Wind. They all left Jean's then. It was late. She went around the room, picking up empty glasses and a~h trays, straightening up things. Then she stood in the middle of the room and looked around .. The place is so empty without them, she thought. On the sidewalk in front of Jean's some of the kids waited, talking about what they . would do next. "Let's; go to Joe's Bar and Grill ," someone said. "Okay," someone else said. " Come on, twin. ,on my 'cycle." He jumped on and looked around for his sister. ."Hey, follow us, baby," he yelled at her. She shouted okav and got on the other friend/s motorcycle. The a r r 0 g ant steady roar of motorcycles " " , . "1 I 8 Peace The peaceful tranquility of a quiet lake .. . The soft murmur of water caressing the sand. The thick darkness of the surrounding night The warm coolness of the summer weather, the soft wind blowing . ci~nd I think of you. You are the peaceful tranquility of a deep faith in the goodness of all that is and will be. Your laughter is soft and sincere and peace-inspiringnot unlike that born of the darkness of the night. You are cool and fresh as the wind blows softly through your hair. You are my peace. JAMES O'DONNELL, 9 '58 Valuables by Did you know that you can't possibly get along in life without them? Why, it's practically unheard of . . . like going around all day without eating or breathing. All of you have the intelligence to see the great necessity for them. The public demands have kept the manufacturer snowed under with requests for them. Years ago, the demand for them was not as emphatic as it is now. People were easier going, slower, and led the more simple, quiet type of life. But today, in this great modern era, the time of vast progress, the fast pace of living has opened the eyes of the public to the value of them. No doubt you have seen them advertised. In rna gazi nes thei r need is printed in bold letters; on massive billboards their need is brightly painted as if to shout it to the world. Everywhere, even in small towns, they are found. In every home, every office, on playgrounds, in schools, in banks, at 10 GRACE MICKLER, '59 the corner sweet-shop, in cars, beyond the bend, over the rainbow, and around the mountain. Their location is nowhere, it's everywhere! If you don't have one, I sincerely urge you to get one. Even better, get as many as you can. They are white, brown, red and yellow. They have straight brown hair, curly red hair, wavy black hair and soft blond hair. Their noses are long and pointed, short and pugged, their eyes are big and understanding; they are tall and short, fat and skinny. They eat food, drink cokes, go to parties, do dishes, mow lawns, do homework, talk on phones, watch T.V., write letters, give Christmas gi fts, make speeches and buy records. They help you with your problems and troubles, they make you laugh, and loan you money. ~That are they? .... THEY are your Friends. I Epitaph They say he is dead. \I\!hat can I do to make you forget and hope again? I can be impressed with his name, his day of birth and now-this. I can catch your tears, but with them the wind and the rain and the warm, drying sun. My presence at this ground called grave soothes you. Yet, surely you must know even I cannot stay forever. -CARYLOU SIEDLING, n I '57 CATHY by 12 ROSE CHA r , ' 59 The great ancient clock in the living room began to chime: one, two, three, four, ... It was eleven o'clock; he heard it and knew it was time to go to bed yet he did not stir. Still as a post he remained, standing in front of the big French window staring vacantly out into the darkness of the night. What was he thinking about? He didn't know-or did he? He was beginning to feel the burden of life and reluctantly he let a deep sigh escape his firmly-sealed lips. aflame and his lips dry. He wanted something cold to drink but he could not move. "Go to bed, Lawrence; it's very late now," said Aunt Maggie gently. ''I'm n ot sleepy. " His parched throat made his voice sound harsh. "I know what's on your mind, but, Lawrence, don't you realize that you 're ruining yourself by thinking about it all the time ? You love her immensely and I understand how deeply you feel about her death, yet that 's no reason to kill yourself with grief. Besides, think how happy she is in heaven now .... " She could not go on; her heart was al so torn with grief. Restlessly, she moved her weary head on the" so ft cushion at the back of the chair and drawing her heavy eyelids together tried to hold back the tears that were gushin g forth. Lawrence should not see her cry, he would feel worse if he did, she told her- . self severely. She felt much calmer; she looked at her nephew who was now leaning against the mantlepiece deep in thought. "Lawrence, think no more of it. Cathy is now in her eternal home and is so much happier than when she was here ... " "But Aunt Maggie, how can " Lawrence," someone called. He startled but did not move or answer. He seemed to have forgotten that he was not alone in the room and was trying hard to figure out to whom that voice belonged. A unt Maggie had been in the room all this while, he recalled. The same voice repeated his name. Swi ftly but noislessly, he turned and looked her full in the face. The room was dimly lighted but he could see her very clearly sitting close to the hearth, the bright fire illuminating her countenance. The muscles of his face contracted as he stared at ' her as if the very sight of her brought home to him excruciating memories; with evident pain he withdrew his gaze and cast it on the crackling fire. He felt very hot ; his whole body was 13 I help thinking about it? I feel gu ilty. I feel that I . . . killed her! I was the cause of her death! Yes, I killed her! Do you hear, Aunt? I killed her!" He almost screamed those last words at her. Down on his knees he fell, and burying his face in his aunt's lap, he wept like a child. He felt so weak, so helpless and so insecure. She ran her hand through his hair; he felt the warmth, the gentleness of it. It somehow reminded him of his mother who used to smooth his hair whenever he went to her in distress and rested his head on her lap and wept penitent tears in her bosom. But that was long, long ago. That hand could not console him now; it would no longer be able to caress him or smooth his ruffled hair. "Lawrence," he he a r d his aunt's voice. It was soft but firm. "You are acting very silly. vVhere is your usual good sense? You know as well as I do that Cathy died accidentally. It was not your fault nor anybody's." She paused. "Now, get to your feet, dry your tears and go to bed. " He did not answer but his weeping had weakened to a sob. "Come. Lawrence, be good and do as I say," she coaxed. Slowly, he raised him s elf from the floor; he did not leave 14 for his room but staggered into a chair opposite that of his aunt's. His face was flushed, his eyes blood-shot and moist from crying and he looked exhausted. How grief had changed him, she thought as she tried in vain to find some trace of that boyish grin which she knew so well. "Aunt Maggie, you 'd better go to bed. " His low but distinct voice roused her from her reverie. "It is almost twelve. I'll send for your maid. " He pulled the bell twice and the maid came hastily in . "Help your mistress to her room," he ordered. "Good - night, A unt Maggie." "Good-night, Lawrence, don't stay up too late," she pleaded and he heard her sigh as the door closed behind her. All was quiet; he was alone in the big, empty room. Tired and miserable, he once again dropped into the armchair and gazed aimlessly at the gradually dying fire. "Go to bed, Lawrence, " he could still hear Aunt Maggie saying. "It wasn't your fault ... she died accidentally ... " Vaguely, he saw among the dancing flames the face of his beloved sister-her big dar k sparkling eyes were now dull and sad, her orice smiling red lips were so stiff .and lifeless. "No, Cathy, I don't want anything like that. I'll be fifteen, don't you see?" He heard his own deep masculine voice and felt very proud of it . ."\,rVell, don't think of anythmg too expensive beca use three dollars are all I have to my name." L Cathy had always had a dislike for surprises, he remembered very well. She would not allow anyone to surprise her and it amused him invariably to see how irritated she would b(Yet whenever anyone did. It had become her habit to let him know what his birthday present from her would be beforehand. He would rather have it as a surprise, but he would not hurt the feelings of one whom he loved so dearly. His mother and father had frequently teased him saying that he acted more like a younger than an older brother towards her. He did not think so for he had as much command over her as any older brother could desire. In fact, he secretly feared the tremendous affection Cathy cherished for h~m; she practically worshipped hIm as a god. "Oh, Cathy . " cried his heart in agony. His heart ached as he looked at her. "Cathy ... Cathy ... forgive me !" he moaned . .. . * * * . "Giye me back my marbles, Cathy! Where did you hide them ? You'd better return them or else I shall tell Mom." . "Go ahead and tell her, you bIg baby, and see if I care. I won't tell you where they are and you'll never find them either," replied Cathy in a defiant tone. He had broken the legs of her favorite doll the ot~er day and she was doing thIS to pay him back. But when she saw how pale with anger her brother's handsome face had turned, she softened. "I f you will apologize for ruining my doll, then I'll tell where I have put them." He apologized and they were friends again. They had never been angry with each other for long, as far as he could recall . perhaps it was because the; loved each other so. N evertheless, he now wished with all his heart that even such little quarrels had never occurred and that he had been kinder to her. 0 0 * * * "Hey, Lorrie, what do you want for your birthday? Candy?" Cathy asked him one day when they were on their way home from school. . * * * "Law, will you do me a favour?" 15 "If you would stop calling me 'Law' I might think about it." He smiled in spite of himself as he recalled that. For some time, Cathy had been calling him "Law," short for Lawrence she would explain jestingly. She knew he did not like it but she loved to irritate him now and then. "Teach me how to drive, will you, Lorrie? I promise I'll be good from now on, and never call you names again. All right, Lorrie ?" She was so mischievous yet so lovable always that it was impossible for him to refuse her anything. But now he wished he had never taught her driving. Cathy wouldn't have ... with a hundred and one women around me? That would really make me feel good." "All right, Lorrie, I am sorry. I asked you to come along because . . . Well, I wish it wouldn't get dark so early." He saw the uneasy expression on her face when she left the room, but he did not pay too much attention to it. N evertheless, from the window of his study he watched her get into the car and did not return to his easy chair till he saw her drive off safely. Ten o'clock, eleven, twelve, still no sign of her return. He grew worried. What happened? '\Thy hadn't she come home yet? It shouldn't take her so long! "N 0, nothing can have happened to her. NO!" he cried fiercely. Up and down the room he paced restlessly. He waited, waited and waited .... Suddenly, the telephone rang. He rushed to it. He heard a strange voice at the other end of the line. "Yes, this is Lawrence Kearne," he identified himself. "Mr. Kearne, this is the Police Commissioner speaki ng. vVe' d like to know if you are the owner of a blue Jaguar with the license number HK-306571? * * * "Lorrie, will you take me to Queen's beauty parlor on Shore Drive?" . He remembered very well that he was in a bad humour that evening: the day had been cold and rainy and he felt exhausted after his day's work. "I don't feel like going anywhere right now. You know how to drive, why don't you drive my Jaguar down there yourself? You have always wanted to drive it, you told me; well, here's your chance. Besides, what am I going to do while you're having your hair set? Sit in the waiting room 16 an eternity to him. He sat motionless, watching the lingering flames on the hearth. "Yes," Lawrence cut in. "What's happened? Where is my sister? Did she have an accident? Tell me!" For a moment there was complete silence on the other end; then, the same voice spoke again, very slowly. "You see, Mr. Kearne, about an hour or so ago, we had an unexpected telephone call reporting a car accident. We were told that a Jaguar, going at a normal speed along the waterfront, for some unknown reason plunged into the harbour suddenly. The witness of the accident was unable to see the car's license number in the dark and so we couldn't tell to whom the car belonged till it was hauled out of the water . . . Mr. Kearne, are you listening?" The "yes" was so faint that the Commissioner could scarcely hear it. "Attempts were made immediately to rescue the driver," he continued even more slowly, "but they were futile. Neither the driver nor the car could be traced till about an hour later. I am deeply sorry. Mr. Kearne, but we did all we could to .. . " he heard a groan and then silence. How long he remained unconscious Lawrence could not tell but the rest of the night was * * * "Lawrence, you aren't in bed yet !" He startled and lifted his head. It was his Aunt. "I am going right now," replied Lawrence with a faint smile on his dried lips while brushing away the tears from the corners of his thoughtful eyes. Silently he followed his A unt out of the living room, and while they were climbing the stairs, she suddenly broke the silence. "Do you remember the little prayer that Cathy used to say every night when she was small ? She always looked so serious when she recited it. '0 God, please let me die before Mommy and Daddy and Lorrie and A unt Maggie because it will break my heart to lose anyone of them.' What a strange little girl!" Lawrence) after his Aunt had gone into her room, strolled slowly to his own. He pondered his Aunt's casual remark. It was just as if Cathy herself were here consoling him. His feeling of depression left him and he felt he could almost be reconciled to his sister's death. "Cathy, pray for me," he whispered. 17 Comment Such nights as these vVitness murder or suicide best ... If ancient tales do not deceive ; But this whirling eve of madness With its coal-dustv clouds J s necessary. ElseWhat unobservant parasite Would notice the sun? EMILIE 18 C. MURl{AY, '57 The Symbolism of T. S. Eliot EMILIE Contemporary literature has had several definable trends, and of these, few have seemed important. One thread, symbolism, has established itself, and its influence is far from being ineffective even now. The literature of the French has been most conspicuously symbolistic while only a few writers of other literatures have attempted to use this style. T. S. Eliot, the American-born Englishman, has had the greatest success in using symbolism in poetry and his poetic dramas. - In general, symbolism deals with the use of symbols in expressing ideas. However, this is not essentially a new idea; symbols were used in ancient rites, in the medieval liturgy and are still used today as emblems of different organizations. The Symbolists went a step further than using symbols well-known to the people. Starting with an idea or mood that had no specific symbol, they would write an entire poem about an object that they had chosen to be a symbol. The resulting poem could be read either for the picture the poet 19 C. MURRAY) '57 had created or for the deeper significance. Thus a tone poem about a swan could be enjoyed for the magnificent description, or could be read for the inner meaning-a swan symbolizing the feeling of isolation. Each poet could evolve his own symbols, not having any obligation to use the same ones as the others members of the school. Leaders in this field were Mallarme and Rimbaud, but Eliot does not follow in the tradition o f their poems, or as it has been described, the "serious-aesthetic" tradition, but there is more evidence of two lesser-known Symbolists Tristam Corbiere and Jules Laforgue, or the "conversational-ironic" tradition. Both of these poets lived only a short time and their poetry reveals the youth and precocity that was natural to them. In their works the ideas of romanticism were completely changed over to new feelings, new flexibility and new vocabulary. Here there is more evidence of colloquialisms. slang and witty satire. Particularly in Laforgue is the similarity seen between his works and those of Eliot. In comparing the structure of Eliot's The Love Song of 1. Alfred Prufrock and Laforgue's Legende) the similarity of themes is immediately evident. \Vhat is even more striking is the similar metrical pattern even though there are two di fferent languages involved. Similar comparisons can be made with other poems of Laforgue and Eliot. The idea of the unstressed French verse and also entire lines of Laforgue appear in Eliot's works. It must not be supposed that Eliot is a mere imitator or copyist. For one thing, Eliot has lived to become a mature poet, and secondly, he is more precise and perfect as to phrasing than either Laforgue or Corbiere. His images are sure and his taste is clean and clear-cut. In these ways he appears superior to his predecessors and more likely to retain a higher place in the development of modern literature. IStIC school. This, of course, is compatible with Eliot's plan of composition which in vol ves choosing a rhythm first and fitting ideas and words to match it. I f music is important, ideas will be merely suggested instead of outlined since it will necessitate choosing only a group of words that can convey meaning and musical sound at the same time. A n interesting study of Eliot's symbolism has been made by Elizabeth Drew who attributes his symbolism to what she has named the mythical method. To her the use of myths by the ancients is the same as the use of symbols by the moderns, or at least they spring from the same fundamental desires. Poetry is described as a descendent of the incantations and rituals of the ancients. The primitive myth maker is seen as performing the vital act in poetry- to perceive inner reali- ties through their reflection in concrete image. The poet, then, in this estimation must be both primitive and yet more civilized than the other men about him. Eliot has followed the Symbolists in another of their efforts, the concentration on the music of the verse. This particular trait has been popular with many moderns, but it is peculiarly a trait of the symbol- In Eliot the reader witnesses the union of symbolism with philosophy. Not content to symbolize his own moods and emotions, Eliot uses sand, dry 20 rock, house ugliness, parvenu vulgarity, death, hysteria and prostitution to symbolize the aridity of contemporary life. He is convinced that man realized his spiritual capacity more fully before the age of materialism and he cries out against the standard of mediocrity that guides contemporary civilization. Eliot's first impression on the literary world was made by The Love Song of 1. Alfred Prufrock, a poem that comments on the barrenness of contemporary existence by discoursing on the feelings of a lonely man who realizes that he has lived too cautiously and, consequently, poorly and unhappily. A comment on society and its shallowness is made in the running account that reoccurs as if the poet would be sure that we observed it and heeded it: In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The wealth of meaning contained in those two lines is a typical Eliot comment on society. The use of the verb talk gives the word a special meaning in this context, that of prattling without any thought behind it. The liVaste Land uses the 21 Grail legend of a knight coming to a barren land and saving the people from a horrible life of living in a wasted, parched area where there is no hope of l-:eeping Ii fe. Differing somewhat from his earlier works, Eliot here allows for that element of hope that there is a salvation for these people in the barren land. There is a constant and continuous comparison of past and present and the general truth evolved is that degeneration itself can lead to a regeneration. Thus contemporary man, and ancient man and the man 0 f the future are all included in this. Eliot himself does not seem to care very much to be considered a voice of his generation because his idea of a great poet is the man who "out of intense and personal experience is able to express a general truth: retaining all the particularity of his experience to make it a gene. eral symboL" Certainly one of the most popular of Eliot's poems is Ash Wednesday. No doubt the liturgical significance gives some readers the feeling that they are on familiar ground with Eliot's aIIusions. This poem also gives proof of Eliot's belief in the possibility of spiritual rebirth. The Four Qurartets are the most mature of his works and they give us a complete picture . of his attitude towards revealed religion. It does not set out to persuade or convince but rather to describe the feeling one has following a certain dogma. Each of the four poems retains this theme but in each one time is symbolized by a different element. In Burnt N orton) time is symbolized by air, East Colur by earth, The Dr')! Salvages by water and Little Gi'ddingj by fire. a marriage by interested friends who act rather as guardian angels for their friends in their manner of looking after them. Actually the couple could solve their problems easier if left alone. .. I n his poetic' drama he is an innovator by tK.g' use of poetry and by the use o'f symbolism in English drama. In each one he attempts to use a human situation to express a general human conditon. Most of his dramas have not been successfully produced or frequently produced, but are enjoyed by many in the written form for their ideas. . It remains for the first genuine dramatic contribution to hold more power than his other dramas. This is Murder in the Cathedral and has the virtue that many of his poetic works contain, the comparison of past and preJsefie with ',Ja:ri' :arrival at ';ad ihaJ t~uth that is universal. The story of Thomas a Becket a favorite legend of Englaild~ . Eliot uses the legend to stress the ideas of the true concept of a martyr, to show the indifference of people to government if they are left undistur bed and to show how governments can attempt to justify the actions that were deenled necessary. The Family Reunion is an attempt to show by contrasting the gene'rations of a family that the nyounger generation should not be expected to carry on the plans of the elders, but that each generation is going to solve the individual problems in its own manner. The Cocktail Party) witty and satirical about contemporary society, deals with repairing 'of In a more recent drama, The C onfidential Cler/~) there seems to be a better picture of contemporary life than his other plays. Based on a story of illegitimacy, the search of a young man for his father is interpreted by some as the search of man for his Father, God. A secondary theme is the idea that each person has a vocation to a certain way. of is 22 drama, as most of his poems are strikingly serious, E liot has much to offer to contemporary man. The symbolism, of course, especially when coupled with his intellectuality of style, makes him obscure; but reading Eliot is more than a gain in knowledge of literature, it can be a distinct experience in life. life and that this way of life must be followed if the person is to be really happy. Eliot i s more popular in England where his plays are produced with greater regularity and also on television. As yet they have not caught the fancy of the American theatregoing public. Definitely serious Ode to a Chimney A chimney: is a sturdy structure So tall and str6ng. It sits on housetops. Chimney, can you answer this? A re you not closer to Him than most of us earthly men with worldly cares and fanciful whims? You are so inferior just senseless brick or stone. We feel, and love, and hate alike and try to comprehend this life. Yet, we' re so attached to transients, passing delights and pretty toys. You have nothing, we have all. Are you not closer to Him? Chimney, will you answer this? JAMES O ' DONNELL, 23 ' S8 Man Chained, bound with fear, guilty of sin, haggard in the eyes of heaven; weeping for the mercy of God. He gives it. Then, up, up, soaring as a bird on wings of thanksgiving, praying to stay aloft. MARGA RET DARNELL, 24 '58 Conversion Fighting, snarling, hating, such was my world without You. Even professing You, vVithout Your faith I was nothing, nothing ; - a bit of existence tossed about in a whirlwind. Blowing here, now there, a dead soul. But Your gentle hand reached down, transplanted this weed into Your garden, So I live. MARGARET DARNELL, 25 '58 Book Reviews THE SATIN SLIPPER Paul Claudel Sheed and Ward, 1951 Translated by John O'Connor with the collaboration of the author. Symbolism is a form of art much used in the French literary schools. Perhaps, of the contemporary authors, one of the most prominent is Paul Claudel. Claudel is more than one who incorporates the symbol in his writings, for through the Catholic tradition he can better understand and appreciate the symbol. It was in this spirit, no doubt, that Claude1 conceived of his drama, Le Soulier de Satin) which indicates by its very name, Satin Slipper) the crux to the thought of this drama. W ith her slipper in hand, the heroine asks the Mother of God to keep her from falling headlong into sin by holding her slipper. In this symbolism is seen the clash of reason with passion and material love with spiritual love. The Satin Slipper is a drama divided into four days which in turn are divided into several scenes. In this way Claudel hopes to create a timeless duration of incidents, a procedure like to the way God sees the universe; all at once. A nd so, scene fo llows scene, not always In chronological sequence, but as if all the scenes were happening at once. Consequently, a feeling of spaciousness and grandness is always confronting the audience. The plot itself is concerned with the love of a married woman, Dona Prouheze, for another, Don Roderigo. Claudel makes this more than the unraveFnK of a triangle of love ~~ i,s ~,m.ore concerned with "What sRiritual and psychologiql :,~ a~;,<;t~ affect these two lovers; .And in this unveiling of their. ~m.~tions, he is not mostly concerned with their happiness, bUt' how their earthly happiness \via effect their eternal lives cind the lives of all society. . The slipper is the permeating symbol of the whole drama, for it strikes at the root of the problem. Prouheze realizes the gravity of the sin she will commit -if she yields to Don Roderigo. Still, she desires him with her whole being. And therefore, she pleads with her bodyguard, placed there by her husband, that he be crafty for she will try every means to get to Don Roderigo. Here can be s~en that sin is in the will and not in the temptation. And Prouheze, so aware of the circumstances, asks that Mary prevent her, for although it will be turning from God, she 27 is determined to carry out her wishes. A close proximity between right and wrong is reached; for at the same time this woman desires sin, she abhors it. Which way should she turn? Sacrifice is the only answer for overcoming the weakness. And in the realization, that by rejecting each other's body, they will save their souls and be doing something meritorious for others, they part saying they loved, but a greater reason keeps them apart. The climax of the play is reached. The moon, the reflector of a higher power, is the one to unite them. Sym bol icalIy, its reflection joins their shadows as if to show how their souls are knit by sacrificing the union of their bodies. Paul Claudel uses the Satin Slipper as a mouthpiece to express his thoughts. Catholic dogma directs the action of his creations. And befn~inuch; con cerned with will, reason, ,intellect and emotions, Claudel'l becomes psychoanalyst, a psychoanalyst who uncovers the questions that are personal to him, giving thought and intellect more flesh and blood than the physical characters living the play. - JosephR. Turk, '57 OLD YELLER F. B. Gipson Harper, 1956 I f you ha ve some evening free with nothing to do but while away the time let me suggest the perfect book. Just long enough to finish in an evening, Old Yeller by Fred Gipson is "warm, and human and immensely moving. " vVhen Travis was fourteen his father left to drive the cattle to Abilene, Kansas, thus leaving him with the responsibilities of a man, that of caring for his mother, little Arliss and the homestead. One night the big yellow. one-eared dog stole some pork hanging outside. With a trick like this Travis' first impulse was to kill the mutt but little Arliss put up such a fuss that Old Yeller was saved. It wasn't long before Travis found Old Yeller indispensible. ''''hile Papa was gone Travis and Old Yeller found excitement. But not all was glamorous in his new role as head of the house. Travis worked hard 28 chopping wood until his back was about to break, plowing until his muscles cried out, weeding in the hot sun and trying to keep little Arliss out of mischief. The fight between the two bulls, the time Arliss nearly got mauled by the bear, and the chase to catch the pigs in order to mark them were all episodes that broke the monotony of the everyday chores. All these things lead to the time Old Yeller fought with a wolf-not a normal wolf. Here Travis, quickly growing into manhood, learned another valuable lesson in his growth ; some of the pain of life touched his heart. In reading Old Yeller you may recall your first experience in realizing the world isa rough place. But even pain doesn't last forever and there are new things to take the place of the old. JUDY HIRN, ' 59 A Farewell Hello The sweetest moments of the day A re just before the dawn, The sun is saying adieu to night Before she hurries on. The sun awakens from his heavenly sleep At peace with a world still at rest, And only for a moment holds The night close to his breast. But in that moment there is love As only the stars can say, For the sun gently kisses the night farewell Then starts out for the day. PHILIP 29 M. DOHERTY} '59 A Mark of Greatness . LOUISE DIVER, "T 0 restore all things in Christ" has been the heart-cry of our recent Popes, the Pontiffs of Catholic Action. How would Christ want our individual lives? How would He have our social institutions? The principles are clear for they are those the Catholic Church has ever held. But theory is the easy part; the application of principles presents problems. In using ethics to solve social and economic ills, one cannot be content with surface judgments, nor be deterred by popular sentiment, nor be daunted by public opposition. He must take what is there, judge its rightness, and then he must act for the sake of Christ. There have been great men who have grasped these ideas. One of these was the late Monsignor John A. Ryan. The parents of John Ryan were from Ireland and had, after immigrating first to Massa~ chusetts, settled near St. Paul, Minnesota. Eleven children were born to this devout and 30 '59 hard-working farm couple: devout because they loved God; hard-working because their two farms were then encumbered by mortgages carrying interest rates of 10 and 12 per cent per annum. A sacrifice of money, a loss of an able helper, their son, were the demands God made upon the Ryans. For when John Augustine Ryan was sent to the Christian Brothers School in St. Paul, the idea of pursuing a priestly vocation came to him. In 1887. he entered St. Thomas Seminary. What were the conditions of the world in the late 19th century, the world John A. Ryan was "leaving"? History was being made. Cleveland and Blaine were engaged in the campaign of 1884. (Monsignor Ryan thought that Cleveland never understood social justice nor accepted it nor its implications.) The Populists and Ignatius Donnelly were advancing "radical" proposals. Monsignor Ryan was able to cast his first presidential vote for James B. VVeaver, the Peoples' Party candidate. Governor Altgeld was pardoning the lifers of the Haymarket Massacre, and Bryan's "Crown of Thorns and Cross of Gold" speech was delivered at the 1896 Convention ... One wishes there had been cameramen to film those exciting moments. American Church history was no less celebrity-studded. There were James Cardinal Gibbons; the renovyned John Ireland, Archbishpp . . of St. Paul; and Bishop Spalding, "the greatest literary <,l.rtist in the entire history of the A merican Hierarchy." Pope Leo XIII was promulgating famous encyclicals and Canon Barry was writing on the economic causes of poverty. A ll these men influenced John Ryan profoundly, but his social education had begun even earlier. He read the "Irish World," a monthly publication advocating Irish nationalism and promoting the interests of labor in the United States. VVhen Seminarian Ryan's assignments inCluded an essay on "Rerum Novarum," he emphasized most that part which dealt with the obligation of the state to regulate industry, an idea far removed from the thenprevalent laissez-faire theories. 31 His deepest and most sustained interest was in that part of moral theology dealing with justice, rights and contracts. His determination increased to devote as much time and labor as he could to an examination of "economic life in the light of Christian principles, with a view to making them operative in the field of industry." It seemed to John Ryan that the salvation of millions of souls hinged on their having the means to live decently, "to live as human beings made in the image and likeness of God." He found authoritative encouragement in the Holy Father's exhortation to "throw into the conflict, all the energy of his mind, and all the strength of his endurance." His concept of his vocation was social for in striving to fulfill the command to preach the Gospel of Christ, Monsignor Ryan said that he "concentrated upon that part of the Gospel which applies to social and economic relations." On June 4, 1898, John A ugustine Ryan, age 29, received the sacrament of Holy Orders. Four years of study at the Catholic University of America followed. Besides moral theology, Father Ryan carried courses in canon law and audited economics, sociology, and English lectures. He thrived on the scholastic opportunities. .A bout this time, his first magazine article was published, and he began his doctoral dissertation, "A Living vVage: Its Ethical and Economic Aspects." Upon returning to St. Paul Seminary, Father was assigned to teach his favorite subject, the treatises of moral theology dealing with right conduct, norm of morality, justice, etc. His dissertation, published by the Macmillan Company in 1906, furnished much of the material which Dr. Ryan expanded in subsequent classroom lectures, numerous speeches, magazine articles, books, pamphlets, and letters. philanthropy to the less fortunate. This "would be in accord with both ' the Christian teaching on wealth and our national economic welfare." In his book; Distributive Justice} Father Ryan expressed the belief that the change could take place only after a revival of "genuine religion." Because Father Ryan saw morality governing all individual and social conduct, his interests were unlimited. A book would .' be necessary to enumerate all those causes for which he wrote, spoke, held meetings, headed committees, appeared before Congressional committees, ' and conversed. Mention of four might illustrate the variety and extent of his work. 1. The well-to-do should adopt a "reasonable" standard of living and help provide for a better distribution of his surplus in wages, charity and 32 2. The econom i c factor s which cause so much destitution among the defenseless must be remedied by state intervention, specifically, minimum standards of wage, hours , housing, health, safety, etc. His defense of laborers' rights was strong; but, like his other proposals, they have since been carried out in varying degrees. When he spoke out for labor's right to organize into unions, he championed a cause in a hostile field-with few to help. 3. Then labelled "socialistic" were the measures he foresightedly encouraged: government ownership of public utilities, progressive imposts on incomes, regulation of speculation and government competition against threatening mopopolies. 4. Monsignor Ryai1 recommended that seminaria~s be given courses in sociology and economics. This probably came about because he often found his proposals assailed by Cath- olics, Catholics either ignorant of ChtiMian principles o"t ,se"lfishly rationalizing their positions. hibition to national isolationism. A right-to-the-point mind and a winning sense of humor are revealed in the various articles and letters that he wrote. In 1915, A rchbishop Ireland yielded to a bombardment of Bishops who were requesting Monsignor's transfer to the Catholic University. In the Capital, Professor Ryan taught political science at Trinity College; sociology in the School of Social Science; and at the University, he taught industrial ethics and economics and was head of the Department of Moral Theology. Rt. Rev. Monsignor was the title officially bestowed upon John A. Ryan in 1937, his 69th year. The next year, he abided by the Catholic University's compulsory retirement rule. Regretfully, he left the University and the pleasant associations he had had there for 24 years, but he continued teaching at Trinity and at the National Catholic School of Social Service and continued also to act as Director of the Social Action Department of the N.C.W.C. On September 16, 1945, he went to Him Who "inspired me with the desire to preach His social gospel and \rVho has sustained and guided me through all the years of my life." Through World War I, Monsignor Ryan worked for the peace proposals of Pope Benedict XV and advocated a League of Nations. His ideas for post-war development were published in 1919 by the National Catholic War Council as the Bishops' Program for Social Reconstruction. When the Council evolved into the National Catholic Welfare Conference, a Department of Social A ction was put under the direction of Father Ryan. With able assistants, especially Father R. A. McGowan, and with an organization of action at his command, the Director of the Department of Social Action worked even more effectively. His interests ranged from pro- The life and work of Monsignor Ryan prove anew that the Church, acting under the guidance of the Holy Ghost, is as vital today as 1,900 years ago. She is astonishingly progressive, even radical. The principles taught by the Church, so zealously espoused by Monsignor Ryan, do not change. She asks '. only that we underst"and and- use "her riches to "restore all ' things 111 Christ." I 33 Indian Summer Day GENEVA \IVHITEMAN, Years fleeting onward never seem aware of the changes N ature bestows upon the land of the Absarokees. The great Castle Rock majestically towering above the Pryor Mountains appea rs as valiant and proud as the greatest of all Crows, Chief Plenty Coos. Throughout all ages he has encountered many sinister foes and has withstood even the most violent thunder storms. Their faraway echoes reverberating through the steep canyons remind him of the beat of tomtoms, as boulders kneel around him like medicine men welcom- 34 '59 ing summer. The pine trees, too, stand erect like Indian braves awaiting command. The e:lrly morning breeze creates a pure atmosphere giving life to all who breathe its fresh ness. The sun shines down upon the fertile green va ll ey; the bluebell s ring with delight as the morning dews disappear drop by drop. The pure, sparkling water dashes down from the tops of the Pryor Mountains in little streams uniting to form Pryor Creek, which empties into the Little Big Horn River. This God-given moisture enriches the soil whose vast resources remain untouched. The mountainside with its nutritious grasses beckons the deer and the elk to come and enjoy its bounties. The purple ripe gooseberries at the foot of the mountain await the fair Indian maiden, while the red strawberries on the mountainside attract the bear. H igh up, fleecy white clouds sail through the blue sky. Pine perfume is diffused through the air. The silence of Arrow Rock in the Pryor Gap gives no hint of the ancient tribal ceremonies once performed on its walls. Teepee rings on this rich goodly land indicate that it was once the hunting ground of the Absarokee. Aberdeen heifers now graze where the buffalo once roamed. The undisturbed eagle soaring above is the symbol of the freedom once en joyed by the wandering Absaroka. In the cool evening breeze the young pine trees gently sway like Indian maidens performing the squaw dance. From the Look-Out the green grass resembles a rippling river. The setting sun paints a bright orange horizon so that all the colors of the rainbow are now reflected on that white cloud in the west. Then, the sky grows darker and darker until the full golden moon is the only light in the whole valley. The whistling pine trees sing their evening vespers. An owl hoots at the constant chirping of the crickets. Beneath a blanket of stars the great Castle Rock after surveying his kingdom peacefully sleeps in the stillness of an Indian summer night. Azure This deep upturned bowl of blue, Christened the sky, is, no doubt, a symbol of Omnipotence. E:M:ILIE 35 C. MURRAY) '57 Food-a la Jamaica MARGU ERITE BRANDAY J Food is a topic of paramount importance everywhere, but particularly to active students who are perpetually famished. Perhaps you would be interested in hearing about some entirely new dishes which make up the daily diet of Jamaicans and are taken quite for granted by them. '60 of this is enough to make any . Jamaican homesick. Have you ever heard of a star-apple? This is a purple or green fruit, probably related to the grape, and about the same size as an orange. The flesh has the consistency of a grape but the flavor is quite different. In the middle of the fruit is a portion of \"/hite-colored flesh in the shape of a star, between the folds of which the hard black seeds are enveloped. The national dish of Jamaica is known as salt-fish and achee, and as a national dish must necessarily be, it is both delicious and economical. The salt-fish is salted cod-fish which, oddly eLike many other trees now nough, is imported from Cana- looked upon as Jamaican, the da. The achee is an unusual veg- breadfruit was actually importetable for which I can think of ed. It was brought in from the no counterpart. It is borne on South Sea Islands by the Enga large tree and consists of a lish as an experiment for a bobright, red pod, which, when tanical garden, but as soon as ripe, bursts open to reveal sev- . its fruits had been eaten, everyeral large black seeds partly one wanted a tree and no woncovered with a creamy yellow der! The fruit itself is about flesh. It is this flesh which is twice the size of a grapefruit cooked with the salt-fish in co- but it actually isn't a fruit at conut oil, with onions some- all-it is a vegetable. It has a times added. U mmm ! rouah areen skin and the best b b A fter salt-fish and achee, rice way of preparing it is by roastand peas is about the most pop- ing it, skin and all, on hot coals. ular dish. This consists of red The skin may then be removed peas and rice cooked together with a knife and while the in coconut milk. The mention breadfruit is still hot, it should ::6 be served with cold butter or avacado, as the main or supplementary starch of the meal. The naseberry is another interesting fruit of which we are very fond. It is a small fruit, brown in skin and pulp. The thin skin may be eaten, and a few, shiny black seeds will be found inside. Mangoes are obtaina ble in some parts of the United States, but there are so many varieties that I think they deserve mention. Most of them have green or yellowish-colored skins, with the pulp very much resembling a peach. The fruit and its seeds are much larger than the peach, however, and the flavor quite unique. Each specie has a different flavor and there are probably thirty speCIes. Naturally, you are all acquainted with the delicious ca ... shew-nut. Did you know that the cashew is actually a fruit, and that the nut, or seed, is probably the only one that is borne on the outside of the fruit? The fruit itself looks very much like a pear, but if eaten raw often has the effect of alum .on the mouth. If stewed, however, and served with cream, it is delicious, and most Americans in Jamaica go for it in a big way. Jamaica has numerous other interesting and delicious foods which are too perishable to be imported to the United States. So why don't you take a trip to Jamaica and taste for yourself? I warn you, you will have a difficult time leaving. Awaken to Life The enchanting meadow beckons from afar, . And youth contemplates its wide terrain. " He takes a stride, but falters in his steps; '; . He fears the secrets which it hides. A moment's hesitation'f i forward step .:. -. ,.- A happy sigh. : ~ j.. ~. R U TH RAMSDELL, 37 'S9 In the midst of the hustle and bustle of the noonday rush a . thin figure limped slowly down Lincoln Avenue, away from Memorial General Hospital. By the time he reached the corner of East Fourth and Lincoln, Dennie Carter wore a deep frown . One more block and he would be home, if that was what you called it. Never before had the neighborhood looked so dismal to him. But then it had been such a long time since he had seen it at this hour of the day. Ordinarily it was dark when he left for school each morning and even darker as he returned at nearly midnight after a long, tiring day of classes and work. In ei ther case, he now knew, his surroundings were greatly enhanced by the hour. On days when the morning sun's first soft rays penetrated night's dark curtain, the ramshackle houses looked serene, almost homey. The black of each night covered the dirt and there was I no smoke. Sometimes, when the snow had just fallen, this neigh borhood even looked friendly, almost inviting. But the glaring sunlight today could do nothing to hide this black sheep of the city. At those other hours the disguise had been effective. Now there THEIR FOURTH GIFT MIRIAM GANNON, '59 could be no disguise. The hour for unmasking at aNew Year's Eve party could bring no more of a revelation than this. Each boarded window, each sagging porch, each fallen chimney and broken step stood proudly, almost defiantly against the sooty backdrop of loose shingles and chipped paint. Out in front, in the dirt piles that each family wishfully called a yard, grimy children played cowboys and Indians and cops and robbers. Dennie had thought that only his home could be so dirty and 38 desulate. N ow he knew that this was not so. All the houses had seen better days. Once they had been stately and proud but long years of abuse had robbed them of all cause for pride. Slowly he limped on, his feet carrying him to where his heart dreaded to go. As he walked his frown grew deeper. Like the neighborhood he felt very old and very tired. Maybe, he thought hopefully, maybe no one would be home when he got there. vVith all his heart he wished that this could be. He was so tired and confused that all he wanted was a few minutes peace and quiet. The pain in his broken arm and cut cheek had begun to make him dizzy. He needed time to think, time to decide. So much had happened and so much depended on his decision. Jeff and Judy, the six year old twins, ten year old Carol, fourteen year old Bobby, and eighteen year old Jeanne, his twin, would probably all be in school. Since today was Wednesday, his father might possibly be working. Occasionally he did work and when this minor miracle occured, it was always on Wednesday. That gave him two days to recuperate from the week-end's festivities, a head start on the next, and just enough money to buy 39 that feeling of power and superiority that he ordinarily lacked. Even if he were gone there were still Marty the three year old "baby" and his mother. I f they were home . . . he couldn't force himself to think of this possibility. Desperately he tried to crowd it out of his turbulent mind. But like all the frightening events of the past two weeks the thought of the scene which would invariably ensue paraded before his eyes and though he refused to look, yet he saw. Now even his feet were refusing to move, even they dreaded the "home-coming" he would receive. Too well they knew the sting of his father's belt and the hardness and hatred of his mother's voice. Too well they knew the sound of accusing, condemning cries and the effects of days spent in a dark, locked room with only scraps of food salvaged by the little ones to nourish him. He was older now so it would be different. There would be no beating, no confinement, as there had so often been, but the hatred would still be there. This kni fe, he had learned in the past six months, cut much deeper than those others. When he finally reached it, 421 Lincoln was even uglier than he had ever really known. A s he limped painfully down the stairs to their .basement apartment his heart pounded furiously. E ven all those gruesome days at the hospital had not been as bad as this. Then he had been sick and frightened but there had been some hope, however small. Here . .. No sooner had he opened the door and stepped into }l1e ~i s mal kitchen than Marty jumped into hi s arm s and hugged him with all her three-year-old strength. Still holding her, D ennie turned on the light, for with the kitchen's single window boarded up, it was quite dark.For a moment, although he held Marty in hi s arms, he could see only Barbara, his timid fiancee. She was so tiny and pale lying there in that big whit e h os pit a l b e d. A lm os t a ut o m a tica ll y h e ga th e r e d Marty's clothes, washed and 40 dressed her. She jabbered excite41y ., but he heard little of what- she said. In 'another minute he heard his mother's dragging footsteps and although he turned almost instinctively away from the door, he could not help seeing her, hair mu ssed, tying the belt around her wrinkled robe and then reaching fo r her. cigarettes. For a full two l11inutes /fhey both stood, mother and son, f a c i n g ea ch o th e r. N e i th e r spoke. Dennie could feel her hard beady eyes upon him, but he could not look. Instead he stared at the floor and hoped that he could keep .his" balance. He had eaten little in those two weeks and had slept even less. N ow he was beginning t o feel the effects. He was not af raid of her now. Those days were gone fo rever . Today he fe lt only l1urt and ashamed: hurt because he knew that she hated him ( hadn't she told him so often enough ) and most of all because she hated Barbara so much' ashamed of everything, of himself, of her , of hi s father, of their whole way of li fe . In hi s anx iety over Barbara and the hopelessness of their future he had fo rgotten about this, forgotten that he could not even turn to his own family for help. He shouldn't have forgotten, he knew. They hadn't helped him that other time. But that was different, he had been wrong then; now he wasn't. The accident hadn't been his fault. Already his mother was firing questions at him and screaming at the top of her voice. He knew that she had been composing this speech for the two weeks that he had been gone. He knew too from past experience that the sting of a horse whip couldn't begin to equal that of his mother's tongue. "~T ell, answer me, " she demanded. He didn't know what she had asked for he had heard. only empty words. l. "Mom, please, ' \ he .began, "I can.e~plain. :' . "Oh, ~ you C,} j , can, can you? get busy because you've g9t . an awful, lot of it to do. Gone two weeks,. a .. policemal) 'co,11~ing to>the door every day 100kil1g for i you and what do you say? 'Please, I can explain.' You're nothing but a dirty little thief!" N ow even the clock seemed against him . .Louder and louder it ticked, faster and faster came her words. "AlI right, I thought you W~ll, 41 could explain. Well, start talking. Where have you been and what have you been doing? Don't you dare tell one lie," she shouted. For several seconds she stood, her rough, boney hands on her hips, glaring at him. Suddenly he felt a hard crack against his already burning cheek and found himsel f spra w ling across the floor. "You sullen brat, you have no right to come here and play the innocent. Now explaiil or get out of here!" Finally Dennie could contain himself no longer. Rising, he turned to her. His face was white with anger and his jaw was set, firm and hard. This would be the first time he had ever had words with his mother and he wouldn't enjoy it. "Look," he exclaimed. "if you will let me, I' ll tell you what happened. Just give me a .c hance." , "You'd better make it fast." she muttered and with a clatter put the coffee pot on the burner. Then, as Dennie 'watched silently, she swung open the rickety ice box allowing the door to swing back precariouslyon its solitary hinge, took out several eggs, and placed them on the stove to fry. Her unconcerned stare and aloof air told him that what he said would fall upon deaf ears. She had already decided what she wanted to believe and not even a ton of dynamite could loosen the wall which had grown up between them. There was really no use in even trying. That was how she had been that other' time. For the first time in his sixteen years, he had asked her for something and she had refused. He had wanted to explain about the robbery but she had closed her heart to him. Only what the police and the judge said mattered to her. She didn't care what a petrified kid had to say. Sure he had been wrong, he knew that. He hadn't asked her to say he was right or tell the judge that her little boy couldn't do anything wrong. He had even thanked God that she wasn't that kind of mother. Belief, even a tiny bit of it, was all he wanted. If she just would have written to him once in that whole time he had been at the reformatory. Every mail call had come and gone, leaving him empty-handed. Never once did she write. \"'hen he had finally, after over a year of silence, talked to Father Jim about his problem, Father had told him and showed him in so many ways that there really was some good in everyone. In the past SIX 42 months, since the day of his homecoming, he had looked, even prayed, for this good in her. Now as he watched her, for the first time, he doubted F ather's words. As the old clock ticked the silent moments both contestants remained steadfast. A t last Mrs. Carter conceded defeat. "Don't just stand there. I want an explanation and I 'm going to get one if I have to beat it out of you. Tell me, right now , what have you been up to?" "vVe were in an accident." he began slowly. His head and shoulders shook involuntarily at the very thought of it. "Out by Stony Creek. When we came around the first bend on the way down the hill there was a car coming right at us , head on. He didn't move at all, just kept coming right toward us. I swerved to get out of his way and hit another car. \Vhen I tried to stop, the brakes wouldn't hold and we went over the side. We got caught in the trees about halfway dow'n . Barb was hurt awfully bad. She's in the hospital. They didn't think she would live. I stayed there until this morning. She's conscious now and the doctor says she'll live, but she," here he hestitated, "she lost - both her hands." "What happened to the others?" She did not care about Barb. "The other driver died," he answered gravely. "Well, that's just fine," she exploded, pounding her fist on the table. " Now you're not just a thief. That wasn't enough. You're a murderer. I knew it would come to this someday. You never were any good and you never will be. " "It wasn't my fault. That man had been drinking. He caused it. The police said I couldn't have done anything else. " "You're lying! You are a murderer," she accused. "That is why the policeman has been looking for you. He has come here every day for the past week. I'm too ashamed to even go outside the door. Imagine what the neighbors are saying !" He shook his head slowly and answered quietly, "I broke my parole. That's what he wants." "Well, isn't that just fine?" The note of sarcasm made her voice even more scornful than usual. "You know what that means, don't you?" "Yes," he whispered. He knew only too well. Two years of being all alone again. It meant that Barbara would have no one to care for her. He 43 couldn't leave her, but he'd have to, unless . . . Once more the plan for escape teased him. " You know where you'll be this time, don't you? You're old enough now. " She gloated. He would be completely disgraced then. Once again he only shook his head in answer. "Well, what are you going to do, run away again? That's the manly way, you know." "I don't know," he said, sighing. "There's not much I can do, is there?" He didn't know what he was going to do and didn't care who knew it. If he ran away he and Barb could be married and he could always take care of her. But would that really be fair to her? If he went back what would happen? She would be in the hospital for nearly a year but what about the next one? Her family wouldn't take care of her, that was certain. And what could she do without her hands? Finally he became conscious of the fact that his mother was again speaking to him. He knew from the intensity of her voice and the momentum of her words that she had been speaking for quite some time and that his lack of attention only served to augment her anger. Wordlessly he poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. That was one thing his mother did well. Her coffee was always supreme. But when he took a mouthful, the choking in his throat would not let him swallow.it. Even its smell made him half sick. His hand trembled as he set the cup back on the table. Nervously he ran his fingers through his curly black l1air. "You pay attention to what I'm saying, do you hear? Just listen real hard and then you can go do what you like. I'm sick and tired of you and I'm not going to put up with you and your nonsense any longer. In the eighteen years of your life you have given me more trouble than: I could stand. You were a bold, fighting brat when you were little but I put up with you. Then when you turned out to be a cheap thief I was finished. But Jeanne couldn't leave well enough alone. She begged me to be kind to you, to try to understand. She said that you had enough of trouble, that you would settle down and be decent. So I didn't say anything. \Vhat more could you expect? I've been such a good mother but look how you've treated me. I just don't understand it. " "You never wrote," he nearly whispered as his cloudy blue eyes softened a little. l'or a moment he weakened. Even if she was that way, she was his mother and he still had a spark of. hope. Maybe Father was right after all. Maybe there was just a grain of goodness. Perhaps somehow, someday ... He didn't care for himself but the poor kids, especially Marty, they had no one. "No, I didn't write," she replied defiantly. "And let me tell you something, young man. " She stood tall and straight, her hands on her hips and her head high. "I will never," she spoke slowly. enunciating every syllable, "as long as I live, I will never stoop so low as to write to anyone like you. I don't care if you spend the rest of your Ii fe in prison, I'll never degrade myself that much. And what's more, neither will any of my kids. I kept them from disg;racingdthemselves before and)r.l;ltnI do iV 'again, even if I have to kill yG>u:in the process. " A "1'0ok of surprise p:a.ssed hurriedly over Dennie's' :face. He was astonished to kl1iOW that she had " kept the kids:' from writing. That whole year and a hal he had thought that they felt as his parents did. Then w hen they welcomed him so eagerly and accepted him so completely after his release, he had been at a loss what to think. 44  "I suppose," she continued in a little less vibrant tone, "you think you are really smart now You go to school all day and you've got a job and you're engaged so .you don't need us any longer. You're so good you can go to school and still support a wife. Well, we'll see how smart you are when you try to support a cripple on your prison pay." She spat the words out as if they w ere poisonous pebbles, too potent to hold. "And what about that fine newspaper job you were going to get? Are you going to use all your training to edit the prison paper? You might as well, you learned half that stuff there anyhow." Dennie said nothing. The r e wasn't much he could say, just as there wasn't much he could do. I f he went to prison he might never be able to finish sc hool. He had begun his courses at the reformatory and he had kept on after he came home. Now he had completed one year of college and was anxious to continue. It was an opportunity he had never dreamed he would be given and he didn't want to lose it. But he was in grave danger of doing just that. At the reformatory he had been just a kid but at the prison things would be different. Even this was a minor concern at the moment. Right now 45 he could only really care about Barbara. She was still in a critical condition. But most of all she was his. Despite what had happened she still loved him and understood. She didn't eve n blame him about the broken parole. I f no one else could understand how in his anxiety over her he had forgotten to report and had broken those other rules she could and though it meant either two long years of separation or a life of worry and hiding, she could still love and want him. A nd she didn't even try to tell him what he should do. * * * "Honey," she had whispered faintly, "It's up to you. Whatever you do I'll always be yours. Won't I , darling?" she inquired and looked for the reassurance she knew she would find. The sparkle of his blue eyes spoke to her . For them words were not necessary. The silence of the moments that followed was like a piece of fine and delicate material, spun from the silken thread of love, woven by two young weavers completely dedicated to their art. After nearly an hour, Barb stirred again. "Dennie," she called quietly, "what happened to my purse? Could you get it and bring me the others," she murmured, glancing at a small jeweled lipstick on her bedside table. "We have to name this one and introduce it to the family." Dennie nodded, smiling reassuringly. Together they would look at them and recall their gripping significance. Each was in its own way a part of their lives, a symbol of a love that would endure forever. As he waited for Miss Fitzpatrick, the nurses' aide, to return with the purse, Den n i e hoped wholeheartedly that no ill had befallen those tiny jewels. They meant so much to both of them. Each of these he had given her at a time when the future did not look too bright or showed great obstacles to be overcome. He remembered that first one and how it had come to play such an enormous part in their confused lives. I t had been her idea. On the night before Dennie was to be tried for his part in the robbery 'of Dawson's Bakery, he and Barb had taken a long walk and talked of the future. He smiled a little now, remembering how shy they had been. They loved each other even then, but they were so timi:d al'ldafraid to love. Both found it difficult to express their feelings yet each could sense the other's ' moods. Tomorrow could mean the beginning of a long separation, ' a 46 difficult trial of the love each treasured. With the little money he had, Dennie had wanted to buy a little gift for her, something she could cling to. She had chosen a tiny tube of lipstick. It would remind her of him and of all their glorious plans. In the almost jovial hours that followed, they had refashioned their dream and appointed this keepsake as the guardian of their love and trust. Now each time that life seemed to hold no promise, Or at best many difficulties and trials, he would give her another one. On the night when he placed the tiny diamond on her finger , he gave her the second one. Although they were supremely happy they knew that there would be many hardships for them to face . If they were married after ,his sophomore year as they hoped to be they would have little money. Then too, he would still be on parole and haunted by the fear that even after his graduation he would not be able to find a good job because of his record. This morning the third tube had joined the ranks. This one brought with it even more determination, more hope and more love than either of the others. Miss Fitzpatrick's friendly "Here ,you are, sir, " interrupted his thoughts. When he returned to the room Barbara was sleeping. She looked so like a china doll, he thought, seeing her lying there in the billowy white clouds of pillows, sheets, and bandages. Tenderly he had placed all three keepsakes on the table. When she awoke she would see them right away. Slow ly he wrote a short note and placed it beside them. * * * When he returned to reality he had no idea how long he had been dreaming. He stared at the disordered kitchen floor for a time and then at his mother who was sleeping on the couch in the cramped and dark living room. Six empty beer bottles lay nearby. There was no sound. Quietly he changed and got ready to return to the hospital. He was just on his way out when his mother's voice once more shattered the silence. It was less shrill than before and her speech was slightly slurred. "Where do you think you're going?" she demanded. " Just where do you think you're going ?" "T 0 the hospital, to see Barb. It's nearly visiting time," he answered and took another step toward the door. "Is that so? Well, you jus' do that. And take this with you," she commanded and dropped a shabby black suitcase at his feet. By the time he arrived at the hospital the full significance of his dismissal had made him almost numb. Both he and Barb fell silent after their greeting. When he finally spoke of what had happened it was with a calm, reserved voice. This did not fool Barb. He cared, she knew, though he said he didn't. He just didn't want her to be upset. How like him she thought. For several minutes he paced the floor. Barbara waited and fought to conceal her growing fear . In her heart she knew what the decision would be. Still she waited. "1-1 brought you something," he stammered tenderly, and put a tiny object on the bed beside her. For an agonizing moment Barbie did not move. Then their eyes met. "It-It's so little, Dennie," she finally whispered, "but it's so pretty." She smiled bravely. 'He only nodded. "Two years ?" Her voice though barely audible held the . understanding and love of a woman much older and more experienced than she. Once more he nodded and kissed her. "Two years." 47 Jimmy He caught and gripped \i\lithout small shame The soul-searing fire of genius And it entered into him burning . :1\s lightning enters the earth ~. I ~ ",.' I r I He ran delighting throllgh his time Reckless and free and fascinated Becaus~ he knew the time was short A nd theri he was gone In a burst of flames Some say he is divine Because he came and stayed And left so soon An angel No angel Jimmy It was this He loved so much Our F ather Who art 1,n heaven Inspire us to love JOAN PETERNEL) '58  ...

... c5'rCarial'l College Indianapolis, Indiana AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE Volume XIII Number 2 Marian College Indianapolis, Indiana 1955-1956 After the death of St. Francis, incidents of his life were recalled by his friends and told again and again. Legends sprang up about hint and were treasured with pride and reverence. Finally, both true incident and legend were written down and received the Italian name Fioretti, or, in English, Flowers. From that collection the name for this anthology was chosen. Keeping this fact in mind, we wish to dedicate this issue especially to St. Francis of Assisi and pray that the inspiration and joy contained in that first book may be found also in its namesake. Editor 11ARGARET ~INSOR Associate Editor EMILIE C. 11URRA Y Assistant Editors 11ARY BYER PHILIP DOHERTY ANNE RICHASON JOE TURK Art JANE DAVIS GAIL EBACH CAROL GOINS Business Managers LELAND JOHNSON EMILIE CLEVENGER ANNE DIENER FRANCES STRICKER 4 Contents Editorials ........ ..... ..... .......... ...... ....... ............... ................ .... .... ..... ...... 7, 8 Reparation ....... ........... ~ ... .................... Carylou Siedling ...................... 9 The Rose Bush .............. _................... Emilie C. Murray........... ......... 10 The Search ........................................ Ruth Ramsdell .................. _.... . 12 Recollections of Swiss Sojourn ......... Julia Abrams ........... ........ _....... . 13 Tomorrow .........................................Carolyn W-'iegele...................... 16 Genus: Books .................................... Mary ByeI' ... _.. .......................... 17 The Call .............................. _... _...... _.. Larry Ittenbach ....................... _ 18 To Ski or Not to Ski ........................ .Alice Hayworth ........ ....... _..... _ 19 Spring Comes Creeping ............. _.... __ Joan Schlachter ...... __ ................ 21 Morning Musings.. ................... _........ Louise Diver.. _....... _............. _.. ... 22 Prejudice ........... .. _............................Gail Ebach_ ...... _............... _... ..... 24 The Last Night of Nina Brown ....... Carylou Siedling ...................... 25 Three ................................................ }udith C. Rahe .. _.. _._ ...... __ ........ 29 Term Paper Alley ............................. .Emilie C. Murray ......... _. ......... 30 A Recoliection ... ......................... . _.... Richard Beck ...... _.. __ ._............... 32 The Sun ................... ......................... Richard Delaney................ ...... 34 Avoiding Work Successfully........... _Gail Ebach .............. _._............... 35 Night ................................................ Alice Hayworth ...................... 36 A Worm's-Eye View ........ ........ _...... Barbara D1l1m ............... _..... ..... 37 Lament for a Girl's P01tytaiL .......... _Carylolt Siedling ... _............ _.... _ 38 Wonder .......................... ...... ...... _...... Judith C. Rahe ........................ 39 Clouds .............. _................................ Alice Hayworth _... .................. 39 Out of the Mouths of Caves ............ -loann Hazleu:ood .............. _..... 40 fttllast .............................. _................ Emilie C. Murray............ .......... 42 All for Nothing ______ ______ ________ ____ __ __ ____ Larry Hammerstein __ ___ ____ ______ __ _ 43 I magination ___ ____________ _______________________ .Emilie C. Murray____________________ 46 The Promise of Faith ________________________ Janice Parrot ________ __ _________ _________ 47 Book Reviews Andersonville _______________________________ ./udith C. Rahe ________________ ........ 48 The Third Door ___ .___ _________ .___ __ ..____ Louise Diver ________ . __ _._. ___ ._._ .. _... 49 Hea'VCn Was Not Enough ___ _.______ _-/lldy Him ...... _......... _. _._ .. _..... _._ 51 Pa frons __ ____ ___ .. _.. _.... _____ ____ .____ __ _._ .. _________________ . ____ __. _____ . __. __ ........ ___ ._ .. __. 52 6 Q"~e Spirit of ~arian contribute much to the spint of a school-of Marian-we find that a greater element is the attitude of the individual student. The Marian spirit is formed by what you think, what you feel, and what you do. Remember the greeting you gave and received in return on the way to class? Tha t was a part of this spirit-the spirit of friendliness. What about the enthusiastic support you gave a losing team and their continued effort despite these losses? That was the spirit of loyalty and good sportsmanship. The initiative and enthusiasm of your class or group which sponsored a card party, talent show, musicale, or dance were a part of it as was the large attendance at these functions indicating your willingness to support school activities. Besides, there is your desire for knowledge and self-improvement indicated simply by your being a part of it all. These qualities represent part of the Marian spirit-your spirit. As the semester draws to a close we find we have many pleasant memories of events and personalities associated with the past year at college. However, these recollectionsare houqd together by 'a definite feeling or spirit that makes them unique and labels them as being a part of a special school, a school distinct from all other institutions of learning. Of what does this spirit at Marian consist? Where does it begin? It may be said to anse from the campus itself where Nature paints in turn with fire, frosting, and melted jade as autumn, winter, and spring pay their brief visits. Both the beauty of the trees and shrubs and the shelter of the . buildings stimulate a just pride and provide a suitable environment for a school spirit. The professors in their attempt to encourage mental activity form the core of our school life and by them the intellectual spirit of Marian is maintained. Much of our loyalty to a college comes from our belief that it contains the knowledge we seek. Wisdom is here; desire and per.severance in obtaining it are requirements for the student. You have probably discovered that the greatest force emanating from the school and the most important is still to be named. Without this there would be little distinction between Marian and other colleges. They certainly have de...; voted students who, for all the previously mentioned reasons, believe Though campus and professors 7 their college to be the best. Yet they lack what we at Marian possess in our devotion to Mary, the Mother of God. It is she who is the all-pervading spirit of our school, who protects and guides us in all things. There can be no spirit at Marian without the spirit of Mary. MARGARET WINSOR Whg 6Juccrtion? Some students are not students. They attend college expecting to enjoy themselves four years and then suddenly, magically, be qualified for a high-salaried position. They don't even attempt to educate themselves; they just accumulate credit hours which are transferable for the all-important degree. The extent of their education is 'of ten something like this: from teacher to notebook, through mind to . bluebook. They expect the teacher to parrot the textbook in class because they haven't bothered to study it. This type of pseudo-student lowers the scholarship level of the class and eventually that of the college, because the college is only as good as its students. These individuals are not students because they don't realize the important role education will play in their lives. facts learned are soon forgotten, the basic ideas always remain. These ideas form the comprehensive conceptions into which new facts and ideas can be integrated. Education furthers the development of insight into the nature of things. The student learns how to criticize and evaluate what he hears and reads. He doesn't have to accept the opinions of others, but is capable of forming his own. The truly educated person doesn't mind being alone; he has many things to ponder. The college develops an inquiring mind. Many things provoke the interest of the student, but he hasn't time to delve into all of them. After his formal education is completed, he will have the time and interel't to investigate these things. A trained intellect provides a person with the eternal joy of unperstanding. Education is preparation for heaven. The better the individual's ability to understand, the greater will be his love and understanding of God. The true purpose of education is the perfection of the intellect, man 's greatest gift and highest power. This perfection of the intellect, best accomplished by study, enables man to live a better life; 4ving the head, listening intently to what passed from view, closely observing the way before me. My pace hastened me toward the welcome lights of the hamburger house for they beaconed safety from my 22 '59 imaginary pursuer. Flattened cardboard boxes from last night's customers lay strewn about the paved lot, each bearing plainly "Deposit me in the container. DON'T be a LITTERBUG." Much of the city is concrete, I thought: the buildings, parking areas, curbs, service station drives, streets, alleys and avenues. All looked cold and unyielding. That is symbolic of the way a city is, I reflected. Cities are made up of people and people are like that-cold and unyielding. Especially me, unbending, unresponsive to almost everything-even the fire of Divine Love. The stout iron posts of the car lot, linked together by a strong chain, stood bare and frozen. Alongside them I trudged, down the alley and into view of another familiar scene. To my left were several dowdy and run-down houses. From their windows, stringy, soiled draperies were silhouetted by red lamps. They had been burning since yesterday evening. All was quiet there now . Were there children in these homes ? Were they snuggled in clean beds? Had they slept last night? To what kind of day, what kind of life, would they awaken? A change of scenery moved my mind to last Sunday's parish bulletin. I was kicking the gravel chunks at Joe Holmes' Tire Shop. I remembered the announcement that the 7:00 o'clock on Wednesday would be for Joe Holmes. I would pray for Joe Holmes. By then my destination was barely visible through the morning's frosty bleakness. If I looked steadily for a few moments I could see over the billboards to perceive two pointed spires. They were only dim, gray pointed needles from this distance. Nothing more than shape was discernible. The path to the spires led into the parking area of the theater. That morning, only the chilling wind swept fickle snowflakes where last night excited actresses had made stage door entrances, spoken lines, taken bows, exchanged greetings, blown kisses and made their exits. The snow itself, bandied about in swirls, seemed reluctant to come to rest here. Only one more street had to be crossed, but it was the worst of them all. Four or five cars aligned themselves hood to hood, lunged, then roared ahead as the green signal flashed. I recalled an apt descripiton of these drivers and their runway: "the madmen of Suicide Street." The opposite side, my goal, was reached safely. To my right was Immaculate Conception Church. I grasped the handle and felt her strong, tall door give to my pull. Before me was the scene: candles, altar, wine, a veiled host waiting. A priest entered. Wha t more was necessary to transform coldness to white hot hea t? I knelt. I prayed: God bless Indianapolis, God bless all who are sleeping, All who are awakening, All who are laughing, All who are crying, All those who are in sin, (All those who sinned in those houses last night and all the children who were sleeping), All those who are pure and sinless. God bless Indianapolis, All the rich and well-fed, All who are poor and hungry, All who are sick and dying, All who are dying this moment, (God rest the soul of Joe Holmes) All those who are living without thought of death, Before it is too late, God, bless them. God bless Indianapolis. 23 Prejudice Is That Long, sharp whip That Reaches out, Plucks its victim, Then twists, Turns, And distorts Him Until He is no longer Acceptable. GAIL EBACH, 24 '59 CARYLOU SIEDLING, The heat of the day had tapered off to a gentle, welcome coolness. The sun had set reluctantly after its debut of summer. From the porch of the Browns' large white frame home there was a good view of the daily sunset. Clouds of pink streaked with gold had clung to the western horizon prolonging the light of this longest day of the year with loving care. With casual certainty the sun had set and slowly dissented to the darkness of the night. Nina Brown sat at the top of the porch steps with her head resting against the low pillar of the porch railing. She stared ahead at nothing and her thoughts were far away. "Nina, dear, don't you want a sweater? It's getting cooler," said the girl's mother sitting in the porch swing behind her. Nina shook her head in reply. The mother turned to her husband beside her with the look of Wha t else can I say? The father put his arm around his wife's shoulder but slid not a word. In fact there was nothing to be said-or done. The plans and preparations for the occasion had been carried out with foresight and accuracy; all tha t remained was to pass the time until tomorrow should come-the wedding day. The family had had dinner together and 25 '57 was relaxing at home for Nina's last evening with them in her status as eldest daughter of Charles and Helen Brown and "big" sister of Ellen and Peter Brown. Tomorrow she would change her name to Mrs. David Hunter. Nina thought The day was so long and only a few hours are left. And now I'm not so sure about all this. Dear God! Forgive me but I'm beginning to be afraid to take a chance on the future. Noises of the summer's evening blended into the darkening night. Tiny, flickering lights of the June bugs delighted Nina's six year old brother, Petie. He dashed about the yard clad in his T-shirt, short pants, and tennis shoes studying the patterns of light with plans of catching as many of the golden beacons as he could. "Peter," called his mother. "Let those bugs alone. You're not bringing them into the house. Do you understand ?" But the little boy had escaped his mother's view and voice range. Petie had gone behind the house to join the neighbors' children in the exciting hunt. The house was quiet enough for the regulated squeaking of the porch swing. Ellen, the 14 year old daughter, called from an upstairs window to the people below. "Somebody come and help me. The zipper is caught in this dress and I can't get out." what's going on about them right at that moment to worry about what's to come with years." The woman on the swing got up. "But I get frightened sometimes, Pop. And I think maybe I'm hurrying so fast through my life that I should stop now and w ,a it a while before it's too late." "That girl will have the dress worn out before she ever wears it in the wedding tomorrow." "Oh, she's just like the rest of you women, Helen. She likes to see herself all dressed up," the father retorted with a smile. ''I'll help Ellen out of the dress and go on to bed, dear." The mother leaned over and kissed her daughter. "Good night, Nina . And come to bed soon, dear. Tomorrow's your Big Day." "Good night, Mother. I'll sit here just a while longer and then come up." The woman put her hand on her daughter's head. Keep everything natural, her husband had told her. He'len Brown thought of many th ings to say to her daughter but she held them back. No tearful reminiscing Charles had instructed. The . mother kept repeating to herself Don't cry! For Nina's sake, don't cry! and entered the house. The porch swing's squeaking, squeaking interrupted the silence. "Pop?" "Yes, Nina." "Does everybody get doubts at the last minute about leaving home and getting married, or is it just The girl turned toward her father but it was too dark now to see his face. "Oh, I guess everybody wonders about his future at times, Nina. ~llt folks are usually too busy with 26 The father smiled but the girl did not see him. "Aren't you letting all this build up and get the best of you, Nina? Living a human life is-well it's like a race. All of a sudden you find yourself running and you can't stop before the end. But it happens that everyone has to run the race and play the game." "UmmmHhmmm. But I can't help thinking Look World! I'm Nina Brown. I'm 20 years old and perfectly happy with my family. Stop pushing." The father smiled and let the girl continue. "I feel like a westward settler at the jumping-off place and now I've got to decide whether I want to go forward or if I should go back." "You can never turn back, Nina. The past is over. It's something to remember now and then, but you can never have it again." The swing kept steadily creaking back and forth answering its own conversation. "You love Dave, don't you, honey?" "Of course I do, Pop." "Then let me ask you this. If you had your choice between living your happiest days again here vvith the family and your new life with Dave, which would you choose?" Nina hesitated a few seconds. "I can't answer that now. I just can't, that's all." The father rose from the swing and stood behind his daughter. "Consider that same choice two nights-or even a thousand nights from now. I'm sure you won't hesitate with doubt again." "I suppose I am being silly about the whole thing. But I wish there was some way, some sign that would give me the feeling that everything'S going to be all right for Dave and me." The father smiled and shook his head. " Nina, Nina. If I could give you a crystal ball for a wedding present I would. But don't become like your aunt Millie and expect a falling star to direct your path." Nina reached up and took her father's hand. ''I'm acting like a scared kid, aren't I, Pop?" "You'll always be my daughter, Nina. When you have children of your own to love and comfort and care for, you'll know how I feel." Charles Brown kissed his daughter on the forehead. "Good night, Nina Brown." "Good night, Pop." The father entered the house and closed the screen door softly behind him. Nina sat for what seemed like ages thinking of her father's words and yet, scanning the heavens for a streak of light of a falling star. Dear God! she thought. Just this once, please give me a little sign. 27 Suddenly out of the darkness jumped the figure of Nina's brother. The little boy startled Nina and she jerked away from him. "Did I scare you, Nina?" "I guess you did, Petie," answered his sister. "But I'm glad it's dark out here because I jumped clear out of my skin." "I didn't mean to scare you that much, Nina. Honest." The apology was so sincere Nina smiled. The little boy sat down on the step very close to his sister and Nina put her arm about his shoulders. "You're going to get married tomorrow, aren't you Nina?" "UmmmHhmmm." "And you're going to go away with David and live in his house, huh?" "Yes, I am, Petie," Nina answered. Then she asked, "Will you miss me a little bit?" "Sure I will, Nina. 'Cause you won't be here to tell me stories when I get scared of the dark." Nina roughed her hand over Petie's head and his crewcut felt like the fine bristles of a baby's hairbrush. "I thought you weren't going to be afraid of the dark ever again?" ''I'll try awful hard, Nina. But sometimes it just might take me by surprise." "Oh," said Nina thoughtfully. "I think I understand, Petie. Once in a while it takes me by surprise, too." "Will David tell you stories when you get afraid of the dark?" "Maybe he will, Pete. Most big people just wait, though, until the darkness passes." "Oh," replied the boy. "That's too bad. It's a lot better when there's something right there with you to _make you happy." The chimes of the clock in the house faintly found their way to the porch. "Good heavens, Petie! It's 10 o'clock and way past your bed time. Mother will skin you alive for being out so late." "No, she won't, 'cause I have to be dressed up for your wedding tomorrow." "Well, you get to bed anyway, you little scamp, or you'll fall asleep during the ceremony." "Okay, Nina. Good night, sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite!" Nina kissed her brother on the forehead and called "Good night" after him as he banged his exit on the screen door.' Nina smiled to herself and was amusedly thinking of the httle boy's antics when he banged his re-en trance upon the scene. "Ohhhh, Nina. I almost forgot to give you your wedding present." 28 Petie held out an object to his sister tha t had all the appearances of a neon fruit jar. "It's just a lightning bug, Nina. But it's the brightest one I ever, ever caught. And you can keep it in your room tonight in case you get scared of the dark." "Thank you, Petie. It's a beautiful present and I'll put it right beside my bed where I can see it when I go to sleep." "Okay. Good night, Nina." "Good night again, Petie." With the last farewell the porch was quiet again. Nina was alone with her thoughts in the night. At last she stood up on the steps and stretched and yawned. Hey! she thought. I asked for a star and I got a jar. I'll have to tell that to Dave tomorrow. The glow continued inside the jar as Nina hooked the screen door and carried the little boy's present upstairs to her room. When she was in bed Nina watched the little firefly's light flicker on and off . for a long time. Nina was asleep, though, before the clock chimed twelve and ended her "last night." g/'ree Thrice screamed the cock from yonder wall so loud. The bar-maid laughed, and gazed at Peter, still And white, his thoughts a slow-descending shroud. Thrice shattered now, thrice struck his iron-clad will. Then down in sets of three there ran hot tears Which, burning deep, cut clean thru pride and self And lashed the soul that sold itself to fears And trembled now, on edge of God's great shelf. What thought he then, of promises thrice made? How- screamed his soul, as he denied God's love Stripped of all, what tatters of his faith then stayed To lift him thru black shame to look above? Deep in a cleft, Despair hung from a tree; High on a hill there sobbed Humility. ! JUDITH t! 29 C. RAHE, '56 EMILIE Hear that steady click-clack? No, you are not in a Royal typewriter testing plant. That rhythmical tapping interspersed with groans of anguish is merely ninety students (in one dorm) completing term papers before the crack of doom ( otherwise known as The Deadline). Why are they not finished ahead of time? To teachers that is the $64,000 question that they never expect anyone to answer. To students, the answer is perfectly clear until the deadline is only a few hours away. Then, they too begin to wonder about all the good reasons they had for not starting. the work sooner. In the interest of preserving research I decided to conduct a study on term papers. Just what is wro'ng with them and why do students find them so difficult to complete? If there is a simple, direct solution, then certainly all students will be interested. And if it can be proven that there is an inherent evil of such magnitude that would justify abolishing them altogether, there is no doubt that this would create more than an old fashioned stir in our academic world. Unfortunately most books about term papers merely explain how to plan them, how to write them, how to type them but do not explain the more important question of how one is to finish them on time. 30 C. MURRAY, '57 Since there was little to be found in books, nothing could be done but turn to original sources. (For the benefit of the uninitiated layman, original sources include public records, pre-historic texts and rather dull diaries printed in Middle English.) Most of my teachers looked upon my project as subversive and decided to use the Fifth Amendment to protect themselves. And so the only source of information available to me was the students. Such fountains of information! Such verbiage! Indeed it is the unfortunate truth that I am not able to record everything tha t was said once I started the conversation with a casual comment like "I think term papers are a frightful bore." From there on I was hard pressed to write as fast as they talked and so I attempted to jot down only the key words. My notes read something like this: stupid ... idiotic . . . goodness, doesn't mention such things in pub . . . . nev herd ov thm . . . jklfg. However, my memory captured many ideas that my twenty-nine-cent liquid lead pencil missed completely, and so these conversations proved to be most profitable. In fact I based my whole project on them. (In some instances my own personal experiences influenced my trend of thought even though I strove for complete objectivity.) My shall much person bent on the destruction of his textbooks. discussion of the term paper be student-centered inasas I believe that this is the most vitally concerned. Besides all these impediments the student faces the use of note cards which reveal nothing of his careful reading, the tracing of carefully garnered quotations that do not have sources marked, and the typing of the paper which for onearmed students is especially difficult. A word about bibliographies might be in order here. Endless hours are spent attempting to type a bibliography in the style prescribed by the instructor. Inevitably the student does not make a note of such important items as the place of publication, and a hurried trip to the library reveals that the book has been taken out by the instructor. As can be seen, the nerve-strain that the students suffer as a result of this endeavor naturally impedes the normal learning processes and thus actually becomes a detriment to the educa tional aims of a college. Another word or two might be said about the trials of a professor attempting to correct these efforts, but I am afraid my sympathy is not too great considering that the assigning of the paper was his own idea. The result of my study was the conclusion that term papers are in themselves evils existing only to harass students and thus should be forbidden. After my research was finished and the results neatly typed for publication, I shook my hand and congratulated myself for accomplishing something that I have heard other students claim they had done. I wrote a "term paper to end all term papers." Most students find that the topics are the most discouraging thing about most papers. For example it is difficult to arouse enthusiasm (and deliver us from the uninspired w ord) for a topic like "Spinach Culture on Venus," "Political Scandals in Oz" or "Typewriter Repair in Ancient Egypt." Indeed it is difficult to arouse much of anything besides the student's ire. The effect of some topics on students is reason enough to study the problem more thoroughly. I once had a roommate who filled our charming 2 by 4 with all sorts of acrobatic equipment in an effort to really get the feel of the stunts performed by the ancient aerialists of Macedonia. Result: she flunked a history course because of excessive absences (those bruises, you know) and for six weeks the only way of leaving our abode was by swinging out on a trapeze. My careful research uncovered other such strange subjects. (Not the least of these is the uncovering of a student who had been lost for three weeks in an attempt to reconstruct a Catacomb.) My records reveal roommates w ho raised seventy varieties of poison ivy on the windowsill, a young gentleman who collected enough stones for a geology project to provide his roommates with a rock garden, and the enterprising student who carefully collected 69 species of beetles only to discov er that his specimens carefully proceeded to eat all of the notes on his study, and were 31 RICHARD BECK, When the conversation lllvanably shifts to those none-but-pleasant memories of yesterday, I must recall those of myoid '33 Chrysler. '59 purchased her for the humiliating sum of twenty dollars. I hoped that she hadn't overheard the transaction; at least, she never acted as if she had. Gazing upon her ancient framework, one naturally asked: "Does it really run?" She ran all right and surprisingly well, too, despite certain discrepancies inherent in old age. She was still the proud possessor of four wooden-spoked wheels, even though the tires were a bit slick; four doors that actually opened and closed; an engine and all the other requirements necessary for locomotion. The old vehicle could also boast that she was wearing (still in fair condition) her original coat of paint. I soon learned tha t I could depend upon the old sedan for necessary transportation. She never failed to start, even in the coldest weather; just touch the two wires together, and she would promptly respond, time after time. You must remember though, that she was a bit ancient and consequently far from being in the best physical condition. Personally, I didn't find it too difficult to steer the car, due perhaps to the fact that I was employed as a freighthostler in those days, possessing a In her youthful days she must have been the "pride of the highways" with her long, low-slung, streamlined body; her chromeplated, heat-controlled hood vents; and those hydraulic brakes that surely caused quite a furor in those earlier days of motoring. Even when I met her, seventeen years later, she had about her structure an air of complace~t dignity. i was in dire need of an autoand finances too for that matterwhen a friend introduced me to her. With but little hesitation, I 32 sufficient amount of strength in my arms. Even then I had to beware of those quick, sharp turns. quired enough faith, thus far, to give the old car a ..cy. Off we went with great exuberance early one cold, winter morning. Now she had a new windshield, plywood windows, and all her unwanted vents stuffed with newspaper. Twelve quarts of oil, and a day or two later (my family still insists that the trip could not have taken more than seven hours) , I parked the car at our destination and crawled out, cold, weary and hungry. Well, she made it and I was proud of her, but this was to be her final trip. She had made her last valiant effort. A day or two 1a ter (after a much needed res t) , I attempted to "show her off" to the family, but she refused to show any sign of life. For days, for weeks, I continued my efforts to revive her, even installing new "organs," administering "artificial 10comotion," pleading, and even praying for her-all to no avail. Her time had come. No more would she enter the parade of the highway; no more would she be of service. She had done her duty and done it well for over seventeen years. For these reasons, I shall always remember the old "auto," aided at times by the recollections of friends who knew her also. Even now and then one of them will ask, "By the way, what ever happened to that old Chrysler you used to own?" Somehow, somew here, the old girl had lost her front and two of her side windows. She might have been called a "fair weather friend." Driving through wind, rain or snow was slightly uncomfortable. It was only after I had acquired a weathered complexion and sufficient funds that I bought her a new windshield. Yes, the engine (her heart) was still beating and no particular "knock" was to be heard. It had instead a combination of several peculiar sounds, unified into but one simple beat. It sounded somewhat like a sewing machine, sewing away on a piece of cast-iron. My friend had warned me not to drive over "thirty," and after listening to the rising crescendo proportioned to an increase in speed, I understood why. After all, she was old. The old Chrysler had one of those once fashionable, tar-covered cloth tops that had finally refused to keep out the rain. In a rainstorm one could never fall asleep at the wheel. I soon abandoned the cumbersome umbrella and redressed her top. La ter she was to receive the "acid test" of her apparent dependability. I was to join my family who had moved to another town a hundred miles distant. I had ac- 33 Look up and see what God has done. That blazing light we call the sun Shows us mountain, plain, and tree, Reflects its crimson on the sea. A sphere of flame that ever burns To nourish flowers, fruits and ferns, To warm us in our work and play With golden shafts of light each day. A sun that peeps through clouds to show The wonders of the earth below, The bubbling brooks and splashing springs And hosts of tiny living things. I pity those who have not sight To see the splendor of God's might Who cannot see what God has done And shows to us with flaming sun. RICHARD DELANEY, 34 '59 GAIL EBACH, '59 Under the heading of Energetic Ideas come such thoughts as: Should I mow the lawn today? Shall I paint the house? Or, will the house look better if I dust the furniture? A void such thoughts at all costs! They are extremely dangerous to the potential lazzarone. You may replace such injurious reflections with Lofty Ideas, such as: How may I secure my first million? Where is a likely spot to discover uranium? Or, how may I permanently silence my alarm clock? You can readily see how constructive these concepts could be. Second, you should prepare a list of possible and effective excuses. However, these excuses should be used sparingly so as not to arouse suspicion. Some typical ones are: the funeral of a favorite canine ' friend, a flushed face to denote illness . (this may best be achieved by holding the breath), and a prepared list of Other Things To Do. \'7hen using the latter, be sure to breathe rapidly, dart the eyes back and forth in a frenzied manner, and constantly consult your watch. Third, physically avoid work if the other two precautions fail. Here your ingenuity and natural talents can be given full vent. By making use of Precaution N umber Three, you will become Somewhere between the State of Idea and the State of Accomplishment is the Field of Work. To those who fall prey (though often unconsciously) to this bitter interlude, it may bring disaster. How often do we read in the daily news an article like the following: DONNELLEY DOESN'T DODGE In Redford, Michigan, Elmer Q. Donnelley, noted draftdodger, was trapped at last. Resting at his great aunt's bee farm, Mr. Donnelley was caught by the Army when he got up to fix his hammock cord. Army officials report that they had been scouring the neighborhood for a runaway jeep when an MP spotted the familiar face of the nation's number one draftdodger. There was no struggle. When awakened for comment, Donnelley protested that had he not gotten up from the hammock, they never would have spotted him. Similar tragedies can be averted if the following precautions are observed. First, be discriminate with your ideas. By this time, you surely can distinguish Lofty Ideas from Energetic Ideas. However, if this is not the case, I shall illustra te a few exlmples. 35 tions fail , you can only smile, submit, and slave. very adept at hiding behind watercoolers, catching forty winks in the supply room, feigning headaches when approached by workhappy souls, and running (literally) away from undesirable situations. Also, by losing a little weight, you may flatten against walls more easily if the occ~sion should arise. If, however, all these precau- But, if they succeed in helping you to avoid future work, I shall consider this writing worth the work that went into it. Loafers of tomorrow, I would wish you good luck, but I am pressed for time. (Notice the subtle u se of Precaution Number Two.) ALICE HAYWORTH, '59 The . soothing blanket of black night cuddles softly around the sleeping hills and valleys, gently lulling th(! earth to rest. pale moon casts its soft, luminous rays over the shrouded earth, giving everything a spiritual, unreal appearance. As if from a great distance, there comes the wierd, yet caressing, hoot of the solemn, old owl. Faint croaks and chirpings of sleepy frogs and crickets pierce sudden holes in the soft, thick darkness. Earth sleeps but the creatures of night maintain their ever-constant vigil. As if reviving the world for the bright, new day of tomorrow, a cool, zephyr wind sweeps cautiously down from the mountains, dispelling care and woe. Night is tranquil, soft, and soothing; all nature is at peace. During the long, black darkness, God gazes down at the world, as a fond father watches his sleeping child, and He smiles . . . making night even more beautiful. Overhead the black heaven is rescued from dismal gloominess by the winking and blinking of countless tiny diamonds-the stars. A 36 BARBARA DUNN, , 57 I ~m a Sitodrepa Panicea, more commonly known as a bookworm. As far back as my family tree can be traced, my ancestors have reigned over the shelves of libraries, indulging, if the word may be so used, in the great works of Bill and Charles (Shakespeare and Dickens to you). This morning as I was feasting on a rare copy of Arabian Nights, I was alarmed by a summons to report immedia tely before the "High Panicea." Shaking and shuddering, I tapped lightly on his book, hoping the knock was neither too gentle nor too loud to disturb his majesty's meal,The cover was opened immediately and I was ushered silently through the title page and down the long table of contents to the throne of my ruler. My tail shook so hard that it played a tune on the binding, and I almost fainted when he began to speak. The whole shelf, maybe even the whole case, vibrated as he said, "Oscar (that is my name), in recognition of your heritage and tireless efforts, I dub you Sir Timrod and assign you to take the place of the late Sir Melvin in the Library of Congress." A weak "yum-yum" was all I could manage to say when I arrived the next day at my destination. The awesome beauty of the greatest library in the world so overwhelmed me tha t I could hardly wriggle from the carnage to the reception desk. Here received my first assignment. I was to eat through two volumes of the library's history from its establishment in 1800, through both devastating fires, to the erection of the new $6,500,000.00 building in 1897. I passed through the archway to find the volumes and stood transfixed at the sight that met my eyes. Never before in all my travels had I seen anything so impressive. Why, it would take all my relatives-past, present and future-plus any other willing friends, even to make a start on the bindings of all these books! I made a conservative guess of about 9,000,000 books, engravings, lithographs, maps, charts, manuscripts, compositions and pamphlets. 37 A mysterious conveyor belt at one side drew my attention. This, I later learned, carries books to and from the legislative chambers of the Capitol. Some day I must remember to take a ride on it. Now, however, I had what seemed an impossible task. During the next few weeks I learned that when my new home had been established, it had been merely a small room in the Capitol building used only for reference by senators and representatives. It had grown so rapidly that additional space was continually being sought. In 1814, when the Capitol burned, the library was completely destroyed, but Congress quickly established it anew by purchasing for $23,950 the 6,760 volume library of Thomas Jefferson. It was in 1851, when fire again destroyed 23,000 volumes, that Congress decided the library should have an adequate building of its own. This eight-year building project was begun east of the Capitol in 1889. The library receives two copies of every book in the world for which a United States copyright has been requested, thus many rare and beautiful books are among its prize possessions. Right now I am having a delicious time working on the Preamble to the Constitution (the original, of course, for Sir Timrod) . If you ever get to Washington, and you have a little extra time, please look me up. I'll be an oldtimer by then, and thus be more able to show you plenty. We might even take tha t ride to Congress together. You'll probably find me at the twelfth amendment, or you can stop at the information desk. Just ask for Sir Timrod. I'll be looking for you. Chained to matter, to convention Bound by custom and lusts, Small wonder tha t The soul manufactures its own Brand of gravity That keeps it earthbound. EMILIE 38 C. MURRAY, '57 Wonder is a mighty thingA gasp, a sigh, a shining of the eyes. No armor too thick for its sword to pierce, Pride is bewildered and doesn't know why. Wonder is the shining snow, Beautiful particles of awe Sprinkled on cold earth; In Spring will wonder thaw? JUDITHC. RAHE, '56 Scuttling across the vast grey sky, Bumping, thumping-thunder rolling, In terrible haste, busy clouds rush on To start the tears of April's gentle raIns ... ALICE HA YWOR TH, '59 JOANN HAZLEWOOD, , 56 Hey there ! Yes, I mean you. Why don't you take another look at that stack of books you tossed so carelessly into your locker. A battered physics, a worn history, and a bright new Spanish text! They have come far since it all began but then I'm getting ahead of myself. No one knows exactly how it all began. For many centuries all communication between men was by speech or manual signs and then one day some enterprising soul discovered that by drawing pictures he could leave messages that his friends would understand. So the cavelady who came home after gossiping with the neighbors in the next cave and found a fish drawn on her front door knew that her husband had gone fishing again. The skin he was tanning for her spring outfit would never be ready on time. These pictures were so often used that a type of shorthand developed in which only outlines of the object were used. These changed still more until little or no resemblance remained of the object for which the picture stood. Later the picturesymbols came to represent a sound and the way was open for men to write any word they desired. It had been difficult during the picturesymbol period to write symbols for such words as think, believe, or love. Once there were alphabets, books began. But they were not books as we know them and not everyone 40 wrote. Writing was a profession just as medicine, farming and painting. Not even kings always knew how to write. They hired professional writers known as scribes who did all the necessary writing-and reading. Not every nation had its own alphabet but almost all had characteristic writing materials. The Mesapotamians wrote on wet clay tablets which were baked for permanency. More ingenious were the Chinese who wrote on bone, silk, and other textiles and who invented paper in about 100 A.D. The Egyptians used papyrus, a kind of paper made of stems of reeds; in India, Burma, and Siam the scribe plied his trade on palm leaves. Many tre2sures of literature have been lost to us because the writing material of a civilization was not permanent. Books were found only in the homes of the very wealthy and thousands of people lived and died without ever having seen a book. Books lived a rather perilous life. \Vhen they were not decaying, some conquering general was burning down libraries or some religious zealot had a holiday destroying them. For every manuscript we have today thousands have been destroyed. The Greeks were a people who appreciated learning. When the Romans conquered them some of the WIser Romans took Greek chased them from the monasteries. Later scriptoria were set up at the uni versi ties. The first ornamentation consisted in the first letters of opening sentences being larger and colored. Page margins were then decorated. Later, pictures were introduced. The colors used most frequently were red, blue, and gold. Purple, yellow, and green were used less frequently. Not only did the scribes copy such volumes as the Bible, scripture commentaries, and the writings of the fathers and doctors but also profound writings such as works of Cicero, Pliny, Ovid, Terence, Homer, Plato, and the Greek playwrights. The scribes worked six hours a day-the light could be trusted only that long. In winter the working day was even shorter. Margin and guide lines were ruled in with a blunt instrument. The parchment sheet was held in place by an awl. scrolls back to Italy. Later, Christianity fell heir to many of these writings. St. Benedict, when writing his rule, declared that reading should play a part in the lives of his monks. So began the work of copying by hand the desired manuscripts. A special section of the monastery was set aside for their work and was known as the scriptorium. In every Benedictine monastery this beautiful prayer was found in the scriptorium: "Vouchsafe, 0 Lord, to bless this workroom of Thy servants, that all which they write therein may be comprehended by their intelligence and realized in their works." The armarius was in charge of the scriptorium and allowed no one but the workers to enter. The precious books tha t were to be copied were borrowed from other monasteries and librar.ies. Security had to be given before the books were taken bv the borrower. In some regi~ns 'an anathema was issued against those who destroyed or stole a book. No artificial light was permitted in the scriptorium due to danger of losses by fire. The armarius provided the tools -parchment, pens, ink, knives, awls, and rulers-that the monks needed. Silence was required at all times in order that the worker's concentration be complete. Accuracy was important since errors, after successive recopying, would be grea t. Scribes could never make changes when copying even though a great mistake was apparent. Early books were plain but as wea lth increased beautiful books were in demand. Rich men pur- Parchment, made from animal skins, has two distinct sides-a hair side and a flesh side. The pages were arranged by the scribes so that the facing pages matched. Some scribes worked from dictation but as this method increased the possibility of error it was not employed as often. When the scribe finished a page he proofread it and sent it to the rubricator. The rubricator did the fancy lettering. It was his job to insert titles, headlines, and elaborate initials into the manuscript. (Rubricator means "he who writes with red ink.") If pictures were to be used the work was sent on to the illustrator. The Egyptians used both red and black inks in 41 their writing. Red letters were used to indicate the beginning of a chapter, etc. Another inheritance from the Egyptians is our word rubrics. Formerly books consisted of scrolls of writing material. The codex or book form we know today was made by the monks by sewing pages on ox sinews placed in rows of five or six on the back of the volume. Wooden covers bound with parchment or dyed skin were sewed on the book. Deluxe covers were made of brass or ivory carved or ornamented with jewels. Older scribes were larger and works written on cheap materials. When parchment came into use, small letters came into existence since the parchment was expensive. The labor of the scribes must have been exhausting and hard on the eyes. At the end of one of the medieval manuscripts some unknown scribe . (strictly against or-ders) wrote this bit of doggeral: I have made an end at last, And my weary hand can rest. Now that I an end have made, See that what I'm owed is paid. The golden age of manuscript occured in Ireland in the sixth, seventh, and eighth centuries. Irish missionaries introduced the beauty of Irish manuscripts to the continent. Students from Europe came to the land of saints and scholars to study the classics under Irish teachers and so the Irish manuscript came to be highly prized. Yet books remained the possession of the wealthy. Even if the poor had had access to libraries they had never learned to read due to lack of books. It was not until the fifteenth century when Johannes Gutenberg perfected the process of printing with movable type that books began to become available to more people. With today's modern printing presses we take our daily newspapers for granted. To the man of medieval times it would have been an object of wonder and have cost a scribe countless hours of labor. You are comfort, convenience. My joy! My prize! Oh, that you could learn How to swish flies! CARYLOU SIEDLING, 42 '57 LARRY HAMMERSTEIN, , 58 the job after his sixteenth birthday, so actually he was the youngest boy there, because Mr. Miles, the manager, never hired anyone under sixteen. It sure was dark in the store now, he thought. It must be about eleven 0' clock. The store had been closed for three hours. He hadn't worked today. It was his day off. He guessed that if it hadn't been his day off everything would be okay. He would have come to work and nothing bad would have happened and he wouldn't have to do this now. Well, no use worrying about that. He was here and he had to do it. The store always left dimes, nickels, and pennies in the three cash registers and left the registers open so that if a petty thief should get in, he might be satisfied with just that and not try to break open the safe in the back room. He wasn't a petty thief, but he ought to be able to get ten dollars worth of change and tha t was all he needed. He knew it was wrong, but he had to have the ten dollars. Besides, he thought, he would pay it back; it was just that he needed it now, not later, and he didn't know how else to get it. It wouldn't have to be this way Jimmy McBride was scared. He was really scared. Yet he felt he had to go through with it. There was no other way. Besides, he'd gone this far-why turn back now. He guessed he'd already sinned the moment he'd decided to do it. Well, anyway, here he was now, in Kraft's Drug Store and it was really dark. It sure looked different now than when he was working. During the day and in the early evening it was all bright and full of colorful merchandise and fixtures. It was usually full of people, too. After all, Kraft's was the biggest . drug store downtown. They always did a good business, even during the racing season when most of the people in town would rather bet on horses at the nearby track than buy the medicine that would cure their ailments. Jimmy had been working at Kraft's for just two months now, mostly behind the cigar counter, waiting on customers. He and a c0uple of other boys swept up before closing time, and once in awhile, he would take deliveries to the doctors' offices in the big office buildings near the store: There were a number of fellows and girls his age or a little older who worked there. He had gotten 43 if it hadn't been his day off. Jimmy and his Mom and Dad were going to St. Louis Sunday to see the ball game. The Cardinals have a ticket seller in an office just around the corner from Kraft's on Fourth Street. Just this morning, his dad had given him a ten dollar bill to get the tickets with. " Brooklyn will be playing and there's bound to be a big crowd," his Dad had said. "Pick up three tickets on the third base side when you go to work tomorrow." Now where was that ten dollar bill, thought Jimmy. Gone. He didn't know where. He'd searched all through his dresser and emptied his billfold looking for it. It was just gone. He'd lost it. H~w was he going to explain that to Dad! He couldn't use his own money. He only had about a dollar and a quarter to his name. Payday was four days off and he was supposed to bring the tickets home tomorrow. Nearly all the money he'd made so far had gone into Dad's savings account. For his college education. Ordinarily he guessed he could have explained that he had just lost it, but not after what had happened this morning. He'd borrowed the family car to play golf with Bobby Lane. He'd driven Dad to work, then went after Bobby and driven on to the public links. He hadn't played too badly; got a 43 for nine holes. Jimmy had only been driving for about a month and when he got home and turned into the driveway, he misjudged his distance and before he knew what had happened, 44 the whole front fender had scraped against the side of the garage door. Boy, Dad had sure been mad! "That'll cost me plenty," he'd almost shouted. It was this afternoon when Jim realized he couldn't remember where the ten dollar bill was. Well, he couldn't tell Dad that. Dad had already been so mad, Jimmy thought he would have a stroke. After he had decided what he must do, it had been easy for him to leave the house. When Mom and Dad came home from the grocery about six-thirty, he told them Bill Horn had called up and asked him to go to a drive-in movie. He said he'd be home about midnight. Dad was still so mad about the car he hadn't said anything and Mom just s.aid the usual about being careful. He'd walked into the store about 7:30 and bought a tube of toothpaste. He'd chatted with one of the younger clerks for a minute or two and then when no one noticed, he'd gone into the back room and up the stairs to the stock room. He'd waited up there, back behind some stacks of crated merchandise, for three whole hours, until he was sure that Mr. Miles had left his office, checked the doors and gone home. Now, here he was among the darkened counters with their stacks of drugs and sundries and household goods. A car came around the corner of Locust Street and turned up Fourth. Through the plate glass store front, the lights made a sweeping arc around the dark store, making the toothpaste boxes bright cause he'd almost been caught stealing. Here he was with someone else's money in his own hands, and he was going to take it ! Well, he had to, didn't he? No! No, no, a thousand times no. It was wrong. Mom had always taught him that. Dad had told him when he was a little boy that he should respect policemen, not fear them. But he had good reason to fear them now, didn't he? I can't do it, he thought. Nothing, Dad's anger or some punishment, or whatever might happen, wouldn't make it right for me to do this. He threw the bag down on the prescription counter and found his way into the back room. He removed the heavy bar from the door that opened into the alley and then unlatched it. Slowly he opened the creaky door and stepped out into the alley. He looked down it both ways and then closed the door. It stuck a Ii tde so he pushed hard and pressed his knee against it. It slammed shut with a loud noise. Jim backed away, then turned and started for the street. He thought he heard a noise behind him; he started to run. He hit the metal trash can with his right leg and sent it crashing into the middle of the alley. It was a miracle he didn't fall. He didn't look back. He just kept running. Officer Brannan had turned into the alley when he thought he heard a door slam. Then he saw a figure half stumbling down the alley in front of him. It looked for a minute as if the figure had tripped, but it was so dark he couldn't be sure. He started running down the alley. again and the glassware sparkle, all for just a second. Jimmy crouched low behind a counter. It was a police car. Of course, they hadn't seen him. They were half-way down the street by now. But, Lord, he had to be careful. The police were awfully nervous now anyway. There'd been three unsolved murders in town in a period of three months. The police chief said it was a homicidal manIac. He moved over to the cigar counter and went to the register. Sure enough. The drawer was open and the change was in there. He was just able to see what he was doing with the help of a light from the neon sign of the all-night diner across the street. Jim reached down and got a paper sack from the shelf under the coun ter and dropped the nickels and dimes into it. Then he moved across the store and ,took the money from the big register. He . was walking carefully back to the prescription department where he saw the shadow at the side door. He froze in terror. It was a policeman walking his beat. The policeman looked in and then continued walking down the street, swinging his ' night stick in a leisurely manner. Jim let out a little sigh. He'd been gripping the paper bag so hard his fingers hurt. The perspiration from his hand had made the bag soggy. He started once more for the register and then a thought struck him. Here was Jimmy McBride scared to death because a policeman had almost seen him. Here was Jimmy McBride almost in tears be45 "Stop," Brannan yelled, "Stop, or I'll shoot!" The figure kept running. Brannan, with visions of the murderer in his mind, raised his gun and fired. Then he tripped over the fallen trash can and landed fulllength on the bricks of the alley. Jimmy heard the sing of the bullet as it whined past his head. He turned and looked just in time to see the policeman go sprawling over the trash can. Then he turned and ran once more, and all of a sudden he was on Main Street. The clock in front of a jewelry store said 11:45. The busses lined up in front of Loew's Theater for the last regular run of the night were just starting to move. In about half a second he found the Parker Boulevard bus and practically bounced aboard. "Say," smiled the driver, "You almost missed me, didn't you?" "I sure did. I had to run about the last block to make it." He picked out a seat near the middle and sank into it. Quite a night, he thought. I almost got killed for ten lousy dollars. No, he wasn't dead, but he wondered what would happen when Dad found out about the missing ten. "Dear God," he prayed, "I can hardly ask you to keep Dad from being angry. I've done a pretty horrible thing tonight, God. I'm sorry. I really am." Jim felt pretty dejected. He slumped farther down into the seat and stuck his hands into the pockets of his jacket. There was a piece of paper in one pocket. He pulled it out. It was the ten dollar bill. 3mccgincction The slopes of Italy? Beauty uncompared With grape-laden vines Awaiting careful peasant hands. The warm, brown soil Offers scents of fertility and harvest To please man's nostrils. And a stream of Mediterranean sunlight Busily ripens the olive tree. When was I there? Why, child, I have Never been. EMILIE 46 C. MURRAY, '57 JANICE PARROT, When I see a tall tree, a wild flower, the roaring ocean, a winding river or a pool of rain, I believe in the creative power of God. As I gaze upon a house, a highway, a cultivated field, a school or a church, I have faith in man's capacity for achievement. We who were children yesterday have grown to young adulthood. Our faith has not disappeared with our childhood toys and dreams. We have faith in many things: that the sun will rise tomorrow morning, that we shall , have three good meals or tha t this will be a wonderful day. But there is a deeper faith. We young people are called to be leaders of tomorrow. At no time in history has this responsibility been . so ' great. And we must find this deeper faith if we are to meet it successfully. The scene of a child saying his prayers and kissing his mother good night is repeated night after night throughout the world. What better example is there of faith? The child entrusts his life to his mother, but the adult entrusts his life to a higher power which is God. All faith springs from belief in a religious creed: Catholic, Jewish, or Protestant. It is not an ornament which is to be displayed only on certain occasions. Faith is a definite, '59 steadfast, living trust in the everyday things around me. My Roman Catholic religion is the basis of my faith. Anyone who is firm in his belief in a Supreme Being has the foundation for a living faith which affects everything he does, every day of his life. All of a sudden it dawned on me. Here I am in college, not knowing what life is really about. In what do I believe or place my faith? The questions have always been there but they were never brought forcefully to mind until now. It didn't take long for me to discover that my parents and friends couldn't solve them. I found that the answers lay within me. It took much serious thought to bring them to the surface. Once there though, I found I had a goal: a faith to live by. No one has to feel God's hand pushing him or hear a mighty voice from heaven to know that God is always behind him, helping and guiding him in every action. I discovered that before I could plan my future the first thing was to know myself: the real me, the person on the inside. With faith, I will find the courage to try ag'a in when I fail, the strength to forgive and most of all the confidence to pray. ANDERSONVILLE MacKinley Kantor lf7 orld Publishing Co. New York, 1955 $5.00 reach poetic heights and show in bright contrast to the novel's darker moments. Captain W. S. Winder boasted when Andersonville was built that he would kill as many Union men there . as were killed in actual batthis; he almost succeeded, to the tune of 14,000 men killed in eighteen months. This Civil War prison camp was located in Anderson,. Georgia; a glorified, festering latnne where the spark of humanity was so dim so as to be at times almost indistinguishable amidst the bestial actions and aspect of the prisoners and their "keepers." The prisoners of AndersonvilleCaptain Henry Wirz, the commander, says they must never be called 1nen, always "prisoners"-are a roting, scurvy-ridden bunch; most of them are illiterate and know they only joined the war that the Union may be preserved, the country kept whole. Their particular way of keeping it whole inside the stockade is to refuse to take an oath of allegiance to the Confederacy, which would gain them blessed freedom, dreamed-of-meat, vegetables free of worms, blankets and clothing not lice-ridden, and safety This book, which was over a quarter of a century in the writing, holds the reader's interest intensely throughout. Some passages are so macabre and naturalistic as to be almost repugnant; others 48 South are shown in the Widow . Tebbs, a prostitute who raises her illegitimate family of four on pay from stockade guards. The guards themselves are mostly doddering old men, some cripples, some youngsters like Florel Tebbs, who cannot wait to kill his first Yankee, "just for the fun of it." He gets his fun. This picture of the Civil War is a deeply felt segment of a much broader struggle. We are reminded of one immutable fact; that war is ever terrible. The men we call heroes did not look like heroes in the midst of battle; they fought because they had to, for as many ~easons as there were people fightmg. Through all the long pages of this book ' the prisoners march, curse, suffer, rot and die in their hated home, until the few left are finally freed to spend the rest of their lives always remembering and dreaming of the living hell that was eighteen months in Andersonville. from the savage Raiders among their own group. Character portrayal in this im~ pressive novel is, I think, excep'" tionally good. By revealing the in~ nermost thoughts of the nightmare population of the stockade with quick, sure strokes, the author gives the reader a deep understanding of the characters. They become. people we have known, liked or disliked, chuckled with, or thought a "little odd." In viewing the people of the novel, one is struck by the contemporaneity of the past and its events and actions of people. Although life inside the stockade is realistically given, descriptions of the life of some of the townspeople who live near it seem to revert to oversentimentality, with which many Civil War stories are touched. Too much happens to them and the happy endings are almost all resolved for the outsiders; the wisdom of many ' the Southerners is crowded into one man, Ira Claffey, plantation owner. The low-life and Tobacco-Roadness of parts of the of JUDITH C. RAHE, '56 The Autobiography of an American Negro Woman THE THIRD DOOR Ellen Tarry David Mc~ay Company, Inc. New York, 1955 $3.50 countered. The Third Door remains closed. Things which cause the Colored grea t suffering are revealed: Jim Crow practices, the opinion that "all Negro girls" indulge in This autobiography is more than Ellen Tarry's tale. In it, Miss Tarry has cried out against "the outrage of racial discrimination and its attendant ills" which she has en49 about whom we need to know more: G. W. Carver, Booker T. Washington, Crispus Attucks; she recalls people and incidents we would rather forget: the D. A. R.'s ban against Marian Anderson and the tirades of the late Senator Bilbo. Some of Miss Tarry's experiences, however, seem to have happened because she appeared to be White. Negroes felt that she could not understand their problems because she lacked their pigmentation; Whites expressed prejudices not knowing that she was Negro. These circumstances, plus the facts that she enjoyed a social and educational background and a journalistic talent not enjoyed by many Negroes, suggest that her story might not be as typical as that of other American Negroes. The reader may turn page after page of The Third Door with the vain hope tha t Ellen Tarry will seize one of those precious opportunities to suffer in order to imitate Our Lord Jesus Christ and, like Him, to offer the pain for her persecutors and for her own persecuted people. Once or twice she makes vague reference to such a sentiment. It is unfortunate that her autobiography could not have offered this practical spiritual outlook which might be the means most effective for opening the door "free from rilcial designations," the desired "Third Door." sex freely, and the uphill struggle for Negroes' civil, vocational and educational rights. The author's bitter experience of having her child called a "nigger baby" indicated a deep sensitivity to discriminatory abuses. Miss Tarry is a mulatto (the word commonly used to designate a person of mixed Caucasian and Negro lineage), of Negro blood chiefly but White in appearance. Her parents lived in Birmingham, Alabama. Early in life, she decided that she should mission to the African heathen. Later, she knew that Alabama was her "Africa." While attending a Catholic school for Negro girls, Ellen Tarry made a more radical change: she left the Congregationalists to become a Catholic. After successfully completing more schooling and some teaching, Miss Tarry's journalistic vocation crystallized. Then from job to job, city to city, from apostolic venture to adventure, in success and in failure, we follow her. We meet writers and entertainers, Northernets, Southerners, and Mid-Westerners, study groups, Friendship House, the usa, NCCS, and whathave-you. Ellen Tarry has done a heap of living in her forty-plus years. As she introduces her acquaintances, anyone active in Catholic Action may expect to meet old friends. She also introduces Negroes LOUISE DIVER, 50 '59 HEA VEN WAS NOT ENOUGH Constance O'Hara J. B. Lippincott Company Philadelphia, 1955 $3.95 O 'Hara, nevertheless, finds that her Catholic training has had a lasting effect on her and everything that she does. As a woman of the world, she reaches futilely for success without ever quite attaining it. Although she was a talented writer and a lover of the theater, she was not able to write a play of any worth. Three or four times she rewrote her Magnificant H eel-all to no avail. Even as her fall came about gradually, so did her triumph over darkness. More than once she sat in church trying to summon enough courage to confess her sins. More than once she failed. Finally, just before she was about to be operated on for a cancerous growth she reclaimed her lost faith. Still the road to complete faith was not an easy one. Miss O'Hara's portra yal of her trying momen ts when she was about to reject her Catholicism once again and each minor triumph which eventually led her to a firm belief in Catholicism are vividly and accurately written. H eaven Was Not Enough should be interesting reading for any person who is looking for a greater appreciation of the Catholic faith. Here is a deeply moving story of the losing and regaining of the faith in the life of Constance O'Hara. Miss O'Hara seems to have a talent for writing her deepest emotions. Anyone who has ever felt loneliness cannot help but read with sympathy her most lonely experience-loss of the faith. As an extraordinary child, Constance was acquainted with the personages of the day and even became friends with some of them. Later in life Miss O'Hara met Clare Boothe Luce and gradually came to love" and respec t this wonderful woman. Clare Luce and other people, not so famous, had a profound effect on her life. Miss O'Hara writes with clarity of those instances and circumstances which were instrumental in her fall. As one reads he can easily see the picture unfolding. "Now, Constance, do not drama tize yourself: you are not a black sheep; merely an unattractive, dirty gray." Spoken by a dear friend of Constance, Sister Julie du SaintEsprit, ~hese words adequately sum up the situation of Constance as a lost soul. Even after the rejection of the faith completely, Miss JUDY HIRN, 51 '59 patrons Mr. and Mrs. Russell Byer Miss Patricia Doerger Miss Marilyn Huber Miss Miriam Kern Mr. and Mrs. John C. Lich Mr. and Mrs. W m. J. Morrissey Mr. and Mrs. Richard Osanbaugh Mrs. Alice Pearce Mrs. Philip Roney Mr. and Mrs. Morres Winsor Eusiness patrons Compliments of a Friend Compliments of LEROY J, KEACH, JR. Compliments of KENNINGTON CHORALIERS 52  ...

... c5f(arian College Inclia.napolis, Indiana i -_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ _ . ~- - - - AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIA N COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE VOLUME THIRTEEN Marian College I ndiana polis, Indiana 1955-1956 ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA "Go, set the world on fi;re!" - inspiring words of Saint Ignatius Loyola to his disciples, and fitting ones for today's Catholic college student. To him, in conunernoration of the 400th anniversary of his death, this issue of Fioretti is dedicated. Editor 11ARGARET ~INSOR Associate Editor EMILIE M URRA Y Assistant Editors MAR Y BYER LAXR Y HAMMERSTEIN ANNE RICHASO N Art JANE D AVIS CAROL GOI N S LARRY KYLE Business Managers LELAND JOHNSON EMILIE CLEVENGER ANN DIENER DAN 11CCARTHY FRANCES STRICKER 4 Contents Editorials .. .. ...... ..... ............ ................ ........... ... ... ... ....... .... .. .......... ... . 7, 8 The Tower. .. .... ... ......... ....................Anne Richason, '58.................. 10 Encounter ......................................... El1tilie Murra y, '57 .................. 13 A Forgotten It elll ... .......................... Anthony V espo, '58............. ... 14 ArL .... ...... .. ....... ...... .... ... .... ....... ....... Barbara Dunn, '57.................... 15 Are You Hearing Bells? .. ................. Barbara Wernsing, '59. ........... 16 The Star .. ,........ ......... .... ......... ......... .Judith C. Rahe, '56................. . 17 Enter, Exit, Americans.. ........ ....... ....]ulia Abrams, '56. ................... 18 Just a Day's Work ... ...... .... .............. Richard D e!aney, '59........ ...... 22 A Tapestry for God.. ................... ..~ ..Cecelia Mootz , '58.................... 22 Peace Be StiIL ... ................ ........ .......Margaret Darnell, , 58 .............. 23 How to Analyze Your Friends ..... .... Margaret Wil1S01', '57 .............. 24 A Hos jJital Visit .. ....... .......... ............ Can?/ Grosdidier, , 58............... ?6 01~lySe conds to Go ...... ........ ....... ..... Dave James, '59 ... ... .................. 27 H eroes Are Made Not Bom ... ........... Mary Ann Schantz, '5 L.......... 28 A Fox HUl1t .......... ................. ....... ... Dicl<. Wiggam, '5 L .................. 29 A Tree111 Wil1ter .. ........ ................... Maria Legg, '56..... ................... 31 Irresis tible ............. .. ... ....................... Maria Legg, , 56........................ 32 HolJL ........... .. ...... ................. .......... Carolyn Wiegele, '59......... ...... . 32 Family Across the Border ... ............. .Judith C. Rahe, , 56......... .. ....... 3.3 Saga of Danny Logan .. ..... ... ..... ........ Bemie Sheehan, '58............ ...... 34 Joy .......... ........... .. .. .. .... .................. ... Joann Haz lewood, '56........... ... 36 The Great BalleL .... .... ..... .......... ...... Ann Diener, '57 ...................... 37 Y esterdays.. ... ............ ..... ................ ...Phillis Willoughby, '59 ............ 39 Deel} Blue Fantasy ... ................... ...... Caro!e McCrocklin, '5 L... ....... 40 ViewpoillL ......... ....... ........ ............... Emilie Murray, '57 .................. 42 No Need to Worry ...... ..................... Larry Hammerstein, '58........... 43 55 Chesapeake Lane.......................... Alice Hayworth, '59.. .............. 47 To Bee or Not to Bee ................ ........ fohn David Fletcher, '59.. ...... 48 To a Cardboard Sled .................. ... ... -11tdith C. Rahe, '56. ............ ..... 49 Hands ............... ........................ .. ..... .Margaret Winsor, , 57 .............. 50 Book Reviews Thc Crown and the Shadow ... ... ....Martha Pictor, '56 ................... . 5] It All Started with ColU'mbus ...... Anl1c R ichason, '58 ..... ...... ...... . 52 Th e Tontine ......... ..... .......... ....... ... Mar y Bye r, '58 ... .... .... .......... ... . 53 Patrons ............... ........ .............. ............. .......... ............... ................. . 55 6 all this and more, but for others it is merely a requirement to be fulfilled on Sundays under pain of sin. Attendance at weekday Mass is considered unnecessary and even impossible to fit into an already busy schedule. Where these attitudes do not exist other less serious ones may, for instance praying the rosary during Mass. The rosary is, indeed, a beautiful and inspiring prayer; but it was not meant to assist one in offering sacrifice. What is even more to be regretted is having no m eans at all to help one offer the Mass but a frail ability for concen tra tion. "Th:s is My Body This is My Blood." Nearly two thousand years ago a Priest spoke these words to His disciples-mysterious, decisive words spoken in Aramaic, the vern acular of Palestine. A hund red ye : : rs la ter the same words were spoken in Greek by a priest offering the sacrifice in commemoration of Christ's death. A few centuries after this the sacred words were spoken in La tin, now the official voice of the Church since it was understood by all who had been under Roman domination. By 800 A.D. the Mass, the sacrifice of the new law, was celebrated in the Latin rite in about the same form as we know it today. The causes for this lack of wholehearted participation at Mass arise partly from the times in which we live (affiicted as they are with materialism, rationalism) and perhaps also from the fact that the language in which the service is conducted is a strange and foreign tongue. Unlike his early Christian brother today's Catholic is not familiar with Latin or at least cannot translate rapidly enough to really participate in the Mass. He cannot feel that he is entering into the action of the sacrifice but must feel that he is just an onlooker. Despite the changes of language, those words of Christ around which the Mass was built were not altered in meaning. The people in the first centuries of Christianity understood the Mass as a true sacrifice-the offering of a Victim to God and Its destruction by receiving It into their hearts. The Mass, the unbloody sacrifice of Calvary, the mystery of Divine Love. It was an act on which they could meditate, an offering in which they could partake, a privilege for which they would die. How much deeper the layman's adora tion would be if he heard "Glory be to God in the highest and on earth peace to men of good Ts this what we understand by and how we feel toward the Mass today? For some it certainly means 7 The zeal of the early Christians came from a complete understanding of what the Mass is and from a participation in it. This same zeal for the Mass could be renewed in our own times if those conditions could again be realized. The Mass, at least in part, in the vernacular would aid in making it understandable to more people. After all, the language is not really important, the meaning of the sacrifice is what is significant. Therefore, let us hope one day we shall see, hear, and offer the Mass in English to God Who is not only Pater Noster, but also will" in familiar English. How much more would he give thanks for his gift of faith if he heard, "I believe in one God, the Father almighty-." Upon hearing the priest's command, "Pray, brethren, that my sacrifice and yours may prove acceptable to God the Father Almighty," would he not petition God in all humility to receive his oblation. A true desire for reparation for his sins would surely overwhelm him as he heard the English prayer, "Lord, I am not worthy-." In the vernacular the sacrifice at once becomes more personal and by offering the sacrifice in his own language he feels it more a part of himself. Our Father. -Margaret Winsor It would be difficult to estimate how many words have been used to denounce the current flood of cheap . literature that is now available at the drugstore, the dime store and the bus sta tion in our hometown. And this flood of criticism is more than justified when one considers that sin is being sold for a quarter. However, there are some books that are equally dangerous morally that are masquerading themselves with higher prices, better quality printing and most dangerous of all disguises, masterful and artistic style. It is a simple matter to decide on the quality, moral or literary, of the cheaper sort of writing but when you are confronted with a skillfully writ- ten book that is considered art by the critics the problem of criticism becomes more involved although based on the same principles. There are two easy ways of solving this problem. One is to avoid any book that is high on the bestseller list on the assumption that it must be bad. Another method is to explain away all vulgarities and presentations of sin as the realistic or frank way of writing. As usual the middle of the road approach is the most valuable but the most difficult solution to the problem and by some, the most neglected solution. In this particular si tua tion there is a definite cause for this neglect. Intelligent moral criticism depends on a knowledge of prin8 ciples of style and on principles of morality. \Vhat is really needed is a critical study of literature. Most readers h ave innately or as a result of literature courses an adequate understanding of what is necessary for a book to be an artistic success. It is the question of morality that is most difficult to solve. Is there a set standard that we may use to determine the moral value of a work? Certainly. We may start with the Church's pronouncement on the subject. It is taken for granted that books on the Index are forbidden. The Church also forbids any book that would prove damaging to the reader's moral code. It is this second provision that requires expansion and interpretation. Does it mean that because the reader does not experience a change of heart while reading a novel that the bOQk is not damaging? Or does it mean that we should evaluate a book according to the values it presents and compare these values to our own? Surely the last, since it would take a super-human intellect .to remain unaffected by constant presentation of sin as justified by circumstances or sin as commonplace. In making our evaluation then, wh'lt criteria do we use? Do we decide by finding out the subject m atter and if it deals with sin omit the book from our reading list? Not necessarily. The fault often is found in the presentation of sin. Sin is the root of man's conflict in life, and great works all are based on some conflict. With the present modern interest in psychology and psychiatry it is only to be expected that writers will concern themselves with the inner conflicts of man and this will necessarily introduce the topic of sin. I t can be determined by a few questions, the nature of the author's presentation of sin and thus the value of the work. The reade; must ask himself: Is the author presenting sin for no other purpose than to please vulgar minds? Is it given undue attention when considered in relation to the plot or theme of the book? Does it imply th:lt the author feels that sin is justified, or that morals are like social customs and change with the era? In brief, is sin pres en ted as good? If the reader can answer these questions in the affirmative then his only criticism can be that the book should not be read because of its danger to personal morals. On th e other hand if sin is presented as the moral evil it really ~s, (and not as socially wrong or Just poor business practice) then th ~. author has done something pr.l'seworthy. Praiseworthy because he has shown sin and its consequences in their relation to humanity and its goal. Praiseworthy because he h as written truth, unpleasant as it may be and even offensive to squeamish readers. Why this concern about moral evalua tion ? We are Catholics and even if we are tired of hearing about it, we are The Chosen of the present day. The far reaching affects of books are too important to be neglected. And too, it does seem a shame that we cannot see the difference between Sinclair Lewis and Gnham Greene. -El1til;e Murray 9 BY ANNE RICHASON He seized the handle in a desper- ever came. Perhaps if Mim hadn't a te grip and pulled open the door died, but Mim had gone; and Fritz which led into the tower. Many had too, and now just he was left. times before he had opened the Before long, he too would be gone. As h e mounted the first step, a Slme door. The piercing wind whispered mournful cries into .his ears, sudden chill ran through his warm and the snow swooped around his body. For a minute he felt that he Let. He shut the door quickly, and would never make it. Then, posstarted across the noiseless room in sessed with determination, he startthe direction of the staircase. It ed up the stairs. Each step was seemed strange that this would be torturous agony. Driven by the the place to end it all. Perhaps if idea that it would soon be over, he had not built the tower, but he struggled on. He could see a then he knew that he had had to faint light in the upper part of the build it. He shivered as he drew tower as he proceeded. How many near the steps. Even when all was times he had rambled up these steps despaired of and utterly hopeless, at this same time of day to find it would be hard; but then he had Fritz hard at work on some childish not expected it .tb be easy. scientific problem. There was no . As he mounted the first step, he doubt about it; Fritz had been a felt in his pocket. Yes, it was still very brilliant lad. That was one of there. Now just to climb to the top the things that he had noticed of the tower, gently slip the noose about Fritz the first day he had over his head, attach it to the flag seen him. He could so well remempole, trawl out, and then jump. He ber the first time he had set eyes had done just that so many times on the lad. during the past weeks; he almost He was standing apart from the knew how it was going to feel. others viewing the strange AmeriThere would be a few minutes durcm with insatiable curiosity. He ing which he would dangle there had felt an immediate attraction to alive; it would all soon be over. the boy. They didn't cut the GerThere would be no more agonizing man boys' hair at the orphanage, hours of loneliness; no more would and Fritz with his long yellow curls his friends be able to jeer at him and wide, thoughtful eyes made and say, "I told you so"; and no him indeed appealing to the Amerilonger would he have to sit, just can. \Vhen he asked to speak to the sit and wait for a word from Fritz. lad, he was not at all surprised to Ah, yes, Fritz. So many days and . find that he spoke almost perfect nights he had spent waiting for a English. He had intended to talk single word from him, but none to the boy about his own life, but 10 Fritz soon had him answering questions about America. When exactly he made up his mind to adopt this German lad, he could not remember. It had not taken him long. The supervisor warned him of the possible problems that adopting this lad could bring, but he listened to none of it. He finished his business in Berlin as quickly as possible, and within a few days he and his new son sailed for America. It was while aboard ship that he first learned of Fritz's quiet, listless nature. Fritz was the only son of a brilliant German scientist j he was determined to become like his f:lther. Even though his father had deserted him, he felt no bitterness. Many times while on the ship, he would find Fritz off by himself, alone, just gazing at the waves, as if trying to decide what mad,e them roll. Upon arriving in the States, he ~, sked Fritz what he would like as a present for his homecoming. Fritz s1id th at, although it was drastically expensive, he had always dreamed of building a tower like th~ tower of Weftfaden that stood in his home town. In it he wanted t o build a laboratory where he could carryon small experiments. \'7 anting to give his son every thing possible, he had built the toweL Every stone in it was laid to Fritz's specification. From top to bottom it was Fritz's tower. A lthough everyone liked Fritz, his friends were dubious as to the w isdom of adopting a foreigner, who would never completely adjust h;mself. Even he soon came to realiz ~ that Fritz's hea rt was still in his native land. During the years that followed, only Fritz's feelin ?, 11 of obligation to his foste" father held him. Then followed thr _.erer years of separation. Feeling that their home town lacked adequate facilities for the education of their doubtlessly ingenious son, he and Mim had decided to send Fritz to a nearby military academy. He had been so young, and they h:ld bc:en s:) proud. But then it had hJppen :d. Mim had gone, gone leaving him alone to wait for Fritz. \Vith increased agony he remembered the summers of these years . Fritz spont increasingly more and more time in his tower. Often he came home late during the hot summer months to find Fritz h:lrd at work .on some i been on one of those rare occasions when he had brought a fellow student home from the military academy. When introducing him to the friend he had said, "This is my Dad." Wild joy had flooded his heart. He had wanted to grab Fritz in a fierce embrace, but Fritz was not one who would like such a display of emotion-but then neither was he. Nevertheless, during the days and nights that followed the words somehow kept sifting through his mind. He had even gone so far as to think that perhaps Fritz really did care, but like himself had been unable to express his feelings. Now Fritz had shown how he really felt-he had gone. At last he drew near the end of his journey up the narrow stairs. At the last step he paused to look into the interior of the little room before him. Faint light filtered through the slightly open oval window reflecting on the minute particles of snow that gently drifted down to the marble floor. The light centered his gaze upon a picture beneath the oval window. In spite of the dimness, his eyes were held by an unfamiliar portrait of his son. Fritz must have hung it here himself as a token of the love and tenderness which he could not express. With faltering steps he lurched toward the picture. Furiously he snatched it with stiff blue fingers. Clumsily he ripped the picture from its frame, sending the echoes of shattering glass ringing through the lifeless tower. With searching eyes he gazed upon the figure before him-a young man with a sober determined expression. His heart was beating vital experiment, unmindful of the torrid tempera ture of the world that surrounded him. When Fritz left the military academy at graduation, he also left his military training behind in favor of experimental sCience. Years passed, and then came the war. Fritz's feeling of responsibility to his native land drove him to return to the country of his birth. Without a word he left. No mail followed his departure. The stone mansion soon became unbearable. He longed for the many nights spent in the tower with Fritz. Now his days were empty, lonely. He had spent his entire life making a home for the foreigner, and he had failed miserably. He now picked his way cautiously up the remaining steps. He wondered how long it would be before they discovered his body. Probably not for a while . . After all he was no longer important; there was really no one to miss him. Yes, the world would be a better place without him. Suddenly, however, he wondered about Fritz, what he was doing now, and what he would do when he heard the news of his foster father's death. For a moment he paused. Perhaps he would need someone to stand by him. Maybe after the war Fritz would need his Dad. His Dad . . . he pondered the words in his stricken mind. Dad, th at was a majestic word. He had never been able to completely convince Fritz that that was the way he wished to be addressed. He much more frequently resorted to the colder, more polite 'sir.' How vividly he could remember the first time Fritz had called him Dad. It had 12 madly as he clutched the picture in his now feverish fingers. Beads of perspiration sparkled like ice crystals on his forehead. In the midst of his anger, as he was about to tear the picture to shreds, he noticed the faint lettering on the back. With faltering words he stammered: To my dad Love, Fritz \'V'ith wildest ecstasy he clutched the picture to his breast. Over and over again he sent the words ringing through the tower as he sobbed in rapturous agony . . . my son ... my son . . . . The purest snow sifted into the stillness of the tower, gently enshrouding the huddled form beneath the oval window. E"ncounter "It's been a long time," And "How've you been?" All the proper phrases Spoken in the right key. And if outwardly we pretend, Within we admit That childhood's friendships Sometimes cease to be. And so we part With smiles and promises gay, Bu t each of us is lonelier Than we used to be. -Emilie Murray 13 BY ANTHONY VESPO A robbery maneuvered with the exactness such as this one had months of planning behind it. The men knew what they wanted, how they would get it, and where they would take it after they had completed their mission. Every detail had been precisely timed so that they would make no errors and take the chance of getting captured and sent to Hell Gate, where few men leave alive. The men were presumed dead, for after weeks of intensive search through this barren wilderness, not a trace of them was found. The authorities were acquainted with many who had taken refuge in the desert, but they soon surrendered themselves, for they would rather be turned over to the prison Hell Gate, than die in one of the thousand traps which the desert holds. I t was during the middle of the fifth week that the unexpected happened. The desert was trying on the men's nerves, and this strain was reflected in their tempers as well as their faces. The first few weeks were occupied by cursing the heat which seemed to be getting more intense as each day passed. Their preoccupation with the heat was soon dwarfed by the dead monotony of their surroundings. There was no life, save for the four of them. There was scarcely ever a breeze. There was nothing! This dead monotonous environment began to press upon the minds of the men, and they soon became irritated at the slightest provocation. Up until this fifth week, they had managed to guard themselves; but when the stream went dry, they were stricken with panic. The men had picked a spot for hiding which had a small stream of water flowing down the mountainside. Few people knew of this place. And these few had their information from the miners who used to come prospecting for gold; but many of those who came in search of gold at Panamint Range died before they reached civilization. The leader of this group of men had checked on this important item prior to their illegal act, and finding the stream, knew that they could go on as planned since there was nothing to hinder them now. Mounting confusion and fierce arguments arose between them. They knew they could not stay in the desert without water. They finally came to the decision that the following day they would leave the valley. The main thing was to remain calm, as getting into any more arguments at this time would jeopardize everything they had risked these past weeks. Their throa ts had become parched and they could think of nothing else except hurrying and getting out before the desert claimed them for its victim. 14 They had just finished packing the bare necessities, when quick as a flash, they found themselves in the middle of a cloudburst. Lady Luck had certainly dealt them a winning hand. They knew now that they would have no more trouble. They quickly laid out two pans Co fill with water. The pans were almost full when the men felt a slight tremor. As the tremor became more pronounced, they became aware of a deafening roar, a roar which seemed to come from all directions at once. They were seized with terror, looking at each other wildly. One of them suddenly began shouting to the others and pointed up the mountainside. They couldn't hear his words for the deafening roar, but they looked in the direction in which he was pointing. They knew that they had counted on everything except the one thing for which the desert is most famed and feared. Glancing up the mountainside, they saw their stream widen to the width of the mountain itself. Here they were caught in the wake of a flash flood. The desert had saved its trump Clrd to play last. Everything which stood in the path of the waters was sent to oblivion. In a matter of seconds the only thing that lay in the camp was a huge boulder which had been picked up by the flood and let down at this spot, as proof that Death Valley is death valley and not a place of refuge. A world so bleak with trees so bare, Waits spring's arrival with a prayer Of thanks. For soon her brush will spread Her verdant paint upon each bed Offlow'ring things. A touch of blue, Or pink or gold will tint a few Plants here and there, till all are gay. They wait the gentle blending spray Of rain to mix the shades, and bring That ~ainbow of color we call spring. -Barbara Dunn 15 BY BARBARA WERNSING A metallic vessel which gives forth a clear, musical ringing sound on being struck, generally cup shaped-this is what Mr. Webster has to say of a bell. To a dictionary they're all the same, from the Great Moscow bell, biggest in the world, to the small bell on sister's desk which brings Catholic students in grade and high school to their feet in class rooms all over the world to ask God for mercy, grace, and love and which can change a noisy disorderly room to a settled hush with one sharp tap. Some people act as though they were alergic to the door bell. They peek around the curtains to see if it's the paper boy, the insurance man, just another collector, or some unexpected caller arriving too near dinner. Certainly no one seems alergic to the lunch bell unless he's on a diet, of course, or the bell that signifies the end of class. Always there are the sentimental bells that announce that a couple is to receive the sacrament of Matrimony on a bright June morning. And with the falling snow, the chimes of midnight Mass penetrate through the cold, still night, and lay a warm blanket of peace, joy, and good will on the hearts of those slushing their way to church. Christmas isn't complete without the mention of sleigh bells, espe .. cially those belonging to that jolly old fellow and his eight reindeer. Nine? Oh, pardon me, Rudolph. .' Between these two en tirely different bells and the few hundred others, dear Mr. Webster shows absolutely no difference or partiality. He doesn't sympathize with the sleepy,. person that reaches over, fumbles around, and finally with a few mumbled remarks, knocks the alarm clock on the floor, bell and all. . N ei ther does he seem to medi ta te on a hot summer day when little boys and girls rush in to the house and beg for a nickel which they transfer from their grubby fists to the hand of an ice-cream man whose bell they heard a block away. However, Mr. Webster does have a point, for whether it be the famous Liberty Bell in Philadelphia, proclaiming our freedom, or the tinkle of a bell suspended from a red ribbon around the soft down of a kitty's neck, a bell definitely gives forth a sound which echoes throughout the world to every people in many ways. While some people seem to hear bells for no apparent reason others sit by a two piece contraption and wish that he would call tonight-. 16 A star, One star, A child's whole faidIn one bright star. So high, that starHow like a child To reach so far. So great the star; How grasps the child \'('hat man's thoughts bar? A star, One star; Soon child's bright faith Outshines his star. -Judith C. Rahe 17 Cnter, CXit, Americans BY JULIA ABRAMS this man-if in Europe-is liable to voice comments and opinions that sound unpleasant to the ears of an European. It is a man's privilege to feel that "there's no place like home." That should be his attitude when he is at home. But when he travels to homes of another continent, he should leave such an attitude at (his) home. If not, he short-changes himself. He does not learn anything other than that which he already knows-how he lives. He does not learn how other people live. What is more, he does not learn that each man possesses the right of to-each-his-own. He, in short, compares; he does not observe. An observer - shouldn't that be a tourist? Then there is this product-the type of American who thinks that the Europeans should consider themselves fortunate that he came to see and enrich their continent. He demands service wherever he goes and does not hesitate to create a scene if he is not given immediate and exclusive attention. He gets attention all right! Europeans are forming an opinion of all Americans as ill-mannered, self-centered, boisterous individuals. There is still another product, another type of American abroad. He is the one with a sense of humor-his sense of humor. Perhaps it is the month of March, a balmy, sunny day in Nice, on the French Riviera. He enters a side-walk cafe, What is one of the most popular and yet one of the most unpopular American products to enter Europe? Observation takes the stand as witness to this answer: American tourists. On what does the popularity of American tourists rest? The answer costs America some of her pride in her citizens; for it is founded on the specious basis that the American dollar burns a hole in the spacious pocket, or pocketbook, of its possessors. Statistics, however, does corroborate such a basis. According to The United States News and World Report, May 13, 1955, 442,000 Americans spent $348,000,000 in Europe during the year i 9 54 and by the close of 195 5, 500,000 Americans should have spent $400,000,000 in Europe. Why are American tourists unpopular in Europe? The answer points directly to an American, though not necessarily as a nat ionality, but as a type of person. It happens that human nature is too ready to generalize and tha t human beings are too often products of their environment, rather than personalities, despite their environment. If a man's father and his teacher misinterpret patriotism to mean that no other country can compare with his native country in progress, in what a country has to offer regarding physical comfort and intellectual stimulation, lmprovement and enjoyment, then 18 slaps a waiter on the back, amI wishes him a "Merry Christmas!" These types of Americans abroad do not present to Europeans a flattering portrait of Americans as a nation. It is no wonder that Europeans are eager for the entrance of Americans, dollars in hand, while they anxiously await the exit of American tourists, empty-handed. Let us leave this unflattering portrait of American tourists for one which pictures a tourist in the proper sense of the word-the tourist who observes, not compares, as he travels. Picture you as an American in Europe. You might be observing these customs, these parts of other ways of living: Liberti, Atlantic Ocean - August, 19-. All aboard! It is Friday, 12 :3 0 P.M. A few minutes ago, you missed seeing the Statue of Liberty as the Liberti sailed out of New York harbor,---'-you were on the wrong side of the ship. Midday dinner is now being served for the second time. You are seated by a French waiter, or two, who upholds his country's reputation for gallantry and who does so even more if you speak his language -no matter how little. You read the French menu; it sounds good. Then you read the English translation on the opposite side to see if it is as good as it sounds. To begin with, there are choices of consomme or soup, of sea meat or farm meat, of vegetab!es, with or without a salad. To end it all, there is a choice of desserts-pastries, ice cream, or fruits. A choice of desserts, however, can be eliminated in the end. For a smile, co-operative dinner mates (each one orders a different des- sert) and the right waiter may get you an ample sample of each dess~-t. As for beverages, your waiter, frowning skeptically, will serve you water for the ice water that you requested. But milk you will have to learn to do without. "Mademoiselle," a French waiter will say emphniCllly and somewhat patronizingly, "wine is our milk." ~:. ::- :r- Paris, France-September, or April, 19-. It is 4:00 P.M.-tea time on the Continent. The continual storm of Parisian trafficauto-cars, bicycles, motorcycles, pedestrians - lets up as side-walk cafes become the centers of destination. Tea time on the Continent you do not have to take literally. You may prefer coffee and you can cho:Jse your brand-American or French. For your sweet tooth you can choose any number of delectable-looking pastries, which the French call fries petits gateaux (little cakes). Tea time on the Continent you find a pleasant custom. It is a relaxing interlude, whether you spend the afternoon touring, or whether you must spend the afternoon 2S a student or as a bread winner. Cologne, Germany-February, 19-. It is the afternoon of Shrove Tuesday. You are seeing why Cologne is famous for its fasching (Mardi gras to you) celebration. One thing that strikes you forcibly is that every German, from child to grandparent, takes an active interest in the carnival that precedes Ash Wednesday. In contrast to the solemn, penitent spirit of Lent, 19 there is now exuberant gaiety, an almost nervous gaiety. Even though you, too, love a parade, the enthusiasm that is the people of Cologne eludes you. For three hours you try to forget the extreme coldness and dampness as you wa tch a parade of comic floa ts, costumed bands, costumed people, heads befaced grotesquely, ludicrously. The brightness of gay colors everywhere does not dispel the coldness and dampness of which everybody but you seems to be oblivious. It is the night for bal~s and polkas. You can go to one ball after another to dance a polka again and again. For this you will need second wind; for each polka is as quick of tempo as Roll Out the Barrel, one polka which will be no stranger to you. If you attend the ball of Cologne, you might meet the king of the carnival. He is elected on the basis of wealth; for he must pay for all the candy that is thrown from the floats during the parade, for the balls, and for any other expense. Songs are composed each year for the carnival-the accepted compositions winning about $50. These songs and those of former years are special to the carnival repertoire. You will hear them sung at the parade, at the balls, from the dawn of the celebration until the dawn of Ash Wednesday. The spirit of the balls and of the songs is gay. But you find that their gaiety is more relaxed than that of the parade. It is a quiet gaiety, not in the least boisterous. 20 Barcelona, Spain-March, 19-. It is Saturday, 5:00 P.M. You are sitting in the bleachers. You are about to witness the sport of Spaniards-not baseball, but bullfighting. Horns sound the opening notes of a paso doble. The spectacle begins-it is said that in Spain only the spectacle of a bullfight begins exactly on time. First to march into the arena are the three maiadores, each of whom fights to kill two bulls. Following the matador is his troupe of three banderilleros and two picadores, the la tter on horseback. The role of each troupe is to prepare the bull for the matador. The banderilleros taunt the bull by thrusting into it three pairs of jagged darts (banderillas), two feet in length, while the picadores now and then wound the beast with the goad (pique), a well-pointed instrument the length of a pole. Your first reaction is that of anguish as you watch the torturing of the bull. You think what an inhuman thing to do to an animal. Then you realize what the bullfighter is trying to do. He is displaying his skill, his daring, his wit, his composure, the grace and suppleness of his body, the quickness of his feet. With this realization, you cease to sympathize with the bull; you now see the animal as a menace to the man. You admire the man-the bullfighter-his intrepidity, the art of his technique. You Jom the crowd in its excited "ooooole!" whenever the bullfighter outwits an enraged bull. But you cannot be one of the crowd when angry boos echo its wild cheers. You witness the crowd's fickle attitude toward an up - and - coming nineteen - year - old matador who, after a brief, brilliant exhibition, is caught off guard to be gored, thrown, and trampled by his opponent. Ten minutes later, having regained consciousness, the young bullfighter returns for the kill, his handsome silk pants and stockings blood-stained. The crowd is again his friend. But you are no longer one of the crowd; you ar,e now a spectator of the crowd as well as of the bullfight. You watch the crowd brought to its feet when the young matador kills the bull that gored him. When he goes on to kill a second bull, the crowd showers hats, handkerchiefs, flowers at his feet. In recognition of its approval, the heroic matador circles the arena, thanking the crowd with his bows, while he awaits the judges' decision. The judges honor h im well. They :lgree that the matador of the hour merits both ears, the tail, a hoof, and a shoulder of his second conquest. Horses are led in to drag away the remains of the bull. Thus ends your introduction to the pageantry of Spain's national sport. ~;4 ~ :4 ::4 / Lisbon, Portugal-April, 19-. It is 9:00 in the evening. You are having dinner at a place called MACHADO. One of your aspirations is to become a connoisseur; but that requires daring. You dori't have sufficient courage to order octopus; so you compromise. You order the specialty ' of the housechicken prepared in ' cocba with ' ric~ -on the condition that you sample a dinner mate's octopus. 21 An hour or more la ter you are still enjoying dinner when another special ty of the house is offered; and that is FADO, the Portuguese way of singing. A young girl, in long black dress and black shawl, head thrown backward, begins to sing the Portuguese version of APRIL IN PORTUGAL to an offbeat guitar accompaniment. She must hold her head back so as to throw upward sounds produced from the depth of the throat. The effect is a throaty voice which sounds off-key but none the less melodic and harmonious-a fascinJ ting effect. After some solos by the youn,g girl, a man, who might be nearing forty or fifty years of age, enters. He has a request to make of the diners. Twenty years ago he was the greatest fa do singer in Portugal. He sang all night and every night for those who loved to hear him. But now he sings only because he loves to sing, now that his voice is weak and raspy from the tremendous strain that the forcing of sounds from the throat exerts on the vocal cords. Will the audience listen to an old m an whose VOIce IS gone but whose love for singing lingers? His request is granted. He sings a few so!os, after which he is joined by the girl, a young man-his son -and a middle-aged woman for a round of fado-music for the ears. You leave reluctantly. Tour "observation" accomplished, or not? Now make your exit from Europe. What ' will it be? If you ,~xit as tourist-'observer,it is likely that Europe sends 'with you her wish, "Enter, Am'e ricah, any time-and soon!" BY RICHARD DELANEY barbed wire and let it slide down the rifle and over my feet. Again I was on my stomach and crawling slowly; the bullets still whined overhead. Intermittently a loud explosion would shake the ground beneath. But onward I crawled slQwly and cautiously, first one elbow and then the other, dragging my tired body through the mud. My buddies were no IQnger in sight; Qnly the vast darkness loomed ahead. Suddenly the machine gun stopped. A bright spotlight picked me out of the darkness. A loud voice boomed frQm above, "Hey, soldier, you gonna crawl around that infiltration course all night? Let's go. home." Crawling ever forward, it seemed I had been doing so for hours. Machine gun fire whistled low Qverhead; explQsions shook the earth beneath my body. It was one Qf those dark, damp, and dreary nights. I crawled onward through the mud and through the water, first the right elbQW and then the left. I tried to remember all I had learned: keep the rifle dry and cradled in my arms, keep my head dQwn, and make no sound. My buddies were barely visible on both sides of me, their rain coats covered with mud. Straight ahead was the mass of barbed wire. Turning over I placed the rifle on my pody with the barrel touching my chin. I lifted the BY CECELIA MOOTZ John was confused. He couldn't see an end to. his troubles. He kept calling on God, but God just didn't seem to hear. Now he was abQut to die. He felt he had not accomplished anything in his life. He had had so many disappointments; he had made many mistakes. He had tried hard, but well . . . . He heard someone calling. God took him by the hand and showed him his life. From earth it looked like the underside Qf a tapestry, all knotted and confused. But God poin ted ou t to him the side seen from heaven. Only a beautiful picture of love and trust in God remained. 22 -Margaret Darnell Peace, be still, and listen to the rain. Steady dripping against the window, Upon the pavement, Falling from a colorless sky; Giving solace to the dry, dry earth, Making fresh the air, Recalling the late summer glow; Beating against fast fading leaves. Listen to the rain, The murmur of a million tears Shed by weary clouds. Peace, be still. 23 BY MARGARET WINSOR No doubt, at some time or another, you have said to a rather disagreeable friend, "Aw, you've got rocks in your head," or "You should have your head examined." Unless you had some very conclusive proof for these remarks your friend might have been offended. At other times you have probably 'felt inclined to find out if a friend is ticking properly or if he is ticking at all. In these cases and countless others a knowledge of the workings of all types of minds is indeed worthwhile. small fires here and there, acting as if he were a goldfish or a rubber ball, or seeing cigarettes waltzing down the street (not those especially trained for T.V.). Any of these may indicate that here IS a living, breathing opportunity! After you have convinced him tha t your service will make him a happier and a wiser man, go to work with TEST NUMBER 1. This is a test to see if there is anything wrong with his reflexes. First you must find a small hammer, and while your friend sits unsuspectingly in a chair, hit him gently on the knee. If his leg does not jerk upward you did not hit the right part of the knee or you didn't hit it hard enough. There is only one thing to do-get a larger hammer. This way you can't possibly miss the spot. Now, hit him again with greater force. If you do not get a reaction from your friend this time, you can safely conclude that there is something wrong with him. First of all, take a friend-any friend-and look at him closely. Does he appear nervous, with staring eyes, pale features, and a general strained appearance? (Of course, this may signify that he is on his way to speech class, but if you know this is not the case you should immediately begin your analyzing service.) When visiting you, does this person enjoy listening to the ringing of your telephone? (This need not be a definite sign of any disturbance unless you do not own such an instrument.) Again, does he often complain of being followed or persecuted by others? (Disregard this if he hasn't paid back the dollar that he borrowed from you -last month.) There may be other symptoms such as starting Next, try TEST NUMBER 2the Ink-Blot Test. Here you will need a few ink-blots. If you do not have any you will have to borrow some or make your own. The latter are the best kind. If you haven't any paper handy, your friend's shirt will do. Ask your friend what each one looks like to him and en24 courage him if he feels a bit shy about answering. If, after considerable encouragement, he still refuses to answer, it may be necessary to return to TEST NUMBER 1. When you finish this, only one more remains-the final experiment -dream interpretation. It involves a fairly accurate knowledge of your friend's character and habits, so you should try this only with close friends. A colleague of mine, Dr. Ebeneezer Kirschbaum, once tried it on a patient he didn't understand too well and made a terrible mistake. It seems that the unfortunate vic-patient dreamed he was walking in a shady orchard when suddenly he was confronted by a large, fi~rce giant whose face resembled that of his grandmother. She pulled a small tree up by the roots and, waving it madly, began jumping up and down on his stomach. After hearing this horrible nightmare, Dr. Kirschbaum became terribly excited and -immediately rushed the man to an institution. It seems the good doctor had decided that the fellow had a great fear and hatred of h :s grandmother due to some incident in his childhood, such as being punished -severely by her for stealing fruit trees. He reasoned that only by confining him could he prevent this person from murdering poor granny some dark and stormy night. It was a great shock two years later to discover that before going to sleep the night previous to the dream that poor man and his grandma had dined together and innocently consumed some wild cherries garnished with dill pickle sauce. From this little example you might learn to interpret dreams only for those who h:lVe sound eating habits. If your friend does not respond to any of these tests in the manner you had anticipated, do not worry or excite yourself or allow him to become excited. Just reassure him -tell him he's as sane as you areand send him horne to recuperate. As you consider what type personality he possesses consider als:) your monetary remuneration or how much you can get out of him if you charge for your services. Bills are sometimes not accepted with glowing enthusiasm especially if your true worth is not appreciated. When this occurs it may be necessary to provide a little incentive, an illustration of which fol~ lows: If, "I didn't get my money's worth!" Is all a friend will state, Just smile down on your empty palm, And offer to operate. 25 a4 ~"spital CUsit BY CAROL GROSDIDIER Miss Teagarden gave me a reassuring little pat on the shoulder as we walked up the broad stone steps of the hospital. As I reached up to open the door, I saw the name carved in the stone above it. The J. HUBERT PEABODY MEMORIAL HOSPITAL. It was a pretty long name, and it scared me a little. It seemed that everything about this place was big. Even the nurse who met us looked big, all dressed in white 'n everything. She gave us a cheerful "Good morning" and led us to the registration desk. "You can sit down, Jimmy, while I talk to the nurse," said Miss T eagarden. She turned to the uniformed young lady behind the counter. ''I'm Miss Teagarden, the social worker for the Henry Adams Children's Home." "Oh, yes, Miss Teagarden, the Jimmy Owens' case. Just a minute while we fill out the forms. Let's see-name, Jimmy Owens; age, nine; residence, Henry Adams Childrens' Home; parents' names?" "John and Hazel Owens, both deceased. " It sounded queer for Miss Teagarden to talk about my parents. I had never thought much about them. I knew that most of the kids at school lived at home with their parents. But as far back as I could remember, I had lived in the Home. I kind of wished I was back there now, 'cause nobody there pays any attention to my hand, and everyone here kept staring at me. I guess they'd never seen a fellow with only one regular hand before. I looked at all the other people in the waiting room just the way they had all looked at me. They all seemed to have both their arms and legs. One fellow, though, had braces on his legs. Late!" en, after they had put me in my room, I began to get more used to things. They brought supper at five o'clock, just like at the Home. It was pretty good, too; they had chocolate pudding. My favorite! It was fun eating in bed. Next morning things were buzzing very early. All kinds of strange noises were coming from the hall; carts moving up and down, pans rattling, and people talking kind of whispery. Pretty soon I began to smell toast and bacon. It smelled good. I wanted to look out into the hall, but I was afraid to get out of the bed without asking. Pretty soon a nurse came in. She was so cheerful it kind of made me mad, especially with all those sick people in the hospital. "Good morning, Jimmy," she said. "Sorry you won't get any breakfast this morning, but you're going to surgery." How'd she know my name, I wondered, and what's surgery? Then everything began to happen at once. Nurses and doctors hurried in and out with pills and 26 ether. It smelled terrible. I started to count ... . needles and things. Then they lifted me on a cart and wheeled me into the hall. At last! I was in the hall! But I couldn't see very well lying down. All at once I didn't want it to happen. I didn't care if I never had two whole hands. I just wanted to b.:! back at the Home, where everything was always the same; but I couldn't. The opera ting room was a scary place with bright lights and shiny instruments. Everybody had a mask on and I couldn't tell whether Dr. Perkins was there or not. All at once someone said, "Count to twenty," and then I smelled something awful. I knew it must be \Vhen I woke up I was back in my room. Everything was hazy. I felt sick. I thought it was kind of funny being back in my room, but everythjng was so funny here. Far away I could hear Dr. Perkins saying, "Wonderful, wonderful! I think we can safely say that in three or four years the boy will have full use of his hand." Miss Teagarden answered, "That's splendid, Doctor. I'm glad this first operation was so successful." I thought, three or four years, that's a long time. I couldn't feel my hand at all. B Y DAVE JAMES They were in their trenches, wet from the rain and like ice from the cold, wet weather. At 2 o'clock that morning, they were awakened and briefed of the coming event that would shake the world, then secretly hustled out of camp in trucks toward the destination where, in 2 hours and 22 minutes, they would witness this event. Here they sat, huddled in Khaki, eyes focused on a dummy house sitting alone, about 2 miles in the far distance of complete nothingness. The zero hour of 5 was now slowly approaching and they were gradually preparing. Everything was ready, everyone was ready. They were given the final signal-60 seconds, 5 5, 50, 45 -5, 4, 3, 2, 1, O.-RRRING!!! Class was over. 27 BY MARyANN SCI-IANTZ Everyone was sitting on the edge of his seat now that the game was tied at 44-44. There were only 55 seconds remaining in the game between Memorial and Central. they passed it off from one player to another until each of the five had had his chance but just couldn't work the ball in under the basket. The time was growing shorter and, with only 30 seconds left in the game, the ball was passed to Jim. As Jim Thomas, a Memorial player, sat on the bench, he felt as if tonight was the night. If only he would be given ! a chance, it might be the chance of his lifetime. As he had done in many games in the past, he started what you might call a dribbling exhibition. He was getting closer and closer until he finally saw a chance for a shot. With a one-handed push-shot the ball made it up to the rim of the basket, but seemed to sit there before dropping into the loop. Sitting there buried deep in thought, Jim heard the whistle blow. The coach coming over stood next to him and said, "O.K., son, we're counting on you." The ball was then taken ou t by Central, but as the game was progressing so was the time. Five, four, three, two, one-BANG! Memorial won 46-44. Almost before he realized what had happened he was running on to the floor with the other four players. Last season he was their star player; but, well, it was just different this year. Not only the fans for Memorial but also those for Central were applauding Jim. The coach came over to shake his hand, laying his other hand on the empty sleeve of Jim's T-shirt. Central grabbed the tip-off but lost the ball after one failing attempt at the basket. When the Memorial team got hold of the ball 28 BY DICK WIGGAM \'V'hen Ben Y ouck and I turned the houn::! loose in the old Nelson orchard that March morning, the air smelled of moldy leaves and mushy apples. Sunshine and warming breezes were thawing the snow, dotting the ground with patches of soggy earth. Although spring was breaking winter's grip, Ben wasn't happy. He would rather listen to Rip, his fox hound, cut loose on a fox track than sit back and watch the coming of spring. Ben looked at the disappearing snow unh::tppily. "Lookit the way it's thawing. \'7inters are gettin; shorter every yeu. Purty soon Indiana will become tropical enough to raise bamnas .' Then the foxes will migrate north, leav;n g th~ wo::: ds to th::: m :mkeys and the birds." Rip cut Ben's tirade short. Roving with his muzzle close to the ground, the old hound quickened his pace and grew tense. He lunged forward on a zigzagging line, snuffed at the base of an old apple tree, and shot off toward a pile of deClying branches. Then he swung around, went over the ground again and started to moan softly as he ~pp:'o:1Ch e d us. Ben's frown van:shed as he wat ched Rip work the cold scent. H ~ w alked over to where the dog w as piecing together fragments of scent and bent down to examine the thawing soil. His voice was brimm"n g over with pride when he p ::Jinted out to me the large fox p :"iilt. "See? Rip never lies to. me," he chortled. "That fQX will be laying up near here fQr his daytime snooze." When we apprQacned a junipercovered hillside, its dome bare Qf snQW, the hQund started up the slope. He climbed several yards, then threw his head in the air wi th an investigating sniff and returning to the base of the hill went Qff Qn a new tack. This time he swung in to a sweeping circle. When we arrived at the scene we saw that the fQX tr.lcks were pressed deeply into. the snQW, starting up the grade, then backtracking to. the bQttQm Qf the hill. I'd made Qnly Qne hundred yaros when I came acrQSS a set of fQX tracks. They were a cQntinuatiQn Qf the chain we had already seen, and they told mQre Qf the stQry. After circling the base Qf the hill, the fox had mQved to. the top. The tracks vanished in a tangle Qf junipers ringing a big bQulder. Rip was mQving up the hill to":Jrds the rQck. He was right Qn the tracks. The scent apparently got strQnger as he apprQached the rock. He bQQmed Qut his PQwerful baritQne. The cry was still echQing when I sPQtted a quick mQvement Qn the bQulder. An Qrange ball unwound itself into. lengths of deep red, black, and white. A big fQX relred up Qn his hind quarters and pointed his face tQward the dog. He remained in that PQsitiQn until Ben appeared from behind the hill. Then the fQX slipped away. However, the startled creature that Rip had found showed no. indicatiQns Qf trying to fQil his line Qf scent. He led the hQund Qn J straight-away thrQugh a line Qf 36 Qaks between a swamp Qn Qne side and a hilly farm Qn the Qther. Certain that the fQX would SOQn swerve and head fQr Qne Qf these two avenues Qf escape, Ben and I waited for Rip's revealing cries. "My guess is that the tQX will go. to the hills," Ben predicted. "ThQse swamps are filled with puddles frQm the thawing snQw. MQst foxes are too. fussy to dirty themselves up." Five minutes after Ben had made his prediction, the hunt moved to the hills. Rip's baying broke the silence as he cleared the hill. We hustled over an old road, crossed a field, and found Qurselves in a pasture. We listened fQr Rip. The dQg's cries were faint and it was hard to. tell which way he was driving. We climbed a nearby hill. Not two. hundred yards away and coming tQward us, was the fQx. He was Qn a PQint Qf the hill next to. the Qne we had just mQunted and running evenly. Suddenly he sensed our presence and stQPped in his tracks. Rip was still Qn the Qther side Qf the hill but he was making steady prQgress. His cries became IQuder and clearer as he neared the summit and the fQX turned his head to listen. Then suddenly he wheeled into. his backtrack, ran abQut thirty yards and brQke Qff to. the left. "That fQX WQn't come back here Jg~lin," Ben guessed. "He'll mQst likely play it out in thQse hills back of the Campbell farm." Ben bit his lower lip thQughtfully as he studied the grQund a half mile to. the nQrth. It was grazing land made up Qf rQck-dQtted Qpen grQund with fQur hills. The highest Qf these was the Qne behind the farm. , ,You take the hill behind the and I'll cover the pass between those two hills," Ben ordered. I wanted to protest Ben's generosity in giving me the best stand but I knew that it would be useless. It took Rip nearly three hours to bring the fox our way. During that time I prayed that our quarry would elect to run the pass which Ben was covering because the old man loved the hunt so much. My hopes were not fulfilled for emerging from behind a clump of bushes came the fox. He was trotting but he looked very tired with his tongue hanging out and his t ail drooping. Every few seconds he looked over his shoulder in the direction of Rip. An idea popped into my mind. If I could frighten the fox he would probably turn and go toward Ben's stand. The fox trotted within a few yards of me . .1 yanked off my hat and started to wave it at him. Startled, the animal came to a complete stop and stared at me. Then I threw my hat so that it landed right in front of his nose. He ran off a few yards, then turned to look at me again. Just then Rip burst onto the scene. He took one look at the fox and lunged into a sight chase in Ben's direction. A few minutes later I heard a shot sing out and anxiously I ran in its direction. Ben was dancing around and acting in general like a kid on Christmas morning. Holding up the fox with one hand he invited me to inspect it; with the other he patted Rip and happily launched into a blow by blow description. I listened as though enthralled. The only time I felt uneasy was when Rip looked at me. It may h ~1Ve been only my imagination, but 1 swear that that wise old hound was winking. L 1l'111 In black nakedness She stood, Bare arms uplifted, Begging Spring to come and clothe Her bareness Wi th an emerald robe. -Maria Legg 31 She's always in the latest vogue! And do you know the reason why? Well, it's because she's clad anew At each house she chances by. I've often wished I knew just why Her charm can make men slaves. Please tell me your secret, Dame Gossip, How do you ply your trade? -Maria Legg The years drift by like autumn leaves, As they tumble down the ancient eaves. No time to turn your head, to seize, Or grasp the fading memones. What's p as t is goneout of sight, While the future gleams as a guiding light. -Carolyn Wiegele 32 BY JUDITH Everyone brings back things from visits in foreign countriessouvenirs, odd maladies, vivid memories of occasions, small restaurants with delicious foods, and most of all, of the people of that country. During a recent eight-week sojourn in Saltillo, Mexico, I m et some of the most real people that I have ever encountered: three year old Javier, the Spanish prototype of any little American boy h is age; Rita, our senora, who made us feel we had a second family all our own in Mexico; Yolanda, the tutora whose ancestors had helped found the town of Saltillo; Eduardo Mercado, the lawyer who was fast becoming a political figure in the state of Coahuila; and Roberto Medillin, a one-armed professional dancer who was the most graceful person I have ever seen dance. Javier was a bright little boy, who, at the wise old age of three, was helping his family turn our school Spanish into the real thing. He had few toys, was shy with us for a long time, but would come and sit in the door to our room for hours, just silently watching us. The only English word we managed to teach him was "Okay," but he would never say it when we wanted him to. About once a week he would come running in to our room, shout "Okay!" and race out again. When we left, Javier noticed his Mother crying, and comforted her with, "Don't worry, C. RAHE Mommy, they'll be back soon. They're just going downtown." Ri ta, our 4 feet 10 inches senora, made it impossib~e for us to be homesick. She merely made her family, consisting of six children, expand to include six more. We played games with the family, sang with them, took walks in the park, helped market, ran in and out all the rooms as they did, felt bad when one of the children was scolded, and met and talked frequently with all the neighbors. When we were sere33 These two serve to show how friendly all the Mexican people are. The section we lived in, a small town in the Sierra Madres, is practically barren, having little color, water, or landscaping. It almost seemed as if the people, having little in the way of luxuries or beautiful countryside, had determined to make it up to visitors by being as friendly as possible. Backed by the opinion of five others, I should say they definitely succeeded. naded, we ran to Rita's room to sit on the bed with her; when she had bad news, we all went to Mass with her and prayed for better times. She packed our picnic baskets with enough food for twenty, not six, and then felt bad when we didn't eat it all; she gave advice to the lovelorn when we couldn't understand the Mexican men and loaned us stoles to wear to dances. She still writes weekly to all six of us, wanting to know how her "children" are. BY BERNIE SHEEHAN something that I fear worse than death. Please, my God, don't let me be a coward. I've never had to face death before. If I were to run, I'd have to run right off the face of the earth. Please give me the strength to accept whatever might come." The aIr was cool as it whipped across the bow of the cruiser. The cold, w hi te moon shone down on the faces of the several hundred Marines sitting on A-deck. Some were talking quietly; some were cleaning their weapons; Danny Logan was praying. He stood at the railing looking out over the small expanse of ocean between the ship and the island. "". "Dear God in heaven, help me. Never have I felt as close to You as f do to!light. I kno~ that I don't deserve any favors. My life hasn't exactly been that of a saint, but please grant me this one petition. I am afraid of dying, but there is The air was cool, but Danny was sweating. He closed his eyes and slumped to his knees. With the coming of dawn the big guns started ,hammering the island. For hours they shelled the island until Danny didn't see how a thing could live. But he knew tQ.e y ~ere .there, waiting. 34 At 0800 they descended into landing crafts and headed for the beach. Danny was in the first wave. From the moment they hit the beach, they knew tha t this was going to be one of the costliest battles they had ever fought. Men were killed in droves. The Marines charged past the beach to the edge of the jungle. They dug in. A light mortar landed in the foxhole next to Danny. "Mack!" he screamed and made his way to the body of his dead buddy. He stared at the mass of blood and charred skin that used to be the face of his high school buddy. For one awful moment he looked. Then he buried his head in his arms; his body jerked with sobs. For what seemed an eternity he huddled there. Mean while, Navy W ildca ts zoomed in and knocked out most of the enemy shore batteries. The invading forces were able to advance. Danny was jarred back to reality bya hoarse yell. "Move out!" Automatically he clutched his rifle and obeyed the command. He moved like a robot, not thinking, not wanting to think. The enemy was retreating and Danny's platoon moved into the jungle. Progress was slow through the dense undergrowth and Danny's clothes were soaked with perspiration from the intense heat. Every other tree hid a sniper. A young Marine moving next to Dan got hit. "Corpsman! Corpsman!" A corpsman came and bent over the boy. He rose and shook his head. "Logan, get the lead out!" yelled a sergeant. Danny ran toward his platoon. 35 The sun was high now and the air was heavy with the stench of death. The bodies of the enemy were sprawled everywhere. "They sure left in a hurry," mused Dan, "they didn't even bury their dead." The company's advance was abruptly checked by a sudden burst of machine gun fire from up ahead. For two hours they were pinned down. The young gyrenes were picked off one by one. Sergeant Finch said, "Corporal Logan, I'm going to get that nest. If I don't make it, you're next in command. Here goes nothing." He took two steps and a fusillade of 30-30's riped into his stomach. "That could have been me," thought Danny. He shuddered. "But if we don't get it, it'll wipe out the whole platoon. Now it's up to me. God, give me the strength." He took off his pack and his shirt and laid them next to his rifle on the ground. Unfastening his ammo belt, he took a grenade from it. Whispering a final prayer, he darted in a semi-crouch till he was about twenty yards from the nest. He bit the pin from the hand grenade, took aim, and threw. In that same instant, pain tore across his chest. It seemed to be on fire. He pitched forward just as the grenade blew the machine-gun nest apart. Danny's prayer was answered. They buried him on a small grassy plain with all the other Marines who were killed on Iwo Jima. On his cross they carved the words, "Here lies Corporal Danny Logan, hero." Each heart is like a laughing silver bell, Its only task in life, that it must sing. A thousand merry notes it has to tell, A thousand wondrous things to make it ring. The ecstasy of birds in soaring flight, Blessed gift of friends who always understand, Star-studded mantle of 't he peaceful night, Far-off blue hills that brood o'er God's green land. The list is full of beauty and so long, And pain nor hurt can make the ringing cease. How gay, merry, light-hearted the song, For those whose bell is cast of molten peace. 'Twas God who gave the heart its melody And it must sing throughout eternity. -Joann Hazlewood 36 BY ANN DIENER Green and grotesque, the monstrous Sorcerer came upon the Swan Queen and the Prince as they danced beside the enchanted lake. Succumbing to the Sorcerer's evil spell, the Swan Queen turned once again into a crowned swan gliding over the wa ters. The Prince, heartbroken, fell to the ground in de- ' spair. Music swelled into a crescendo as the curtain dropped. Enchantmen t lingered; silence reigned. Then came the applause . . . loud, thunderous, almost deafening. Seven other Marianites and I clapped until out' hands were tingling and thoroughly red and our arms exhausted. We had just seen a part of our first ballet performance. We enjoyed it -it wa,s enchanting. Up to this time my knowledge of the artistry of ballet was limited. I knew that women in frothy skirts leaped about the stage on their tippy toes, and that men in silk tights picked the ballerinas up ever so often and swung them around. My attitude toward ballet was one of skepticism. It was out of my class. Too fancy. I was strictly a fox trot and mambo fan. After seeing the Balle Russe de Monte Carlo in Indianapolis this fall, I have changed my mind. When we decided to attend the ballet, it was as eight very cunous 37 and highly speculative onlookers. We considered it a brave venture on our part. "Swan Lake" impressed us, but by the last curtain fall we were genuinely spellbound. The color, lighting, scenery, costume, music-and most of all, the beauty of the dance itself-blended to create a grand illusion of a story told by graceful movements. Each story had an atmosphere of its own. Of the four ballets we saw, "Swan Lake" was mostly gloomy and sober; "The Blue Bird" was light, taken from the fairy tale "Sleeping Beauty"; "The Mikado," perhaps the favorite of the evening, was most cheerful; and "The Gaite Parisienne" was a grand climax of color and spirit, particularly when the girls danced the famous Can Can. Just what is ballet? Actually, according to definition, it is the scenic presentation of a dramatic or lyric theme in terms of dance and pantomime, accompanied by music." So what, you say? A good question! The answer is: ballet is composed of choreography, music, plot, settings, costumes, and the dance itself. a lively cafe of this carefree French city. The dance technique of the ballet is most important. The performer must create an illusion of effortless defiance of the laws of gravity. He must fairly float through space and yet manage to land gracefully. Movies and TV are our bes t This is difficult. Only a complex sources of actually seeing choreog- system of movement and muscular raphy at work. It is the designing control will achieve this perfect of space, setting patterns of move- p:>ise. Ballet dancing is highly spement, directing the dancers, and cialized and requires discipline and years of consistent training in proarranging the dance sequences. fessional schools. Music is a valuable aid to the Yet, watching the members of libretto. Several of the more poputhe Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, I lar classics were purposely com- had the notion it was so simple. posed for the ballet. T schaikowsky , Only after I tried to imitate some wrote the music to such selections of the ballet positions before a miras "Swan Lake," "Sleeping Beauty," ror did I realize just how c'umsy I and "The Nutcracker Suite." Gilwas. Most embarrassing! bert and Sullivan's "Mikado" is a Today most of the ballet stars pure delight when enacted through hail from Europe and other foreign ballet. lands. The so.lo dancers from the Often there is ' little plot to a Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo came from Russia, Persia, Argentina, ballet, but the more famous ballets are generally ta~en from folk and fairy tales and legends. Costumes and scenery are a part of the ballet's expressive medium. Bal!et Russe de Monte Carlo's settings were breathtaking in my opinion (I am easily impressed by size) and the costumes were like visions of fairyland. Somehow, the scenery and costumes were molded into the plot in such a manner as to sweep one into another world-the world being portrayed upon the stage. "The Mikado" took place in Japan and was oriental to the very barefooted wanderer. Paris was the locale of "Gaite Parisienne"; and indeed, the audience couldn't help feeling that they were looking into 38 England, the United States, and Poland. They resemblt: a small UN general assembly. Ah, the ballet! Out of my class? Too fancy? Heaven forbid, No. Those who sat about us ranged from socialites to army officers, from elderly grandparents to grade school children, from those who wore mink capes and diamond necklaces to those who had scraped together every last penny to buy the least expensive seat. Why were they there? Because they all had a common bond-an appreciation and love for the ballet. They felt its thrills and excitement, heard some of the world's greatest music, and saw with their own eyes men and women expressing God's precious gift of grace and rhythm. As we left the theater we heard various comments from the outgo- ing crowd. Some were critically evaluating the performers; others, the orchestrations. There was talk about the large backdrop curtain which momentarily refused to rise during "The Mikado" and hung precariously above the dancers' heads. The only complaint I heard wa.s from a woman who was sorry they served nothing but soft drinks during intermissions. We had seen the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, a company of international fame. It has established itself prominently in the eyes of those who know ballet. Yet, that meant not so much to me as the fact that I now had a better understanding of this art. I had experienced a most enriching and memorable three hours. Le ballet-c'est si bon! The years, the years, Where do they go? We don't seem to miss them; We never know Tha t time flies by on wings like air. Too late we stop to wonder As the years go by. Just what have we accomplished, You and I? It makes so much difference The things we do and say. So, look forward to to-morrow! Why dream of yesterday? -Phillis Willoughby 39 BY CAROLE MCCROCKLIN The sun pushed two lingering clouds apart and sprinkled sparkling dust over the wavetops on the wide, wide ocean. How he glowed with laughter as his light awoke the sleepy mermaids inhabiting the grey rocks of Castle Reef! They yawned and stretched, then dove into the waters to frolic and search for fresh blossoms or spiny seashells. All except two. Darka, the black haired beauty with purple scales (who was the child of the night and the sea), shielded her dark eyes from the glare as she arched into the shaded pool leading to the niche that was her special daytime retreat. Mur-mur had opened her eyes just as a sea-gull near her untucked his head and flexed his strong white WlllgS. .~~~o --=>- c::...~__ ):::1 . "Was it a terrible storm, seagull?" The other mermaids had all stared with wonder when Mur-mur first appeared at the rock. The waves had been very angry for a long time and the days had been as dark as nights when suddenly the ocean stilled and the sun shone fiercely. And then, a whisper of laughter startled them as they saw the newest mermaid. She was very tiny, with blueviolet eyes, and they reached toward her in delight as they saw dimples for the first time when she smiled. Instead of long hair, she had tight pinkish curls framing her round little face. The others had ~.- . 0 . "Thank you for the rest in your home," said the seagull. "I lost my way in the storm." >.-"o,,-,e_ _ -. .>-- 40 matching hair and scales, but the newest mermaid's slightest movement made her scales glitter with every hue. She was the child of the rainbow and the sea. Twila (child of the twilight and the sea), shook back her silvery blue hair and flicked her silver tail as she clapped her hands and cried, "Let us call her Mur-mur! She speaks with the voice of the least wavelet!" So it was that Mur-mur joined the mermaids who lived in the blue green ocean. While the others spent hours sunning themselves, combing long wavy hair, Mur-mur would gather all the tiny fishes she could find and lead them to the pool for fear they would be dashed to bits by the rough waves. The only humans who had come near Castle Reef had been in the ship whose black skeleton lay rolling in the sands at the foot of the rocks. Darka knew .all about it and would sometimes tell of the strange creatures who had held out their arms to her even as their ship was being dashed to pieces. She would talk of it when the winds were howling and spray covering her perch on the tip-top of the reef. Mur-mur didn't like storms so she never found out what the other beings were like. So, on this shiny morning she asked timidly, "Was it a terrible storm, sea-gull?" The sea-gull answered, "It was a bad time for ships. My brother and 1 usually fly out to meet them, but 1 am afraid there will be none to meet this day. 1 must go now, lest they will think 1 have perished." 41 As he rose in the air, Mur-mur dove far out into the water and swam easily along with him. "Tell me, sea-gull," she cried, "what are they like, the ones on the ships you meet?" "They are like you and they are not like you. But if you will follow me, 1 will lead you to where the strange beings are." "Oh, sea-gull," she cried, "1 cannot! Dayla has told me of the great nets and the trapping sands if one goes too close to the other world." The sea-gull either didn't hear or didn't pay attention as he increased his speed and cried, "Follow me!" So they wen t on, the bird sure of h:s direction and the little mermaid following with faith in his wisdom. Soon they came to a deep pool screened from the shore by jagged rocks. The sea-gull landed on one of these and said, "There are the ones from the other world." Mur-mur stared and stared at the figure so like herself standing upright like a stone image braced against the storm. At her side was a chubby little being scarcely able to stand. "What are they doing, sea-gull?" "They are looking for a ship, mermaiden. One of their brothers must be on one of the ships that was fighting the seas." Mur-mur covered her face. "I cannot look at them longer, seagull. 1 am not like me when 1 watch them. Oh, sea-gull, could we find their ship for them?" But the sea-gull had flown toward his brothers who were small specks in the distance. There was no one about-just the two beings standing quietly on the shore. Murmur dove deep to the ocean floor and, after searching, found a large pink conch shell. "I shall give you wings like a sailfish," she whispered. Gathering sea grasses, she wove a little sail to a stick of coral and pasted it to the conch with a bit of froth from the rocks. "Go, little ship, go to the one who waits on the sands for you." Bouncing with the waves, the little boat sailed straight to the little one who, holding tight to the big one's hand, reached to the edge of the water and picked it up. Tinkling bells of baby laughter came over the wa ter to the mermaid looking between the rocks, and she couldn't understand why it made her feel like cavorting jw,t as the silly porpoises do. The big being picked up the little one, ship and all, clasped them tight to her breast, and Mur-mur didn't understand the whispered words: "It's an omen! The sea is going to send him back home!" Then the little mermaid streaked back to her home, full of curious feelings. As she neared Castle Reef, she could hear the others singing. She swam slower and slower, knowing they would never believe her; but the wonder was still within her, so she made a little plan. Now the others all smile at Murmur after a storm as she gathers bits of driftwood and coral and shells to make the odd little boats that are launched with a whisper, "Go, little ship. Go to the one who waits on the sands for you." And the little ships sail down a rainbow path to the ones who need them. CViewpoint Herod cursed HimThe Usurper. The Wise Men sought HimTheir King. Prophets foretold HimThe Messiah. Shepherds adored HimTheir Lord. And Mary With love gazed at Him And whispered"My Son." -Emilie Murray 42 BY LARRY HAMMERSTEIN The wa ters were calm. The big ship, though heavily loaded, moved forward with seemingly little effort, almost quietly. The moon, when it was out, had cast a pale glow on the slightly rippling water. It was dark now, and it seemed so still. He stood on the bridge and worried a little. After a while a slight breeze floated past his face. It was only slight. He knew it would get stronger. Things were too quiet now. The calm before the storm. ::- Nancy Camilli took a sip of the coffee, savored its wilrmth and taste and set the cup and saucer on the coffee table. She must stay awake so that she could drive to the docks to get Dan. She always did even though it was sometimes a struggle not to fall asleep. Nancy loved her husband. She thought she must have from the first moment she'd seen him. He was quite handsome, she thought, and seemed very tall. His hair was dark and so were his eyes. She loved his smile, especially when he would look down at her and kid her about her Irish temper that went well with her red hair. of a freighter. The Traveler, she thought, was a good name for the ship. He'd been gone for two weeks. But he would be home for a long while now. Theirs was a comfortable little home, a bare thirty minutes' drive from the ocean. She would leave at 11: 2 5 to get there on time. The ship was due to dock at midnight and it was rarely late. A little before ten Nancy turned on the television for the ten o'clock news. Just two hours to wait, she thought, only two more hours. Her eyes closed slowly and she fell softly to sleep as the commercial ended and the announcer's voice began, "The Brooklyn Dodgers clinched the national league pennant today by beating the Pittsburgh Pirates 5 -1 at Ebbets field. You'll hear more about that on your News of Sports which follows this program. Hurricane Lorraine, which caused some damage along the Carolina coast, has moved further eastward and the U. S. Weather Bureau reports that she is no longer any threat in this area except perhaps to shipping. Elsewhere tonight ... " The screaming, howling wind screeched in at the S. S. Traveler from every direction. Huge, bounding waves of black water roared and pounded at the now tiny ship. The sea had become a thing alive, They had been married not quite a year. They had had a happy life, though she sometimes thought it hard to be married to the first rna te 43 a seething mass of evil whipped into a frenzy by a driving wind that wailed and cried and wanted only to force the ship into the eager waters. The Tra veler tossed and turned in agony, fighting valiantly th ~ s mortal enemy. Dan Camilli fought his way inside. He wiped his dripping forehead, trying to keep the water from his eyes. Johnny Kellam was at the helm. John had been a sailor for a long time. He wore a slightly strained, worried look on his f ace, but there was the suggestion of a smile at the corners of his mouth. That old gray head has probably been through a lot of storms, Dan thought. "Well, mister Camilli, looks like we're in for a bit of weather, huh." "Wouldn't be a bit surprised, mister Kellam, not a bit. Not the best sort of homecoming, is it?" The question went unanswered as the captain came in, apparently in somewhat of a hurry. Captain Aubrey Harris was 52 years old. He was not a tall man, but he had a look, when he wanted it, that could make him appear to be looking down at a man. 44 Now he wore a look of concern. Not anything approaching panic, but at least it showed concern. "How's the wheel, mister Kellam?" "Oh, she answers, sir, but she kind a w ants to argue about it." "All right, could be worse. Whew! Came up suddenly, huh, Dan?" "Well," Harris offered, "in about two more hours we could have been docked. Looks like this'll slow us up some. A t least in two more hours we ought to know how we stand with this thing. We'll either be safely out of it or up to our necks in ... " Two hours, thought Dan, could be an eternity of waiting. I guess he's right. We could still make shore in two hours. Or we might not live that long. "Dan, better help with this stuff. I wanna know how far we are from shore, how fast this storm's moving and what kind of time we're making." Dan Camilli was a good officer. He knew his job and did it well. His calculations were exacting and correct. This was the type of pressure he could easily take. But even while he worked the thoughts were pursuing each other rapidly across his brain. He had been in storms before and had no special fear of them. Yet, there was a fear there now, a sort of tingling sensation in some corner of his mind tha t told him something was wrong. It wasn't the storm; it was something else. "Dan, tell Sparks to stay in constant contact with the shore. We want 'em to know we're havin' a rough time. Make sure the Coast Guard knows where we are." Things were not good. Kellam was having to fight the wheel and it was beginning to be a question of who was going to win. Their condi tion was by no means hopeless, but it was critical. As long as the engine room responded, they would be able to ride it out. The storm itself could hardly get worse. Standing beside Captain Harris, t aking and giving orders, Dan felt they could make it all right. But yet again there was that fear. It made him feel a little sick though he could never remember being seasick in his life. Then something happened and he seemed to know the reason for his fear. "Captain Harris, something's wrong in the engine room," Dan said sharply. They didn ' t have full power now. Dan could feel it and so could Harris. There was a look of alarm on Kellam's face. The ship rolled heavily and moved sideways in the water. She was almost completely ou t of control. Harris moved to the intercom. \'Vho was down there, Dan thought. Chief engineer was Mart Whoeler. He was a good man when he wasn't drunk. There had been trouble with him before, but surely he hadn't decided to go on a binge now. Whoeler's top man was Tom Mulchahy. He was young but he knew his job and he was good at it. There must be some sort of a power failure. "Dan," it was the captain again, "get on the intercom to the radio shack. Tell 'em to radio Company that we've been hit by this thing. Tell 'em we're holding our own, but this isn't any picnic." Dan relayed the order to the radio shack and received an okay from the man at the radio. He felt that tingling sensation again. That tiny little fear that gave him an uneasy feeling. He guessed it was the storm, the screaming wind, the roll of the ship. This won't be as bad as back in '45, he thought. He'd been a quartermaster then on an LST. It was in April, after Okinawa. The fleet had been heading toward Shang-hai when it was hit by a typhoon. A bad one. The conditions became worse and worse. They'd been ordered to put on the life-vests and to stand by to abandon ship. As if anyone could have lived in that turmoil that was the sea. He'd been scared then, but there hadn't been this tingling fear that seemed to want to warn him of something. The Traveler was having a hard time now. First she would roll heavily, then quiver a little, and go in to another roll. 45 Harris was at the intercom. "I can't get an answer from down there. What's wrong with them!" Dan tried to keep his senses straight. Tony Mallette was down there too. He felt that tingling fear again. That must be it. Mallette was an odd crew member. He was more or less a religious fanatic. He hated Whoeler because of his drinking habits. Once almost in a rage he had said that anyone who drinks be~ongs in hell, and there's no room for him on God's earth. ('I'm going down," Dan said. "Hurry," Harris yelled, "we haven't got a chance without those engines." Outside it was a nightmare. The wind and water slashed at him and screamed in his ear that he wasn't going to make it. Tha t ~ingling fear increased and increased as he approached his destination and then, suddenly, was gone as -he opened the hatch to the engine room. The sight before him was not a pleasant one. To his left stood young . Mulchahy looking scared :md desperate. To his right at the door of an anteroom stood Mart Whoeler, a haughty sneer on his heavy face. Directly in front 0. him, standing before the main controls, was Mallette. He would have appeared almost noble except that in his left hand was a half empty bottle of whiskey and in his right he held a small black revolver. In about half a minute Tom Mulchahy barked out the story. "He went beserk, sir. Right before the storm hit. Mart was takin' a drink and Mallette grabbed the bottle out of his hand. He was actin' crazy. Soon's the storm hit, Mart an' me starts workin' the engines right and now he comes in with this gun and starts turnin' off the power." Mart Whoeler sneered, "It's okay, mister Camilli, he took me by surprise, but there ain't nothing to worry about. That gun ain't loaded. I took out the bullets myself. Just take it away from him." Whoeler made no. move to do so himself. Dan took a step forward. "C'mon Mallette, give me the gun. We've got to work those engines." "Stand back. There is one bullet in this gun and it shall be used if need be." His face had a wild look. "Mallette," yelled Dan, "don't play games. If those engines aren't runn ing right, we're going to sink." "That is for the best," the voice of the fanatic was high pitched. "We have lived too. long on this ship of evil. Let us sink beneath the waters and let them cleanse our sCluls. " He held the bottle higher and almost screamed. "You who do this evil and you who allow it must perish from God's earth." Dan lunged forward. "I have a bullet," screamed Malle tt e. His gun hand jerked twice and Dan heard two clicks. Then he knoc ked the gun aside and brought his fist into Mallette's face with a blo.w that sent him sprawling. Dan sensed rather than saw Mulchahy and Whoeler returning the engines to full power. ::- ::. ~:- Nancy .Camilli awoke with a start at 11: 30. She wondered if she 46 could make it to the docks in time. She made it with time to spare. She had been there for an hour now, praying as hard as she knew how. "Just a minute, honey. I have to leave something at the company office. I'll be right back." A tall dark man strode down the gangplank of The Traveler and came over to her. "Hello, Nancy." "Oh, Dan, I was so worried. I didn't get here till late, then they told me about the storm. But I guess there was no need to worry." "No, Nancy." He enfolded her in his arms a moment and then stepped back. He turned and walked away with his long firm stride. In his pocket he felt the cold metal of the revolver. He also felt the hard lead of the bullet. It had been in the gun. One more pull on the trigger and it would have been in his heart. Maybe later, he thought. Maybe later, he would tell her. There was no need to worry . . . not now. BY For the past several minutes he had walked up and down the sidewalk, hesitating in front of the wide gate, pausing for a second, then pacing past, a deep frown creasing his brow. Beyond the gate ran a heavily shaded gravel path stretching as it were into nothingness, until it was lost in the dense grove of maples surrounding the ancient building. It was a dreary scene, one to make any red-blooded man hesitate, and John was certainly no exception. As the moments passed, his pulse seemed to be beat- 47 ALICE HA YWOR TH mg a staccato, keeping pace with his feverish thoughts. Time was passing; there was little of it left. Too little, in fact, for John to ponder this question long. In the middle of a step, John's countenance took on a determined look. With one final glance at the friendly street he was leaving, he darted nervously up the gravel pathway. Heart pounding, knees knocking, John bra vely pushed the buzzer with clammy fingers. As he waited for an answer, he studied the nameplate above the bell-JOSEPH H. MORGAN, D.D.S. Some people have bats in their belfrey, Some people have squirrels in their garret, Some people have worms in their garden, But WE have bees in our bricks-I swear it! Last Sunday there came a great buzzing In the tree tops, then closer it came Till outside our dining room windows Zoomed a swarm of bees, led by a dame. They dived on the cat, they squeezed thru the screens, They hung from the trees in jelly-like clusters. We prayed, even sprayed, then called the police Who arrived in veiled hats and long white dusters. But the Queen Bee had found a likely abode 'Mong the chimney's mortarless bricks-think it's funny? Believe me, we have the only house in the city That can boast of hot and cold running honey! Now, what I'd like to know is thisWhen next the tax assessor's 'round, \'V'ill he be guided as of yore Or will he tax us by the pound? -John David Pletcher 48 BY JUDITH C. RAYE hill, a t times sans cardboard. Finesse and poise can make an action a fine art. There are several ways to bring finesse to sledding, but as yet the poise angle has escaped us. There are several ways to develop technique on a cardboard sled-for staid conservatives, there is the dignified, sitting-upright position, which does get you there, but we can't say too much for it. Another good position is the running-jump dive, commonly known as the belly-whopper. This is good for bruised knees and the back-ache (contracting them, that is). But the best, the most fun, the unequaled for thrills, chills (and spills), is the backwards position. On cardboard this is also the most hazardous. The only troubles involved are keeping the cardboard and the seat of your pants in a relatively close position to each other, or finding yourself in the delicate situation of flying down the hill backwards, waving to the cardboard, which bashfully stayed behind. Of course, the best way is on a regular sled. But at the wise old age of 21, who owns a sled, or if they did, who would ever admit it? ' However, there is something about a good snow that brings out the boots, earmuffs, Red Ryder gloves, the bobsled in me. The feeling for competition comes to the fore, and I can't wait to challenge some know-it-all eight-year-old to a sled race down the hill (so what if they do win?). This so-called sport of kings, among the dolls and model airplanes set, has no equal. It even gets me. I want to shout "A sled, a sled, my kingdom for a sled!" On this particular night, however, no sled was to be had, for a kingdom or anything else. We rejected some of our ideas to procure a makeshift one as too dangeroustaking trays is stealing and a sin, garbage can lids have bumpy handles which get in the way, and no slacks or jeans are made with that strong a seat in them! We finally compromised on large cardboard boxes, which after a few trial runs, became flat slabs of cardboard. Sledding on cardboard is a wonderful experience. Muscles which you haven't heard from for years will be calling to you for days afterwards; it is a better way to get so much closer (closer, closest) to nature; and all your friends will envy you the rest of the winter (once a season is enough). But next year, next year for certain, I am going to buy a sled! Sliding downhill on pieces of cardboard is a little-known art, but it is becoming more popular with people who are too poor to own a sled. Dozens of people stopped to stare enviously at us (at least I think it was enviously) as we went careening dangerously down the 49 The hands of a doctor deft and sure, Laboring always to soothe and cure, Comforting both the rich and poor, The healing hands of a doctor. The hands of a priest firm and kind, Helping the saint great sanctity find, Granting the sinner peace of mind, The sJCred hands of a priest. The hands of a mother, patient and good, Giving their strength as no others would, Showing their love as no others could, The perfect hmds of a mother. -Margaret Winsor 50 BOOK SH fb::t THE CROWN AND THE SHADOW Pamela Hill G. P. Putnam's Sons New York, 1955 $3.50 T he Crown and the Shadow is the second novel of a young authoress, Pamela Hill, and was also a fall selection of the Catholic Book Guild. The biography of Francoise de Aubigne, it is a historical novel set in 18th century France during the reign of Louis XIV. Historians have argued for many years over her exact status in the life of Louis. \'V'hile the question had never been settled exactly, her importance can never be disputed. riage to the crippled poet, Scarron, aids her in entering society. She enters the service of the king as governess for his children. Her confessor advises her to go to live in the palace that she may keep up her good influence on the king. During her many years' stay in the court, she is friend and confidant to Louis through thick and thin. Finally, when both are grown old, they are married and she becomes the Queen of France. This is a book that is not hard reading, but it is entertaining lighter reading; The gleam, glitter and intrigue of the French court will keep you at it until you read the very last page. The story begins with her childhood as a poor girl of noble birth. Her conversion to the Catholic faith is accomplished only after a long struggle with her inner self. Though of short duration, her mar- -Martha Pictor 51 IT ALL STARTED WITH COLUMBUS Richard Armour Charles Scribner's Sons New York, 1953 $2.75 I t All Started with Columbus is an unexpurgated, unabridged, and unlikely account of American history from Christopher Columbus' mistaken belief tha t he had reached India when actually he hadn't gotten as far as Indiana to the present day. This is humbly dedicated to all those who after pursuing one volume of history in school swore never to read another. lowers, the Knights of Columbus, he discovered America. After this, Columbus made several voyages, but try as he may he kept d iscovering America. He finally returned to Spain. He lived a short time in Madrid, but spent his days in Disgrace. Our country owes a great deal to its founding fathers. These were a group of parents who were determined that their children should have the advantages that they had been denied. One of these was schools, coveted by children ever since. That is why schools all over America are named for one or another of the founding fathers, viz., Thomas Jefferson High School, Alexander H amilton Grammar School and P. S. 127. Acknowledgement is also given to the Red Skins, the Red Coats, and the R ed Badge of Courage and the inventor of gun powder without whom our history would have sadly lacked bloodshed and would have made dull reading. This is the improbable inside view which brings to mind such unforgettable personages as Pansty de Lion, Bigamy Young, and Wild Bill Hiccup, along with such interesting items as the family tree (cherry, of course) of George \Vashington and the carrying off of the Washington Monument by Dolly Madison during the War of 1812. Brief excerpts follow: Andrew Jackson was a popular president. Soon after taking office, he rewarded all those who had cast more than one ballot for him by appointing them judges, generals, and garbage col- Before Columbus reached America he cried, "Ceylon! Ceylon!" because he wanted to see India. Accompanied by his devoted fol52 lectors. It was with relation to the latter that one of his friends made the famous remark, "To the victors belong the spoils." In addition, the author has added ingenious "tests" at the end of each chapter reviewing such important facts as "What would have happened at Bunker Hill if the British had been suffering from pink-eye." And for those of us who can't read, Campbell Grant has contributed seventy-two line drawings. Jackson is best remembered as the founder of the Jackson Day Dinner where plates are sold for as much as a hundred dollars and are still not supposed to be taken home. The author, Richard Armour, is a Jekyll and Hyde sort. As a Dr. Jekyll, he is a Harvard Ph. D., the author of a scholarly book, and a professor of English at Scripps College in California. As Mr. Hyde, he is one of America's most adept writers of light verse having had over seventy of his witty pieces published in everything from The New Yorker to The Saturday Evening Post. As he says, "I have two costumes: a cap and gown and 4 cap and bells." Howe was destined to succeed because as a young man he had lived in a garret. It came to him that if McCormick could make a machine that would reap, he should be able to make one that would sew. The only question was Howe, and he answered that for himself. Rockefeller made his money in oil, which he discovered at the bottom of wells. Oil was crude in those days, but so was Rockefeller. Now both are considered quite refined. -Anne Richason THE TONTINE Thomas B. Costain Doubleday & Co., Inc. Garden City, 1955 $5.95 Costain has come up with another sure winner in the historical novel field. This time he goes to the mercantilistic England of the nineteenth century to tell of the personal fortunes of a financial wizard, Samuel Carboy, and of his family, friends and enemies. The 53 theme is the Waterloo Tontine. A tontine is a combination of lottery and annuity; a person enters after paying a relatively small sum of money and after a period of twenty years the interest on all the money thus collected is divided among the contestants still living. When only a few still live, the yearly payments run into thousands of pounds. financial straits, because they have over-invested III Carboy stocks. Thus they come to depend upon the yearly payments of the tontine for living expenses. Finally, the three are the only survivors in the race and betting on the prospective winner becomes furious. The exci ting tale of the circumstances surrounding their deaths is interwoven with certain nefarious activities of the underworld. This represents just a sketchy outline of a highly involved tale. In this particular tontine, Isabelle, Carboy's daughter, Julian Grace, the son of his ousted business partner, and Nell Groody, his coachman's daughter, are among the many entered; but little do they realize that it will play an important part in their lives. The Tontil'~e is written in much the same style as are Costain's other books, although he takes two volumes to develop his plot. Of course, it is to be remembered that the series of events spans seventy-five years and the lives of many people other than those of the Graces, the Carboys, and the Groodys are portrayed. Could it be that the twovolume novel is becoming the fashion? Although Costain knows how to tell a good story, he gives only a superficial treatment to events of historical import. The novel is entertaining, well-integrated, and well worth reading. \\7hile Sam Carboy is building his vast and encompassing trade empire, Isabelle leads the life of a beautiful and haughty rich woman with her successive husbands. Nell Gro'o dy and Julian Grace also lead happy lives, and when old age moves in, Grace is a knight and Nell a kind and influential woman. But when the impossible happens and Carboy's trade empire goes broke, all find themselves in dire -Mary Byer 54 patrons Mr. and Mrs. F. J. Abrams Sallie Kinlichini Mr. and Mrs. A. A. Bissmeyer Mr. and Mrs. Philip Klein Mr. and Mrs. John Brell Mr. and Mrs. Carl B. Kuehr Mr. and Mrs. G. A. Busemeyer Mr. and Mrs. Perfecto V. Lagadon Mr. and Mrs. Joe Cox Mr. and Mrs. Robert C. Lamarre Mr. and Mrs. James Dalton Mr. and Mrs. Paul Larson Mr. and Mrs. Herman DeHart Mr. and Mrs. John Libs Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Delaney Dr. :llld Mrs. B. J. Diener H. J. Dunn J. Matthews Mr. and Mrs. A. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Mears Mr. and Mrs. Mr. and Mrs. L. H. Meisberger Mr. and Mrs. John M. Farrell Mr. and Mrs. George Neff Mr. and Mrs. H. B. Fields Mr. and Mrs. William Parrot Mr. and Mrs. Eugene Gibson Mr. and Mrs. Victor Mr. and Mrs. Ferd. Glaser Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Schuck Mrs. Coy M. Gray Mr. and Mrs. Mr. and Mrs. L. J. J. Roth J. P. Seraphine Mr. and Mrs. F. Strasburger Hammerstein Mr. and Mrs. M. E. Harmening Fran Stricker Mr. and Mrs. H. Hazlewood Mr. and Mrs. T. F. Stricker Mr. and Mrs. L. Hertel Mr. and Mrs. S. D. Stroud Mr. and Mrs. Marvin Hirn Mr. and Mrs. Alva Watson Miss Helen Howard Mr. and Mrs. Elmer Wiegele Mr. and Mrs. J. Mr. and Mrs. Morres Winsor L. James Mr. and Mrs. Earl Wiseman Mr. and Mrs. E. A. Kaelin Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Kerske 55 Business patrons FRED B. ALEXANDER Typesetter 111-115 S. Capitol, Me. 4-2206 D. A. BOHLEN & SON Architects &- Engineers 930 State Life Building CAPITOL GLASS CO. Glass of All Kinds 432 S. 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... PN bliO .C1M2 c5rCarian College Indianapolis, Indiana " . AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE VOLUME TWELVE II Marian College Indianapolis, Indi(ma . 1954 - 1955 P N ~ ) I () .~lM2 'J 12 : One of the most personable and loved people who has ever lived was St. Francis of Assisi. After his death a series of legends grew up around him. How much of the true they contain we shall never know but we owe much to the person who wrote them . down lest they be lost. This collection of fables is known as the FIORETTI or little flowers of St. Francis~ The modern day FIORETTI is as a garland of blossoms in honor of her whom St. Francis served as his queen and who is the immaculate patroness of Marian college. . Editor .JOAN HAZLEWOOD Assistant Editors EMILIE MURRAY MARGARET WINSOR MAUREEN FEENEY ANNE RICHASON Art MARY EVELYN MALONEY GERTRUDE MONTAG Business Managers LEE LIELAND REGIN A FEHINGLER MA.RY SCHWENDENMANN BER TON O'BR Y AN MICHAEL ROYCE 4 Contents Page Editorials ________ ___ __________________________________________________________ __ _________________________ 7,8 Choice ______ ______ _____________________________ __ ________ Mar gene Schuck, , 58 __________________ 9 The Quest _________________________ _____ __________ ___ __ Larry Hammerstein, '58 __ ___ ___ ____ 10 Folly ___ ______________ _______ _______________ __ ___________ __ Joseph Acker, , 58 ___________ ___________ 17 Another Son ______ _____ __ __ __________ __ ___ ____ ___ ____ _Steve Gerard, '58 ______________________ 18 Caryl! Hous elander ____________ ___ ________ _____ ___ Margene Schuck, , 58 __________________ 19 But For Our Follies__________ ______ __ ___ ________ __Mary Byer, '58-- -___ ______ ________ __ __ ____ 21 Christus _____________ ___ ______ ______________ ____ _____ __--ludy R ahe, '56 __________________________ 23 The Other Side 0/ the Moon __ ____ _____ _____ Emilie Murray, '57 __________________ 24 Daffodils For Our Lady ________________________ -loann Hazlewood, '56 _______ _______ 28 Preparation For Marriage ______________ ___ _____ Delores Riley, , 58 ______________________ 29 I'll Never ForgeL _____ ___ ____________ _____________ Anthony Vespo, , 58_____ _____ __ ______ 31 Token To Remember.. ____ __ _________ ____ _____ __Margaret Darnell, '58 ____ ____________ 32 Baffled __ __ ______________________________________________ _Bob Roth, '58 ______ __ ____________________ 33 The Beauty 0/ God's House _____ ___ ___ ______ Mary Bose ___________________ _________ ______ 34 The Crross 0/ Karma ________ __ ___ __ ___ ____ __ ___ __ Gordon Morey, , 58 ___ ______ ____ _______ 35 Ride the Tall Wind ______________________________ -ludy Rahe, , 56___________________ __ __ ___ 39 The Role 0/ Art In Education _________ ____ Mary Bose ____ ____________ ________________ 40 Smoke Gets In Your Imagination _________ Ph.'liP Schlund, , 56 _____ ____ ___________ 41 Just One 0/ Those Days ___________________ ___ _Bernard Sheehan, '58 ___ _______ __ ___ _ 42 Flight WesL _______________________________ __________ Steve Gerard, '58 ______________________ 43 Book Reviews I'll Cry Tom orrow ______________ ______________ , udy Rahe, , 56__________________________ The Story 0/ Thomas 51 More ___ __________ _Emilie Murray, '57 ____________________ 52 The White and th'e Gold ______ _____________ Martha Pic tor, , 5 6_____________ __ _____ 53 The Old Man and the Sea _________ _______ J">lYy!ou Siedling, '57 ________________ 54 Patrons ___________ _________ ________ ___ _______________ __ _____ ______ ______ __ _____ _____________ ___________ ____ 56 To the memory of Sister 111ary Kevin, O.S.F., Ph.D. , former president of Marian college, faculty advisor of the FIORETTI, and a beloved teacher, this volume is gratefully dedicated. 6 In the dawn of creation God walked upon the earth and, according to an old spiritual, His feet in their passing hollowed out the valleys and made the mountains. God created man and roamed with him the paths of paradise until the dark day when man exiled himself and lost his original close intimacy with God. the fellow who scratched your fender. He rules the world, but He is a forgotten King who never demands tribute, proclaiming His pres~nce only in gentle whispers. The loud noises of our lives clamor for attention, and we fail to hear or deliberately close our ears to His gentle pleading. So we become as Caryll Houselander's Young Man who Time passed, and the prophecy of salvation was fulfilled. The fields of earth knew again the step of God. The Creator lived among His creatures as one of them. When His task was acco~plished, Our Lord ascended to His Father. But it would have been a cruel thing to leave the human race orphans after once more filling them with hope. ... does not know, and in him the Holy Ghost is a poor little bird in a cage who never sings and never open.s his wings yet never, never desires to be gone away. And yet this age of ours is the age of the Holy Spirit. Ever since the first Pentecost Sunday the universe has come directly under His rule. On that day He came as the Soul of the Mystical Body of Christ. He was to be to us the Paraclete, the Comforter, a Divine Guest, the Bearer of Light, as a Holy Anointing, as a Poet and an Artist. With Him he brought His seven gifts and their twelve fruits. To the suffering He was to be the calm in the black storm that threatened to drown them in bitterness, their solace in the noonday heat. Every man could know Him as the Holy Guest, a Divine For ten days twelve men and a woman awaited the coming of the Third Person of the Sacred Trinity. When He came it was with a rush of wind and the appearance of fiery tongues. When He came He came to stay until time would end. None of us need ever look back wistfully to the time of Christ. God, the Holy Spirit, dwells intimately with us and within us, closer to us than our oldest friend, knowing us better than we shall ever know ourselves. The Paraclete lives in the soul of our roommate, the newsboy on the corner, 7 Friend with whom conversation flowed most easily, who never left him, waiting patiently until His creatures could find time for Him. Men who sought truth would find in the Holy Spirit and unflickering light. They would recognize as did St. Thomas that "All truth, whosoever speaks it, flows from the Holy Ghost." He would be the Artist to mold the poor clay of our being into a fitting shrine for His dwelling. He was a Poet, the same who inspired the Queen of Poets to sing her joyous Magnificat, to take our imperfect praises and compose of them a melodious hymn, pleasing to the ear of God. to the Church was that of life. Through Him, with Christ as our Head, we form the living organism of the Church. It is through the Holy Ghost that we call God "Father," and our neighbor "brother." Having loved Him within ourselves, we love the Holy Spirit in the souls of others. His seven gifts make us Christlike while the twelve fruits insure us a life blest with happiness in His service. N umbered among these gifts is one labeled peace. It is no coincidence that peace is symbolized as an olive branch borne in the beak of a Dove. It is through the Holy Spirit, who alone is the giver of peace, that we can ever hope to obtain that precious blessing. He is the Soul of the Mystical Body. His first gift on Pentecost -Joanne Hazlewood There is a new trend in the field of liberal arts today. Corporationshave announced their intention of encouraging financially the liberal arts colleges. Some companies have also inaugurated programs of study for their employees. This generosity towards the arts is not entirely a benevolent program. Employers of even the most specialized companies have realized the value of the graduate who has developed himself as a whole person rather than as a specialist in his field. content to be a specialist, he will now turn to the fine arts merely to enhance his opportunity for a position after graduation. The problem now is one of attitude. Given the financial support they lacked in the past, educators and students alike must work to keep a healthy attitude towards the liberal arts. A Christian concept of education becomes a necessity in this endeavor. Education must be primarily a development of the gifts bestowed upon the individual by God. It is an awesome thought to realize that God has given to one individual the ability to study the physical sciences, mathematics, biological sciences, m u sic, lan- Besides the obvious possibility of this plan, business controlling the centers of hi g her learning, the greatest danger is in the ' effect on the individual student. Heretofore 8 guages, history, art, literature, theology and philosophy. The opportunities are unlimited as given by God. Man limits himself, thwarts the concept of the whole man by deliberate neglect of the vast field of knowledge available to him. and leaving the rest of the stone cull and misshapen. Only by cutting and polishing each facet can the jewel refract rays of light, sending forth a myriad of color. Likewise our soul, if each facet of its intellectual potential is polished by learning, will radiate eternally the power, the glory, the wisdom of God. Becoming a specialist in one field and ignoring all others is analogous to a jeweler cutting and polishing a few facets of a stone -Emilie Murray Choice Fledgling in flight, wings unfolding, greets the virgin day Of an ancient world; Leaf buds burst with living cells warmed by dawn's first ray On limb of aged oak. Fresh breezes stirring, sway sapling, bend the reed, Move clouds unfurled, As restless earth rolling in its universe must heed Its course; yield to yoke Of God's divine law. Child in the Temple filled with wisdom, with free will, As youth and mortal man, To choose, to yield or to defy, submits to obey Because of love and not by plan. -Mar gene Schuck 9 Quest LARR Y HAMMERSTE IN owned part interest in a race track in Florida with Dr. Harwood. Also present was an old friend of the doctor's and mine, Robert Walker, a rather well-to-do lawyer from Jersey. The doctor introduced the three of us to a dark-skinned good looking man named Philip Sanchez. We started down the trail that day with some misgivings. Nothing had gone quite right from the beginning. Even that afternoon back in May when we had all met in Dr. Blanding Harwood's office in lower Manha ttan, there had been what was almost a bad omen. It had been raining all morning, not the usual spring shower, but a steady downpour. A bolt of lightning had filled the room with light and then plunged it into semidarkness by stopping the electricity. The map Bob Walker held in his hand had burst into flames. He quickly extinguished it, and only a corner of it was burned. The suadenness of what had happened had startled us all, though it was quickly forgotten; but it was the only time it had lightened all day. And then was told a story which h ls meant much to all of our lives. Philip Sanchez was a direct descendant to the ancient kings of a lost tribe of Incas, that inhabited the jungles of what is now Brazil. For centuries his family had not had a chance to reclaim what was theirs, but now through his new acquaintance, Dr. Harwood, Sanchez hoped to obtain enough financial support for an expedition to recover the crown jewels of the ancient kings of the Incas. He produced a map, yellowed with age, which apparently showed the site of an Inca palace lost in the dense tropical forests in the heart of Brazil. The palace, Sanchez told us, had been lost to civilization for hundreds of years, but his grandfather, right before he died, had given him this map and told him it had been passed down from generation to generation from the first king who had been forced to leave with the coming of the Portuguese. I held that map in my hand right now as we proceeded down the p :1 th that was barely discernible in the thick underbrush. As I noticed the charred corner of the frayed map, I remembered that episode was not the only unusual occurrence that had preceded this strange quest. The story began when, at the request of myoid friend, Dr. Harwood, I had gone to his office in New York on the fourteenth day of May. There I had met David Jackson, a recently retired army colonel whose father The Cl"DWn of the Incas, Philip told us, was fabulous. From his grandfather and father he had 10 learned that the original crown was of solid gold with rubystudded silver bars laced around it. A few years before the land had been taken by the Portuguese, a weird old priest named Aktutin was supposed to have added to the top of the crown the figure of a large black cat. The only big cats common to this part of the country, Philip told us, are jaguars, and they are not black. But Aktutin was supposed to have prayed to a big, mysterious black jaguar, which he had asked to destroy anyone who tried to take the crown of the Incas. But a few days before the coming of the Portuguese Aktutin himself had stolen the crown and was said to have been seen walking about the palace with the black cat on a leash looking for a place to hide the crown from the white man. We soon made the necessary 'plans for our trip into the jungles of the Amazon, a trip which we hoped would mean a fortune for us all. We agreed that no one would know the real purpose of our expedition, lest others try to take the treasure. The map was entrusted to me for safekeeping at my estate. Quickly we were to make ourselves ready to depart, and on the third day of June meet again in New York prepared for a hunting trip into the wilds of Brazil. That danger might lurk ahead we guessed, but to what extent, we did not realize until too late. The dark path we now walked in this hot, damp tangle of tropi,_c

... c:5'rCarian College Indianapolis, Indiana THE FIORETTI AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE VOL UME ELEVEN u Marian College L:dianapo/is, Indiana 1953-1954 G23a ;J I i) ,(!. -, fJ 1.-.- To MAR y IMMACULATE PATRONESS O F THE UNITED STATES this volume IS lovingly dedicated -. Marian Col lege Library Indianapoli s, [ <1. The Staff Editor JOANN HAZLEWOOD Associate Editor JUDY -RAHE Assistant Editors PAULINE SIEFERT MARTHA PICTOR EMILIE C. MURRAY MARY ANN FREY Art GERTRUDE MONTAG Business Managers THELMA RUNYAN ALBA MENEGHEL THERESE MCCARTHY HELEN LIELAND CAROL YN ZAPP 4 Contents Editorials __ __________ ___ ___ _____________ _____ ________ ___ ___ __ ___ _______________ __ __ __ __________ _________ _____ 7, 8 The Mystery of the Madonna _______________ -1ulia Abrams, ' 56______________________ 9 God's Masterpiece __ __ ____________ _______ _____ ______ Patricia Miller, '54 ____________________ 11 T he Rescue ____ _____ ___________________ ___ ___ __________ Margaret Winsor, ' 57 ___ ________ _____ 12 Sophisticated Lady ____ __ _____ ___ _____ ____ ___ __ ____ _Emilie C. Murray, '57 ________ ____ __ 15 Soul's Haven _______________ __ ___ _____ ____ _____ _______ Loretta Schoettle, '57 ________________ 17 Superstitions ---- ____ __________________ _____ ___________ Carole Tietz, ' 57 __________________ ____ 17 And They Lived Happily Ever After ___ Marilyn Strasburger, '57 __________ 19 The Mishawaka Hills __ __ _________________________ Armette Richards, '57 _____ ____ __ _____ 19 The H0111,e of the United Natio1'tS ___ ___ ___ Catherine Matthews, '57 __________ 22 Rachel ___ _______ _______ ____ ___ ________ _______ _________ ___ _Patricia Miller, ' 54 ____ __ ______________ 23 Miriam __________________ ____ ____ ____ __ __________ _____ ____ Miriam Kern, '55 ________________ ______ 24 Victol'ies ________________________________ __ __________ --__ .Joann Hazelwood, '56 ___ __ ____ _____ 25 The Metaphysical Poets and Mary ________ .Rachel West, '54 ____ __________________ 26 Kidnaped __ ________________ ____________________________ _Penny Kelly, '57 ______________________ 29 Mary's Chalnpion _____________________ __ __ _________ ]oann Hazelwood, '56 _______ __ _____ 31 The Seaso1'tS ____ ____________ ________ ___ _____ ____________ Rose mary Blume, '57 _____ ___________ 31 Th~ Narrow Path_ ____ __________ __ __ ___ ____ __ ______ Marilyn Strasburger, '57 __ ______ __ 32 The Art Gallery ________________ ____ ____ __ ___________ Emilie C. Murray, '57 ___ ___________ 32 H01j~ ec ol1~ing fOl' Herm ____ ___________ _________ .Eleanor L McCann, '57 _______ ___ 33 A Triolet _________ ___ __________ __ _____ ___ _____________ __ Pauline Siefert, '54 ____________________ 35 The E111,pire State Building- -------- -- ---------Mary Ann Busemeyer, '57 ________ Originality----- ---------- --------------- ------------- __ Margaret Winsor, '57 ________ ___ _____ Clntrch-Goers __ _______________ ______ ____ ____________ .M ary Ann Frey, '57 __________________ My Foster Mother ______ ____ ________ ___ _._________ __Loretta Schoettle, '57 ________________ If I W ere a Ghosl.. ____ _______ ____ ___ ___ _____ ______ Loretta Schoettle, '57 ____________ __ __ Who Did It? ___ ___ ____ _______ ____ ___ ___________ _____ __ Emilie C. Murray, '57 _______ _______ Our Lady's Hous e__ _______ ___ _____ ____ _____ ___ _____ Martha Pictor, '56 _____ ____ ___________ 36 36 38 39 40 41 43 Bool?. Reviews Mary Tudor _____________________________________ lulia Abrams, '56 __________ ____________ 45 Six O'clocl?. Mass _____________________________ .Charlene Hatherly, '56 ___________ _ 46 The Mouse Hunter ______ __ ____ ____ _________ _Emilie C. Murray, '57 ____ __ ____ ____ 47 The House That Nino Built ___ _____ __ __ Martha Pictor, '56 ________ _____ _____ __ 48 Patrons _____________ __ ________________________________ ___ ._____________________ ____ ___________________________ 49 The radiant crown of glory, with which the most pure brow of the Virgin Mother was encircled by God, seems to Us to shine more brilliantly, as We recall to mind the day, on which, one hundred years ago, Our Predecessor of happy memory Pius IX, surrounded by a vast retinue of Cardinals and Bishops, with infallible apostolic authority defined, pronounced and solemnly sanctioned "that the doctrine, which holds that the Most Blessed Virgin Mary at the first moment of her conception was, by singular gr"ce and privilege of the Omnipotent God, in virtue of the merits of Jesus Christ, Saviour of the Human race, preserved from all stain of original sin, is revealed by God, and therefore to be finnly and resolutely believed by all the faithful." (Ineffabilis Deus, Dec. 8, 1854.) POPE PIUS XII: Fulgens Corona September 8, 1953 \ 6 EDITORIALS It is customary throughout our land to choose a queen for almost every phase of life and industry. Each year a Miss America, a Cotton Queen~ Mothers and Grandmothers of the year are crowned. Selected for her talent, beauty, or for some service to mankiJ?d, the winning candidate is royally treated during her reign and the entire nation is made aware of her. Admirers form a kind of cult, imitating her and following her activities with great interest. No other woman in the world could merit as ably as Mary does the title of Woman of the Year, for 1954 commemorates the hundredth anniversary of the proclamation of the dogma of her Immaculate Conception. Surely Our Blessed Lady had the vote of every Catholic to be crowned Woman of the Year when our Holy Father dedica ted this year as the Marian Year. How does she compare with any other nominee? Of Our Lady it . can be truly said, "Thou art all fair, 0 Mary, and there is not a 7 stain in thee." Insofar as a creature can be perfect, God's Mother is perfection itself. It was the privilege of her Imma);ulate Conception that made her all beautiful while preparing her to be the Mother of God. Through the ages artists and poets have vied with each other to praise her beauty. For humanity she spoke her fiat on which depended the salvation of mankind. With that fiat she accepted the sorrows and joys that her mission of Co-Redemptrix would bring her. And in her role of Mediatrix of all Graces she has never failed to aid us by her powerful intercession. The Marian Year is an opportunity for us to become members of Mary's cuI t but, unlike the passing attention and admiration bestowed upon a Miss America or a Cotton Queen, our renewed consecration and devotion to our Heavenly Mother should be not only for a year but a lasting one, thus making every year a MARIAN YEAR. -Joann Hazlewood ' What are you reading-textbooks, the newspaper comics, and maybe an occasional story in an out-of-date magazine which happens to be lying around? If so, you are practically the typical college student. It is known, of course, tha t other books do exist, and someday, somewhere, each student will most certainly find the time to read them. In college, the stumbling block seems to be that there are so many books tha t we have to read. Faces are made when any "extra-extras" are even mentioned. Periodic lectures which are directed towards making students more book-conscious often send them away growling about the need for a forty hour day to get everything done. After a day of brain-exercise, something for one's physical powers is most certainly needed. When the much-needed exercise is completed, what then? "Aha," you say, "back to the textbooks." Wouldn't it be better to divert your mind first with different material? The newspaper isn't far away; that could be read occasionally and without too much damage to the brain cells. Most college students are known to fall woefully short on their knowledge of current events, especially if they have no subjects which call for knowledge gleaned from newspapers. Newspapers were not originally intended to be known to the col- legiate public only as the lining of bureau-drawers. Besides the comics and the advertisements, they contain the news (for which they get their name) and interesting feature stories about almost every phase of life. When merely the thought of a large book to wade through would appall us, the newspapers and magazines stand by as "quickies" to make us realize and to acquaint us with the fact of a world outside the college. After the ground is broken in starting "extra-extra" rea din g (gently, gently at first, then gradually increasing as enthusiasm mounts), we may even have the courage to attempt an entire book -not in one sitting, of course. A good book, spread lightly over a week of lessons, might easily prove a tasty icing for a textbook cake. A good book is one which interests you, whether it be "laughable, lovable, or learnable." It really isn't too hard to find either. A good book might be one connected with your line of study, or not. Its only requisite is its appeal to you. Once you have started on the path of "extra-extra" reading, however, you must remember to control yourself. The rediscovered joy of reading for reading's sake only must be tempered to fit the allotted time it can be given. For some students, this may mean only one book and one or two magazines a month; others may be able to do better. 8 Variety of reading will be a good tonic. Try that new thriller there's been so much talk about; how about that book that has everyone laughing, or even that classic you've always been wanting to read? So go ahead. Don't be afraid. THIS IS THE DAY. Be bravebudget some time for "extra-extra" reading. -Judy Rahe by If you have ever looked at paintings .of . the Madonna by the great artists of every nation through the ages, you might have thought to yourself : "She's beautiful, but she's not as I would picture the most beautiful woman ever created by God." Take, for example, the numerous Madonnas of that master painter Raphael. You look at them wi th the eyes of your century and your country and find not your concept of the Perfect Beauty but a woman of the late fifteenth century, a woman of Italian nationality, a woman of earthiness. Why is it that artists have failed to depict on canvas the perfection JULIA ABRAMS of the Mother of God? Even if artists have succeeded in portraying a composite woman, or one woman, who appears perfectly beautiful, it is that she appears so at first sight. A second look or rather a searching look will perceive something lacking-the perfection of the Immaculate Conception. It seems then tha t the key to the locked door of mystery is in the impossible-depicting the perfection of a soul never stained by sin; for if any soul could radiate its beauty, it would be the perfect soul of God's Mother. Difficult must it be for artists to find a representative of the physical beauty that 9 must have been Mary's, less difficult for them to find a composite repre:ientative, impossible for them to represent the spiritual perfection l:hat was hers. would always be painted. She would elude all artists, yet she would set all artists the inspiring task of everlasting aspiration ... Christ knew that if no man were sure of what Mary really looked like each man would paint her as the most beautiful representative of his nation or his people . . . Given a portrait of Mary as she really was, artists would copy it endlessly. Without such a portrait to restrain them, they would keep on representing her unchanging beauty in the changing beauty of their particular race and times." That perfection of womanhoodMary- is poetically personified by Father Lord as the "Eternal Feminine." As Christ was to be all things to all men, so too will Mary be all beauty to the artists of all races and all ages. Yet never will the great artists of any nation in any age paint MARY. The mystery of the Madonna? Not really mysterious, after all! In Our Lady in the Modern World, Father Daniel A. Lord, :;.J., offers another key to the mystery of the Madonna, a key that fits the lock perfectly, beautifully, and I!xpressively. He inserts the key by telling of a legend, according to which St. Luke himself painted a portrait of Mary during her lifetime. This Father Lord doubts, one of his reasons being that not even a master painter-let alone St. Luke -could possibly assemble line and I:olor to catch the heights and depths of Mary's beauty. His other l~eason, which turns the key easily :md impressively, is his belief that Christ would not have wanted His Mother's face caught and held on (:anvas. According to Father Lord, "Christ had a far wiser plan. She would never be painted, yet she 10 God's Masterpiece "Behold," God said, "My masterpiece. This is The fruit of My will, The skill of My hands, The epitome of My aesthetic mind . .Behold Mary!" The jury praises it; The critics admit its flawlessness; Men acknowledge its beauty And say it is the product of a great mind. Behold Mary! -Patricia Miller 11 by "We shall never break these iron bands that bind him," quavered a small figure dejectedly to his companion. "Would it not be better to leave him and escape through the hidden passageway than to stay anq be captured by the enemy?" "I did not thin~ you to be so cowardly," admonished the other, "or I would have chosen another to assist me to free our brave leader. Here he is, in a faint from his wounds, bound so tightly he can hardly move, and yet you wish to leave him to a"i:e certain death alone." . Shamed and abashed the fainthearted helper returned to the task that faced him. For hours, the two had been working to free the shackled figure on the stone floor but all to no avail. The firm b::tnds were only a little looser and now as night drew nigh the enemy's return loomed closer and closer. The huge chamber in which they labored was shrouded in shadow and onlv an occasional flash of lightning seen through a window high above them displayed the urgency with which they worked. In the ghostly half-light which surrounded them even inanimate objects seemed to come alive and mock the bold efforts they were witnessing. Besides this, the walls emitted a damp musty odor and huge spiders scur- 11ARGARET WINSOR ried around small pools of water that had seeped in from the soaked earth outside. In contrast to a loud boom of thunder which echoed suddenly throughout the room, a timid voice squeaked, "What if the enemy should come upon us now, we would never see them or hear them in time to-." "Oh, yes, we would hear them," broke in the more forceful of the two impatiently. "They are such clumsy, well-fed oafs that one of them makes more noise than twenty of our poor, hungry troops." With this brief outburst he started laboring again at the shackles of the prisoner, and heartened, the young one helped him. There was no sound except the filing of a sharp object on iron and the monotonous patter of rain on the ground outside. Suddenly the prone figure stirred and tried to raise himself. "Am I free, am I free?" he whispered hoarsely. And then seeing that he was still bound tightly he fell back to his former position with a muffled sigh. "Courage now, my lord, it will not be much longer," assured the confident voice of the knight. "It 1J1USt not be much longer," the aged captain replied desperately. "They will be back soon and-" "And they shall not find you 12 here, sire. Will they lad?" he Inquired of his trembling squire. The one to whom this was addressed appeared so engrossed in his work that he did not seem to hear the question and as it was more of a statement of fact the old one did not notice the absence of a reply. As they worked, their leader lay staring up into the darkness trying the thongs at intervals to see if they had yielded any but the result was always the same. As his weakened gaze stared absently at the black space above him, the old fellow's eyes saw some light-colored objects stirring restlessly in a breeze which was blowing softly through the window. "By my beard," he exclaimed in horror, "are those spirits which pass so freely above our heads or is it a trick of my poor eyes?" With one brief look, the little squire emitted a loud shriek of terror and ran to a far wall where he disappeared through a small opening into the secret tunnel. The knight calmly turned his gaze upward and searched for an explanation of this commotion. After a short examination he discovered there were indeed moving objects but they were simply cloths of various colors and sizes suspended from a long steel rod. These, stirred gently by the wind, in the dim light certainly appeared ghostly to the already nervous observers. Laughing with relief the knight explained what they were but a discussion ensued as to why they were placed there of all places. "Possibly they are just meant to enliven this dreary place," he sug':' gested. "To give prisoners like myself pleasure?" mused the captain. "No, I think not; more likely to distress us. What colors do they bear, good knight? No, come back-I pray you do not cease working to go and see. Time is short-but could they be banners?" "Banners, my lord?" "Yes, there have surely been other wretched captives here before me and each of them most surely had a banner or standard that showed his loyal ty to his lord. These heartless fiends, our enemies, probably took them and hung them up for the next one to see and mourn over, knowing his would be there too." "They are indeed cruel to do such a dastardly trick. Now I am glad that it is such a dreary day or else we, too, should have seen them plainly and known of their presence before this time." Just then a slight sound came from one dark corner and both froze with a sudden fear-the enemy! They waited for another movement, another sound, to indicate that the dreaded moment had come. Something crept slowly towards them, noiselessly, soundlessly. The knight prepared to defend his lord but before he could strike, a voice came out of the darkness, "Forgive me for running away but . I thought they were truly evil spirits. " And a flash of lightning revealed the little squire who came back to lend his help again. Before either of the other could give vent to his feelings a loud sound was heard above, then another, and another. The knight's 13 earlier prophecy had come true; tha t clamoring could be nothing but the "clumsy, well-fed enemy." "Help me, now, before the knaves come down and discover us," whispered the knight in alarm. Feverishly they toiled while the heavy steps thumped above them. With a violent effort the brave defender of the captain succeeded in breaking one of the bands. With a cry of gladness they pulled and tugged knowing it would take only a few minutes more and their leader would be entirely free. The little squire did not run away this time as he did before but worked courageously beside his idol, the knight, and between them the bands were becoming weaker and weaker until finally with a snap they broke in two. They were helping the captain slowly to his fe~t when, alas! he fainted again from loss of blood and as he fell his armour became helplessly entangled in one of the broken bands. . "He is caught again and this time tighter than before," moaned the squire. "We do not h:.we much time. Work quickly, my lad!" Again they patiently tried to liberate their leader but time had run out and footsteps approached the big door at the top of the stairs leading down to the captain's prison. 14 "We cannot leave him thus!" cried the knight. The door creaked open on rusty hinges and heavy footsteps started down the stairs. "We cannot free him, and to fight such monsters would be disastrous. There is nothing left for us but to flee," declared the squire. "You are right," reluctantly agreed the other. "Come, we shall watch from the hidden passageway. Perhaps we shall yet have an opportuni ty to free him." The two gray shadows scurried hastily to the secret tunnel and wa tched wi th horror as the enemy slowly descended the steps and came into view. There was only one and she was carrying a huge basket. Setting it down, she proceeded to take some clothes down from the washline. "Wish I could have hung them out today but that rain just wouldn't stop," she murmured to herself. She piled the washing neatly in the basket but suddenly she seemed to remember something and looked down at the floor. "Well, we sure caught a big one," she crowed. And after inspecting it more closely, remarked, "I told Jim we needed a new trap. Just look at that! If he hadn't caught his tail in this broken spring, that old mouse would h ave gotten away!" by Advertising has produced some startling effects on the American public not the least of which is the deadly desire to become sophisticated. Advertising, in its diverse forms, has succeeded in convincing the average American that knowing how to choose clothing, cosmetics, automobiles, homes, furnishings, entertainment, cigarettes, liqueurs and books is nothing less than a fine art. Education and general knowledge are of minor importance, while small talk and the proper arching of the eyebrows are major accomplishments. This tirade may lead you to believe that I have not been tempted by the lure of sophistication. Alas, dear reader, I wish that you were right. Led on by this false ambition, I almost wasted one precious day of my Easter vacation. My decision to become sophisticated was formulated on an otherwise uneventful day. Bristling with fervor, I attacked. First on my list of activities was housework. Not a very glamorous start but I reasoned that even my mundane chores could be handled more wisely and efficiently. Success was somewhat limited and my only consolation was the knowledge that my tasks were finished 15 minutes earlier than usual. My next endeavor was my appearance. Everyone knows that a true sophisticate can be identified EMILIE C. M URRA Y by a suave appearance. In attempting this feat, I had to ignore three vital items. My clothing might be described as collegiate or casual, which would be a kind way of stating that my wardrobe would not place me as a candidate in the "Best Dressed Woman of the Year" contest. More serious than the condition of my wardrobe is the customary appearance of my hair. Five minutes away from a comb and I have the look of one who has just been aroused from a troubled sleep. However, even these difficulties might be overlooked if the ability to wear glasses was not such a problem. To date, no one has decided if my nose is crooked or if one ear is placed higher than the other, but the fact remains that my glasses are ordinarily perched at an angle which mathematicians would no doubt describe as acute. In any case, acute certainly describes the gravity of the situation. In spite of these encumbrances, I managed to acquire an appearance that seemed fairly good to me, considering that this was my first day in my new role. Blithely, I set out for town. The polite glance from the postman and my four year old neighbor's inability to recognize me assured me tha t I had ani ved at my goal. Unfortunately, my stay was short. I had hardly strutted for half a block when the sunlight caused me 15 to think of picnics, hikes, and other such simple pleasures. Sternly, I reminded myself to muse about more elevated topics. Abruptly, the trolley screeched into my lofty thoughts. When boarding, the simple procedure of paying my fare nearly brought destruction to my composure. A trick of fate spilled the contents of my purse onto the floor. To appear dignified while scooping up items like lipstick and chewing gum on a moving vehicle can be dangerous. When the skirmish was over and I was seated, an investigation showed that I had sustained two wounds-a runner in my hose and a smudge on my gloves. By noon my shopping was completed and all was well. I had encountered no special difficulties in the stores, unless you count my brief imprisonment in a revolving d09r. But these rosy thoughts ended and my score zoomed downward when I dropped my packages at the foot of the escalator. Passers-by smiled indulgently while I grinned feebly . . Lunch enabled me to start for home with a reasonable amount of courage. Courage was certainly needed. My appearance was anything but tidy-my suit W:\'i rumpled, my gloves were smudged, my hose had lacy runs, and my hat was tipped at a precarious angle that allowed a rose to dangle before my eyes. By the time the trolley reached my corner, I was thoroughly worn out. I stumbled awkwardly off the car, totally discouraged. Who wanted to be sophisticated anyway? The violets in the rock garden didn't seem to care, the golden daffodils placidly enjoyed the sun, and scattered, truant dandelions didn't act disturbed because the world considered them to be weeds. Perhaps they were right. Contentedly, I sat on the glider, kicked off my high heels and relaxed. The yard across the street displayed a staunch row of scarlet tulips, that looked like Amy Lowell's soldiers, ready to defend their simple existence. From my own yard the scent of lilacs blew across to me and I smiled. 16 Soul's Haven A little room With a big meaning. Guilt, fear, sorrow Draw people to it. A man can sit in it All day ... And hear A million and one stories . Horrible, hopeful, sweet. Here secrets are told Which babbling tongues of humans Cannot betray. The only admissionThe admission of one's faults. "Ego te absolvo." -Loretta Schoettle 17 by CAROLE TIETZ stitions, born of ignorance and fear. Many of the superstitious beliefs and practices are yet in vogue among primitive tribes and still persist in the backward sections of civilized nations. Indeed, recent studies have shown that few even of the most highly educated men and women, are free of traces of superstition. Many of these appear, however, merely as survivals of childhood practices while others are retained as amusing playful fancies. Today people are not as much obsessed by superstition as were those of former times. However, there are still some persons who believe that innocuous beliefs, such as not returning borrowed salt, or thanking someone for potted plants and flowers, breaking a mirror or lighting three cigarettes on one rna tch will bring ill fortune. The term superstition, like religion, is a word of uncertain origin. The process by 'Yhich the Latin word, "superstitio," 1 i t era 11 y "standing over," acquired the sense of "awe" or "excessive devotion" is a matter of conjecture. It is a relic of the prehistoric ages, of the childhood thought and fancy of the race. As compared with the orderly conceptions of science about the world and human conduct, superstition accepts a strange, disorderly world of chance in which men must combat unknown forces with traditional rites and irrational charms. The practices of primitive superstition are usually directed to propitiation or control of mysterious and lawless powers. Due to the fact that many superstitions arise from efforts to explain phenomena and to adapt human activity to the explanation, a close relationship between superstition and science is observable. This fact is particularly evident in the connection between pseudo-science astrology and astronomy. Astrology mingles much true scientific observation with superstitious reasoning. Looking at the history of man it is evident that as science advances superstition recedes. While superstition may hold the human mind in bondage to blind magic and fear, science brings increasing freedom through comprehension and rational use of natural forces. In the early history of the human race is found a huge mass of super- 18 by The old man's eyes twinkled as he picked up the last large piece of tin and loaded it onto his truck. He would soon have this scrap metal delivered to the factory. When the metal reached the factory, it was reprocessed and came out onto an assembly line. Along this assembly line were huge cutters which cut the metal into different shapes and presses which impressed indentations and characteristic lines on the metal. Out of one sheet of metal was cut a tin soldier, who stood about a foot high. The little tin soldier was then sent to a man who gave him a shiny new coat of paint. The cherry red jacket contrasted sharply with the light .blue trousers and the large black plume on top of the blue hat fluttered softly as the cold, harsh wind whistled in through the half-open window. The little soldier was quite pleased with his new appearance. It was quite a change from the old piece of scrap metal. One bright wintry day about the first of December, the tin soldier was delivered to a toy shop. "Hello, Betsy," he said to the small, plump, baby doll, "what MARILYN STRASBURGER beautiful blonde hair you have." The store owner put him up on the shelf next to a huge teddy bear. The bear's soft fur was dark brown and out of his mouth hung a bright red felt tongue. "Grr. Don't take up so much room." ''I'm sorry, Teddy, I didn't mean to bother you. Maybe the owner will move me over after a while." Just then the little tin soldier lost his balance and toppled over. Teddy just sat there and laughed at him. "Grr. You can't even get up, you old tin soldier. Don't you wish that you could bend like I do?" The jack-in-the-box shook his finger at the naughty teddy bear and Betsy started crying. "Waa! He's hurt! I think the little tin soldier is hurt." Finally the owner came and picked up the soldier. He examined the soldier very carefully and made sure that he was in sound condition. Then the owner put him back upon the shelf next to the growling teddy bear. The jack-in-the-box climbed back into his box and closed the lid, and Betsy took her bottle and went to sleep. Teddy was very 19 jealous of the little tin soldier because he was so well liked by the other toys. One day about a week later a young woman walked briskly into the store and said that she was looking for a Christmas present for her little three year old son. She glanced around a t the toys and then her eyes fell upon the teddy bear and the little tin soldier. She stood there looking rather indecisive and then she lifted the teddy bear down from the shelf. After examining him carefully, she told the owner that she would take him. " Grr. I guess that shows you who is the best toy in the toy shop. I am going to have a wonderful home." "As much as I dislike Teddy," s:1id Betsy, "I hate to see him go. He could be nice when he wanted." "I'm not sorry," replied jack-inthe-box. "He was always causing so much trouble." Once again peace and harmony existed in the small toy shop. People were always wandering in and out of the shop, some to look at the toys and some just to get warm before they stepped out again into the bitter cold snow. On the Friday morning just a week before Christmas, an elderly gentleman with snow white hair wandered into the shop. He stopped short in front of the little tin soldier. "This would be perfect for my little grandson!" He took the tin soldier down and handed him to the owner who carefully wrapped him up. The little tin soldier was sad about le::!ving his frien ds. But m:lybe someday they would meet again. As he was being taken from the store, he winked a farewell to all the toys with whom he had become so familiar. Christmas morning arrived and Teddy was sitting under a large, beautiful tree. All of a sudden a small brown haired boy came bounding into the room. He grabbed the teddy bear and swung him in to the air. "Grr. Ouch!" screamed the teddy bear. "That hurt." Jimmy then tossed him aside and ran to open his other gifts. Teddy just lay there and moaned and groaned. He wondered if this was the way he was going to spend the rest of his life. In another part of the city in a small white bungalow, the little tin soldier stood erectly as a little blue eyed boy gazed upon him. Finally he reached down and gently picked up the tin soldier. "You got me exactly what I wanted, Grandpa!" exclaimed the little boy. "And look at the plume on his hat. I just love him." Gary opened his other packages, but he kept the tin soldier with him all the time. Gary liked his other toys but nothing compared with the little tin soldier. He sat at the table and even went to bed with Gary. Gary was very careful with his toy, for he wanted nothing to happen to his precious soldier. That is the way in which the two toys spent the following year. The teddy bear moaned and groaned all the time because he was so mistreated. The little tin soldier always wore a smile because he dearly loved his sweet little owner. Christmas would be here again in 20 two weeks and both toys found themselves being readied to be sent to an organization which would give them to some poor child. Teddy, ragged and torn from rough play and being left out in the rain, was happy to get away from Jimmy, and Jimmy was glad to get rid of that old toy. But Gary didn't want to give up his beloved tin soldier. "Mother, won't you please let me keep him? I love him so very much." "But Gary, don't you want to be kind to some poor little boy who doesn't have as much as you?" "Why can't we give away one of my other toys?" But Gary's mother went ahead and wrapped up the little tin soldier. Soon he was going to be leaving but he didn't want to go. The truck stopped in front of Jimmy's house and Jimmy came running out swinging the teddy bear. "Good-bye, you old teddy bear. ['m going to get a brand new one for Christmas this year." "Grr." The truck moved on and eventually carne to a stop in front of Gary's home. Gary walked slowly out of the house and gently placed the little tin f(lldier on top of the truck next to the bear. "Grr. I see you are being thrown away too." The little soldier said nothing but a small tear trickled down his tin cheek. "Wait!" cried Gary to the truck driver. He raced in to the house and slammed the door. Very quickly he came running back. Under his arm was a drum he had gotten for his birthday. He laid it on top of the truck and reached quickly for his little tin soldier. "I just can't give you away. I'll never let you go." "Grr." The truck started up again and was soon out of sight. We shall never know what happened to the teddy bear, but the little soldier stayed with Gary who loved him so much. They went back into the house, got out the jack-in-the-box, and started to play. You see, Gary had gotten jack-in-the-box for his birthday, but Gary didn't know that he and the little tin soldier were old friends. Jack-in-the-box and the little tin soldier winked knowingly at each other and settled down for a long happy life. 21 by The Mishawaka hills of northern Indiana, which begin a few blocks outside the Mishawaka city limits, add a mark of distinction to the southern entrance of this growing city. Ribbons of roads tie the hills together. Gazing from the top of one of these gigantic hills, one imagines that the city is cuddled in a small valley. As one looks down on the church steeples which tower above the houses, the hills seem ANNETTE RICHARDS even higher. Being able to see a whole city from one spot gives a thrill to one who truly appreciates God's vast works. The sight-seer isn't the only person who appreciates these colossal works of nature. The sloping hillsides provide wonderful opportunities for sledding and tobogganing in the winter season. The sides and tops of the hills also offer scenic locations for the homes of beauty-lovers. by From a distance, it looks like a glass box which has been upended, bu t as one draws nearer it grows in size un til it seems like a glass sheet reaching toward the sky. This fabulous building is the home of the United Nations. The engineering feat of making an apparently solid glass building gives it a striking outward appearance, but the inside is unique in its atmosphere of spaciousness. The beautiful mam CATHERINE MATTHEWS lobbies give a very pleasing effect of space, which is heightened by the color scheme. Every office has huge windows. Some of the offices overlook the East River and others First Street. On a bright sunny day the United Nations Building glistens. It stands like a shining symbol of hope to all the people of the world, who realize that it is the site of the most important discussions of our day. 22 I, Rachel, the mournful mother, Lament my wayward children. As a child I was a shepherdess Tending my father's sheep, For I was the daughter of Laban. And, I, whom you prefigured, I, too, am a Mother of Sorrow; I mourn my wayward children. Another shepherdess am I, Tending my Son's white flocks, Daughter of the Father, Mother of the Son, Bride of the Spirit, Mary is my name. -Patricia Miller 23 Miriam Dark-eyed Miriam watched over the basket And crooned a lullaby. The rushes sighed with her, and kind were the breezes Gently rocking the cradle of Moses, While Miriam stood by. An1:,"ls were wide-eyed with wonder, And ceased their Gloria's To hearken to Mary's soft song. The sweet Jewish maiden bent over the manger And sang to the Son of God. -Miriam Kem 24 Victories God clothed you in a beauty As lovely as the sun. Hail Judith, ne'er forgotten The battle you have won. The foe was conquered in his pride, Praise rang throughout the land. God saved His people once again, By thy woman's slender hand. One day upon a drear hilltop Another war was waged. Fearsome was the battle And the foe that was engaged. Sing, heart, of the woman Who stood beneath the tree. With her loved Son she shared The pains of Calvary. More fair than lily's glory And yet the demons fled. They feared this valiant woman Who crushed their leader's head. -Joann Hazlewood 25 :lke melapk,!dical poeld and mar,! by RACHEL WEST "How well her name an army doth present In whom the Lord 0{,host5 did pitch his tent." ("An ARMY gram" by George Herbert) MARY The love of the Mother of God has found expression in English poetry since that language first began to be used as an implement of Christianity. From the AngloSaxon of Cynewulf to the modern English of T. S. Eliot, English poets have found the Virgin a fit subject for 'their particular modes of song. This is no less true of the group of English lyricists of the early 17th century whom we call the metaphysical poets. With these poets the quality of all English religious poetry, never very low, reached a height not yet surpassed. The metaphysical poets were innovators, revolutionists in poetr.y. Not content with the artifices and courtly manner of the poetry of their day, they delighted in expressing the height of their own religious sentiment in straight-forward language, in novelties of expression and rhythm, and above all, in "the combining of dissimilar images, or . discovery of oq:ult resemblances in things apparently unlike." The poets of the group were an unusual lot themselves, numbering 26 in their ranks religious dissenters of the Puritan type, high Anglican priests, and a Roman Catholic convert. They shared an intense love of God and sincerity in expressing their own religious experiences. And, since religion was the primary theme of much of their poetry, it was natural that they should turn, time and again, to the Virgin and her perfections as a source of their inspiration. The recognized leader of the group is John Donne, (1 573 -16 31 ) . Born a Catholic, but ordained a priest in the English church, he is rated as one of the finest and most remarkable English poets. Despite the fact that it has been said that beauty was not his chief concern, and that his choice of words was often deliberately crude, his verse contains many of the truly beautiful lines of English poetry. An inveterate user of puns, extended figures, and striking comparisons, he sang of the Virgin as the early home of the Son of God. "Ere by the spheres time was crea ted, thou r J Wast in his mind-which is thy Son and Brother, Whom thou conceivest - concei ved; yea thou art now Thy Maker's Maker, and thy Father's Mother: Thou hast light,in dark, and shut in Ii ttle room Immensity, cloistered in thy dear womb." (" Ann uncia tion") After Donne had shown the way, the poets of England were not slow to adopt the metaphysical style. Though criticized severely for their conceits of style and their emphasis on the purely intellectual, they followed Donne in the choice of themes and in the use of strange puns _and contrasts. They turned away from the earlier-poetic forms, and they separated themselves from the controversy then raging in the English church -to turn inward, seeking religious peace in their own hearts. High on the list of the metaphysical poets stands George Herbert, (1593-1633), a rector of the English -church, whose piety won him the title of the "holy Mr. Herbert." His poetry is distinctive in its reflection of personal holiness. In one of the poems in his collection, The T emple, he addresses himself "To All the Angels and Saints," but especially " ... I would address My vows to thee most gladly,blessed Maid, And Mother of God, in my distress . . . " A disciple of Herbert, a Welshman and an Anglican, Henry Vaughan, (1622 - 1695), was a true metaphysical poet in his daring use 27 of figures of speech. Perhaps no better example of this characteristic can be found than "The Knot," in which he calls the Mother of God " . . . Love's knot . Whose beauty tied life to thy house, And brought us saving aid . Fol' coalescent by that band We are His body grown, Nourished with favours from His hand Whom for our Head we own. One of the last and most extreme of the metaphysical poets is Abraham Cowley, (1618-1667). Today he is more admired for his essays than for his poetry, little of which has endured. His portrait in poetry of the Annunciation is among his best. "With sober grace an heav'nly maid walks in, Her looks all fair; no sign of native sin Through her whole body writ; immod'rate grace Spoke things far more than human in her face . . ("The Annunciation," from Davideis, Book II) Last, but by no means least, of these few representatives of the 17th century metaphysical movemen t is Richard Crash aw, (16121649). Son of a Protestant clergyman, he was a con vert to Roman C ath6licism and at one time secretary to the cardinal-governor of Rome. Crashaw is distinguished as the most brilliant and unrestrained of the religious poets of his day. He, "the m ys tic of the flame," was in every sense a true metaphysical poet in his stress of the spiritual and in his complication of figures of speech. Known in his early days as "the chaplaine of the Virgine myld," the religious mystic showed his love for Mary in poetry of obscure beauty and great devotion. A most unusual poem written by him is "On the Blessed Virgin's Bashfulness": joyful Mother of a Divine Son, Crashaw turned more often to Mary in her role of Mother of Sorrows. Examples of this may be found in his "Sancta Maria Dolorurn" and "Quaerit Jesum Suum Maria." In the first, which he called "A Pathetical Descant Upon the Devout Plainsong of Stabat Mater Dolorosa," he speaks of the sorrows in detail. "0 mother turtle-dove! Sof t source of love! That these dry lids might borrow Something from thy full seas of sorrow! ... " The analogy of Our Lady and the dove, taken from Scriptural comparisons, is a favorite of Crashaw's Marian poetry. He uses it repeatedly in his hymn, "The Assumption." Frequently obscure, but always devout and ever sincere, these few metaphysical poets exhibited a love of Mary in poetry unique in their day and paralleled in English only by the early medieval Lady-lyric. "That on her lap she casts her humble eye, 'Tis the sweet pride of her humility. The fair star is well fixt, for where, 0 where Could she have fixt it on a fairer sphere? 'Tis heav'n, 'tis heav'n she sees, heaven's God there lies; She can see heaven, and ne'er lift up her eyes: This new guest to her eyes new laws hath given, 'Twas once look 'up, 'tis now look .' down to heaven." Unlike the others of the group, who were more inclined to praise Mary in her role of most pure and 28 by The slight figure of John Craten was hunched behind the wheel of the one-seated car. Fine lines were beginning to form around his half closed eyes in an effort to shut out the dust, whirling up from the side of the road. A chubby little girl sat next to him holding her two dimpled hands over her sky blue eyes in an effort to outsmart the dust. The dusky twilight layover the countryside as the open red car sped down the lonely road. In the lengthening shadows of the trees, the road ahead was obscure to Crateri who nevertheless p'l unged relentlessly forward. Suddenly, directly ahead loomed a gigantic tree. He swerved to the right in an effort to miss the head-oncollision that seemed inevitable. In another second they were on the gravel at the side of the road. Large tear drops began to fall from little Mary Jane's eyes. She pulled her pink sweater closely around her while the bottom lip of her rosebud mouth began to creep up until at last it was in a definite pucker. She could no longer restrain herself. Her tearful sobs jerked her little body as she looked about at the darkness of the trees and the loneliness of the road. "Oh, John, please let's go home now. I'm so scared." John Cra ten threw the child an PENNY KELLY impatient glance and a sneer began to form at the side of his mouth. "Sorry, kid, but you're not going home for some time. At least not until your old man forks over the ransom." Mary Jane's tears were beginning to disappear but she carried a quizzical look on her rosy face as she sat studying Craten. "John, why are you being so mean. Don't you love me anymore. You always say you do. John, what does that word mean-ransom?" He pulled the peaked hat down over his right eye with a determined gesture; then toyed with the idea of the purpose of this journey. He looked about him nervously. Slugger should have been here by this time. Slugger Moran was Craten's partner and pal in this and many other ventures. Slugger had all the details worked out and John wasn't sure whether telling Mary Jane her role in it was included. He took another side glance at the scared little face and his decision was made. "Look here, Mary Jane, don't be afraid. Nothing's going to happen to you. You might as well know though, that I've been living in your home under false identity and right now my buddy, Slugger, ' and I are a little short of cash. That's where the ransom fits in. Your old man has a million and you're worth 29 a good ten grand to him." "Millions of what, John?" He was really getting worried now. An ominous dark cloud hung directly overhead. Slugger was over a half hour late and the night was closing in rapidly. The boss had said he had to be back at the hideout by sevc:n o'clock. Mary Jane began to whimper ;;. bout being cold and even John had to admit that sitting in a convertible during a storm wasn't an ideal place to be. With that"thought in mind he started the car and headed for the hideout. From then on it was a race between John Craten and the cloud that was rumbling in the sky. The big boss wouldn't like it if he brought the little girl back to the hideout soaking wet from the rain. Determinately he drove on. Mary Jane was looking more contented now. She pushed a chubby fist up to her mouth to smother a yawn. Any moment the rain would start but John didn't care now, he was almost there. He could see the picket fence surrounding the little house that served as the hideout. As he drove the little red car up the driveway, he could see the boss standing in the front window wearing an extremely anxious expression. Then the figure disappeared and in a moment reappeared at the door. "Johnny Craten, your father and I have been worried to death about you. He was just going to start down the road looking for you." "But, Mother, it's only seven o'clock now and you said Mary Jane and I could play outdoors un til seven." "All right, I guess I did but it's going to rain soon. You should have sense enough to bring your little sister home early. Mary Jane, honey, come in the house wi th mother while your brother puts his fire engine away. By the way, Johnny, Slugger's mother called just after you left and said that he wouldn't be able to play with you tonight. Poor little Slugger, he's got the measles." With that, John pulled his HopA-Long Cassidy cap down over his right eye, and drove the red car on into the garage. Poor Slugger-Oh well, he and Mary Jane had fun playing alone. 30 by John Duns Scotus was one of the great doctors of the Church, who dedica ted his life to the defense and explanation of the privileges of the Immaculate Conception. His thesis on this prerogative of Our Lady was first given at Oxford where he received the title Doctor JOANN HAZLEWOOD their side of the argument. He refuted with such clearness the arguments of some two hundred theologians who rose to dispute with him that he was applauded by the entire assembly. The University of Paris conferred on him the title of Doctor Subtilis and thereafter ordered the doctrine to be taught in the classrooms. Scotus based his argument for the Immaculate Conception on four words: Potuit, decuit, ergo fecit. "God was able to preserve Mary from original sin; it was fitting that He do it; therefore, He did it. " Marianus. He was later sent to Paris where there was much controversy concerning the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception. There a public debate was held in the presence of two Papal Legates sent by Pope Celestine. Duns Scotus was chosen by the Franciscans to defend Th~ S~asons Quadruplets named "The Four Seasons" Glide quickly from June to May, Till what was once twelve months from now Has fast become today. -Rosemary Blume 31 by As I was riding through the bustling streets of Washington, D. c., the bus drew slowly to the curb, and my eyes suddenly fell upon the most breathtaking monument I have ever seen. I felt like an ant gazing at a slender, straight pine tree. Each year the millions of people who visit the world famous Washington Memorial experience that unusual feeling. At a distance, the monument takes the shape of a tall, slim splinter. As I approached, it became clearer and I could see that the MARILYN STRASBURGER huge base tapered off to a peak. The monumental obelisk is 555 feet high. From the top of the obelisk, the sparkling white Capitol building appears to be a doll house, the Federal Bureau of Investigation buildings seem like rows of match boxes, and the Lincoln Memorial like a striped hat box. The Washington Monument is an inspiring memorial to a truly great man. To me, this memorial symbolizes the straight, narrow road one must climb in order to achieve great things. The Art Gallery Life's gallery is hung with pictures: I find a portrait in every face that passes mine, And landscapes stretch out endlessly. There are pastels in childhood's laughing eyes, \Vhile trees are silhouettes in the sunset glow. Madonnas are seen on every mother's face. I need no galleries of stone. Behold, life, a gallery of art. -Emilie C. Murray 32 fiomecoming ::J-or fierm by ELEANOR L. MCCANN man, barely old enough to be called man, writhed on his back. High over the suffering figure's head hung a bottle of plasma. The life giving fluid oozed slowly into his right arm. Bloody bandages swathed his abdomen; his legs ended abruptly below the knees. With great effort the youth was trying to talk while stiffly groping with his left hand for something around his neck. "Whatcha want?," the sergeant asked in his heavy Brooklyn accent. He then slipped off the wounded lad's neck a heavy black bead rosary and placed it in his hand. "Don't ya worry, soldier, you'll be O.K.," he said. After adjusting the plastic tubing the sergeant moved to the man across the aisle. Still half mumbling, half groaning the soldier clutched the rosary. He tried to pray. These were the beads his mother gave him the day he left. Just then a surge of red hot pain swept over him leaving the lad in a gray mist. Somehow through the mist he saw his family the day he departed. High in the blue ceiling of the 'earth the late spring-sun shone down in the little town. A t the red roofed station a crowd had collected to bid farewell to sons, sweethearts, and husbands while the school band lustily played a march. Outside, the pure white winter snow seemed incongruous with the large, black weapons of war. The year was 1945; the place, the Ardennes Forest; the encounter, the Ba ttle of the Bulge. Inside, the hastily constructed first aid station smelled of blood, sweat, and antiseptics. Groaning men filled the cots and overflowed onto the floor. Sweat-drenched medics ministered to G. I. after G. I.; yet ~ore came. It was like a never ending stream; one could not remember the beginning, nor hope to see the end. 'The roaring of the not too distant cannons and mortars easily drowned the grinding of the gears of the ambulances as one after another halted outside the hospital. Each incoming injured G.I. was given preliminary treatment-plasma against shock, sulfa drugs against infection, and, if necessity demanded, surgery. After this, jeeps moved the wounded back to the main U. S. hopsital. Many never lived to get that far. About 3 P. M. the influx became greater. Sergeant Kingston had completed giving a shrapnel victim a transfusion when Corporal Shaw asked him to "take a look at the guy in the corner." Wearily the sergeant made his way between rows of cots and over stretchers to the corner. A young :l 33 His family gathered close to him, shouting to one another in order to be heard over all the noise. Karl and Marie, the twins, bobbed up and down with excitement; in their young lives they had never seen such a sight. Mama held his hand tightly while she blinked back the tears. Not knowing quite what to say, Papa just stood near him and looked straight ahead. The whistle blew shrilly, cutting \ he cool morning air like a knife. He said goodbye to the twins once more, gravely shook hands with his father, and then hugged his mother tightly. As he drew back his mother h:mded him a small black purse. "Here, Herm, is your grandfather's rosary. ~f you say it daily I know your heavenly Mother will take care of you for me." Herm then swung aboard the train as it pulled out of the station. As it roared away ' his family faded into the distance. The roar of the cannons intensified as the gray mist faded with Herm's memories. He was back in the aid station. Suppressing a groan the lad clutched his beads and breathed, "Mary help me." There was noise all around him; he tried in vain to remember what had happened to him. All he could think of was the noise and the pain. Air, heavy with sickening odors, pressed down upon him. He gasped for air but groaned instead. Corporal Shaw hastened to him and moistened his lips with cool, damp gauze. Herm attempted to express his gratitude but could not. Even his pain-filled eyes were incapable of expressing any emotion. Once again the gray mist engulfed and transported him to the rolling hills of his home. Herm saw the town where his father was a shoe merchant. "Some day I will be his partner," he thought. Then he saw Anna. She was exquisite. Her small figure, blond hair, sprightly face, and eyes which danced constantly were in sharp contrast with his tall figure, dark hair, and serious countenance. Again he thought of the future, "Some day we will be married." Abruptly his dream was ended by the scream of a delirious soldier at the far side of the building. "My Jesus Mercy," Herm repeated over and over again. Suddenly the pain became too great and he groaned loudly. Everything grew hazy. The face of the sergeant bending over him blurred sideways and then disappeared. "Call da Padre," yelled Sergeant Kingston. Soon the t all, middle-aged chaplain was standing at Herm's bedside. Solemnly he gave the dying soldier absolution. Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine. Et lux perpetua luceat ei," breathed the minister of God. The priest searched Herm's "dog tags." On one identification tag was stamped Herman Otto Kranz 147 Rosenstrasse Erding, Bayern Deutschland Looking down upon the dead lad's face, now smooth with peace, the startled priest realized this was not an American bu t a German. 34 filled shack he mused: Yes, he died among his enemies and with his enemies, but it made no difference. When the last moment came, Mary, the Mother of all men, took care of him and all the others. They are all her sons. Then the priest removed the rosary from the limp hand. "When the war is over," thought Father Dougherty, "I will send this rosary to his family and tell them how he died." Then looking around the pain- A Triolet National Anthology of College Poetry, 1953-54. Soldier trodding o'er the land, Will war bring you new fate? Our prayers will be your guiding hand, Soldier trodding o'er the land. Your weary head may rest on sand, Your gun may be your only mate. Soldier trodding o'er the land, Will war bring you new fate? -Pauline Siefert 35 by In the center of activity in Manhattan, amidst other massive structures, the Empire State Building stands as a giant queen, her head and shoulders towering In the 'clouds. A t her feet, the world passes by -the hurrying pedestrians, the gawking tourists, loudly honking cars, and taxicabs weaving precariously in and out of traffic. Airplanes bU7z around her head, carefully keeping their distance. TV signals are transmitted from her tower, the tallest in the world, to stations of much lesser size. On reaching the top, via a racing elevator, the tourist steps out into the . thrilling, but frightening, experience of looking down on a MARY ANN BUSEMEYER midget world. Far below him, the people and cars, their identity almost lost, seem like ants crawling along. Looking out from his high perch, the visitor has a bird's-eye view of Manha ttan and the surrounding white-capped ocean. When dusk falls, the lights of the big city are turned on and they begin to glitter like brilliant fireflies. On looking out into the now black ocean, one sees the occasional sparkle of the lights of a passing ship. After descending, and once again standing on the street, the tourist feels more aware of the might of man and the greater might of God. by Today I want to be original in a monumental everlasting way. It's like I told my boy friend this morning-I'd rather do something once that could actually be attributed to my own initiative. He just laughed and said that such an MARGARET WINSOR endeavor should not be hard for me, and now he is gone off somewhere birdwatching. I get so disgusted with him; all he ever does is eat, sleep, and study nature and as for having an imaginationwell, he could not even qualify as 36 a toothpick designer. Anyway to get back to the subject of creating something myself, this idea is not as proud or selfish as you may think. Actually if it were truly original there would be so much of me in this work that others would know that it was I who originated it. That is only incidental though. The main thing is giving something of myself to the world for its use, something practical, different, lasting. . An older, much more intellectual friend of mine, who understands me much better than my boy friend, tells me that I should not be too eager to begin with something so overwhelming. He urges me to try to recall some of my inspira tions and then share them with him so that he can help me develop them. But I would rather do this myself without anyone's help. To me it would matter very little whether or not the idea would bea clever one. Originality is what counts. When one wants to be the first to do a thing he cannot look at the works of others for inspiration. But how can he get any new ideas? Oh, I know. There are so many wonderful things ' around me and they all seem to show the intelligence, beauty, or humor in the one who thought of them. But what qualities do I have? It seems that some seeds of thought took many years to ripen into fruitful ideas. If that is the case, I am too impatient in expecting results today or even next week. Some day though I will think of something despite my boy friend's scoffing. (If I could find someone else around here besides nature boy I would introduce myself in an instant.) Even my wise friend with his well-meaning advice hinders my progress. But ambition will conquer every obstacle and eventually my blossoming originality will be recognized by all. Eve Composition for Class Affairs In World School of Eden Day before the Fall, 4000 B.C. Grades received: Eve-B (She was teacher's pet) Adam-C (He copied) Serpent-A (He graded the papers) Angels-Incomplete (Excessive absences) 37 by The last place that should be used for observation of human nature is a church. It is a place for worship and for talking to God. .Nevertheless, without even trying to observe, one can notice some revealing things about people. Consider a person's genuflection. I know a Sister who makes a perfect prayer of her genuflection. With faultless posture and grace, she makes her descent on one knee in a single fluid motion in adoration of Jesus, present in the Blessed Sacrament. Her ascent to her feet is effortless. After .seeing her genuflection, I'm ashamed of my own hurried gesture. I slide down to one knee, wobble back to my feet and go into the pew as if I'm being timed by an efficiency expert. There are some young able-bodied athletes who on the football field show their zest and enthusiasm "beyond the call of duty" but genuflect as if their legs ' were broken in three places. Much has been written and said about the manner of making the Sign of the Cross. The classic examples are the comparisons of this acknowledgment of the three persons of the Blessed Trinity to the chasing away of flies or the brushing of dust from one's coat. One can gain great merit by using this sacramental properly but, unfortunately, for many of us it is MARyANN FREY practically a reflex action that requires little thought. A person's posture in church is an indication of his attention and devotion. When I was in grade school, we were drilled in correct church-posture and in the proper times to stand, kneel, or sit during Mass. We were told when going from a seated position to a kneeling position to stand before we kneel. Sliding from the seat to the kneeler, however, was much easier. When I think of it now, it reminds me of a seal sliding from the bank of a river into the water. At Sunday's early Mass, it is easy to tell who stayed out late Saturday night. The slumped position is the give-away. Sunday is a day of rest, but rest should not begin by comPletely relaxing at Mass. The sermon is often given as much attention as the TV commercial. Experienced TV watchers possess a mental switch by which they conveniently shut off a dull commercial. Some parishioners use the same means when the priest begins the sermon. They may even choose this time to fit in their daily rosary. Then there are the late-comers and the early-Ieavers. The late-comers hate to walk to the front of the church where the empty pews are, but crowd into the already filled back pews, making themselves and everyone conrerned uncomfortable. 38 Not too unexpected is the fact that the late-comers are usually the early-Ieavers. Some very hurried people have urgent appointments that force them to leave as soon as the tabernacle is closed after Holy Communion. Others find it necessary to rush away as soon as they have received the final blessing. These are the people who would not dream of leaving the theater before My the very end of the last act. Violations of the rules of churchetiquette are due probably more to thoughtlessness than to disrespect. But if we are so much concerned about the observance of good manners at public gatherings why would we not have the same concern about our conduct when we are in church in the presence of our Eucharistic King? fost~r Moth~r Tpere have been times that I've seen her cry Bitter tears, when I've taken a wrong path. There have been times when I've heard her sigh In moments when I've flung out my wrath. I've caused her many a sorrow I know, But I'm glad she took me as her own. Dear God, I wish that to her I could show The love which is owed to mothers alone. -Loretta Schoetlli 39 by LORETTA SCHOETTLE Passing through walls fascinates me to no end. Imagine being able to enter any room I please without formal admittance. Of course, if I wanted to be seen, I could shake myself and, behold! I would be solid. My friends would not detect that I was not a real person. With a mischievous mind I would have more fun than a barrel of monkeys. I might go to London and en ter the palace unseen to watch a Queen's daily routine. Naturally I wouldn't scare the Queen with my pranks, at least not much. While in "my invisible state, r "might wear the royal crown up and down the marble stairs and rouse a little excitement. With a little curtsy I would acknowledge the Queen's presence. Maybe I would go to Rome and stand beside Mark Anthony's statue and in as deep a voice as I could manage recite his famous speech to the frightened people: "Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears." What fun! What about becoming an unseen opera singer at the Met. I might be able to find the lost key in "La Boheme" and lift it before the eyes of the audience while Mimi and Rudolph are still searching for ita comic opera in three acts. To Spain, the land of bullfights, I would go, to become the greatest of toreadors. By swaying a red cape in front of a puzzled bull's eyes, I could bring home free steaks without a fight. Spooking can be fun if no evil is brought about through it. I could help someone in trouble. As I've always wanted to be a detective, I could save an innocent person from f alling victim to foul play by finding the guilty one. To one and all, my favorite greeting-BOO! 40 (JtJ (' JID 7Jp- by At last, the storm broke. For several days they had waited, an anxious community hastily converting their homes into hurricane shelters. Shutters and boards covered all windows; garden furniture and decorations were placed indoors. Cupboards were well-stocked and the oil lamps were filled. In her elegant beach home, Valerie Winters showed little fear of the storm. A seasoned Floridian, she was accustomed to hurricanes and her only feeling was that of annoyance. Hurricanes did not help her bllsiness. People were not interested in purchasing small gifts and novelties when the roofs and windows of their homes needed repairs. Even the tourists preferred to send bits of debris as souvenirs of the hurricane instead of the clever "originals" that were the specialty of her shop. From across the room, Carolyn watched her curiously. She admired Valerie for what she was, blase, clever and sophisticated. The author who coined the phrase, "like a page from Vogue," must have been thinking of Valerie. But somehow, Carolyn could not admire her completely. The memory of a phone call from Valerie's brother Phil gave Carolyn a clue to the personality behind the fashionable exterior. Phil Winters was three years older than his sister but less fortunate EMILIE C. MURRAY financially. From time to time he had borrowed from her to finance various business opportunities. She had always assured him that she enjoyed helping him and that he could repay her any time. Only part of the statement was true. Valerie enjoyed loaning money to anyone that might not be able to repay her easily. To her, money was the means of making people dependent on her will. Today Phil had called again. The last loan had not been enough and he needed another small loan to complete his transactions; however, Valerie decided to stop playing the devoted sister. Carolyn recalled the answers that Valerie gave so casually to Phil's desperate pleas: ''I'm sorry, Phil, I can't possibly help you this time. You've already borrowed too much from me." A silence while Valerie listenedthen, "Of course I have the money in the bank and that is where I intend to leave it. After all, I can't afford to go on loaning money to you for the rest of my life." Another longer pause, and "Well, you will have to borrow it from someone else, I'm through. And Phil, if you find anyone willing to tal,e the risk, borrow enough to give back my money too." She hung up and when Phil tried to call her again, she was "out." 41 The elaborately furnished room gathered deep sombre shadows as the storm blew away the daylight. Valerie lit the candles on the mantel, realizing that the electricity might be off for several hours or even days. Curiosity prompted her to try the phone. That too was dead. The hurricane had forced her to be as alone as one could be in a civilized world. The wind lashed the house, the rain streamed past the windows. The mounting fury outside made the click of the opening door almost inaudible. Carolyn sat upright, frozen in her chair. Someone was coming in, someone who did not want to be discovered was entering the house. She turned towards Valerie; apparently Valerie had not heard for she was calmly enjoying a snack in front of the fireplace. Carolyn tried to warn her, to call out, but she couldn't. She was too terrified to speak. Then she saw him, strong, muscular, his height and build accentuated by the oversized slicker that protected him from the storm. His hands were lean, capable hands obviously accustomed to work. In one of them he held a short rope. Suddenly Valerie wheeled around, her eyes widened, her face blanched, her body tensed with fear. She was alone, defenseless, and he was stepping closer . . . closer . . . A voice called sharply out of the darkness: "Carolyn, please turn the television off and go to bed! None of us can sleep with tha t racket! Besides those stories always give you nightmares." "But Mom," Carolyn began. "But nothing," her mother declared firmly, "it is time for bed and that is all there is to it." "All right, all right," she answered darkly. Disgusted and reluctant, Carolyn turned off the set and padded quietly up the stairs to her room. One little curl, as if agreeing with her tho ugh t s, bounced angrily on her forehead. As she passed her mother's room, her mother smiled when she heard her mutter, " Now I'll never know what happened to Valerie Winters." 42 by On the campus of the Catholic University of America, in Washington, D. C., there is an immense bulk of stone and masonry. This unadorned and unfinished structure is the crypt of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. This great unfinished building, when completed, will vie with the celebrated cathedrals of Europe, and will take its place as a fitting memorial to the pa troness of the United States in our capital city beside the patr~otic monuments of the country. MA~<.THA PICTOR which is the main altar of the crypt, dedicated to Mary Immaculate. The 58 granite and marble columns from all over the world have engraved in their capstones the most powerful and best known prayers to the Blessed Virgin: the Magnificat, Salve Regina, Ave Maria, and Memorare. Of the many smaller donations, an interesting one is an engagement ring given by a young man to obtain the recovery of his fiancee who had been sick for a long time. After the European style, there will be no pews in the upper church. This will give a magnificent view of the sanctuary which will accommodate the entire Hierarchy of the United States and several hundred ecclesiastics and sti11 have room for the most impressive ceremonies. The completed crypt, which will seat 1200, is in Romanesque style. In general, the interior architecture will recall the spirit of St. Mark's in Venice, but the exterior has little archeological resemblance to any church and could be called "American" in design. The first mention of a national shrine was made more than a hundred years ago when the Lowell Courier, in 1846, stated; "A magnificent Catholic church is to be built at Washington, something af- The completed shrine will be a huge votive church which will serve as a lasting monument erected by the Ca tholics of the U ni ted States to Mary, their patroness. Some of the best art and literature in the world pertaining to Mary will be gathered in the shrine's art museum of the Blessed Virgin Mary and the "Mariana" library. Already the shrine has an imposing array of treasures. The great gift of two popes, the mosaic reproduction of Murillo's Immaculate Conception, begun under the direction of Benedict XV and completed under Pius XI, has been viewed by thousands. The women of our country named Mary donated a $ 50,000 altar of semi-transparent golden onyx with a base of Traventine white marble 43 ter the style of. the cathedrals of the Old World. It is intended by the Catholics to appeal for aid in this great undertaking to every congregation of their denomination in the United States." In 1913, when the plans were described to Pius X, he gave them immediate encouragement. The foundation stone was laid in September, 1920, but actual construction was not begun until two years later. Hopes to complete the shrine within thirty years were blasted when the great depression came and by the 1930's work had to be discontinued. Interest never died com- pletely, however, and there was always a faint flow of contributions, until in 1948, there was a rise in interest and the contributions increased. The national appeal for funds on December 6, 1953, was made in an effort to raise enough money to commemora te the Marian year by beginning the superstructure of the shrine. When Our Lady's house rises upon the foundation of the crypt the Mother of God will receive in some measure the honor Catholics of the United States owe the patroness of their country. 44 BOOK REVIEWS by H. F. M. After assimilating Miss H. F. M. Prescott's historical biography, the reader will justifiably associate blood with Mary Tudor's reign, not with Mary Tudor. Whether or not Miss Prescott intended to make her book a refutation of the " Bloody Mary" 9f Protestant tradi tion, she has nevertheless adequately and plausibly done so. Judging from her penetrating character portrayal of this unfortunate queen as well as from her exacting analysis of the religious disturbance of sixteenth-century England, one wonders what justification defamers of Mary Tudor could possibly give. Apparently Miss Prescott let fact speak for itself. Her interpretation of Mary presents the Tudor queen as a life-long victim of circumstances. Her explanation of the schism pins direct responsibility on Mary's lascivious father; but as an indirect cause of the subsequent religious turmoil, her explanation emphatically points to England's economic and social distress resulting from the extravagance of Henry VIII. PRESCOTT More than refuting an unjust nickname, Miss Prescott has depicted Mary in such a manner as to justify the sobriquet, "Spanish Queen of England." That this might also have been Miss Prescott's intention is implied in the title of the first publication which appeared in 1940 as SPanish Tudor. Evidence for this inference permeates the book. Miss Prescott stresses the psychological effects that persecution and surrender of one's own principles had on a person like Mary. While stressing the permanent ill effects of such treatment, the authoress reveals Mary Tudor as a person of limi ted intelligence and of temperament more Spanish than English. Such treatment by a once devoted father, she repeatedly points out, resulted in distrust of all Englishmen, a distrust which grew as Mary lived. She then leads the way to the path which this unhappy queen's affections were to take-first to her beloved mother's native Spain, ultimately to marriage with Philip II of Spain. In her concluding analysis, she shows 45 how the Spanish marriage involved England in an adverse war with France. Thus one is shown how Mary's unrequited love for a Spanish monarch thwarted the country over which she impotently and briefly reigned. From one stand-point, Miss Prescott fails to convey the historical people and events of the past to present reality. Her accounts-always detailed, sometimes unnecessarily so-of, for example, the domestic and foreign intrigues against Mary and England are prosaic rather than dramatic. For these reasons, it is unlikely that the reader who shuns textbooks will do more than "taste" a few pages of Mary Tudor. Yet the reader who looks for a book that he can "chew and digest" will find satisfaction in the information-packed pages of Mary Tudor. For the scholarly reader it suffices to mention the scholarship, comprehensive research, twofold factual view of controversial points coupled with a seemingly impartial personal interpretation. As further inducement, however, one need add only that this biography, which was republished in 1953 after revision and expansion, in its original form has already merited the James Tait Black Historical Prize. -Julia Abrams by the RT. REV. MAURICE S. SHEEHY Six O'clock Mass is a novel com- whom he is apparently very much bining the life stories of the people devoted. In the narrative itself, Father James, the young pastor who who regularly attend Father James' six o'clock Mass at St. Jude's. These dedicated his new parish to St. nine people from all walks of life Jude in anticipation of the laborious task before him, is made a are united only by their participachampion of the saint of the imtion in the sacrifice of the Mass. possible. Genuine human interest is clearly For light, restful, yet informarecognized in each character whose struggle for God is movingly por- . tive reading on the Mass in popular, fictionalized form, Monsignor trayed by his daily, ordinary life. Sheehy's first novel provides what This book seems to be a dedicamay be spiritually helpful to the tion to St. Jude, the saint of the busy housewife as well as to the impossible. The author adds his own carefree high school student. personal touch by inserting letters -Charlene Hatherly between himself and this saint to 46 by Few authors have attained the recognition with one book that Lucile Hasley achieved with her first book, Reproachfully Yours . In her second book, The Mouse Hunter, she proves herself worthy of praise, not by writing it exactly like Reproachfully Yours, but by doing something different. This time she divides her book into three groups, Essays, Dibs and Dabs, and Short Stories. LuelLE HASLEY and have as wide a subject range as the longer works. "Hoo-Ray for Eddie!" and "What Flavor?" are the most humorous of this group. The short stories are only five in number but they can be easily called the most important section of the book. In them, the author reveals a rare understanding, a sincere compassion for people that is often hidden by her humor in the essays. All of them are serious in tone, dealing with problems and situations that are shared by hundreds of people. They are in sharp contrast with the current crop of short stories which are most concerned with the love triangle. "The Mouse Hunter," a story of a parish priest, is the most realistic. The essays quite naturally follow the style of her earlier work. She blissfully writes about any topic that pleases her fancy. The trials of public speaking, high school reunions, airplane trips, marriage problems, and movie stars are a few of the subjects that she makes appealing to the public. Three essays that deserve special mention are: "The Name is Susan," a humorous story of her daughter's desire to be named Kristy; "Feelings Don't Count," a plea for more kindness in the Confessional; and "Load That Plate, Lift That Fork!," a practical way of solving the problem of racial prejudice that every individual must face. The book can be read as a whole . or the reader can choose what he wants. Miss Hasley's style is free and natural, modern without the faults of modern writing, and thought-provoking without ever presuming to preach. If you read a great many books, The Mouse Hunter will be a refreshing change. If your reading is confined to magazines because of a lack of time, this book will offer vou short articles that are different and unusually entertaining. "Dibs and Dabs" are just what the name implies. These short essays have an average length of two pages -Emilie C. Murray 47 by GIOVANNI GUARESCHI translated by The House That Nino Built is an inside view of the family life of the creator of Don Camillo. Giovanni (Nino) Guareschi, leads a life complicated by the personalities of his wife, Margherita; his son, Albertino; his daughter, baptized Carlotta, but appropriately called the "Duchess" ; and the world's most temperamental cat. The central theme concerns moving the family from Milan to a house-in the country, but the reader almost loses sight of it in the absorbing incidents which fill each chapter. The stories deal with the purchase of a plot of land, the problems of building, and the process of moving in. When strong personalities such as those of the Guareschi family meet, there is bound to be a clash, but Nino is never defeated. Somehow he always manages to prove he is still the head of his own house- FRANCES FRENAYE hold. Margherita's lack of logical reasoning is balanced by her eagerness to do her best and to be a good wife and mother. The taciturn Albertino manages to make his personality and ideas known without benefit of the spoken word. He even confines his essays to a few terse sentences! A young lady of strong convictions, the Duchess is the exact opposite of her brother, for she never fails to make her will known to all concerned, and to some who are not. Don Camillo fans will certainly enjoy the gay charm of Giovanni Guareschi's latest book, even though their beloved Don Camillo is not even mentioned. Some of the credit for this delightful book is due to Frances Frenaye who has done an excellent job of translating it from the original Italian, without losing any of the sparkling humor. -Martha Pie tor 48 PATRONS Joan Boersig Miss Dorothy Powell Mary Jo Doherty Mr. and Mrs. William J. Rahe, Jr. Miss Alice Ann Fields Barbara Reder Miss Janice Gaughan Mrs. Joseph L. Ritter Mr. and Mrs. Harold Hazlewood Erna Santarossa Mrs. Robert Hebenstreit Mr. and Mrs. Donald L. Schmidt Miss Helen Hoffmann Mr. and Mrs. William C. Skillen Mrs. George E. Jennings Mrs. Frank Spollina Mrs. Jack A. Long' Miss Barbara Stahl Dr. and Mrs. Bernard J. Matthews Mr. and Mrs. F. A. Strasburger Miss Catherine Matthews Mr. and Mrs. Robert D. Stuflick Miss Mary Lou Method Mary Pat Sullivan Mrs. Coy Gray Mr. and Mrs. Robert Jean Mortlock J. Wechsler Janet Myers Mrs. Donald Weir Mr. and Mrs. Ray Osburn Mr,. and Mrs. Joseph G. Wood, Jr. Catherine Pangallo Mr. and Mrs. Raymond Worth 49 BUSINESS PATRONS FRED B. ALEXANDER Typesetter 111-115 S. Capitol, Li. 2206 CAPITOL GLASS CO. Glass of all kind 432 S. Missouri, PI. 1301 CONTINENT AL PRINTING Mr. Lawrence Feltman 2130 Madison Ave., Ga. 2224 EISENHUT DRUGS 5353 . English A venue, Ir. 4456 FREYN BROTHERS, INC. Plumbers 1028 N. Illinois, PI. 9386 HOOSIER BOOK & SUPPLY CO . . "Just a Friend" 1939 N. Meridian, Wa. 6544 HORNADAY MILK CO. 1447 W. Market, Ma. 5335 KIGER AND CO., INC. School Supplies and Equipment 52 W. New York, PI. 2344 50 KOEHLER PHARMACY 3002 N. Illinois, Wa. 8981 HARRY K. LANDES 837 N. Illinois, Ri. 3655 CHAS. McGARVEY CO. Lathing, plastering, and accoustical contractors 927 Fowler, 1m. 0022 SANBORN ELECTRIC Electrical contracton 311 N. Illinois, PI. 9584 SANTAROSSA MOSAIC & TILE CO. TerrazzfJ and Tile 2707 Roosevelt, Ave., At. 3741 WEGE MARBLE & TILE CO. 333 N. Penn., PI. 7531 n Marian College Li brary 'ndianapo \!B, Ind .. 1 0 7 69 4  ...

... I c5rCarian College Indianapolis, Indiana I What is 1nan that Thou art mindful of hi11t? ... Thou hast made him a little less than the Angels, Thou hast crowned him with glory and honor: and hast set hint over the wor/u of Thy hands. -PSALM 8. AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE VOLUME FIVE Marian College I l1dial1a polis, 111diana 1947-1948 CONTENTS Page Frontis piece ____ ______ ___ _____ ____ __________ ___ _______ ______ ___________ ___ ______ __ _____________ __________ _ 3 Editorials ___ __ __________ _________ __ _______________ __ __ ___ ____________ ______________________________ ________ _ Fled_ of Gold.. _______ _____________________________ Lois Tenbieg '48..______ ________ ________ 6 St. Patrid.'s Miracle _____ _________________ ___ __ -foan BaU1ner '48________________________ 8 Finis _______ ____ ____ _______________________________________ _Rita Sm.all ' 51_ ___ ____ ____________________ 10 A Stay at the Seashore __________ ___ ______ ______ _Helen A. Gonzalez' 51 ______________ 12 Suppressed.. ____________________________________________ Alice Redmond' 51 ___ __ ___ __ __ _____ __ _ 13 Silver Sonata __ ________ ___ _______________ __ ____ ___ __ __ -f osej)hine Powell' 51_____ ____ __ _____ __ 14 Modem ArL ________ ________________________ _______ .Sarah Page' 49 ____________________________ 15 Jean Mortlock ' 50 Adelbert and Adeline __ ________ __ _____ __ __ _____ and Carol Mortlock ' 51 _________ __ _ 17 A Tale of the ShirL _______________ _____ ________ Mary Patricia Sullivan '49 ________ 19 Supervising the Painter ______________ ________ __ Miriam Schopp , 51 ____ __ ______________ 21 Place of Peace ______________________________________ Barbara Hipp '50 _______ __ ________ __ ___ 23 To a January Sun ___ _______ ________ _______ __ ____ -feamle Gallagher '48.. _______ __ _______ 23 The Resurrection __________________________________ Lois Tenbieg '48 ______________________ __ 24 Summer HeaL __________ _____ ______________________ .Amy Snapp' 51 ______ _____ __ __ __ _________ 25 A Night to Relnember ________________________ Betty Burl<. '51 _______________________ __ _ 26 Green Cheese ______ ___________ ___ ____________________ Mary Jane Porter '49 _________ _______ 29 Bustin' Out All Over _____________ _______________ Mary P. McCarthy '49 ______________ 29 Nlagnificat_ ______ ___ ___ ______ ___ _____ ____ __ ____ ____ _____ ___ ___ ____ ____ ___ ____ ____ ____ _______ ___ __ __ __ ____ ___ 30 Elegy to SPring---- __ _____________________________ -J oan Baumer '48.. ______________________ 32 Books reviewed by "Pilgrim's Inn" _________ _______________________ Mary Jane Porte: '49 _______ :________ 33 "Fishers of Men" ______________________________ Antoinette Pangallo '48.. __________ 34 Two Best Sellers ______________________________ Mary Lou Reder '49 __________________ 36 Via Mariae ____________________________________________ Patricia Parker '49 ____________________ 41 Patrons ---__ -_ __ ____ _____ ___ __ ____ __ __ __ _____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ___ __ __ ___ ____ ___ ____ ____ ____ _____ _____ ____ ___ __ 43 The Staff Editor JOAN .BAUMER Associate Editor LOIS TENBIEG Assistant Editors PATRICIA PARKER MAR Y HELEN WELLS Art SARAH PAGE Business MARY PATRICIA SULLIVAN Circulation MARY HAUGH 2 Fron tis piece World Brotherhood Praying hands have been chosen to illustrate human dignity at its height-the very act of prayer it5elf, acknowledging God as our Divine Master, sY111bolizes our complete 1'eliance u1)on God for OU1' existence. Good prayers not only thank Gad or ask Him for personal favors, but they also express concern for ouy fellow men. Thus, by as/~ing God to bless our neighboY, we endorse the human dignity that is the equal heritage of every man. Above the hands appears the Imll;aculate Virgin Mary, fay by directing our prayeys th1'Ough hey we shall 1110ye quicldy reach God, and our pyayers become more perfect as she puts the finishing touches on them-promoting thei1' sincerity and diminishing their selfishness. Mayy stretches forth hey hands in yeadiness to hear and keep he1' children and from her hands flow the many graces she is yeady to pour foyth upon us. Thus, we fulfill the advice of St. Louis de Montfoyt to go "To Jesus thyough Mary." The ALPHA and OMEGA above the Holy Viygin yep resent God as the First Cause and OUy Final Goal which is more perfectly reached thyough Mayy. Who can deny the idea, therefore, that On his k.nees man is truly a byothey to others and mas tel' of himself? -Sayah Page 3 4 EDITORIALS = =====_.- Ask any eighth grader. Or your kid brother just starting his second year in high school. They can ra ttle off those glib phrases that are on every tongue these days. "The universal brotherhood of man," the "dignity of man," "winning the peace as we won the war," "the four freedoms." Lots of people can name these ideals. They can tell you they are the reasons Joe and John and Jim went away to fight a war. But what do those ideals really mean? Do you actually know? Or have you ever given much thought to it? As a college student, do you know what these popular phrases mean? You know about them, of course, for eighth graders know about them, too. But look closely at just one of them-the dignity of m an. Do you have a clear idea what it is to believe in that ideal? It entails quite a bit of responsibility. Think about it. As Americans we profess to believe in this dignity of man. In our Declara tion of Independence we say tha t all men are crea ted equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights. The conclusion drawn from this is that man is different from other material beings in the world. His is a destiny which no others share. It is evident that physically men do differ from each other. \Ve could not possibly proclaim "all men are created equal" and mean that all girls are equally beautiful or that all men are the same in intelligence. This is oQviously not true. It follows then that this equality must be within man. It is in the divinely created and divinely endowed hunun soul. To deny this equality of men, this belief in the dignity of each individual, is to maintain that the strong may enslave the weak. One class may even destroy another class. That the enslavement and destruction of men can happen in our world is proof that in some way we have failed . A society that can allow such monstrous things to occur is clearly at fault. And as a part of that society we share in that guilt. As in the case of all ideals, there is a vast difference between professing belief in an ideal and living up to that ideal. Maybe you can recite the preamble to the Declaration of Independence from beginning to end. But do you say, "All men are created equal," yet advise your little sister not to play with the girl down the street because her family is Jewish? Do you con- 5 DIGNITY OF MAN tinue, "They are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights" and in the next breath champion laws which prevent the Negro from voting? You and I can't write pamphlets on the subject or deliver lectures about it. Sitting in class day after day doesn't seem to offer much opportunity for promoting the doctrine of the dignity of man. Yet even in limited daily contacts we can translate our ideal into action. Getting rid of personal antipathies is a good way to start. The snob, the illiterate, the fanatic, the foreigner, the Negro, and the Jew may be individuals to whom we have an automatic prejudice. Think beyond th a t exterior which displeases you. Remind yourself that this person is, like you, included in the Declaration of Independence. We shudder at Hitler and a system which could reduce men to mere machines and slaughter thousands in cold blood. Yet we share in this denial of the dignity of man by regarding servants as merely instruments to do our bidding. A polite request could take the place of a curt order. Does it? If you. believe democracy should have a chance, help give it that chance. Live what you profess to believe. Don't continue on the mental level of an eighth grader. Believing in the dignity of man isn't just a fad. It may well be the determining factor in tomorrow's world. It can spell the difference between your being a slave or a free person. Become actively pro-human. You won't regret it. - Joa11 FLEl:K OF GOLD Lonely, lonely, all alone A dark and somber hill. Shadowed growth and darkest earth But there a daffodil. -LOIS TENBIEG 6 Baumer In this 20th century, many of our hurrying cynics, as do the "rnoderns" in any century, contend tha t there are no such things as miracles. Yet we know differently. Has science ever successfully explained miracles? Nothing supernatural can be perfectly clear to our finite intellects. But what of the appearance of Mary to the children of Fatima? What of the preserved roses clinging to the statue of our Lady in Clllada ? We C a tholies accept these without question. Almost too blandly, in fact. Can we ever become blase toward miracles? Hardly. We just don't realize the significance of them. We call such things as these "minor" miracles. A paradox indeed! But notice. In these cases, who has been the medium? The one so interested in human affairs, so loving us as to divert herself for a time from her complete happiness with her Son so as to give us, the proud masters of the universe, a word of advice or warning? It has been our Lady. She has repeatedly cautioned us about our wayward leanings, urging devotion to her rosary. This is not pride in the Blessed Mother, directing honor to herself, for the Church defines humility as knowing and accepting our virtues, and crediting them to God, using them for His glory and our good. How humble, then, is Mary. She knows the power of the rosary, knows her own power with Christ, and urges us to look to her, to ask for help, to show her we are desirous of her heavenly aid. She must also have an infinite patience, to try, as it were, to force favors upon us. Call it patience or call it love. The call is repeated to us now. Let us use her chaplet to save the world. -Patricia 7 P~r!ur St. patrick ~ miracle Father was inclined to take a very sensible attitude toward the wh:>le thing. But Kitty maintained it was a miracle. Old Mrs. Flanagan said it was Irish Nick's fault that Kitty got such an idea. I guess the rest of us will never know for sure . . It was Irish Nick who h as a shoe repair shop next door to the grocery store that started it. Kitty went down to have her shoes half-soled one Saturday morning. Irish Nick is just that. Few know his last name. It is Italian, which is what his father was . But his mother was zn O'Lelry who came from County Cork just like our Gl'andpl Shana8 han did. Nick had red hair when he was young, father says. He knows more stories about leprechauns and the "wee folk" than anyone in our town. Well, that Saturday morning Kitty was gone for two hours having her shoes repaired. At noon mama sent me to get her. I'm ten, but people say I'm serious and act older than Kitty who's my twin. Kitty likes people and stories and especially pe::>ple like Irish Nick who tell such wonderful stories. At the shoe shop Kitty was sitting on an old boxeven though she h ld on a clean dress-listening to Irish Nick who was telling her about St. Parick and how he performed some special miracle each St. Patrick's day. I had to tell her three times to come home for dinner before she would Esten to me. thlt. John an:! Terry give us money for ice cream cones sometimes and once they took us riding on their bikes. But mostly they want us to le1ve them alone. That's why we went around to the back of the garage now and peeked at them through the window. They were talking to Tar Baby just as we do to our dolls. "Good 01' boat" they'd say, and, "Look at her. No other b01 t like her!" \'Vhen they built the boat it kept springing leaks, so they had to al~;>.ys carry a bucket of tar with them to :fix up the new holes. Finally they started calling her "Tar Baby." As we wa tched the boys they fastened the front of the Ta r Baby to John's bike. The back of the boat was wired to the front of Terry's bike. Then off they drove. They had a hard time keeping together and it was easy for Kitty and me to follow. Besides, we soon knew where they were going, so we took short-cuts and got to the river just after they did. Our river isn't very big. Usually it isn't very deep, only now with the spring rains it was. That was why father told the boys not to take the boat out. But I know that when John saw the Tar Baby he couldn't help taking her down to the river anyway. Kitty and I hid by an old shack a little bit down from where the boys were. We watched them put the Tar Baby in the water, shove away from the bank and go floating off. Suddenly something happened. The Tar Baby must have sprung a (Please Turn to Page 39) Kitty didn't say much about Irish Nick's story until the 17th of March, which was a week later. We always celebrate St. Patrick's Day in our town because most of the people are Irish. But even people like Mr. Myer, the banker, wears green and tries to say "Erin go braugh" with his German accen t. Of course, there was no school. Kitty and I had a big day planned. Right after dinner we were out in the yard playing St. Patrick driving out the snakes. Kitty was St. Pa trick and I was a big snake. I was being stubborn about leaving and Kitty said she didn't think I should act like th1t. Just then we saw the boys. We h1d been having a week of spring weather which father said wouldn't last. Our brother John had asked that morning if he and his friend Terry couldn't get out the "Tar Baby." Father said no, the river was still high and the water cold. But now we saw them sneaking around to the garage and looking as if they had a secret. We forgot St. Patrick and the snakes and ran to wa tch. The Tar Baby is a boat John and Terry built last summer. They're both in the 8 th grade and are smart. Kitty and I think John is the smartest boy in his room and Terry next smartest. But we never tell them so, for boys don't like 9 Miss Curry was ready to say ~ini6 by RITA SMALL Miss Sarah was not one to waste words- she had always prided herself on that score. And now she sauntered on into the gathering dusk tow ard Mrs. Martin's Restaurant. Her mind returned now to the office which she had just left. Dr. Perkins' diagnosis had come as something of a surprise to Miss Sarah. The dizzy spells had begun such a long time ago that she had come to accep t them as part of her daily life. She had ignored them determinedly for more years than she cared to remember, but a few weeks ago she had been stricken at her uncluttered desk in the office of "The Hortonville Herald." Mr. Larrimer, usually brusque and unsympathetic, had been alarmed into a sort of frightened tenderness. It was at his insistence that she had gone to see Dr. Perkins and had answered his patient questions and had finally submitted to an X-ray. Miss Sarah had returned to the doctor's office this evening, confident tha t he would say her dizzy spells and nagging headaches were due to overwork and nothing more. He would probably advocate rest, but that was impossible. She was fifty and jobs were not so plentiful that one could afford to risk losing the ~ecurity of a fair-paying position. The sign on the frosted glass of the door read "Timothy Perkins, M.D." The door itself was unpolished and creaked a little because Dr. Perkins never remembered to oil the hinges. It opened now and a tall, spare woman came out into the musty smelling hall. She walked erectly, as though she might be wearing iron braces on her slim shoulders . Her hair was not gray, but a very faded shade of brown and she wore it drawn back fDill her pale, pinched face. A p l ir of gold-rimmed spectacles rested upon the bridge of an aquilin:= nose, and beneath the thick lenses her eyes were light and lusterless. Her name was Sarah Curry and she was going to dievery soon Dr. Perkins had said. Her heart jumped at the thought, but her sturdily-clad feet found their way unfalteringly down the rickety stairway, and out into the street. She stood for a moment on the sidewalk, planning her best course of action. "I'll have my dinner first," she thought. "I'll have my dinner, and I'll wait until I'm home before I think aboutanything." She walked decisively down the street, turning now and then to speak to someone, but never exchanging more than a mere hello. 10 Dr. Perkins had been solicitous and unnaturally gentle, but Miss Sarah was not a person to be put off. "I want to know what's the matter with me, Doctor. I want you to tell me the truth." Dr. Perkins had stammered a little before the piercing gaze of her colorless eyes, but he had told her, very simply and directly. "You are suffering from a brain tumor, Miss Curry, an incurable growth which could h ave been removed successfully, h ad you come to me sooner. I'm afraid I can't offer you much encourage ment. You see, Miss Curry, you aren't going to get well." Miss Sarah had paled slightly, and her usually steady hands had begun to tremble. Her throat had felt dry and burry-"How long, Doctor? How-how long?" And her pulse had quickened at the quiet finality of his answer. "A month-six weeks, perhaps. I-can't be sure. I'm sorry." Sorry-an empty enough word when applied to the burning out of a human life. Miss Sarah came back to the present with a start. She didn't really want any dinner-not now. She turned the corner and walked the half-block to her room at Mrs. Casey's. It was growing dark now and Miss Sarah felt a chill of unfamiliar loneliness. She ascended the steep flight of stairs to her bedroom softly, not wanting to see anyone. She opened the door of her neat little chamber, and stepped quickly inside, wanting to escape the roominghouse sounds and the chattering Mrs. Casey. The patchwork quilt on the iron bedstead looked cruelly bright and she was 11 suddenly glad of the approaching darkness. She undressed almost automatically without a light, and hung up her clothes methodically. \Valking to the window she opened it, and brelthed deeply of lilacs and fresh air. Miss Sarah turned back the covers of her bed and knelt for a moment beside the window. She got up and drew herself carefully into bed, pulling the cool sheet over her. Her head ached dully, but she was strangely relaxed. She thought of tomorrow and planned carefully; Miss Sarah always planned her days and tomorrow would be no exception. She would not tell Mrs. C asey the whole truth. Mrs. Casey was emotional and Miss Sarah h ated any show of emotion. She would simply explain that the doctor had ordered her to a rest home for a month or two. Then she would go down to the office and tell Mr. Larrimer the same story, offering her resignation. A few moments at the bank to straighten out her financial affairs -a cousin in Connecticut was listed as beneficiary on her insurance policy, so there was nothing to worry about, really. Day after tomorrow she would pack her few personal belongings. Dr. Perkins had arranged for her admittance to a rest home. Strange how simple it all was-no one would really miss her-things would go on as always ~ nd they would forget very soon that there had been a Miss Sarah Curry. A gentle breeze blew across the foot of the bed, and there was no sound in the room except for a heavy, regular breathing; Miss Sarah was asleep. Childhood 11'lel1l0ries 0/ by I was about six years old when my mother first took me on an ocean voyage to one of the southern islands to spend the summer. My grandfather's villa, where we lived, was about a hundred feet from the seashore. It commanded an unobstructed view of the white sand beach, and beyond it the wide exp anse of blue water. To a citybred child, whose aquatic experience was confined to the wading p::lois in the p arks, the sight of all tll : t wa ter was an overwhelming experience. For weeks after our arrival, I spent the mornings looking out on the sea, watching the big rollers come in. Thl t the rollers would break and disappear upon hitting the shore was a source of wonder to me. I wanted them to come in farther, and perhaps break just outside our door, but they always seemed to know where they were supposed to stop, and stop they did. I watched them gleefully as they headed toward shore-the little ones, the bigger ones, and the mountlinous ones . Their load of fo amy bubbles dancd as the rollers travelled, only to vanish upon hitting the shore. I had been told stories of little H ELEN A. GONZALEZ fairies who rode the waves on mornings when nobody could see them. I wondered where those fairies came from, and where they went when the waves reached the shore. My imaginative mind drew a miniature city in the middle of the sea, where all the fairies lived and played. I could see them being awakened by the light of the moon and coming out of their little houses, calling their neighbors out to play. I could hear their lilting laughter, their little squeals of delight, as they tried to catch a wave to ride on. Each having caught her own, I could imagine them gliding 'round and 'round, and finally heading out to shore. But what happened to them when the waves disappeared? I decided that each caught a bubble and encased herself in it, returning to the fairy city through some underwater current. The rollers did not come in everyday. There were many days when the sea looked as smooth as glass. On such days it was my favorite pastime to gaze 'way out into the distance where the sea seemed to meet the sky. I thought of the shore on the other end of the sea, and wondered if a little girl was looking out of her window 12. and wondering about the side I was on. Did she know about the little water fairies, and didn't she, too, wish she could see them in the moonlight? I keenly regretted the f airies' allergy to humans, for I w :shed that I might play with them on the shore some evening when no one else was around. Maybe they had observed how children's games on the shore turned to quarrels. Maybe they were perfectly content to stay away from the complexes and evils of civilization, as some people who are part of it wish they could do at times. by ALICE REDMOND "Gretchen! Gretchen! There';> work to be done!" The rasping voice came from the kitchen. The girl, startled, left the swing and opened the screened door. An unexpected wall of heavy air struck her nostrils and stunned her. Her father smiled at his eldest daughter and the action oddly irritated her. Her brothers sat on the sofa and their voices were now raised. She hastened from the room and walked through the dining room into the kitchen. Her mother stood ironing Jim's white shirt. "Them dishes have to be washed. Don't know why you don't do a little more to help me," she whined. Gretchen, wi thou t a word turned and clenched the edge of the sink. The impulse to scream enveloped her, but she stifled it. As she looked out the window a streak of lightning jagged across the darkened sky. Thunder answered and the torrents fell. She sa t in the swing upon the porch and swayed to and fro with unbroken regularity. Fatigue caused her muscles to ache until her whole body was filled with pain. The day at work had been unbearable, for the heat of August had reached its peak. The air seemed ominously still. In the east shone sporadic flashes of pink lightning. Neighbors discussed the weather as they sprinkled their parched lawns. Somewhere down the block a baby cried. From the house she heard the rumbling of her brothers' voices as they discussed a matter which she sensed was important. Her father sat before the radio and through the door she could see the anxious expression on his face as his team played a losing game. The rolling move men t of the swing lulled her into semi-sleep. The past year with all its horror ran through her tortured mind. The tears were there but she would not shed them. 13 SILVER SONATA Blue and silver sky, Black and silver treeBlue and silver, Black and silver, Both belong to me. A silvery sidewalk holds traces of ram And grass at its edges as ragged as flame, Till boisterous \\lind comes rioting through, Changing the silver to black or deep blue, Makes from the shadows a silvery frame And races away with no sign that he carne. For every tree's shadow is back in its place, And the moonbeams wait still with a silvery graceHills silhouette In my memory, Blue and silver, Black and silverDream eternally. -Josephine Powell 14 J1 d'?votee essays on by Art is not a slavish master forcing man to crea teo It is not a tiresome drudgery of imitating the w orks of God. No, art is none of these things. According to the Scholastic philosophy, art is a virtue of doing. Art is gay, free, expressive, enchanting-a tool by which man may rise above his ordinary station to work with God in th~ creating of things pleasing to behold. Webster says art is that which is produced by skill and taste. Others are content merely to call it man-m1de beauty. Art never stands still but is always being given new interpretations. Thus around the nineteen th century and even a little earlier, progressive artists saw in it a means of conveying their emotions and experiences to the public by the use of different techniques, color harmonies, and modes of presentation. This has gradually become known as modern art. As with anything new, SARAH P AG E misunderstandings h ave arisen concerning this school. An exploration into this novel and exciting world of art might prove adventurous as well as beneficial. However, before attempting this journey, a review of certain art principles is probably in order that we may view this world with open eyes and mind. First of all, what constitutes a good picture? The basic requirement is good design, that is, an interesting distribution of lines and spaces. This may be supplemented with color, lights and darks, or texture; but the design itself must be well planned, much as an architect's blueprint. The artist must, of course, have something to express. The picture should arouse some emotion in the beholder even though it may not be the same emotion that prompted the artist to this act of creation. All of these qualities may be found in good modern art. 15 IM]]UERN ART Frequently people will walk past pictures they consider good and proper with a patronizing nod, yet when confronted with a modermstlc painting, they pause and study it for a few minutes or they may return for a more minute inspection. When asked for an explanation for this seemingly paradoxical behavior, they are unable or frequently unwilling to give a reason. The truth of the matter is th:1t some inner response or emotion has been summoned by the picture. They may only like the colors chosen by the artist, his design, or simply the feeling they experience looking at the picture. Very often this is where misunderstmding "creeps in on little cat feet." It is not required that one like .e ucryth:ng about a picture. Th~ s might prove impossible. There will be, however, something about a good picture that will appeal to almost every;:me if he only takes the time to appreciate it. The artist of today is seeking to recrea te the unhampered emotions expressed by the primitive man in his simple line drawings. This is difficult and presents an intricate problem to the artist because we are so involved in a complex social system that ofttimes even our smallest actions must be taken with regard to their influence upon others. Perhaps you might say that Pic:sso's "Woman with a Mandolin" does not a t all resemble a woman. Maybe it is not an exact reproduction. The artist was content to le:lve the reproduction of things as 16 they appear to be to the photogcpher. He is probably only seekins to convey his conception of the subject as it may be expressed by line or color. If you claim to see red when angry, you ought give the artist the right to see greens or blues as representing his mood. Perhaps a better understanding of the principles and aims of modern art may be gained by a brief introduction to a few of the modern schools of painting. One ,~f (he most interesting of these schools is that of the Impressionists. Their paintings are apt to be very atmospheric in that they put most of their emphasis on light effects. Line and form have disappeared into the background leaving only a hazy notion as to definite boundaries. The sharp modeling of objects is gone. Especially beautiful are the colors used by students of this school, which are well illustrated in the landscapes of Van Gogh and Cezanne's still lifes. Gone are the dull grays and browns formerly used, and in their place have appeared lively, vibrant colors which seemingly disintegrate, melt, to create a very beautiful and charming effect which IS curiously realistic. An outgrowth of Impressionism is Cubism, the origin of which is usually attributed to Pablo Picasso, a Spaniard. The fundamental aim of Cubism lies in reducing form to geometric planes and rearranging these planes to give a truer emotional expression than was originally given. Movement is their main ob(Please Turn to Page 40) A Tale of Abyssinia by Up on the decorated balcony the Emperor's very impressive messenger thundered forth the decree of the Ruler of Abyssinia. The sun beat down upon the crowded square below as he droned on and on about numerous laws, tax regulations, tax exemptions, higher wages for camels, etc. etc. He cautioned the people about minor violations of the past, and warned them about the infraction of rule 66, page 299, concerning very precious and scarce ostrich eggs. To quote: "They shall henceforth be .transported in fortifie::! baskets to comply with specifications of the Office of Internal Baskets." Its by-law stated that the eggs should be placed in separate containers when carried any distance exceeding five gra1n11wm eters . And under no condition were the people permitted to put all their eggs in one basket. These last words had warmed the heart of Adelbert, hero of our story, and recent pledge of the 10th Precinct of the Internal Bask.et Association. He had been hoping against hope that a more rigid enforcement of this law would be effected so that he would be able to ge~ a corner on the market of baskets in his home town. It was through a misty haze that Adelbert heard JEAN AND CAROL MORTLOCK the conclusion of the messenger's speech for his mind could think of nothing but the probability of his grea t fortune, and of the good time he would have relating this bit of news to his wife, Adeline. He hastily climbed upon his donkey and rode toward Abbeyville. Still in this happy state of mind he arri ved home one mon th la ter. It is sad to say . that his wife, Adeline, gave him little encouragement in this noble venture. She constantly harassd poor Adelbert with allusions to her more prosperous cousin, whom she had not seen in the past twenty years. Nevertheless, she continued to compare Adelbert's meager basket-making establishment with her cousin's large goat herd, and she could not understand why she had ever allowed Adelbert to begin in such a business. This con s tan t bickering proved to be too much for Adeline's nerves, and in search of consolation she joined the Veiled Circle who s e purpose remains ra ther cloudy. Meetings which lasted the entire day were held every Wednesday in the greatest of secrecy. As a consequence of this Adelbert was often forced to leave his basket establishment earlier than usual to prepare the supper for his wife and 17 ADELBERT and ADELINE himself. He had come to enj~y his work so much that he hated to leave it, and on this particular evening Adelbert stayed to put the finishing touches upon a favorite basket of his. For this reason he arrived home late. For fear of antagonizing his wife with a tardy supper he hurried to the kitchen, put some wood in the stove, and set about to read the papyrus leaf upon which Adeline had listed the menu for the evening meal. The menu called for baked beans. But before deciphering the letters thoroughly Adelbert ran into the back yard, picked some berries off the nearest bush and threw them into a pan of steaming water on the stove. He h ad ~carcely finished the numerous other preparations when he saw Ade)in~ approaching the house with an unexpected dinner guest-the vilhge's most prominent socialite. As the two ladies entered the house a strange and somewhat burnt odor met them. Adeline immediately thought that the beans were burning, and she vowed to herself that never again would she trust her husband with supper. Leaving her guest to amuse herself, she went into the kitchen and looked into the pot to see thick, boilin~, black liquid. To endeavor to describe Adeline's reactions would be futile. Let it suffice to s ~ y that she was beyond consolation. After ,giving Adelbert several pieces of her mind she determined that she would not let her guest suspect that anything was amiss, and being a rather shrewd woman, decided that the black liquid would be served as a recently discovered beverage. She immediately set about convincing her guest that it had been imported from Persia, and was extremely expensive. The socialite went home that evening convinced that honey in a black mess of beans was the newest thing for the first course. Adelbert was very much relieved that his dinner had been such a huge success, and said something to this effect to his wife. However, she refused to forgive him and insisted that the woman would find out that it was all a hoax and ruin her socially. Such situations have a way of surprising those who are responsible. The next day one of the leading merchants of the village approached Adelbert . to inquire where he had obtained the berries for this wonderful new drink that everyone was talking about. As Adelbert was about to make known his mistake Adeline swished through the draperies at the rear of the shop, and announced that a cousin of hers, an importer, was able to get the beans in very small quantities from Persia. After hearing her story the merchant requested a sample of this "remarkable liquid." A few sips assured him of its advantages and he generously offered to market them and to give Adelbert a due share in their profits. After receiving his wife's consent Adelbert agreed to sell the beans to the merchant. It seemed that Adeline's dream of wealth W1S going to be (Ple.1se T 'urn to Page 38) 18 by Work-wod<.-work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread - and rags . That shattered roo f - this na/ud floor A table - a broken chair A nd a wall so blank, 1ny shadow I thank For s011zetimes falling there! Thus sang Thomas Hood in a poem which shocked England and the rest of the world one hundred years ago. "The Song of the Shirt" exposed conditions in factories and sweat shops throughout London. These conditions were not new ones, but most of the public were not aware of them. This poem, together with others like the earlier works of Charles Dickens, "The Cry of the Children" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Mary Barton by Mrs. Gaskell, and Charles Kingsley's Alton Locke cried for reform by portraying conditions so graphically that it was impossible to ignore them. Labor discontent was largely the result of the Industrial Revolution. MARY PATRICIA S UL LIVAN Along with the change over all England from man power to machine power another change was t aking place. As competition from factories grew, more and more people were forced to leave their rural home industry and go to the city to earn a living. The new life in the factories or in the mines with its rigid discipline so new to the country people and the poor living conditions was a bitter ending for those who had come to the city to gain f ame and fortune. Fortune! During the time which Hood laments the average working day was fourteen hours long. Women and children were preferred for much of the work because they could be paid even less than the paltry sum earned by the men. From the already meager wages there were usually extracted fines for tardiness or minor carelessness. Because of the pittance paid the worker, it was often necessary for his whole family including very young children to go to work. Sometimes children under six years of age worked from before day- 19 SONIl OF THE SHIRT light until after dark, never enjoying the warmth and light of the sun. From the viewpoint of a hundred years of progress we look smugly back and say, "Why didn't the government do something for those poor people?" But the government felt no responsibility for this at first. It had developed a laiss ez faire attitude toward business; consequently, little effort was made on the part of public officials to initiate any reforms. Private individuals did try to do something to aid the workers; they managed to push some reform bills through Parliament. However, the greatest amount of good done for the worker was brought about by a long struggle of the laboring class itself. By organizing into labor unions the working man was able, in the course of time, to make his vJlce head above the clink of c:)lns. Throughou t the intervening years the worker has advanced steadily, not only in England but in the United States as well, until now his interests are regarded as quite important when a new program is begun. The sweat shops with their unsanitary working conditions have for the most part disappeared and clean, light, airy working places have taken their place. Employers are taking measures to see that their workers are protected against sickness and accidents . An:)ther innovation which would have seemed strano-e to the 19th century worker is th~ hospitalization plan which so many of the large corporations 20 have provided for their employees. In the "good old days" if a worker was absent because of illness, it was more than likely that he would lose his job. Of course, no one would say that the lot of the worker is even now perfect. In the mining industry, for example, the conditions are scarcely better than those of the sweat shops . The miners are forced to work in unsafe mines which could end in the headlines as did the Centralia disaster. However, the mines are not the only disagreeable aspect of the workers' life. For the most part they must live in company-owned shacks and buy their supplies in companyowned stores. Often their whole salary is absorbed by their standing debt to the company. Stltistics show that over one-half of the workers now employed in this country do not have medical services provided for them. These are mainly the employees of small companies which cannot afford to hire doctors. Gradually more and more employers are coming to realize that protection of workers' health and safety pays in dollars and cents. They understand that the old time swea t shop opera tor could have reaped even greater profits had he tried to help his employees a little more. May the worker never lose the place of prestige he now enjoys! May we never have to wail the lamen t voiced by Hood: "Oh, God, that bread should be so dear .And fl es h and blood so cheap . .. " painter by The age of accommodating labour is past; in fact the procuring of labour practically belongs to that era, and the most leisurely have been obliged to turn themselves into their own keepers. These cooks and housekeepers of necessi ty frequently find their new occupations distressing, but sometimes the labour that does come to the rescue proves even more so. The long absence of a coat of paint had caused the bleak gray walls of the kitchen to reek with woeful gloom. A narrow gay border of frolicsome Dutch children with scampering geese at their feet, extended completely along the center of the wall, and made the kitchen's plight more pitiful. Each morning the walls diffused more dismalness, and breakfast became a meal eaten in dejection. Peeling paint gave the ceiling a scowling countenance and the family below mirrored it. When Mama successfully persuaded a painter to be hired for a day, everyone congratulated her. The door bell rang at an early hour the next day, but it was quite shocking when a frail, elderly little man presented himself as the painter. His manner was so strik- MIRIAM SCHOPP ingly aesthetic that at first Mama thought he had came to paint a portrait, but his equipment assured his intention, and Mama ushered him into the kitchen doubting his capability. He surveyed the four walls and a ceiling with the seriousness of a great artist measuring his subject. In a grave voice he said, "The room is in a poor condition but I am confident that I will be able to restore it." I felt as if he were going to add, " Chin up." He unwrapped the paper covering his cans of paint and Mama gasped-the label on each read "scarlet." The labels should have read "cream" to match the bulk of the needed paint in our supply. Utterly unperturbed, and in true creative style he took a ladle and began mixing the two shades in an empty pail, saying "a little of this and a little of tha t and then we will see what we will get." What we "got" was a delicate shrimp pink, which Mama called salmon and for which she was critically corrected. He immediately set to his task of mixing the rest of the paint and gave the impression of experimenting with the shades on a palette. Half an hour later he 21 SUPERVISING THE PAINTER had begun the job of painting, brandishing the paint brush in deliberate strokes, and at regular intervals stepping back to scrutinize his efforts. His face reflected deep absorption and when Mother interrupted him to ask that he remove the curtains from the window, he complied but was obviously annoyed and said ''I'm composing." It seemed that painting gave him inspiration to poetical lines. Mama rescued the sugar bowl from the table just before a blotch of paint fell. I heard Mama say, "Please be more careful-you've spotted the kitchen table. Can you take it up with turpentine?" The painter replied, "I've lost it, it's gone." "The turpentine?" "No, my train of thought." For the rest of the day the painter was left to himself in the kitchen because we didn't dare disturb his composition of poetry and because we were afraid to view our pink kitchen. The pungent odor of paint oil was already putting us into a state of nausea, and our spirits sank lower from the inconvenience of doing without food (an aspect no one had previously pondered). By six-thirty he was finished and everyone was violently hungry. Mama put . the soup on the stove to heat before she paid the painter, whose serious air was lessened by a suspicion of a smile, which the gay shade of pink must have inspired. Breakfast would never again be eaten in dejection. As the painter left he handed Mama a card: "Harvey Henderson -painter, piano tuner, and teacher of the clarinet." "Good is never done except at the cost of those who do it." -Cardinal Newman 22 PLACE OF PEACE Heavy laden perfumed mist Envelopes me. The comforting warmth welcomes l'vfy weary body, And bids it lie in rest. No distractions here annoy mel can think my best. When drooping eyelids fall In breathless wonder, A harsh voice from down the hall Cries, "Aren't you coming Out of that tub, at all?" -Barbara HipjJ TO A JANUARY SUN Cold, cold sun, Gleaming down through starving black trees, You white sooty snows And cruelly bathe gray houses III floodlight, Too bright, unfriendly, Flaunting your brittle goldness wide, You glance off polished ponds and rails, Causing me to shade my eyes From your reflected brilliance. -Jeanne Gallagher 23 THE RESURRE[l~ION A white rose is stained with martyr blood And the red rose, adorned and burdened with thorns, \'V'ilts on the tree of life. J In the garden of life A white rose grows, Stronger, more luminous, As the blood drains from the wilted flower. The last dried brown petal drops, And the beauty of the white glory Is triumphantly heralded by angel hosts Revealed in love to Mary Magdalene. -Lois T enbeig Summer fieaf by The summer heat lay in waves along the dusty road. It shimmered and danced off into the parched grass. A small dusky child with a mane of long black hair came skipping through the heat and dust. She was dressed in rags, and her face was dirty, but her dark eyes shone as brightly as the great gold hoops in her pierced ears. She was singing a song in a strange language, a wierd plaintive song. She h ad reached wh?t seemed to be the end of the tune, when she heard the rattle of a carriage. She leaped from the road into the grass along the side. Soon a large carriage drawn by two dusty white horses came into view. It whirled through the dust and suddenly came to a halt beside the child. The door opened and a lady in a stiff, purple taffeta dress stepped ou t. "Come here, child," she called, 25,. AMY SNAPP and the girl squeezed lower into the short grass. "Come here and I'll give you a dollar," the lady called again, and the small gypsy's eyes began to sparkle, and slowly she shuffled through the dust. The lady held out her hand and the girl reached out a grimy fist and grabbed the shiny silver dollar. She backed slowly away and turning, darted off into the nearby forest. The lady sighed and climbed back into her carriage. "I felt so sorry for the poor, hungry little thing," she said to her companion as the carriage rattled off through the heat and dust. In the cool, damp forest the little gypsy laid her new dollar on the soft earth, and reaching inside her pocket, brought out a handful of coins. She began to hum the sad song again as she ran her fingers through the pile of silver. to by It was a sultry night in June that I se t forth on a mission which gave me the most impressive and unforgettable experience of m y life -the privilege of observing the birth of a day. It was m y first "night shift" on my Father's f arm. The red Farmall filled with gas, water, and oil was fresh and eager to begin the night's work. As I pushed into fourth gear while going down the dtlsty, dirt road toward the field , the mo t or hummed beautifully on all four cylinders and seemed to say, "Let's go. I'm strong and sure of myself. We'll finish the field tonight." Fresh from an afternoon of sleep and clad in clean overalls, I was a little excited and tense about the extra responsibility and accurate co-ordination demanded of a night farmer. I was anxious to get to the field and hitch to the disc before the sun went behind the hill. After a matter of about ten minutes we arrived at our destination - a thirty acre field that was flat and typical of the Illinois prairie. I t was enclosed on all four sides by wire fencing because it had formerly been a pasture. This was BETTY B URK virgin soil and if cared for correctly was sure to raise a "bumper" crop. As we drove in the gate I could still catch a glimpse in fading twilight of the sweet clover field ahead to the east, the grove of sugar maples to the south, and the green pastures to the north. I hurried to "hitch up" while the last ray of light remained. The safety chain checked, the he ~dlights turned on, and the motor in third gear, I set to work for the night. A t las t I was truly a modern farmerette. I drove to the center of the field, found the "dead furro w ," and divided the field into quarters. The worst worry in the past, I was now ready for the " .kill. " After the first ten rounds it was fun, for by this time I had gotten the "feel" of the field-just how far from the ridge I must keep the front left wheel in order to cover the ridge made by the previous round and the distance I could go on the ends before making a "spin on a dime" curve. All this had become habitual with me and I could take time to notice things and daydream. It seemed as though the moment I looked at the sky it became aglow 26 with flirtatious diamonds darting about on a strip of black velvet. It was "dark of the moon" but I could catch glimpses of the Northern lights. Somewhere in the thick grove of sugar maples a bird trilled a sleepy good-night and crickets in the sweet clover chatted endlessly. The night wore on and the soft stillness turned to a chilly breeze. I stopped to put on my jacket and the engine roared louder than it had earlier in the evening. Maybe it just sounded that way because we were alone, the tractor and I, on a level field late at night and it was lonesome. At the time I thought it was becoming a bit stiff, like my back, from careening over the heavy clods . I heard a whinny in the pasture next to us-it must have been my horse, Melody. I was lonesome. I asked him how he was. A bullfrog in the pasture pond answered, "Br-r-r-k." I thought Melody said, "O.K." My eyes felt heavy and the sensation in my back changed from stiffness to dull pain. My head became tired of holding itself erect on my shoulders and I slumped forward on the wheel and stretched out my legs to relieve the pressure. Once I tried standing up but the end of the "through" came too soon and I almost missed the turn. Suddenly out of nowhere came hundreds of bugs darting back and forth in front of me trying to get down my jacket collar and getting into my eyes. I fought at them with my arm. Millions of them swarmed in front of the headlights making the reflection of light almost impossible. After what seemed an hour they disappeared as quickly as they had come. Then the most remarkable thing happened! The stars seemed to go out in a flash as if God had turned an electric switch in heaven to prevent their glow and the sky and everything close to me was enveloped in a black shroud. I could not even distinguish the outline of my hand, so penetra ting was the blackness. Immediately there came a heavy fog swirling in front of the headlights like angry water. I was no longer able to detect the front wheel so I cut off the engine. Stillness and fog prevailed and I thought I was in a different world -maybe I had died and this was that pool of swirling blackness that one goes through before he gets to his destination after death. Miraculously, I was whisked back to earth, the cloud had begun to rise in a layer and the sky was left a dark gray. The sugar maples made a silhouette of jet black against it and on the eastern horizon, above the sweet clover field, was a circle of white which turned into pink, then a deep rose, and later a fiery red. Everything surrounding me, including the tractor and my own hair, looked and smelled clean with the morning dew. I found I had only two more rounds to make so I hurriedly finished the field and started homeward. As I drove into the lane a rooster crowed loud and mighty as if to tell the neighbors what time I was getting in. The gas gurgled in its tank as I turned off the ignition. I patted the radiator. Tractor was a good 27 NIGHT TO REMEMBER worker. In a few hours Dad would fill her up again and she'd have to go through the same grind in the hot sun. She was used to it now -poor tractor. I was more fortunate than the F armall. I could slip under the cover and think-think about the astounding miracle I had witnessed. The same miracle happens daily and I had missed it all these years. My eyes closed automatically and I stretched out. How good God is - what a wonderful miracle the dawn is-how gorgeous-and sleep gathered me in her arms. ONE DEAD LEAf One dead leaf on a tree The remains of a populous spring, Your brothers are free, 'XThy are you bound still A shriveled, misshapen thing? One dead leaf on a tree Hanging listless, like a hopeless sigh, Can anything be So alone and still, Save a man about to die? -Lois Tenbieg GREEN [HEESE "Green cheese!" muttered the moon And he rolled to the fore Hoping to cut from view The talc of the earthly war. "Do not they know," he asked 1 n mocking derision, "That all injustices, Real or supposed, Can be appeased by fraternal sapience?" And yet while he spoke An offspring of Phoebus Nicked the old fellow 's crag turreted surface. "Lunetta," he cried, "send me my forces. I cannot be imposed upon." -Mary Jane Porter by MARY P. MCCARTHY Some unwise kites nosedived too low and were caught in the clutches of a widespread tree. Everywhere that fun-loving children came together a game was organized. Champion marble shooters were in the making. Agile, hopping youngsters were completely absorbed in a fascinating game of hopscotch. Others tried their skill a t jump the rope. Their sing song nonsense rimes were snatched up by the balmy March wind; faint strains of "Out went the doctor; out went the nurse; out went the lady with the aligator purse" lingered but momentarily. And that is how I came to know that spring was ' here to stay-it was "just bustin' out all over." I am sure of it now, and I will tell you how I came to know. Down on the old corner lot the neighborhood kids' organized a game of baseball. The teams resembled somewhat a cross patch quilt-all sizes, ages, colors, temperan1ents. Every head bore a baseball cap with bill nearly touching the nape of the neck. Shouts of "easy out""safe"-"strike three"-"take your base" could be heard blocks away. Excitement ran high and occasional disputes grew fiery. Skyward multicolored kites dipped, dived, swooped, soared and spiraled with the help of the playful wind. They were like children attempting to pull away from an ever watchful parent; they sought escape into the "wild blue yonder." 29 'IRE MAIiNIFI[}rr This radio script is one of a series pre jJared and presented over a local station by 11~elnbers of the Legion of Mary, Praesidium of Mary Immaculate of Marian College. ANNOUNCER: During the coming week the Church will celebra te the feas t of the Visitation. The historic evidence for this f eas t is found in the first chapter of the Gospel of St. Luke, wherein he relates the story of the visit of the Virgin Mary to the home of her cousin Elizabeth. \'Vhen the angel Gabriel had announced to Mary that she .was to be the Mother of the Messiah, he had also told her th1t her cousin Elizabeth was soon to give birth to the son whom we know as John the Baptist. Eager, as always, to be of help to others, M:1ry shielded her own secret and went on the trip over the hill country to help Elizabeth. It is easy to imagine how happy Mary was within herself at the consciousness of the Divine Burden she was carrying-the thought was ever present with her. When she entered her cousin's home, she was amazed to find that in some wondrous way Elizabeth already knew of her great grace. She greeted Mary with the words: "Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb." Mary's pent-up joy was released. In the realization that Elizabeth already knew, Mary gave way to a song of exu ltation that h as echoed and re-echoed since from the hearts of the faithful. We call this song the Magnificat, or the Canticle of the Virgin. The Praesidium of Mary Immaculate has prepared a short commentary on the significance of the verses of the hymn. - - - - - - - will read the commentary and - - - - will present the words of the Virgin. The hymn will be sung by - - - - - - with - - - - at the organ. (Soprano solo , G regorian chant, with organ accompaniment.) (Organ in) MARY: My soul magnifies the Lord and my SjJirit 1 ejoices in God my Savior. (Organ out) COMMENT A TOR: While Elizabeth marvels at the wonderful thing that has happened to her cousin, Mary's thoughts turn to Him Who has done this great thing-and to Him she directs the praise. Her soul would "magnify the Lord," would glorify Him, would rejoice for His great work. It is the keynote of joy, a happiness that no words can really express that Mary f 30 utters in the simple phrase "my spirit rejoices i n God my Savior." We have all experienced moments of bliss, moments in which we have been supremely happy. As we recall such moments, reflecting the while, we can get some small notion of what Mary felt as her heart overflowed with joy at the goodness of God-He had given His Son to her. Her thoughts are all of Him. She does not delay in pointing out the reason for her joy- ness itself-these are the characteristics of the Omnipotent, the All~ Holy God. And He shall continue to be merciful to man from generation to generation-as long as man is mindful of His proper relation to God. Mary is seeing in retrospect the mercy of God as shown in the history of the chosen people. She remembers special incidents as she sings: (Organ in) MARY: Because he has regarded the lowliness of his handmaid, for behold, henceforth all generations shall call 1ne blessed. (Organ out) He has shown m,ight in his COMMENT ATOR: There is no thought of self-glory in these words of the Virgin Mary. No, the thing at which she marvels is that one of her low station should be chosen for so high a dignity-such a dignity, she says, that from henceforth all generations-all people-will call her blessed. It is to her a wondrous thing that God should condescend to come and abide with her, and in humble sincerity she realizes that she has thereby been somehow set apart. With conscious conviction of God's great mercy in the Incarnation Mary continues: (Organ in) Because He Who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is His Name. And for generation upon generation is His mercy to those who fear Him. (Organ out) MARY: COMMENTATOR: Mary identifies her benefactor by His attributes: he who is mighty, he who is Holi- 31 (Organ in) MARY: ann, He has scattered the proud in the conceit of their heart, He has put down the mighty from their thrones, and has exalted the lowly. (Organ out) COMMENTATOR: The s e acts, promised of the Messiah, are all b e i n g faithfully accomplished. Mary sees them as existing not only for the Jewish people, but for all who love God. She extols the virtue of humility-she says in other words what Her Son was later to announce-tha t the last shall be first and the first last; that the proud man would be confounded. Humility, as a Christian virtue, is much misunderstood. It is not a weak submission to all who would lord it over us-it is not a bowing down before the powerful of society. Humility is truth-it is seeing self for what it is. The humble man sees the greatness of God and his own worthlessness; he recognizes that whatever talent or power he has comes from God and is therefore nothing to be boastful about. With St. Paul, the humble man. MAGNIFIl:AT to our father Abraham-and to all his posterity. On the glorious note of promise and fulfillment the hymn ends. acknowledges "By the grace of God, I am what I am." Mary knows many instances of Jewish history to prove that the proud come to ruin while the humble are raised up to success. (Organ swell-fadeout) ANNOUNCER: The joy of Mary is crowned with the vibrant notes of humble gratitude and praise for the mercy of God to men which has now been carried to supreme boun ty in the Divine Incarnation. Shall we not repeat the Canticle of the Virgin to thank God for this same favor which we share with Mary? Is it not especially fitting as a prayer of joy and thanksgiving to be repeated after we have received Our Lord in Holy Communion? Copy it from your Bible -or perhaps it is printed in your prayerbook. Pray it with Mary each day. Pray it now as - - - - - sings it again(Organ - Soloist I' e pea t s the (Organ in) MARY: He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away emj7ty. He has given help to Israel, his servant, mindful of his mercy- Even as he spoke to our fathers-to Abraham and to his posterity forever. COMMENTATOR: Mar y announces again the promise that those who have their reward of plenty in this life need look for no other, but those who deny themsel ves on earth shall be boun teousl y rewarded hereafter. All this, she says, is according to the promise MAGNIFICAT) Organ continues to TIME. ELEGY TO SPRING It's spring again And lilacs bloom And joy is everywhere Sa ve in acorner of my heart Where I have buried you. Yes, I have buried My mem'ries of You and your every way But spring comes round And I find I've made a visit to your grave. -Joan Baumer 32 BOOKS by ELIZABETH GOUDGE But the sap rose fro111~ inShe is the embodiment of the maexhaustible depths and triach of the last century, yet is the spring would come the character most alert to today. again. She is the example, fundamentally Thus, Elizabeth Goudge, in the responsible for the final innerclosing sentence of Pilgrim's Inn, satisfaction of each character who comes under her influence: of her expresses a final act of faith in the compassion of man and the eventual son, General George Eliot and his beautiful wife, Nadine, of her happiness of society. Pilgrim's Inn is a happy novel of grandson, David, and of Sally post-war England, of the trials and Adair, daughter of the portrait readjustments of a typical English painter, John Adair. family. It is a happy novel of unMiss Goudge paints her people happy people trying to find a peg with a sure hand. She is writing -a round and polished peg-on of today, the troublesome age she which to hang their lives. Miss knows best, but with the charm Goudge waves no banner; she and tranquillity of yesterday. With preaches no sermon. She claims to the possible exception of George, be only a storyteller. Yet through spent by the war, David and Nadine her characters effuses a philosophy are the most representative of now, -the gentle doctrine that age and their illicit love, a testimony to the love and wisdom are all bound up confusion of today. David could in one another and that one is not find the answer only by turning had without the other. to the chidlike Sally who "exLucilla Eliot, at eighty-six, is pressed loveliness by loving," perthe dominating influence of the haps the best way. But the Sallys, Eliot family, still directing the lives whose whole life is giving, are not of her children and grandchildren. many and no real answer. George 33 PILGRIM'S INN hides an ancient chapel open even to the animals and contains one sacred place-a weeping willow, a cascading stream, or a clump of rue-w hich is the particular balm for each member of the family, even to the mischievous twins who expend every bit of their five year old energy. The house casts its spell over everyone-the entire Eliot family; Sally and her father w ith his unusual insight into hum an nature; Hilary, the curate, a real good shepherd; Jim Malony and .Annie Laurie, traveling show people whose lives become entangled with those of the E liots; and Jill, nurse of the five E liot childern. The characters are real, the setting is magnetic, and the story is beautiful, beautifully told. -Mary Jane Porter could only wait for his wife's affection to mature into real love ; he had no answer at all except that of time. It is from the women of Nadine's and Lucilla's temperament that the solution will come, only there are not many women of Lucilla's age remaining. It is the N adines of today, therefore, who hold the power of releasing humanity from the grip of uncert ainty. It is in the w omen of her calibre that Elizabeth Goudge places her faith. Over all the author has thrown a misty atmosphere, a veil of unreality by the background of the Hampshire countryside, a magic woods and, above all, the house itself, "The Herb of Grace," which once was an inn for pilgrims. The charm of the old, graceful house is a rare charm. The mystical woods by Fishers of Men describes the work of the Jeunesse Ouvriere Chretienne (J.O.c.) or the Young Christian \Vorkers. This movement was founded by Abbe Joseph Cardijn, a young Belgian priest, who formulated the idea while imprisoned by the Germans in W orId War I for alleged collaboration with the allies . He realized, as Pope Pius XI declared many times, that the worker needs to be reminded of his dignity MAXENCE VA,N DER MEERSCH as a worker, of his divine destiny, and of his "right to achieve that eternal des tin y here below." Through his work in the slums of Brussels, Father Cardijn became convinced that some organization was necessary to assist young workers to overcome the deadening effects of a squalid environment and develop a completely Christian outlook. Although the ].O.c. is now a national organization, it first took 34 form in Clichy, a suburb of Paris, in 1927. At the beginning of the late war in Europe it was a force in the world of French industry. Van der Meersch's story of the "conversion" of Pierre Mardyck begins several years before the war in the town of Roubaix, France. Pierre is a t ypical young working man but he is unsatisfied with his life as it is. By chance he meets a Jocist who gives him a handbill from the local club announcing the next meeting. Partly from curiosity, partly from want of something else to do, Pierre attends the meeting. Moved with a new hope for himself and for his fellows, he joins the ].O.c. The first section of the book deals with Pierre's initiation into the methods of the ].O.c., the disapproval and intolerance which he finds even within his own family, and the sacrifices, sometimes to the point of bloodshed, that are required of the members. He tells of his struggles to find work in his new standing. He sees the unfairness and graft of the employers, some of them supposedly practicing Catholics. The workers themselves develop an indifference to their job and sometimes take advantage of an honest and generous employer. Pierre gains the confidence of the younger boys of the town who come to him with their problems. Finally, he succeeds in obtaining a position in an industrial factory where he tries to establish a foothold for the organization. Part two of the novel is concerned entirely with Pierre's attempts to foil the progress of the Communist elements in the factory. The Communist leaders, by their bluff, mob appeal, and terrorist methods, influence the laborers to agree to a sit-down strike and to the possession of the factory. With his courageous and often clever attacks, Pierre gains everyone's admiration and some backers, even though he is not able to prevent the strike. In the third part Pierre marries Lucy Hallewyn. He is now employed at a hosiery factory where he continues propagandizing the ].O.c. He relates the histories of some of the outstanding members of the group, all of them his personal friends. One young man named Siebel he particularly admires for his fine work in visiting the sick a t their homes and in the hospital, showing that the Jeunesse Ouvriere Chretienne as "fishers of men" can bring hope to all in need . The book is a documentary novel exposing the methods of the Jocist movement. In the words and actions of the characters the author manages to convey the Christian philosophy of the Young Christian Workers against the materialism of the industrial world. The author's frank, realistic approach may be upsetting to sensitive souls, but the details included are necessary to show true conditions among the workers. The setting of the story could be any industrial community and Pierre Mardyck any sincere young worker. Van der Meersch's book is a tribute to the high-minded men of the Jeuness e Ouviere Chretienne and interesting reading for any worldconscious person. --ANTOINETTE PANGALLO 35 reviewed by MARY Lou REDER O agreement. If you don't let your Jewish friend belong to the club, I'll keep mine away. A gentlemen's agreement. These people don't know that the thing they are doing is evil. In school they teach their children tha t all men are created equal but after school they absolutely forbid Johnny to play with Sammy. They don't mean to be prejudiced. They dislike people who are prejudiced. And they themselves, these people who don't realize tha t their silence, their ignorance, is hate's greatest weapon, are the ones who do the greatest harm, the ones who stimulate racial hatred. This is the theme of Miss Hobson's book. She develops this theme by having her hero pose as a Jew for six months for a series of articles that he is writing on the Jewish problem. His chief discovery is the subject matter of the book; mainly, that the greatest spreader of race hatred is the common man, not the soap box orator, or the fanatic, or the communist, but :-he man who remains silent, ignor o.. t, the man who forms a gentle..:oo. en's agreement. The second book, Kil1gsblood Royal, concerns the negro question. This book presents a problem-the hero, a prominent business man, well known and respected, discovers there is negro blood in his family. The book follows the presented problem; the hero loses the respect of his friends. He is the same The national importance of the racial problem is evident by the many books that have been written on this subject in the last few years. No, don't turn the page. This isn't any essay on the rights of man. This isn't a soap-box lecture or a clenchedfist sermon. It is a review of two of the above mentioned books. Two widely read editions concerning that touchy subject "Can men of different races and creeds live together peacefully?" To us, as Ca tholics, the answer should be a simple "yes." We believe that all men are equal in the eyes of God. We believe, but do we answer "yes"-and mean it? Do we accept the negro as our next door neighbor willingly or do we accept him as a negro? Do we deal wi th the Jew as a m an or do we deal with him as a Jew? Laura S. Hobson in her book Gentle1'J1en's Agreement and Sinclair Lewis in Kingsblood Royal have taken up this problem of racial hatred, but the final decision is in the hands of the millions of people who read these books. Can they destroy hate, man's deadliest enemy? Do they want to destroy hate? Are they indifferent? Are they ignorant? Miss Hobson believes that people are indifferent and ignorant. They have formed a gentlemen's agreement about country clubs, hotels, beach resorts, etc. A gentlemen's 36 identical man, but the dreaded word "negro" has destroyed his position in the town. Then the book brings the problem to a climax -the townspeople attack him and attempt to burn his house. In resisting, his family is arrested. But the book goes no further. It does not solve the presented problem. This is left to the reader. If your next door neighbor discovered he was colored would your feeling for him remain the same? He would be the same, but would you be the same towards him? Mr. Lewis doesn't think so. He implies that at some future time prejudiced hatred might be extended ~o hillbillys, Irishmen, people with red hair, or even to men who we ar polka dot neckties. Don't laugh, it is entirely possible. To be able to h ate a man because he is of a different religion or a different race makes the hater capable of being prejudiced toward anyone who is different from him. No one is exempt. Everyone is capable of being hated. These books are written with sincerity and honesty. Neither book is trivial. They have messages to deliver and they deliver them with earnestness. Mr. Lewis doesn't exemplify the negro as a perfect individual. He shows his faults and shortcomings, but in so doing, gives him a more human appeal. Miss Hobson, perhaps, solves her problem of anti -semitism or, at least, shows in what aspect of life the problem is most evident and who is at fault for its continuance. Mr. Lewis does not solve the problem of anti-negroism; in fact, he implies th1t it res ts in all people and can never be extracted. But, regar dless of their faults-o veremphasis of m an's h atred for the. negro on Mr. Lewis' p art and a tendency to be melodram a tic by Miss Hobson - these books are convincing and should bring the problem of 'r acial hatred sharply and clearly to the reader's mind. The lesson they teach is simple: To establish love, hatred must be abolished. Miss Hobson and Mr. Lewis believe that only the people can do this. All the books in the world will not create love unless love is in our minds and our hearts . C an we destroy hatred ? Yes! Will we destroy hatred? The -answer lies with you. "Joy is the echo of God's life in us." -Don Colu111,bia Marmion 37 ADELBERT and ADELINE (Continued from Page 18) realized, and for a while, at least, her allusions to her wealthy cousin ceased entirely. News of Adelbert's good fortune spread far and wide so it is not surprising that one day in a city about fifty gramm01neten away Prospero, Adeline's cousin, heard of his success and decided that there might be a share of the profits available for a near relative. For this reason he decided to pay them a visit. He sold his goa ts and hurried off to Abbeyville. Adeline was indeed surprised to see her cousin after so many years of separation, but she was very much pleased by his attentions and solicitations. They discussed their good fortunes, and when Prospero asked how they had come upon . their "wonder bean" Adeline, forgetting all caution, poured out the secret of their success . When Prospero had gleaned this surprising information he immediately began to form his four-point plan of success whereby he intended to secure some profits for himself. His plan went like this: 1. Learn the secret of their success (a great deal of which he already had). 2. Gain their complete confidence. 3. Convince Adelbert and Adeline that it would be to their best interest to put Prospero in control of the business. 4. Exclude Adelbert and Adeline from all profits. With the first step of his plan accomplished Prospero proceeded to work on the second. He offered to 38 help Adelbert around his store 1ll the village, and he always made it a point to agree with Adeline. The third step was accomplished when he learned that Adelbert and Adeline had told everyone tha the, Prospero, had been importing the beans and sending them to Adelbert. After this he did little or no work in the shop, and in time he even neglected to agree with all of Adeline's proposals. Instead he employed his time in making f riends among the influential people of the village and in discussing his Importing business with them. He often told them that it was becoming more and more difficult to secure the "mysterious beans" because of stringent trading laws, and eventually he made it known that it would not be too long before it would most likely be impossible to import the beans at all. Meanwhile, Adelbert and Adeline were beginning to doubt Prospero's good will toward them. It was not long until their suspicions were confirmed, for within a week his true character was revealed to them. Prospero made it clear that he would not import any more beans unless the entire business were transferred to him. His words struck as lightning. Adelbert wailed, and Adeline wept, but to no avail. And they finally decided that there remained nothing for them to do except cater to every wish and whim of Prospero -for fear that he would make known their fraud. Their fear became so intense that they eventually left the village and at Prospero's suggestion took up goat herding. Naturally their feelings were very sore on the subject of their lost wealth. Adelbert declared that he, for one, would not look at another of those beans as long as he lived. Adeline agreed with him (she had been greatly subdued since she realized that she was responsible for their unfortunate state of affairs) . And they both declared that they would never again drink that horrible and mysterious bever- ST. PATRIl:ll'S MIRAl:LE age because they had not slept a single wink since that first evening when they had served it to their guest. At first it had kept them awake dreaming of riches, and later had robbed them of their sleep for fear of having their secret betrayed. We may laugh at Adelbert and Adeline for blaming their sleepless nights on a helpless little bean, but ever since their time sleepless nights have been resulting from the "mysterious liquid" which today is known as coffee. (Continued from Page 9 ) leak, for the boys were going down. Kitty and I knew they hadn't brought the bucket of tar along. A leak meant trouble. The two of us s c r e arne d. "Swim, swim," shouted Kitty, racing along the bank. "We can't leave the Tar Baby. She'll sink," John yelled back. He wasn't surprised until la ter tha t we twins were there all of a sudden. I was getting scared and started to cry. Then the man was there. We didn't see him come, but he was there all right. He threw a rope to the boys and Terry caught it. Then he pulled them in to the shore. As soon as they landed, the man told them to get home and out of their wet clothes. Then he hurried away. It was that night at supper when Kittv told us about the miracle. She ~aid it was like Irish Nick had told her. Mama asked what she meant. "Why that man. He was St. Patrick. Today was his feast and he came to rescue John and Terry from drowning." Father said the only miracle he could see was that the boys hadn't both got pneumonia. I knew Kitty was convinced. The man hadn't just gone off, as father said. He had been St. Patrick and gone back to heaven. The next Saturday she and I went to see Irish Nick and told him the story. Kitty added something she hadn't told father, for he'd forbidden any more mention of the idea of a miracle. The day of the accident, all of us had had muddy feet from the soft ground on the bank. The next day after school Kitty and I had gone back to look for foot-prints. John always does that when he plays detective. We looked and found our small prints, and the boys'. But there weren't any foot-prints of a 39 man. Not even where we had first seen him coming from behind some bushes. We told Irish Nick about this. He just looked mysterious and smiled. Old Mrs. Flanaga~ was in the shop and heard. She says that's what comes of Irish Nick telling lVIODERN ART such stories to youngsters. Mama says the man just was too kind to wan t to be thanked and had gone off. Father says, "Nonsense." I guess I'm just too little to know. But Kitty still says it was St. Patrick's miracle. (Continued from Page 16) ject. The planes may overlap or be dislocated, but the result is an appeal to the emotions. We often view an object from one side only, thus omitting the other three. The Cubist, however,attempts to put all four sides on the same paper. The result is usually quite stirring. There is also that school which aims at expressing nothing but good design and pleasing color in a picture. It does not tell a story, as so many of us prefer. This is comm only known as Non-Objective art. The problem, as it presents itself to the Non-Objectivist, is t o fill a defined area with effective lines, well-planned spaces, and keyed colors so as to express harmony and balance to the beholder. Many of us perhaps are acquainted with Salvador Dali, student of the Surrealistic school. Here we may have anatomical parts distorted, objects out of their natural surroundings or unusual themes. The goal, however, is to present an idea to the witness which may be accomplished by distortion, etc. Incidentally, Salvador Dali says only two things are necessary to become a great artist. The first is to be named Salvador Dali and the second is to be able to paint as he does. But be that as it may, modern art is here to stay. Many objections h a ve nsen against modern art on the basis that it lacks the aesthetic quality which is a requirement for good art. This has undoubtedly come from the fact that inferior modern paintings have been incorrectly judged as representative of the school. Consequently many people ha ve come to believe tha t modern art is a fraud or entirely beyond their comprehensive powers and hence lacking in aesthetic quality. (The distinction should be made, however , that art which is truly grea t should em brace both aesthetics ;md the commentary. They cannot, theoretically, be separated.) Lovers of the romantic poetry of Wordsworth or Shelley are sometimes impatient with the measured couplet of the sober poet Crabbe. And devotees of the realistic novel are quite intolerant of such dreamy tales as "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight." Yet the fair student of literature can see a place for all of these and one genre need not quench out the life of the other. So it is with modern art. It has its place in art that cannot be disputed. 40 VIA MARIAE Mother, help me, night and day, To always live the merry way. Children always laugh and shout; Their minds have naught to fret about. Bu t how can I be gay or kind, Without the virtue, peace of mind? And with this virtue, peace of mind, The other virtues I can find. So make me happy, make me gay. Help me live the Mary way. -Patricia Parker 41 42 BUSINESS PATRONS MOONEY -:MILLER-\V ARD 501 M .ldison Avenue HA1VIIL TON -HARRIS & COMPANY 302 West South Street HARRY K. LANDES COMPANY 837 North Illinois Street HERFF-JONES COMPANY 1411 North Capitol Avenue THE URN 30th and IlLinois Streets M. O'CONNOR & COMPANY 600 Kentucky Avenue ANNA GLASKA VIRGIL SHEPPERD MRS. MARTHA G. BREIDENBAUGH DR. AND MRS. GEORGE F . LAWLER A FRIEND 43 44  ...

... ~arian College Indianapolis, Indiana AN A~THOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PR OSE AND VERSE . VOL UME E IGHT D Marian College IndianajJolis, 111diana 1950-1951 F rOIll II i)ain/ i ng by ANGELIC Sister Mary Rose, O.S.F., 185 9-19 30 GUARDIAN~ To THE SISTERS OF ST. FRA NCI S Oldenburg, Indiana this volulll( is lo vi11gly dedicat cd in cO lllm cm oration of their cc n telun")! 18 51-1951 The Staff Editor MAR Y \V ASSEL Associate Edito r 11ART A KILCZER Assistant Editors PEGGY O'HARA KATHLEEN BASHE Business lYIanagers :NIARIANELA URRUTIA KATHERINE HANE Y PAT GALLAGHER Circulation Manager KATHLEEN O'GARA 4 Contents Page Editorials .. ............. .. .. ...... ..... ... .. ............ ...... .... .. ......... ............ ................... 7, 9 God's Chos en Ones ............ ... ................ . Joyc ::! Ann Edwards '53 ..... ....... 8 M oth er Theresa' s A1Istria .................. ..... MJrta Kilczer '5 L ...... ............ .. 10 Edu cation in Indian:1-iS 51 .... ..... .. .. .... H ~ len Eckrich '5 L ..... .. ... ....... ... 12 Rain ........ .. ....... ........... .. ...... ........ ........... Helene Herber '5 L .. ...... .. ........ 13 Oldenburg: AIll( rican A ssisi .............. .... M artha Peine '52 .............. .... .... .. 14 The Srraj)bic Knight and His Brothers of th:: Round Table .............. ........ f.,bry \Vass ~ l '52 ...... .... .............. 16 Fran ciscan LorC' a11d D evotionL ............ R achel \\lest ' 54 ........................ 19 St. Fral1 cis-A Social R ef orlll er............. A lice Rab~n '5 L .... .. ...... .......... 21 Perfection ...... ........ .... .... .. ..................... Jo y ce Ann Edwards '5 L .... ...... 23 Sounding the Praises of God ............ ...... A udrey Kr.ms '5 L ...... .... .. .. .... .. 24 Fran ciscan Jo y ............. ................. .. ...... M :u ie Martino '5 L .... .. ...... .. .... .. 25 The \VbisjJering Br{'e:;e .......... ...... .......... B ~ tty Kennedy '52 .. .. .. .. ........... . 27 A Tilllel y QuC's tioll ............................... Billie J ean Eilers ' 5 L ......... ...... 29 R est ........ .............. .... ... ................. .......... Rita \\lokna ' 5 L .... .... .... .......... 31 Brother A to III Sj)ea/;:.L. .... ............... ..... .. .R itl McCann '5 L .. ........ ...... ..... J2 ChC'sterton and St. Fra11cis.. ............ ...... .}:ann::! Griffin ' 5 L .. .... .... .... ..... . 33 The S~wingCo'/1tra~ L ................ ........... K :lthl ~en Bashe ' 54 .. .................. 35 QlI ee n of the Fran cis ca n OrdC'r .. ......... .. Marian Murtaugh '54 ................ 36 Th e Franciscan E ra in Art .............. .... ... Helene Herber '5 L .. .. .. ..... ....... .. 38 St. Fr:: llcis as Linguist and Poct ............ .Rit:1 Sheridan '5 L .... ..... .......... . 39 A Modern Need: Mol' ," TertiariC's.. .... .... .je:l11 Hellstern '5 L .. ................. . 41 Science in the Fran ciscan O rder....... ...... Peggy O'Hara '5 L ...... .... .......... 42 F r.1I1cis T ho 111 j)S011, . Nat 11 re T roubadou 1' ........ . .. ... . .... . . . :"bry Schuck ' 52 .. .... .................. 43 The Wolf of Gubbio (An A 11 tobiogra j)h y ) ...... ............ ...... ... J ~ ,~ nne Griffin ' 5 L ....... .... .. ....... 45 Li ve One Da y at a Ti111 e...................... ...5u 2mma Baker '53 .... .. .......... ...... 47 Triull1 pb or S1Irrender ........................... -.Toyc::! Abrams ' 5 L ... ... .............. 49 Seque11ces in the Franciscan Suj)plelll C' l1L .... .............................. Joyce Breen '52 ..... .... ...... .. .. .. ..... 52 Book. R eviews "With the POL'{'/'ello" ....... .. .. ...... .. ..Joyce Abrams '5 L ........ ..... ....... 55 "Soll1e Rare Virtll C's" ..................... Ann McCarthy '52 ... ............ ..... 56 "Poems" .. .. .. ...... ...... .. ....... ..... ......... Joyce Ann Edwards '53 ..... .. ... .. 57 58 59 61 62 63 "Sketch Me, Berta H1I1ll111el!" ....... Marta Kilczer ' 53 ......... .. .. ......... "The Garden El1closec/" ................. M ary Morin '5 L .. .. .. .. ...... .. ..... . "Garla11d of V e1'Scs" ........ ....... .. ...... Toyce Ann Edwards '53 ............ "By the Light of His Star" .......... ... Peggy O'Har.l '5 L .................... Pa tro11s .................... .. .. .. .......... .... ......... .. ..... .. .......... .. .... ....... ............. ......... 5 LORD, make me an instrument of Thy PEACE. Where there is hatred, let me sow LOVE; \'V'here there is injury, PARDON; Where there is doubt, FAITH; Where there is despair, HOPE; Where there is darkness, LIGHT; Where there is sadness, JOY. o divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved, as to love; for it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardonecl. and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. o EDITORIALS The sturdy development of the Catholic Church in the United Sutes is an outstanding fact in the history of the last one hundred years. The discerning student cannot fail to note the all-important role which close-knit parish organizations, beginning with the parish school, have played in this development. The parish school has brou ght the divin e. truths of faith to the opening minds of children in the same manner as it has led them step by step to master the . elements of human knowledge. It has set religion before them in proper perspective. They have come to regard it not only as a branch of knowledge but as a way of life. By thus fulfilling its highest mission the parish school has bound the family to the Church by nature's strongest bond-the child, who holds the hope of the future for both. No appraisal of the work of parish schools would be complete that did not take into account the heroic self-sacrifice and unremitting devotion of those who have made the staffing of these schools their life work-the teaching Sisters of our religious communities. The history of the Sisters of St. Francis of Oldenburg vividly shows the selfless, dauntless spirit of one of these communities. Since their foundation, January 6, 1851, by Mother Mary Theresa Hackelmeier from Vienna, Austria, and Rev. Francis Rudolph, the Religious of this Congregation have given themselves with marked devotion and success to the task of teaching our Catholic youth. From Oldenburg the Sisters of St. Francis have gone into nine States, and are currently engaged in bringing the blessing of a Cltholic education to many thousmds of children. It is my pleasant duty to record here the debt of gratitude which the State of Indiana owes to these Sisters. Today many of their number labor here in our very midstpHticularly in many parochial schools, not only in the large cities, bu t in the small towns and rural ;;reas as well. Regardless of the 10ca tion of their schools these chosen workers of God give their all to spread the knowledge of Christ and His Church. The crowning achievem ent of their century of sacrifice and labor is Marian College, which, in the fourteen years of its existence, has offered to hundreds of young women a truly liberal education in the best Catholic tradition, and provides, as well, fundamental vocational training for many careers that attract them. High in importance among the fields for which the college students are trained is -; th~ teaching profession. The Sisters, r ~lLizing as th:y do the importance of both moral and religious discipline, spirituality and, faith for youth, are constantly endeavoring t::> furnish schools with teachers tnin~d to carry out this great work. Th~ir ideal of Christian education can be summed up by saying thIt since the student is made to the image and likeness of God, it is the duty of the Catholic teacher to cooperate with God in bringing out ever more distinctly that image in the child's intellectual, moral, religious, and physical development. This obvious but fundamental Christian principle in the training ~f youth cannot be overemphasized today, in view of the confusion that prevails among leading secular educ Hots regarding the goals and valu esin education. The Catholic Church insists that the educated mm who is to p,lay a useful part in th ~ preservation and development of our democratic way of life must, first of all, know God and have a firm gnsp of the Christian truths which are at the root of all that is best in our western civilization, now in such grave danger of disintegration. That view of education and of life is fundamental in the teaching theory and procedure of the Sisters of St. Francis. The first Sisters began their work without thinking of the distant futur~, leaving it to God alone to bless it and make it prosper if it were pleasing to Him and useful for the good of souls. The marvelous growth of the Congregation, which now has more than eight hundred members bears eloquent testimony to the . fact that God has indeed blessed a work begun with great faith and courage. It is with grateful hearts that we pray earnestly for God's abiding. blessings upon th~ Congregation that it may meet th ~ challenge of the widening tasks that lie ahead and continue to grow and prosp~r for many centuries to come. -Mary Wassel God's [hoseD Ones Once blossoms in the garden of the world, Transplanted now, in solitude they stand, And others sigh in pity and in scorn At these whose lives seem but a shadowy strand. But 10, while common flowers unnoted pass, Their very loneness fame with these aligns, , And th~y who luve refused the world's proud fare Bloom on its summit and unceasing shine. -Joyce Ann Edw ards 8 pax ef Bonilln Are we in a pOSItlOn to applaud progress of man's materialistic devices? Gigantic machines along w ith minute agents of atomic pot ency are placed at our disposal that we might enjoy peace and comfort. Ingenious man is ever seeking out the answers to problems of a physi01 nHure that we might have conve niences to pamper our every whim. And yet, what portion of the I1USS of people who have been the benefici:u ies of such tremendous labors h ave found true S1 tis faction in the fruit? \Vhat man, being wholly h OI1 "st with himself, can state w ith deep conviction th at no blight or pest is present to mar this fruit; tin tit h arbors the poten tiali ty of tru ~ life and ultimate salvation of soul? life, beautiful because of that simplicity. In it there is no place for th ~ complexities born of and nurtured by evil. Man earnestly and openly strives to follow the Living Word through faith in the Gospel. th ~ It is a comlJ/ete method of life \v hich must, essentially, regulate every moment of consciousness; which must keep the imitation ever present in the heart. The application of this spmt to oursel ves begins with personal sanctification and is completed by apostolic service to our fellow men. The former takes shape when we have conquered our desires for earthly grandeur and realized the vast possibilities in cooperating with the Church. Our hearts must accept a spirit of poverty thus excluding the tendency to acquire material wealth, and thus dismissing the urge to ba the our bodies in the oils of luxury. Then , and only then, will th e soul achieve goodness and radiat~ a sHisfying glory. The ans wer lies in bare evidence around us. It lies in the headline of ag gression; it lies in the stench of socially accepted immorality ; it li :s in .the shallowness of the shrew d pret ender's cant and hypocrisy. The proud heart of man is seeking glory to the exclusion of all that hints of th e supernatural. How great would be the inevitable difference in this world if we w ere to focus our attention on an outstanding model of Christi:m living and absorb the spirit of St. Francis. W ith this spirit one has autobecome an asset, and, perhaps, a grace to his fellow men. H is good will tow ard all with whon: he comes in contact, his brotherly love of all men as creatures of God will produce in him a profound interior life, a life which en~lbles him to accept with ease and r::signation the trials of this world. 111.: tically In this spirit we find the means by which we may direct our every thought, word, and action to our supern:nural goal. It is a simple Let the spirit of St. Francis soothe the cares of a tumultuous 9 Wrill-be the motto of our every day life. Ingenious man! how is your intelligence so great when you have failed to recognize the Source of all Knowledge! -Kathleen Bashe world. Let the adoptivn of his simplicity and love bring peace and joy to the troubled neart which cannot btO enlightened by materialistic comforts. Let the Franciscan greeting, Pax et Bonum-Peace and Good by It was early in the morning; the first sunbeams were dancing on the snow-covered meadows along the road. Peace and quiet reigned everywhere; only the rolling of a wagon broke the silence of nature. Th: wagon climbing up the hill was the old mailcoach, making its usual way in Hoosierland, carrying good and bad news, causes for joy and tears. There was only one passenger travelling in the coach on this sunny January morning, 1851, Mother Theresa Hackelmeier from Vienna, Austria. This was the very last part of her long journey. That very day she would reach her destination, Oldenburg, Indiana, and then she would start the great work of founding a new congregation in a new country. As she sat there and looked out of the window over the hills in her new home, her thoughts wandered onc;:: more back to her homeland, Austria. MARTA KILCZER Although Mother Theresa was only 24 years old she had witnessed the greatest period in the history of Austria, the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. It was a time of glory for Austria and a time of oppression for Hungary and the other countries inclu:fed in the Monarchy. It was the "Era of Metternich," a p~riod of conservatism which lasted until 1848. Prince Metternich was an excellent statesman gifted with a brilliant mind and a broad knowledge. His idea was that of absolutism. There was a strong censorship on books, newspapers, and theaters. There was no guarantee of individual liberties disruptive of traditional social classes, no grant of hew rights to middle class people. Neither did Metternich believe in the education of the masses. But in spite of Metternich's humiliating regulations Mother Theresa was prepared for her work as the founder of a teaching congrega tion. 10 with gUf'~, great reforms came which changed the life of everyone. The Industrial Revolution which brought social and economic changes was the beginning of a modern industrial system. Vienna, the capital of Austria, was also a center of European culture. Mozart, the composer of the imperial court, introduced his operas in the Royal Opera House and experienced grea t success. Vienna, the beautiful old city on the Danube, re-echoed with the waltzes of Strauss and the sweet songs of Schubert. After Mother Theresa had reviewed these facts of her loved homeland, she closed her eyes and saw the hills of Vienna once more. She saw the convent on the Danube where she spent nine years of her life. That was her past. Her future was in this new country, in the town of Oldenburg, where she had just arrived. Great peace enveloped her as she folded her hands, her lips forming a simple prayer: "I shall begin today, in Thy Holy Name." Yes, Mother Theresa had witn ~s sed real history. Despite the atti- tude and conservatism of Metternich, liberalism was the creed of an increasing number o~ people in Central Europe. The gathering discontent and the demand for reform suddenly showed their full strength. The flame of revolution started in France on a February morning in 1848. In a short time the whole of Central Europe was aflame with revolts. The overthrow of Louis Phil-: ippe in France encouraged the opponents of Metternich in Austria. The famous March days advanced with the motto: Down with Metf Cl'ltich. The populace of Vienna rose in revolt against the government, and Metternich had to flee. Hungary, under the influence of Louis Kossuth, deposed its Habsburg king and declared itself an indep endent republic. I t seemed as if there would never be peace again in Europe, but gradually the storm abated. The regime ot Francis Joseph I followed in Austria. Instead of revolution 11 E:Jucation In !J-nJiana - - 1851 by Educ:ltion-universal and freeis an id:!al of democracy. Today our American democracy comes close to a r ~ alization of that ideal. But we must remember that our present school system is the result of many yelrs of organization, work, and s.lcrifice. A backward glance at the sc hool system in Indiana, such as it was in 1851 when Mother Theresa first came to Oldenburg, will show th~ great advancement made by t11.lt state In the last one hundred years. HELE N ECKRICH ment:lry education fell to a great upon the parents of school children. The early settlers could not afford it. e x t ~nt By 1851 conditions had improved, but not to a great extent. The p::>orlyequipped schools, the irregular attendanc~ of the pupils, and th e almost non-existent pecuniary r.:!turns did not serve to attract young people to the t eaching profession. Educated individuals turned their t alents to something more immediately profitable. But perhaps the greatest deficienc y was in the set-up itself, for the "sys tem" as established by law W.1S r ea lly no system at all. The r ~ was no organization on a state-wide sc .d e. Each school set up its own re gul ations as to courses, requirements, t eacher-qualification, and h~ n g th of school term. A more drastic inconsistency resulted from the fact th1t elementary schools and universiti es were established by law, but th ere was no provision for scho::>ls which would adequately bridge the gap between them. The shortage of teachers and the m elgc supply of funds m ade it n -::x t to impossible for government officials-themselves of ten unint c res t ~ d-to provide ad::quate ,~ d uCltional opportunities. As a consequence, the r esponsibility of educating th ~ young was left to various prjY:l t 2 :1 n-] religious institutions. As early as 1816 an educational syst:,n h ad been provided for though I ~gisla tion which called for :1 nx,lb: r of common schools. The l1w w as a good one and gave evidene of the consciousness of the p20ple at th ~ t ime of the necessity of education in a democracy . But this legisla tion alone could not provide eduCltional opportunities for Indiana children. The obstacles met by thos~ who first attempted to impl ement th e law were formidable on~s . First of all, th e territory was populated. This, together fact that most of the children were needed to work at home an j on the farms for a great part of the y ~ ar, explains why attendance was slight. Also, it proved next to imp::>ssible to raise taxes sufficient to suppart the various schools , and, cons~quently, the financing of elespars~ly with th~ 12 Much of the teaching was done by the parish priest whose duties and responsibilities were already tremendous. We find it difficult to imagine how he could have found time to organize and conduct a school. But he did. Still, he could not continue to be the sole instructor of the young. The teaching sisterhoods were needed if the schools were to survive and prove beneficial. They were invited to come and they accepted the invitation. \Vorking hard and sacrificing much, they maintained the schools and set up other common schools and high schools, welcoming all to take ad- vantage of the opportunities they provided. Thus was the gap bridged. The few scattered private schools and the rapidly multiplying parochial schools carried the greatest weight of the burden of education until the public school system, with the help of a greater number of teachers and additional funds and materials, began to function. Public education in Indiana made great strides in one hundred years, but let us not forget the debt of gratitude we owe to the pioneer efforts of the valiant sisterhoods. RAIN It splattered down upon my face; It stung with every drop, But as I struggled on in vain, I knew it had to stop. Sometimes in life th ere seems to be No hope from earth or heav'n above, But having faith we always find That God but tests our love. -Helene H erber 13 by MARTHA PEINE Assisi As a collegiate of Marian College conducted by the Sisters of Saint Francis from Oldenburg, Indiam, I had heard a great deal about the Franciscan town of Assisi. Therefore, I included it in my itinerary during my Holy Year Pilgrimage to Rome and was eager to compare it with Oldenburg to which the Sisters often referred as the American Assisi. Assisi is now widely known but the people who lived in the quiet Italian town before the twelfth century probably never entertained the thought that their village would some day be famous. But Assisi was destined to be more than just an average town, for in the twelfth century one of its wealthy and gay young men, Francesco Bernardone, began a new way of life. Throwing away his claim to wealth, he founded three religious orders. Yes, Francesco Bernardone was soon recognized throughout the world as a 14 great leader, and although he did not realize it at the time, he was exerting a powerful influence not only in Italy, his native country, but in other countries throughout the world. Assisi, which had heretofore been little known except perhaps in the immediate vicinity, in less than one hundred years became known over the continent. Seven hundred years later, in the wilds of Indiana, the inhabitants of the small village of Oldenburg, as the citizens of Assisi, probably never thought that their small town was destined to become an American Assisi. Nevertheless, in 1851 Father Francis Rudolf and Mother Theresa, both fired with great zeal and religious fervor, established a Franciscan order which was to grow and prosper there as it had in Assisi, and not long after, in 1866, another Francisc.a n order, that of the Friars Minar, made its appearance in Oldenburg. In less than one hundred years it was evident that Oldenburg, as Assisi, was to be more th an her villagers had foreseen, for as religious went forth and established schools and parishes the town of Oldenburg became known not only in Indiana but in other states throughout the nation. As Assisi is nestled in the hills of Umbria so is Oldenburg nestled in the hills of Indiana. By comparing maps, we find that although Oldenburg and Assisi are both located between renowned cities-Oldenburg between Indianapolis and Cincinnati; Assisi between Rome and Florence-we must leave the main highway and travel a distance of a few miles before we reach our destination. Anyone who has visited As- sisi cannot help but think of the little Umbrian town as he enters Oldenburg, for here as there, the road . curves and winds in and around the beautiful hills and on either side of the road every possible inch of ground is cultivated; both communities are situated in farming districts. Even as we enter Oldenburg we are r eminded of Assisi. There is something quaint about these two towns, not in the sense that they are not modern because the inhabitants enjoy all modern conveniences. Their small, comfortable hotel, their post office, stores and homes are equipped with the latest facilities. But among the factors which make Oldenburg and Assisi quaint is that they are both villages of many spires. Where the spires of Assisi represent three Franciscan Orders, the spires of Oldenburg represent two: The Order of the Friars Minor and The Third Order of Saint Francis, both regular and secular. In Oldenburg as in Assisi, the church and convent are situated on the main street. Going down main street we view the Convent of the Sisters of Saint Francis with its spacious buildings; in Assisi we behold the Convent of the Poor Clares. A little farther down the street we come to Holy Family Church while in Assisi we visit Saint Clare Church. Where in Assisi we continue on the same street to see the Basilica of Saint Francis, in Oldenburg we merely round the corner to observe the monastery of the Friars. Although the population of Oldenburg is much smaller than that of Assisi, it is remarkable how (Continued on page 46) 15 5/',e Sel uphic J'ight 4 And fiij Brotherj 0/ the Round 5atle by MARY \V Assn Magnificent castles topping gently rolling hills, surrounded by verdant forests and bubbling streams; a romantic land furnishing the stage upon which proud kings, brave knights, and beautiful ladies played their parts-that was England in the early Middle Ages. Undoubtedly, the greatest of the kings of th:lt time was the legendary King Arthur whose court was held at Clmelot. As the legends go, one Pent;cost Eve .all th e knights of his Round Table were assembled at a great fe as t. As they sat they h e~ud a loud noise, like the cracking of thund er. A sunbeam, with a brightness not of this world, g leanied suddenly in the center of the room and there float ed into the hall the Holy Grail. Over it was a veil of white samite; no one could see it nor the one who bore itthen it disapp eared. gels. Immediately his soul left his bod y and was carried by the angels up into heaven. Sir Galahad, indeed, had found the Holy Grail and died of the finding . La tel' in the Middle Ages there was another knight, Francis Bernardone, who consecrated his very life to the service of his King, a King truly worthy of all love an d honor for He is the Ruler of heaven and earth. Unlike Sir Galah::td, how ever, who sought adventure clad in glorious armor and moun ted on a shining steed, this knight traveled th~ earth on foot, clad in a simple robe, seeking only to glorify his Master. Is it not strange, that his soft ton es have echoed farther than the clatter of Galahad's sword?that the vibration of his bare feet on the soft soil has lingered long after the thundering impact of Galah::td's horse has died? Indeed, St. Francis of Assisi was a Seraphic Knight-a pure, angelic, sublime kni ght . He, too, made vows to his King: vows of poverty, chas tity, and obedience which were Llithfully fulfilled daily throughout his entire life. The Seraphic Knight's w hole life was a kind of chanson de gesie, as Theodore Maynard says in his Many of the knights took a vow to depart in quest of the Holy Grail and not to return until they had seen it. This privilege, however, was granted to only one of them. After a year of searching, Sir Galahad, a young and tru e knight, knelt on ';! day to pray. He suddenly beheld before him the Holy Vessel encircled by a great crowd of an16 life of St. Francis, Richest of ' the Poor. Alr~ady in his boyhood days, Francis loved to listen to the wandering minstrels of Provence, from whom he learned the tales of prowess and the legends of chivalry which 'were to color through life his views of men and religion. He had the idealistic temperament and characteristics of th~ knight: courtesy, refinement of manners, sincerity, loyalty, magnanimity, courage, decision, and promptitude in action. But Francis Bernlrdone, seeing how inadequate and how worldly the old chivalry had become, looked for the Sacred Heart within. He would be the Knight of the Sacred Heart, the Herald of the Great King. One day while Francis knelt in prayer at the foot of the crucifix in the old chapel of St. Damian, he h ~ ard a voice saying: "Francis, go and rebuild My ,house, which, as you know, is falling into ruin." Francis took the message literaily and s~t to work to repair the chapel of St. Damian, all th~ while singing and praying tenderly and ardently. \v'hen he had finished th~ work on this chapel he began to restore the Benedictine chapel of St. Peter's just outside the walls of Assisi and tha t of St. Mary of the Angels at the Portiuncula. This work Francis did out of his great love for our Eucharistic King. The devotion of St. Francis to the Holy Eucharist was that of a Knight, of a lover. Hence, the long hours of the day and night which he spent in adoration and prayer, and the visits which he always paid to the Blessed Sacrament when, on his journeys, he came to a church 17 or chapel. His love for Christ in the Eucharist expressed itself in zeal and devotion for all that concerned the church, the tabernacle, the altar, the sacred vestments, and linens. In a word, Francis was Int~nsely interested in having the places of worship worthy of the Divine Master. Each knight had a lady with whom he was enraptured and for whom he fought all battles. Francis Bern1rdone was no exception. He chos~ his to be Lady Poverty, the daily companion of Christ on earth and his faithful one on Calvary. Most amazing of all, he was not alone in this unusual knighthood, for his example drew others to his side and daily the ranks of the Brothers of the Seraphic Knight's Round Table increased. As some of King Arthur's knights were more f;Jmous than others, so also were some of the Brothers of the Round Table outstanding. Among the notable wer~ such holy men as St. Anthony of Padua, St. Bonaventure, and St. Paschal Baylon. In their knightly adventures they witnessed many strange and wondrous sights. Once St. Anthony was confrontd by a heretic who refused to admit the Real Presence since he was unable to se~ a change take place in th ~ elements of the Eucharist. The pious Franciscan said to him, "If th~ horse you ride were to adore the true Body of Christ under the element of bread, would you believe in the truth of the Sacrament?" Th~ heretic promised he would confess it truthfully if the experiment was a success when carried out on his conditions. Anthony agreed. For two days the heretic horse of food and on th :: third day brought him out. They brought him hay on one side, while on the other stood Anthony devoutly bearing the Body of Christ in a ciborium. The horse, as though endowed with reason, quietly advanced and respectfully bent its knees in front of the Saint holding the Sacred Host until Anthony gave it permisslOn to go away. Needless to say, the heretic believed. c1~prived th~ St. Bonaventure, christened John in Baptism, became seriously ill at the age of four and was given up by the physicians. His mother called St. Francis and begged him to heal her child. Francis prayed over him and the child was cured immediately. The Saint is said to have uttered the words, "Oh, blessed event." Thus .the child was then olled Bonlventure. He entered the Fl',mciscan Order at an early age. Beouse of his extensive and profound knowledge he was appointed professor of Theology at the University of Paris. He became Minister Genenl and so prudently did h ~ fulfill his office that h ~ is considered the second founder of the Order. Because of the unction of his many writings he is called the Seraphic Doctor. He, too, practiced great devotion to the Blessed Sacrament. Once when he abstained from Holy Communion for several days from a sense of humility God rewarded his ardent love by sending an angel to place the Sacred Host on his tongue. Although the precise origin of the For t y Hours Devotion is wrapped in a good deal of obscurity, th ere are certain facts which must b:! accepted. While there is evidence to prove that the custom of exposing the Blessed Sacrament for public adoration was introduced here and there both by the friars and others before the middle of the seventeenth century, the Forty Hours Devotion with exposition of the Blessed Sacrament owes its origin to the Capuchin Friar Joseph Plantanida of Fermo. In order to avert the perils with which th e Turks were threatening Christendom, he prevailed upon the Senate of Milan, in 1 5 37, to have these solemn prayers by turn in each of th :! churches in the city in such a way as to keep up the devotion throughout the year. St. Paschal Baylon, ",ho was nude the patron of all Eucharistic societies and assemblies by Pope Leo XIII in 1897, was one of the greatest among the Brothers of the S: raphic Knight's Round Table. Although he was a humble lay brother who had never learned to r e:ld or write, he could discourse about the de epest mysteries of religion with marvelous insight to the astonishment of the most learned men. He fostered special devotion to the Blessed Sacrament. His joy and honor was to have the task of awakening in the early morning his religious brethren, the soldiers of Christ, in order to summon them to fresh combat. In his eyes, the community at prayer in the chapel was the army of the Lord drawn up in battle array and about to take the field. God was pleased to reward his ardent zeal. One day while out-of-doors. Paschal devoutly (Collfi-nuC'd on page 51) IS 5ranci:Jcan ofore and :J)evolion:J by RACHEL Every country has its lore-its customs, its songs, and its ceremonies. Even so has each religious order. Certainly it would not be wrong to say that, among all the orders, the Franciscans have a fair share of this lore gathered through the years since their founding by St . Francis of Assisi. To the ordinary customs which are purely their own they have added many religious devotions which are now recognized as an essential part of Church liturgy. Th~ list of these devotions is lon.g, because both Francis and his followers found it necessary to express their great love for Christ in some other ways than were found in pre-12 th century tradition. The lore and .devotions collected by this Order are not merely pious little actions, but the expression of souls who ha ve made Christ the very center of their existence. St. Francis himself is directly responsible for the most famous of all Franciscan customs-that of the Christmas crib. This practice, begun by the Saint as a simple means of letting people see what they would forget too easily when they merely heard it, has been spread over the entire world, and it now exists as the true symbol of the spirit of Christmas. \VEST Let us imagine the first FrancisCJn crib scene set up in a cave in a wooded are:l near Graecia, Italy. Th ~ Child, a doll, lies in the crib; peasants and shepherds with their flocks are present for the ceremony. A Mass is said near the spot-the firs t Midnigh t Mass; the peasants, inspired by the simple loveliness of the scene, sing praises to God-the first Christmas carols. It was with such inspiration that a Franciscan, Jacopone da Todi, who is generally considered the first writer of Christmas carols, composed his early songs. The crib is the first thing that we think of when we mention Franciscan lore, but it is by no means the only important part. Francis possessed a great love for the Blessed Sacrament. It was only natural, then; that his followers would want to spread this devotion throughout the whole world to all people. It was w hat Francis would have wanted. So we find that Anthony of Padua, Berthold of Ratisbon, Alexander of Hales, Bonaventure, and Duns Scotus, all Franciscans, are often called the "wonder-workers" of the devotion to the Blessed Sacrament. St. Paschal is the patron of Eucharistic SOCletles, begun by Franciscans . A Franciscan promote:! the Forty Hours devotion, and, 19 aglin, Franciscans first established Adoration in Milan. No doubt you know several men w ho belong to Holy Name Societies. But did you know that this society and practically all forms of devotion to the Holy Name of Jesus were b~gun by Franciscans? It was St. Bernardine of Siena and St. John Capistran, both Franciscans, who introduced the banners consisting of the Greek IHS monogram of th:! Name of Jesus surrounded by rays of light. This monogram was lat~r embroidered on the vestments worn by priests. It was through the efforts of the Franciscans, too, that the Name of Jesus was added to the Hail Mary. The Feast of the Holy Name dates back to the 16th century, when it was first celebrated cy the Franciscan Order. Knowing that Francis frequently meditated on the Passion of our Lod and that h.e himself bore the stigmata, it is not surprising to find that the Way of the Cross was first introduced by Franciscans. Later Clement XII extended this devotion to the whole Church and r .;:served to the Order the right to bless the Stations, a right which still pr:!vails today. One of the most famous and bemtiful of all devotions instituted by Franciscans is that of the recitation of the A ngelus, morning, noon, and night, in memory of the Incarnation. Under the presidency of St. Bonaventure, the Chapter of Assisi held in 1269 confirmed the custom which had been introduced as early as 1250 in Franciscan churches. Perp~tual 20 Then too, th e Franciscan Order, ever mindful that their home was the Portiuncula dedicated to St. Mary of the Angels, composed the second part of the Angelic Salutation: "pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death." This addition was approved by Pius V in 1515. Another of the many Franciscan devotions to the Blessed Virgin is th e rosary known as the Franciscan Crow n, consisting of seven decades in honor of the seven principal joys of our Lady. This rosary was introduced by the Venerable James of the Crowns, a Franciscan, who is said to have received the special protection of Mary. Besides these practices and devotions ther;~ are many hymns which have been written by Franciscans. Some of the most famous of these are the Dies !rae by Fra Thomas of C ~ lano, the Stabat Mat fr by Fra J acopone da T odi, and the Veni Sancte Spiritus attributed to St. Bonaventure. The Franciscans have instituted also many well-known feast days . Perhaps the best known are the Feast of the Most Holy Trinity which is celebrated on the first Sunday after Pentecost; the Visitation, on July 2; and the Immaculat e Conception, December 8. Such devotions, hvmns , and prayers manifest the Franciscans' great love for Christ and His Mother. They m ake up a great part of the heritage which has been left to the world by St. Fr:tncis and his devoted sons . by A world of two billion crea tures of God so many of whom are living Godless lives! Hatred and disregard for fellow men where there should be love and considera tion! And yet we wonder why news of crimes of war and bloody strife, manifestations of such intense hatred and Godlessness should daily occupy front pages of our newspaper. There might be A-bombs to destroy Russia and government force to end strikes; but physical force can never be a remedy for moral corruption. It is not absolutely necessary that bloodshed and strife precede all social. progress. It is, however, necessarily true that the only way in 'which genuine and lasting progress on be achieved is by a moral and spiritual reform of the basic compon en ts of society-the individual. Social reform through individual reform! That was the principle underlying . the social reform of the Little Poor Man of Assisi. To soften the mind and heart of each individual by instilling in them the concept of Christian love and justice was the Franciscan way of effecting social betterment. The extent to which a society comprehends the true Christian meaning of life is the only real criterion for judging the condition of that society, for it is to achieve his eternal goal that man exists, and ALICE RABEN the society that assists man in attaining his goal is the only society that is fulfilling its purpose and can be ClUed truly progressive. ? Social progress, then, necessarily bespeaks moral reform. And the condition against which that moral reform in society is aimed primarily is materialism-the use of power and wealth as ends in themselves ra ther than as means to an end. From the state of materialism flow the roots of social ills-greed and selfishness . From true spiritual and moral reform come the combatants of those ills-Christian brotherhood and charity. In his n ative territory in central Italy, St. Francis preached Christian charity as a remedy for the social ills of his time. This area was greatly in need of such a great Apostle of Peace, and the preaching and pleading of St. Francis was more than a little effective in bringing about a triumph of peace. Even in the town of Assisi there was great need of reform. The society of Assisi was in a deplorable condition, the cause of which could be found mainly in the feudal system. The oppressed Mi110res, those of the lower caste, were revolting against the tyranny of their overlords. Seeking civil and p::>litical rights and the liberty ac- 21 corded to them by social justice, th~y carried the issue to a bloody strife. With the Perugians as their allies, the overlords defeated the Assisians and many of them, including Francis, were led captive to Perugia. The enslaved class continued the agitltion for social and political rights. Francis, day after day, pleaded wi th and exhorted the nobles to concede to a peaceful and satisfactory agreement. He preached Christian love-a rule which was to form a cradle for democracy, and the people listened to his plea. Largely through his appeal, the troubled town of Assisi reached a peaceful settlement in 1210, when a pact was signed in which the Minores were granted equal rights with the nobles. Also, in neighboring towns St. Francis, through his power of speech and example, brought social conflicts to a peaceful settlement. Throughout these social conflicts in i:h~ dying d1ys of feudalism, St. Francis espoused the cause of the oppressed-the Minores. By choosingfoi himself and his followers the title of Friars Minor, he emphasized his preference for the lowly class. But in upholding their cause, St. Francis was not condemning wealth and power. He had no intentions of overthrowing the existing social order. His objective was not the destruction of wealth and power, but the destruction of the attitude thlt they were ends in themselves. He wished to find a way to harmonize wealth and poverty, power and submission. To carryon the social reform for which he had set the example, St. 22 Francis founded the Third Order for the laity, the Tertiaries. It would answer the social question for the very reason that it would sanctify its members. Sanctification would not be limited to the members only, but the members would influence those with whom they would come in contact. By practicing th e corporal and spiritual works of mercy, they would be doing social work in the best sense. In the twentieth century, Pope Leo XIII, a Tertiary and an apostle of social reform, designating the Third Order as the most effective means of achieving the desired reform, stated: "I expect the rebirth of the world and the welfare of social order from the activity of the Third Order." Pope Leo and his succ essors considered the social problem to be. above all, a moral and religious problem which could be solved only by a sincere return to a Christian way of living. A moral reform, a return to the pr..::cepts of the Gospel and to the teaching of our Divine Master, alone can cure the social ills in our day, as it did in the days of St. Francis. We hw'c the example and the facts, but we need leaders like the one who led Assisi and Perugia to peace. And, we, like the people of Assisi and Perugia also need followers who will open their hearts, hearts hardened by hatred and materialism, to the ple;ding of a Heart Whose very essence is love. If God's precept, "Love thy neighbor as thyself," were weighed by the classes that today are divided by bitterness and un-Christian antagonism, the social war would end in a treaty of peace and brotherhood of men. Perfection I seeYou in all that is beautiful; I see You in the glory of the sun; I see You in the silence of the nigh t; I see You in the forces of the wind. I see You in the most dainty flowers; I see You in the deep, endless sea; Wherever there is goodness, . My God , I see You without end . But whenever I shall see You Clearly in my worst enemy, Then shall I know, my God , That I could not love You better. -Joyce Ann Edwards by A UDRE Y KRA us \Vhat charms music has and wh:tt power it possesses to move th~ mOJds of men! Yet, the part it plays in assisting the devout to raise their minds and hearts to God is greater and far more important. Our holy Father, St. Francis, realized this and wished to cultivate spiritual song for the sake of spiritual joy. To him, music was to serve for "sounding the praises of God." Fnnciscan Friars and Tertiaries in ensuing years strove to keep this spirit alive by hard work and an undying desire to praise the Lord. Early records reveal that Franciscan Friars wen~ adept in making musical instruments and versed in th~ knowledge of theory. Friars Korir,ld Rott:!nburger, Leonard i\t[arcae, and Urban of Venice were famous organ builders in the 15 th century, and Dardelli of Mantua was renowned for his lutes and viobs. St. Louis of Toulouse has the distinction of being the first Friar to write on the theory of music, his topic being polyphonic music. Bonaventure of Brescia, Peter Canuzzi, and Francis of Bruges followed with other treatises. Among the Franciscan Tertiaries wcn~ gr~at musicians, both priests and laymen. Some devoted their life work almost solely to the writing and promoting of church music; oth:!rs wrote both sacred and secular compositions. 24 In the latter group are found such men as Rossini, Liszt, Gounod, and Tine!. Rossini's prominent contributions are oratorios, a Tantum Ergo, and an 0 Sallltaris. Liszt was so inspired by the beauties of nature that he wrote a Franciscan Sonata, known as Th e Sermon to the Birds in which we hear the chirping of the birds around St. Francis and the conversation that takes place between them. It is a beautiful tribute to St. Francis who saw reflected in Nature the beauty and splendor of the Heavenly Father. Other sacred works of Liszt are Christus, The Legend of Elizabeth, and The Grand Mass. To the magnificent accomp :miment of the first prelud e of BJch's \1(1 ell T empered Clav ichord, Gounod wrote the lovely melody of an Ave Maria, weaving into the composition a reverential spirit which has served to make it the most popular of his sacred works. He also wrote oratorios and several 11asses. A more recent composer, Edgar Tinel, wrote some impressive church music and cantatas. Of his works, the oratorio Fral1ciscus is noteworthy. Undoubtedly though, without tertiaries like Pope Pius X, Perosi, and Palestrina, church music would not have been reformed and purified. Utilizing his knowledge of music , particularly G reg 0 ria n Ch:ll1t, Pius X labored unceasingly recreate a universal art in which the resources of all countries and of all times are blended. Palestrina, a great and esteemed composer of sacred music, dedicated his life's services to God. He left us a tremendous wealth of compositions-ninety-five Masses, three hundred fifty Motets, sixty-eight Offertories, and three books of Lamentations. These are but a portion of his works, all breathing the holy spirit of devotion. His ma,gnificent tribut e to Pope Marcellus, the Misstl PajJae Marcelli, was regarded as the model for future church music. It is his greatest, it is unsurpassable. \\I'hether Friar or Tertiary, all h :1Ve brought out in their labors the sounding of the praises of God. They have left us memorials in the form of compositions which echo the spirit of the Little Poor Man of Assisi. throughout his pontifical reign for the reform of church music. Like St. Francis he saw spiritual value in music and believed that it ought to be an incentive, an inspiration for prayer and thought. His cry was for holiness, artistic purity, and universality with the exclusion of every other kind of instrument but the organ from church. In 1903 he issued the Motu Projnio on sacred music ' in which he set forth specific points for the writing of church music. He stated a preference for the use of Gregorian Chant in church, and banned music that was thea trical. One of his chief workers was Perosi, a priest, a composer, and at one time musical director of the Sistine Chapel. As a composer he exer ted his greatest influence by weaving into his works all styles of music . He advocated that men try to ~rancijcan Joy by MARIE It is said th at St. Francis was the "Troubadour of God" who saSlg his way through life. His whole life was one of joy and happiness because his heart and soul gloried in all of God's creations. MARTINO question can be answered, we must know in what real joy consists. It do ~ s not consist in a life of riotousn ~ss and hilarity . The joy we must attain should be serene and friendly, and radiate from wi;thin ourselves. It comes from giving instead of receiving; from comforting ins'tead.of being comforte:d. True joy is like a small stream of water that runs through life-sometimes .stopped The question arises, "How could ~ uch a poor man always be happy md cheerful ' since h e had nothing to be happy about?" Before this 25 into th eir souls until they were one with God. This joy of prayer led to a joy of poverty, for this personal contact with God was so soulsatisfying that they had no need of other things. Poverty could only bring suffering and in this, Francis and his brothers rejoiced also. To suffer for Christ was for them the most pure and greatest happiness. up with troubles-other times, let to flow unhindered. Is it possible that St. Francis had nothing to be happy about? It is true that he had not the riches and comforts of life, but the source of his joy was having nothing and yet possessing all things. He could be lighthearted because he had found a way to attain true indifference to material things. Not having any wealth or comforts to fret and worry about left him free to appreciate Almighty God's beautiful creations. Every man and woman, every bird, animal, and flower was his friend, for in them he could see mirrored all the essence of God's perfection. This sense of beauty was to Francis one of the most outstanding human sources of happin~ss. \Vhen he was racked with pain, this source enabled him to think of all the beautiful flowers of the earth, the stars ap.d the moon, the water and the wind. The influence of this joyous spirit of St. Francis has left an indelible mark on all Franciscans. This is the reason why they are, on the whole, very cheerful persons. They have attained a true indifference to material things, and through Francis, know that Jesus wants them to serve Him, not only with diligence and readiness, but with joy. The erroneous belief tha t a pious man cannot be happy and cheerful is unfortunately very prevalent in the world today. It is believed that a religious man must forget all about happiness and go about with a sad and gloomy countenance. If he is not morose, cranky and unsociable, he gets the reputation of not being pious at all. These ideas are so distorted! Can't it be seen, that a truly pious soul is constantly with God, Who is the source of all joy? With his soul at peace, how can he help but overflow with happiness at the mere thought of God? The life of St. Francis was filled with many joys-joy of prayer, poverty, suffering. But these were only streamlets flowing from the one main source that brought him happiness. St. Francis of Assisi had attained the Joy of all joys-joy in God, of God, from God. St. Francis' way was to bury all troubles so as to let the stream of joy wind its course through his life. Francis impressed this same character of joy on his Order. His brothers were to be joyous not only in exterior appearance but in conduct as well. He said of them once, " Let them take care not to appear exteriorly sad and gloomy like hypocrites, but let them show themselves to be joyful and contented in the Lord, merry and becomingly courteous." His brothers were always to be messengers of joy by word, song, and example. And they were, for they found with Francis, a joy of prayer which penetrated 26 by BETTY DJys at the Lake are gay ones when the days are July, sunny and warm, and the Lake is Hiawatha with its deep shimmering coolness, modern tourist cabins, and exciting p eople. Cathryn Eliot was an exciting person; she danced and swam and laughed, with a vivacity and a love for life possessed only by the pretty, twenty, and happy. Days at Hiawatha were gay, even when one had a problem. Ca thryn tossed her problem around now as she lay in the warm, sunsOlked sand, idly watching the sea gulls play catch over the lake. That she, who loved dancing and tennis and . the attentions' of boys, should feel this strange attraction away from them; that this confusion should dominate her thoughts and this yearning upset her heart dismayed her. Cathryn was afraid she had a vocation. . How long she had felt this way she couldn't tell. It had been all so subtle. She had always thought vocations were definite and pronounced-like a call. That's what everyone called them. , Cathryn reached into the red and white beach bag and pulled out a much used pamphlet entitled, Your Vocation. She turned to well-read page 12. "The call to religious life is not an overpowering audible expression. To some, it is true, it is distinct and KENNEDY strong. But to others it is soft and gentle, like a whispering breeze.""A whispering breeze," Cathryn thought, "such a very gentle whispering breeze tha t I can hardly hear, but only feel." "Some recipients of a vocation are overwhelmingly drawn to the religious life, some are quietly and softly drawn and others, sad to say, hesitantly ... these last feel the attraction, but also a repulsion. They desire to make the sacrifice, but are appalled by the cost." Ca thryn laid the pamphlet down, rolled over, and rested her head on her arms. ' She knew the rest, she had read it over and over many times. Those "sad to say" hesitants would find it rough in any other life. Father Thomas had said their chances of heaven and eternal happiness were weakened much by their reluctance. But, oh, the glory tha t is theirs if they answer the call. The gulls had abandoned their game of ca tch and were chattering excitedly over the prospect of mealtime. C athryn shivered and realized it must be getting late. The appearance of Pete Jordan, the young towheaded life-guard, going to supper, confirmed her suspicions. She gathered her things together and waited for the lanky boy. "Hi, doll," Pete grinned amiably. "'What are you doing way off here by yourself?" "I wanted to be alone," Cathryn 27 SJid in her best Ka therine Hepburn fJshion. Pete laughed heartily, as she knew he would, and the subject of her solitude was dismissed. "Hey, you going to the dance tonight, Cathy?" Dance? Oh, yes, the dance at the lodge. She was going with Chuck Mason, Michigan U's latest contribution to Hiawatha. She should be thrilled, but strangely"Sure thing, Pete. \\7 ouldn't miss it." Gollys, Cathryn thought, I shouldn't have stayed out so long. Got to press my dress, and my hair's a mess. Early mornings at the lake are cold. Cathryn pulled on a blue cardigan as she skipped down the path in front of the cabins. She hurried sc> ,s not to be late for Mass at the little wooden church right outside of Enochsburg, a little town a mile fr::>:11 the resort. . She had started daily Mass when sh~ ,,"as very young. "It's the surest way of going to heaven," her mother used to say. The small church was quiet and peaceful. The low intonations of the priest and server were scarcely audible. At the altar the grey-haired man in the red vestments of the martyr Mass raised his sacrifice to heaven: Hoc est Enim Corjrlts Meum. . "My Lord and My God," Cathryn prayed. "May I serve Thee moc." The great yearning had sw:!lled within her, enveloping her h e1rt and pressing tight against it. Ther"e was a whispering breeze and CHhryn listened closely. "May I serve Thee more." 28 Th~ pretty city girl in the little wooden church did not notice the congregation leave nor the server dim the candles. She knelt with her hands pressed against her eyes in communion with God. "How can I give up the dances with boys like Chuck, the tennis and swimming, hours on the sand with a good book, the hen sessions and "deep philosophical discussions" at Jo's. How can I leave the parties and pretty clothes" Cathryn started as if someone had tapped her on the shoulder. Her next thought was, "How can I give up this for-." "W'hy I never thought of what I was gaining, only what I was losing. 1 thought of the strict convent rules, and the vows for God, but I forget about the positive side. " Oh, the life of a religious is not all sacrifice and penance. It is a life of moments of exquisite happiness, of a closeness with God onlv those fully dedicated to Him can' attain, of a grea t peace of mind, of deep internal spiritual joy. For those who are physically, mentally, and spiritually fit, and who h:tve a desire to be a religious, a lasting, gentle, firm and right desire, for these, who are blessed with a vocation, there is no greater peace and happiness than that granted to them for dedicating their lives to serving God . "1 love you, My Lord," Cathryn prayed with her heart and her mind. T ears swelled in her eyes as she poured her heart out to God. "Forgive me for hesitating to answer (Conti11ucd 011 page 48) f by 1v1y d ~a r BI LLIE JEAN EILERS aunt Louise, It's always the little things, isn't it? The seemingly insignificant things which recall to our minds what has long been cast into oblivion, minor incidents which happen at no special time to startle us into the reality that we know so little ;tfter all. Dramatic sounding perhaps, but such a ' thought was induced by your intense curiosity conc:erning the seal stamped on the invitation you received for the cent ?nary celebration of the Sisters of St. Francis of Oldenburg, Indiana. wi thin these lines is the official title of the Congregation: the Sisters of St. Francis, Oldenburg, Indiana. The arms pictured within the smaller circle trace their existence to a personal incident in the life of the Little Poor Man of Assisi. In 1213, St. Francis set out for France. On his way he came upon the city of Susa in Piedmont where he was graciously received by the Count?ss Beauix, wife of Thomas of Savoy. In her willingness to serve her saintly guest, Beatrix consented to the request of St. Francis to finance the building of a convent there. Before the Poverello's departure the Countess asked him for some token of remembrance. As a true follower of Lady Poverty, Francis felt a t a loss to fulfill this request. After a moment of delibera tion, he tore loose one of the sleeves of his well-worn habit, and humbly presented it to the Countess, saying: " The God of Peace be with you and your children." Throughout the r?mainder of his journey to Italy Undoubtedl y, that seal went unnoticed by the majority of those who were extended a formal welcome to the centennial festivities. Your inquisitive letter literally demands a prompt answer; therefore, I shall do my utmost to clarify the importance of that "circular puzzle" immediately. The convent seal of the Sisters of St. Francis suggests a wealth of beautiful meaning. The two concentric circles symbolize the distinctive Franciscan cord. Encircled 29 r~tire, but that night he had a strange dream. He dreamed that a pllm tree sprang from the ground at his feet, shot up skywards and under its green foliage millions of men found shelter, peace, and happiness. It was then borne upon him that the little brown company he hld so hastily dismissed were chosen on~s of God to found an order in honor of Lady Poverty and that they and their disciples would cover the whole earth with a mantle of ch1rity. When he awoke, he sent for them immediately and receiving them with great kindness gave them his approval and blessing to found a new order. through France, Spain, and PortugJl, he usually held his arms crossed on his breast. As you see on the seal, one arm is covered, the other is bare, The latter is in token of the charity of the poor St. Francis who despoiled himself of his own clothes to give to the poor. The wounds in the hands and the cross arising between the arms represent the sacred stigmata of St. Francis received on Mt. Alverna. The date 1851, along with the brilliant star, commemorates the founding of the Community on January 6, feast of the Three Kings, 1851. The spray of lilies in the center of the seal owes its presence to a dream. Reverend Francis Rudolph, at whose call the Sisters came to Oldenburg, was in doubt as to where to erect the first convent building. His sexton had a dream in which he saw the field where the buildings now stand covered with lilies. How very appropriate for the Sisters of St. Francis, lilies of purity. Immediately Fr. Rudolph chose the place for the convent building. The Latin phrase Pro Deo Et /111'cuibus-For God and Youthproclaims the motive of the Sisters' life and work. Such a lengthy explana tion; yet, nothing less could suffice for this tiny but gigantic seal. I am sli.ghting you, I'm afraid, by ignoring your numerous other questions but time presses me at the moment and I have little choice. I hope I have contributed to your better knowledge of the symbolism which interested you. May I close with the blessing ollr holy Father, St. Francis, often gave-May tbe God of You may be interested in a parallel dream which led to the foundation of the Franciscan Order. The Little Poor Man of Assisi with his little brothers implored Pope Innocent III to give his approval to the founding of a new religious orderan order of poverty, penance, and humility. The Pope ordered them to Peace 17:' ren ." 1/Jifh you and YOllr child- Devotedly, your niece, Jean. 30 REST To want to know for want of love, and more, to h:lve this want aware that it might channel into furtive fear, is pre-occupa tion, sleeplessness. To seek ,and feel, for love, that knowledge can be development IS peace. -Rita Wokna by RITA MCCANN wh~n the French physicist, Professor Antoine Henri Becquerel, discovered that uranium gave off mysterious rays. In time it became known that the atom of radium was disintegrating and that it was the breaking up of the atom that released the energy. "In this the nineteen hundred and fifty first year of Our Lord, there ar~ two menaces threatening the world. One is the liquidation of God from th~ earth; the other, the liquidation of the earth. Is the latt~r to be feared? \Vith hope in my heart for the future of mankind, I should now like to introduce to you Brother Atom who will answer this question. " "Then physicists began asking, 'If radium is constantly disintegrating, giving off the energy that is locked within its atoms, why shouldn't it be possible to cause the atoms of any substance to give up energy?' Thus was born the research that became known as 'atom smashing.' Atom smashing took a new turn in 1940 with the discovery th:lt one form of uranium, known as U rani urn 23 5, would release a tr~mendous amount of energy. \Vh~reas the radium atom merely expels a particle or two from the nucleus, the a tom of Uranium 235 splits in two. After your scientists accomplishd the feat of separating Uranium from its ores, they had to separate the atoms that compose Uranium 235 from the rest, which is Uranium 238. \Vhen you succeeded in this task, the problem which had to be solved by your scientists in \Vorld War II was how to speed up the process of concen- "Thank you, FIORETTI. Students and friends: I do hope that wh:!n I have finished telling you of mys~lf, you, e'lch and everyone of you, will call me Brother without fear. "Yes, my name it Atom. You, the world, baptized me the llnsplittable thing. Yet, one August day, not long ago, the world was stunned as news spread of the liquidation of a Japanese city. How did this come about? I was the answer. I had been split. I, with such great powers of good, was used for destruction in my debut as a splittable thing. "But, let me tell you of some of my background prior to the news of August, 1945. My energy is called a tomic energy. This is energy released by the disintegration of atoms of matter. My existence was first disclosed to the world in 1896 32 verse. Only one-tenth of one percent of my energy was released in the bomb that destroyed Hiroshima. However, when I am used for good I do not need to be feared, but loved. \~rho knows, I may be the cure of cancer, of polio. I know and some day you will know what great things can be accomplished by using me as a stepping stone to your eternal goal. You should see me as one of a series of gifts from God to man. St. Francis would have included me, Atom, with the rest of his friends. He would have called me Brother Atom. "I hope that in the months and years to come the world will t'ruthfully be able to call me BROTHER ATOM, that the world will see me through the humble eyes of St. Francis, tha t the world will see the good in me. "Good-'For this was I born and for this I came into the world' (John 18:37)." trating Uranium 235 . You executed this to a certain extent. "I could tell your scientists which way to turn from the point they have attained, but it would not be fair to the dignity of man to reveal the next steps. "I was the minimum of divisibility beyond which you thought you could not go, but you did. By being able to split the unsplittable do you boast that man has risen beyond human stature, has cheated destiny? I, Atom, answer, 'NO.' You were meant to split the socalled unsplittable. You were meant to go on, for as is found in Ecclesiasticus 10:4, 'The power of the earth is in the hands of God!' "However, my main reason for speaking to you is to make you realize _that I, Atom, do not have to be feared. In the form of a bomb or explosive I should be fea~ed for I could 'liquidate the uni- by JEANNE Anyone desiring to read the usual type of saintly biography had better completely bypass G. K. Ches terton's life of St. Francis of Assisi. But if you are interested in St. Francis, if you are aware of the tremendous talent of Chesterton, you cannot afford to ignore this book. GRIFFIN St. Francis, Chesterton frankly admits, presents a problem to the modern world. Upon closing a book of his life one is tempted to remark, "\Vhat a strange and wonderful person! But of course he lived in the thirteenth century, and he was a saint," which seems to lead to the conclusion that saints and the Mid33 dIe Ages are completely remote from the here and now. Let us examine that conclusion. In the Middle Ages Dante wrote his Divine Comedy, a poem which daily receives more critical acclaim. St. Thomas wrote the Smmna T heo/ogica, the first complete synthesis of Catholic theology. Art and architecture flourished; there was a tremendous intellectual development in all fields. Men thought. Perhaps that is where the remoteness enters into the picture. Such a large per:.. centage of our modern world has ceased to think. If, however, it is true that we build upon the past, then the heritage of the Middle Ages is only as remote as our own intellectual stagnation makes it. " . . . and he was saint." But what, exactly, is a saint? What sets him apart so drastically from other men? Only this, that he has awakened from a sort of death in life t(f a realization that life really begins with death. He sees the truth of things clearly, because he has an intense love for God Who is the Truth. With the realization that all things are possible in Christ, he sets out to accomplish the (to us) impossible. derstanding. St. Francis lived and acted as he did, not in defiance of his time, but because he was following the way of the Cross, since this was Christ's way. And it is a way for all time; in fact, it is the only way. To some he was an ascetic, an extremist, perhaps even a fanatic. To the orderly mind of Chesterton he appeared one of the sanest men of his day. Chesterton and St. Francis have much in common, but perhaps this mar.:! than anything: they were both converts-Chesterton from Protestantism, St. Francis from a pleasure-loving life, and they both found something better, through faith and love, and the wonderful grace of God. The whole thing might best be summed up in the last six lines of Chesterton's poem, The Convert: The sages have a hU11dred 1naps to give That trace their crawling cos11laS lik e a tree. ThQ.JI rattle reason out through many a sieve That stores the sand and lets the gold go jl'ee : And all these things are less than dust to me Because my name is Lazar1ls a11d I live. That was the logic of St. Francis. \V'hen one understands this there can be no further basis for misun- 34 by KATHLEEN Beneath the thick column of ascending smoke lie the crippled remains of proud humanity; lies the rubble of rebellious earth. BASHE Creatures steeped in vain glory were plunged head-long into eternity to continue forever in diabolical hands. Gaudy structures reflecting a false and empty splendor trembled, twisted, and crumpled in an unrecognizable heap. A quick glance into events recorded by the pen of time explains and justifies this scene of morbid desola tion. Over and over again, as each year unfolds, are penned these fatal words, Man neglected . . . man failed . . . man rebelled . . . The fiery scourging of humanity drew forth inconcordant sounds of misery, terror, and desolation. And now this scene of smoldering stillness-a scarred and silenced globe, vibrating in its orbit, once more moves on with regularity. From its charred surface, signs of life begin to form. Creation has been spared the final blow! Lulled into lethargy by the ways of materialistic ' ideas proposed by crafty demagogues, humanity disregarded its previous code of laws and morals. Once again it failed to r;::sist the luscious aroma of the fatal apple which seethed interiorly with maggots of hatred, lust, and intolerance. Masses of humanity, driven on by force of sin and guilt, marched with haughty defiance upon the remaining and astonished populace. Man, in his role of avaricious beast, sn:arled in the face of Infinite Life, dared to mar with filthy claws the Edifice of Sovereignty. Perhaps the reason for this manif estation of mercy lies within a shaded grove untouched by the castigation. There a miniature grotto is nestled in a convent yard. Humbly before the peaceful alcove kneels a nun with radiant countenance. The simplicity and sincerity of her continuous Litany rise as a sweet odor of incense to appease, to soothe insul ted Love. Then came the VISItation of Righteous Anger. A whip of fire lashed out across the sphere of iniquity with furious and lethal strokes. Further chance is given erring man. The purity of the lily growing among the weeds of humanity has compelled the attention of unlimited Mercy. 35" by MARIAN MURTAUGH onward his t~aching prevailed. Following in the footsteps of their own Duns Scotus, the F ranciscans now became the most fervent champions of the doctrine. During the seventeenth century, they, with the backing of the Spanish Monarchs, renewed with vigor their campaign in behalf of Mary's glorious privilege. Their work at this period was the compiling of da ta and advancing the cause in Rome. One step further was gained when Pope Gr~gory XV decreed in 1622, after the thesis was successfully defend ed by a Franciscan and a Jesuit, that all were to celebrate the "Conception" and not the "Sanctification" of Our Blessed Lady. Finally, two hundred years later the sons of St. Francis were rewarded for th~ir efforts when on December 8,1854, Pope Pius IX, a Franciscan Tertiary, solemnly declared that the Blessed Virgin Mary "in the first instant of her conception, by a singular privilege and grace gonted by God,. in view of the merits of Jesus Christ, the Saviour of the human race, was preserved exempt from all stain of original sin." The story of Mary Immaculate and the Franciscans does not end here. Immediately after this proclamation, Franciscans began to pray, study, and labor to add to the glories of Our Lady the dogma of h er bodily Assumption into Heaven. Again their efforts were crowned Have you ever noticed the softness in the eyes, the warmth in the voice ,,,hen a Franciscan speaks of Mary? There is something special between the Mother of God and these children of St. Francis. You would understand if you knew their background of seven centuries of work for her glory. I t is a drama of a grea t love and devotion to Mary which begins with the very found a tion of their Order. Out of his tender devotion and childlike trust in Mary, St. Francis consecrated his Order to her at St. Mary of the Angels, and there it grew in the shadow of a sanctuary dedicated to her. Furthermore, St. Francis had a solemn Mass celebrated . ~very Sa turday' in honor of the Immaculate Conception. With the inspiring example of their Seraphic Father before them, the members of the Order began their long history as defenders of this glorious privilege of their Queen. A memorable event took place about a century later at the University of Paris. A public discussion on the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception was ordered by Pope Benedict X because certain learned men had attacked the doctrine. There, to defend it, was a Franciscan, the Venerable John Duns Scotus, a great theologian. His convincing proofs laid the foundations of the true doctrine so solidly and dispelled the objections in a manner so satisfactory, that from that time 36 with success when Pope Pius XII bst year on November 1 proclaimed the Assumption of Our Lady a dogma of faith. As a pledge of its special benevolence to the sons of St. Francis, the Holy See in 1910 granted them the privilege of adding the invocation, "Que:!n of the Order of Friars Minor, pray for us," after the invocacation, " Queen of the Holy Rosary, poy for us," in the Litany of Loreto. To increase still more among the sons of St. Francis the liturgical cultus of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Pop;: Pius XII graciously granted the whole Franciscan family their own feast of the Immaculate Virgin under the title of "Queen of the Franciscan Order" to be celebra ted on December 1 5. All "little portions" of the Fran- 37 ciscan family have their own ways of honoring Mary. Our Sisters, the Sisters of St. Francis of Oldenburg, Indiana, have always been under Mary's care. \Vhen their convent was rebuilt after the fire in 1857, it was dedica ted to the Immacula te Conc eption, and as the chapel, aca demy, and college were added, they also were placed under Mary 's patronage. A part of their devotion to Mary is the daily recitation of the Office of the Blessed Virgin and the rosary . In the spirit of a world praying fo r p :;ace a beautiful shrine of Our Lady of Fatima has recently been erected on the convent grounds at Oldenburg where all may come to pray: "Queen of Peace, Queen of the Franciscan Order-pray for us." by During the Holy Year Pilgrimage to Rome many people took time to visit some of the well known centers of art. One place that attracted much attention was the Upper Church at Assisi, built over the tomb of St. Francis, where the greatest works of Giotto, a famous 1rtist of the thirteenth century, are displayed. These frescoes depict a story book life of the Little Poor Man of Assisi. HELENE HERBER stressed in art as well as in sermons. Now, not only in the sermons of the Friars Minor but also in art hell began to recede into the distance and paradise was placed in the foreground. Christ Crucified with words of pardon on His lips was more frequently presented than Christ as judge of the universe. Byzantian art lacked naturalness and visual perception; its figures were stiff and formal. These figures now gave way to flow of movement and natural groupings. Thus medievalism disappeared in art and the Franciscan era provided a stepping stone to the Renaissance. St. -F rancis' love of all created things as brought out in these paintings shows that he considered Nature an expression of God's creative love and himself as a brother to all creatures. He urged the living of a holy life by serving God out of love rather than out of fear. His words and good example touched th ~ hearts of his hearers and prompted them to better lives. This awakening of religious fervor, which St. Francis and his followers stirred, found an expression even in the arts, particularly in painting. Since the spirit of the Poverello of Assisi prevailed in art during . this time, this period is called the Franciscan era. The most outstanding artist during the Franciscan era was Giotto. His formative y~ars were aided by Cimabue, an already renowned artist of that day. When the latter was called to Assisi to help decorate the Church of St. FClllcis he was accompanied by Giotto whose genius soon surpassed that of his teacher. Although Cimabue painted beautiful frescoes of St. Francis, Giotto best translated into his paintings the lovable spirit of the Poverello. During the Middle Ages hell and the severe punishmen ts of sin were In the twenty-eight pictures of the Little Poor Man of Assisi III 38 the Upper Chapel of St. Francis, three distinct periods prevail in Giotto's artistic abilities. Since the first eighteen were painted at an early age in his career, they are bold and severe but simple in design. The next five are carried out in a Byzantine manner, yet with careful detail and peculiar color. The last represent the finest work of Giotto. In these paintings St. Francis is depicted as a man of Giotto's own time making the people of his own age feel closer to the great mystic. Fifty years after the death of Giotto, Fra Angelico was born. Although Giotto interpreted the era, Fra Angelico expressed better the spirit of the era. His art, which can be seen on the walls of the cells of the monastery where he lived, was the work of love and devotion. Every painting grew out of a faith tha t had simplified the world to a few values. Until his death in 145) when Florence, a great center of art, had made the full swing into realism, learning, and paganism, the Franciscan spirit in art was carried on, leaving in Europe within the field of painting a heritage more graceful, more enchanting, and more musical than any other. by RITA Th~ thirteenth century, the centuryof the high flowering of Catholic civilization, was ushered in by a military and knightly atmosphere with the religious fervor of the first Crusades dying out. It was an age of faith but, nevertheless, the neglect of the rights of the weak and the poor and the worship of material things were prevalent. Such was the setting of the world when Francis Bernadone was born. His father, Peter, a wealthy merchant and man of affairs in Assisi, was on a business trip to France at the time. The Madonna Pica, his mother, had named him John; how- SHERIDAN ever, it is said that when Peter first saw the infant he saluted him as FLlllc;;ois on account of Pica's French extraction; and the name stayed with him. When time came for him to go to school, his mother sent him to St. ' George's school where he learned his rudiments. Latin was easy for him but he showed a greater interest in French, p::rhaps, because of his name or because of the French lyrics he would sing. The Madonna Pica was the source of influence for the songs which he sang. She was born in Provence, the home of the great Provenc;;al troubadours who crossed the 39 Alps to make a minstrel's living in the cities and towns of Italy. The Proven<;al ballads were always on her lips. During Francis' youth he sang his own poetry and the songs of the Proven<;al poets in the streets of Assisi as a troubadour, but when he came out into the world to do his spiritual work later, he was called Le Jongleur de Dieu. The Madonna Pica, by her training and constant love and understanding for her child, molded Francis into a poet who later as a saint was to give a new semblance to Italy and Christendom. He mingled wi th the people and le arn~d to speak their simple speech, w hich Dant~, a tertiary and FranCIS most literary disciple, later formed into a language. Italy could lay claim to no particular literary production in its own tongue until St. Francis had written the Canticle of the SUI1. This poem so influenced Dante that he continued to do constructive work until the Italian language reached its culmination in the Di z;il1a C01l1111 edia. Thus with the Poverello of Assisi as its Father the rich Italian language saw its birth. St. Francis held more than one place in the litera ture of Italy and of the Christian world . "He was a poet whose whole life was a poem" as G. K. Ches terton writes in his 40 biography of St. Francis. Without realizing it he made the very act of living an art. From the time of his youth, with his elegant and majestic robes, until the moment of his death, with his body stretched on the bare earth in the form of a cross, his acts and their meanings imprinted themselves on the mind of mankind. In the last years of his life St. Francis began to grow blind and as a r emedy it was necessary to burn his living eyeballs with a red-hot iron. \\,1hen the brand was hot and ready for use, he spoke as if to an invisible presence: "Brother Fire, God m ade you beautiful and strong and useful; 1 pray you be courteous with me." While he suffered a torture equal to martyrdom, he was living his own poem, The Canticle of the SUit. By the middle of the thirteenth century, St. Francis, as only the poet-saint could do, had raised men 's minds above small earthly matters to the vision of Truth and Beauty and Love. He had begun by wandering the streets of Assisi singing love songs with his boon comp anions; he ended with his Canticle of the Creaturrs, all of them joinin g him in a cumulative praise of God. by JEAN Today, we live III a world, strange in its object and strange in its setting. It is steeped in naturalism and soul-destroying materialism. A godless press and anti-Christian forces are undermining the morals of society. The Church is once more confronted with paganism. It is, indeed, modern paganism but not less dangerous than the paganism of old. \Vha t can change such a world? The Third Order of St. Francis. Members of this great Order will, by their good example, exercise a tremendous influence over all classes of society. They will have no part in the prevailing wickedness becalise of their strict observance of the Rule of the Third Order which they profess of their own choice. The Rule is no more nor less than the observance of the Gospel. If a person lives according to the spirit of the Gospel, he will love the rich and poor; be charitable to the needy and sick; aid charitable institutions; be decent in everyday life; practice mortification, and have a profound veneration and reverence for the ministers of the Church. 41 HELLSTERN "WThen St. Francis founded the Third Order it was for the purpose of permitting those living normal lives in the world to observe a rule of life within their own homes without interfering in any way with their domestic duties. As a result the members of the Third Order always have been, for the most part, married persons. To re-christianize the world and society more Tertiaries are needed, especially recruits from the ranks of our Catholic youth. Youth is the time for decisions, a time for developing soul and body. Youth is filled with enthusiasm and zeal. Already at the age of fourteen a boy or girl may become a member of the great army of Tertiaries. It would be very gra tifying and encouraging to see the Third Order organized in every Ca tholic high school and college. More Tertiaries are needed to carry the spirit of St. Francis into every home, every walk of life, and everyone of the various social rela tions. By their virtuous lives and good example, the T ertiaries exert a potent influence on all with whom they come in contact. They can Change the W orid. Science in Ihe ~rancijcan Order by PEGGY O'HARA The praises of the Franciscan Friar Roger Bacon have been sung now for some seven centuries and since that time praises have been sung about many other famous men in the scientific field among whom are Volta, Galileo, Galvani, and Duns Scotus. Duns Scotus, too, was a Franciscan. Most of us know that. But how many of us know that Volta, Galileo, and Galvani were Franciscans also? To the Franciscan Duns Scotus is attributed the first establishment of Ar:stotelian philosophy in the schools during the last half of the thirteenth century. Scotus set forth doctrines in the field of cosmology and wrote commentaries on Aristotle's Physics and Meteorology. A revolution took place during his lifetime: that in which Aristotle's Physics were undermined and the basic principles of modern science formulated. This revolution was first the work of Oxford Franciscans of whom Duns Scotus was a member. Roger Bacon must certainly be classed with the foremost scientists of his day. His contributions to the fields of alchemy, chemistry, geology, biology, zoology, optics, astronomy, and physics are inumerable and without comparison. He took almost every natural science beq uea thed by his predecessors, improved it or advocated its advancement. It was Friar Bacon who inven ted the thermometer, the microscope, gunpowder, and who first suggested health rules as we know them today. Without his beginnings, progress would have certainly been long delayed. Roger Bacon was not only one of the most educated men of the thirteenth century, who mastered the knowledge of his age, but also a man who made distinct and original contributions to every science. Because of this he may be considered the forerunner of modern learning. The telescope was invenred during the latter part of the sixteenth century. Its invention is attributed to Galileo Galilei, who can be called a Tertiary scientist. Through this invention new discoveries concerning the moon and the planets were made. Although Galileo is most widely known for the invention of the telescope, he made other contributions. In the field of statics, he was the first man to give a direct and entirely satisfactory demonstration of the laws of equilibrium and the principle of virtual velocities. He set forth the true principles of flotation for those studying hydrostatics. To Galileo is also attributed the establishment of the laws of falling bodies, the demonstration of the laws of projectiles, 42 and the anticipation of the laws of motion finally established by Newton. Louis Gal vani, an Italian scientist of the eighteenth century, is immortalized in the annals of science by the term galvanism. Galvanism is that branch of physical science treating of the properties and effects of electric currents. Galvani took up the study of the natural sciences from the point of view of the anatomist and physiologist. He is famous for his experiments concerning "the electrical forces in muscular movements," leading up to the theory of animal electricity. Galvani discovered that when nerve and muscle touch two dissimilar metals in contact with each other, a contraction of the muscles takes place. This led ultimately to-his discussions with Volta and to the discovery of the Voltaic pile. The Voltaic pile was developed in 1800. It is the greatest of Volta's inventions and it consists of a number of discs of zinc and copper separa ted by pieces of wet cloth and arranged in a vertical column. The Voltaic battery which followed marks an epoch in physical theory as well as in the application of science to the welfare of mankind. The names of Galvani and Volta are on the list of brilliant Tertiaries. Science owes much to the Franciscans. Five of the most outstanding Friars and Tertiaries in the field of science have been mentioned here. Yes, there were Franciscans who were pioneers in this field and in comparatively recent times there h:.1ve been and there still are Franciscans contributing to scientific progress. by MARY SCHUCK his love embraced all created things. He gave voice to his love in the manner of the troubadours of the time, joining the little birds ingiving praise to God through song. Troubadours of the Lord praised God and His universe and spread the mystical meaning of Nature in the persons of a saint, Francis of Assisi, and a poet, Francis Tompson. Not until -many, many years after St. Francis did another troubadour spend his days wandering about seeing the reflection of Christ In the beauties of the world. This It was St. Francis who led the way to the return to Nature. To him a closeness to Nature meant a closeness to God, and for this reason 43 ' man, in whose works is seen the real spirit of St. Francis, was the English poet, Francis Thompson. "brother" and regard all things of Nature as living symbols of God. To St. Francis "brother sun" brings the day, the light, and is a symbol of light. To Francis Thompson "brother sun" tells the story of man to whom death seems to be the end of all but in reality is the beginning of a greater life. Thompson was greatly influenced by St. Francis. This influence was due to the fact that as a tertiary he made a very close study of his patron saint and became inflamed w ith a great love of Nature toge th ~ r with an understanding of the mysteries of God. A true Franciscan simplicity is reflected in every line of his poetry and a deep religious attitude is always present. In The Hound of H eaven, the greatest of Thompson's works, though the name of God is never pronounced, His presence is recognized in the symbol of the hunter. This song of the poet's humility is a study in the science of renunciation in which a terrible God-the Hound of Heaven-becomes a supreme friend and the chase ends in a divine embrace. The poem was first praised by members of the literary circles and later even by churchmen. It brought about the miLlcle of uniting the different religions in one general enthusiasm for Nature, and well earned for Thompson the realization of his deep es t w ish "to be called the poet of the return to God." Thompson was a mystic seeing God through Nature. To him the world was but a large church in which on ~ worships his God. Everything in Nature possessed a mystical significance for him. It is this ability to pentrate into God's revelation through His creation which points O{lt his real poetic greatness. Thompson gave literary symbolism a permanent ' place in religion by ' using it to explain the Catholic Faith. Ode to the Setting Sun, one of the most well-known of Thompso n's works, illustrates how the poet sought to show the beauty of Nature bathed in sunlight. To him this globe of fire disappearing below the horizon only to come again the next d:. y is a synibol of Christ dying only to ris~ again. The ge neral theme of this ode is similar to that of the Canticle of the Sun by St. Francis. Both writers refer to the sun as There can be no doubt as to the debt of gratitude the world owes to St. Francis and Francis Thompson who aroused a new love of N ature in man and restored faith, hope, and love to mankind through poetry. The Universe is their poem of God. 44 An Autohio graphy by JEANNE Today, as I walk into the market place of Gubbio, I feel, somehow, that it is for the last time. I am old, and ready to die. It is time that my life should be over. Were it not for the Little Poor Man of Assisi it would have ended long ago. Th~ story of my life is not a long tale. I shall rest here near the fountain, and, perhaps, I shall have time to r~call it once more: In the forests about Gubbio, our family had been respected for generations. We were not wealthy, but we kept to ourselves and bothered no one, only the small animals which we killed for food. If people feared us, they respected our way of life, and there was little trouble between us and the townsfolk until I arrived. F rom the very first I was different. I was hard to rear, preferring the darkness of the fores,ts to my mother's side. The peaceful pursuits of my brothers and sisters interested me not at all. I fought with them, or worse, ignored them completely. There was that in me which only the forest could soothe, some deep, hidden yearning which gave me no peace. GRIFFIN sort of existence, roaming the woods and countryside at will, content only when alone. And then, one day, something happened, something I remember with shame and horror. I had wandered rather far from home, a league or so from Gubbio, when I noticed a small child playing near the edge of the woods. Her hair and eyes were dark, but the sun made a halo about her face, a halo so bright it blinded m~ for a moment. She seemed so good-a reproach to my miserable self, and the light was so bright ... one word stood out in my mind -KILL! I sprang, pierced her smooth throat with my teeth, and it was over, as quickly as that. For one instant she had looked at me in wonder, then in terror; the next moment sh~ was dead. I felt no remorse or shame, only a sense of power. I turned slowly, and walked away from my victim, a changed character. Now I had a new interest, !?.illing ! I grew large and powerful in the days that followed. Not only childr~n, bu t men and women, too, became my prey. I killed numerous animals. Neither man nor beast was secure while I roamed the forests. ventured into the Sometimes town, and the people would run in For a few years I continued this 45 terror. \\then I was hungry I ate whomever or whatever I had killed. And I felt no remorse whatever. One day, as I wandered near the city walls, I saw a man approach me. He was a short, dark man, in an old brown robe, bareheaded, wearing sandals on his feet. And behind him, far behind, followed many people. "The fool," I thought, "has he not heard of me, the terror of Gubbio?" And I leaped towards him, my jaws open, when he did a strange thing; he made the sign of a cross. I stopped in confusion and amazement, . for I had never seen such a sign. Then he spoke, "Come hither, brother wolf; I command th ee in the name of Christ, neither to harm me nor anybody else." I v,Talked up to the man, and his eyes t::>ld tl~e truth of his words. And so, I pledged my peace. I lay down at his. feet, and my murderous career was over, for, you see, I had never h ea~d of Christ. I knew nothing of God's law or human dignity, until this man, so completely unafraid, revealed to me in one breath, in one glance, the truth of my existence. I was worthy of death, and would gladly have accepted any sort of treatment for my crimes. But this man forgave me, in the name of his Master, and, at the man's request, the townspeople promised to feed and care for me. I have grown older now, and as I walk through the market place today, I feel weak, and tired, and very near death. I should like to see him once more, the man who brought me out of the darkness. He is from Assisi and is called Francis. The people speak of him as St. Francis. I would like to tell him that I have tried very hard to make amends for -my past crimes. The people of Gubbio h :lVe come to look upon me as a friend and servant, and I should like to serve them iorever, but today, I know that is impossible. The sun is warm and friendly, as it was the day the man from Assisi met me on the road to Gubbio. That day, long ago, when love came into my life, as a saint said to me, Broth:?r Wolf. (Continued from j)age 15) much the two towns have in comIlion. As the early followers of Saint Francis traveled from Assisi to all parts of the continent to teach and preach the ways of Christ, so also do these followers of the Poverello, the Sisters of the Third Order Regular and the Friars Minor, journey from Oldenburg, their American Assisi, to teach and preach those same ideals to peoples throughout the nation. oflve One ::Da'l at a :lime by One of the most important facts of worriless living is that we should try to live in "day-tight compartm ~nts. " We can compare ourselves and our lives to the captain of a great ocean liner who stands on the bridge, presses a button and-presto!-there is a clanging of machinery and various parts of the ship are shut off from one another-shut off into water-tight compartments. Of course, each of us is a much more marvellous mechanism than the great liner, and bound on a longer voyage. But if we so learn to control the machinery as to live in "day - tight compartments" it . ' will be the most certain way to ens ure safety on the voyage. Get on the bridge and see that at least the g reat bulkheads are in working order. Touch a button and hear, at every level of your life, the iron doors shutting out the Past-the dead yesterdays. Touch another and shut off) with a metal curtain, the Future-the unborn tomorrows. Then you are safe-safe for today! The load of tomorrow, added to that of yesterday, carried today, makes the strongest falter. Shut off the future as tightly as the past. The future is today . There is no tomorrow. Waste of energy, mental distress, nervous worries haunt the steps of a man who is anxious about the future. Shut close, then, the great fore and aft bulkheads, and SUEMMA BAKER prepare to cultivate the habit of life of "day-tight compartments." Does that mean to say that you should not m ake any effort to prepare for tomorrow? No. Not at all. But the best possible way to prepare for tomorrow is to concentrate with all your intelligence, all your enthusiasm, on doing today's work superbly today. That is the only p ossible way you can prepare for th e future. " Give us this day our daily bread." Remember that that prayer asks only for today's bread. It doesn't complain about the stale bread we had to eat yesterday; and it doesn't say: "0 God, it has been pretty dry out in the wheat belt lately and we may have another drought-and then how will I get bread to eat next fall-or suppose I lose my job-O God, how could I get bread then? " No, this prayer teaches you to ask for today's bread only. Today's bread is the only kind of bread you can possibly eat. Again, this doesn't mean that you shouldn't think about the tomorrow. By all means plan and prepare for it, but do not have undue anxiety about it. During the war, our military leaders planned for the morrow, but they could not afford to have any anxiety. They supplied the best men with the best equipment we had 47 ' and gave them what seemed to be the wisest missions. That was all they could do. They used their time the best they could by working on tomorrow's problem instead of fr~tting about yesterday's. \V'hether in war or peace, the chief difference between good thinking and bad thinking is this: good thinking deals with causes and effects and leads to logical, constructive planning; bad thinking frequently leads to tension and nervous breakdowns. You and I are standing this very second at the meeting place of two eterni ties: the vast past that has endured sinc~ the beginning of time, and the future that is plunging on to the last syllable of recorded time. \'V' e can't possibly live in either of those eternities-no, not even for one split second. But, by trying to do so, we can wreck our bojies and our minds. So let's be coinent to live the only time we can possibly live: from now until :Jhe Whidpering- Breeze bedtime. Robert Louis Stevenson once wrote, "Anyone can carry his burden, however hard, until nightfall. Anyone can do his work, however hard, for one day. Anyone can Iiv~ sweetly, patiently, lovingly, purely, till the sun goes down. And this is all that life really means." You cannot step into the same river twice; n::ither can you live the same moment twice. The river ch:mges every second; so does the man who stepped into it. Life is a caseless change. The only certainty is today. Why mar the beauty of living today by trying to solve the problems of a future that is shrouded in ceaseless change and uncertainty-a future that no one can possibly see or foretell? So, the first thing you should know about worry is this: if you want to keep it out of your life, shut the iron doors on the past and the future. Live in "day-tight complrtments" and make the most of the moment. (Continued from jJage 28) You. Receive me into Your Arms. Allow me always to be near You and to serve You." She lifted her tear-stained face, her clear blue eyes raised to the al- tar. A smile played about the eyes 2nd the mouth of the lovely girl. "Oh, whispering breeze, I embrace thee." by JOYCE ABRAMS Martha-what a whopping little zealot she'd been. He smiled in spite of himself. He'd always been secretly amused by her spunky spirit in defending Romanism and, in spite of himself, admired and envied her unfathomable faith. He'd concealed his own atheism from her, shrouding it under a veil of respectful curiosity. "F ran . . . Francis . . . the child .. you . . . ," and that was all; Martha spoke no more. Craig's eyes glazed in frenzied grief and the heedless tears dropped like rainbowed bits of mosaic. He didn't touch her . . . he couldn't. He left th~ room and stumbled through the bleak hall and into the darkness and loneliness of his own den. Craig had forgotten the child. They'd been married a year now. Never had he been so happy-so miserable. That church-her faith had always stood between them. It started at once, that constant nagging interference. First, those ridiculous promises; signing a way children not yet conceived. Then, the rigamarole at the churchthose preachers in skirts! Martha's mother brought the infant to him but he couldn't bring hims:M to examine the price he had paid for his Martha-his little "Marty," as he loved to call her. He wanted to rush into the night, to the hill on the edge of town and offer this "price" back to Martha's God and ask back his own prize, his Martha! Somehow he controlled himself; he turned away in silent rejection of his tiny son. The older woman silently and sorrowfully retreated from the room with the child. That hadn't been the end, only the beginning. She hadn't been like other Christians-"Sunday-go-tomeetin." For her, every day was Sunday. It had given him a feeling of cold, empty dread to awaken and find her gone in the morning -of all places, to that crumpled shack in the west end-the Romans' single solitary boast in Plaineville, St. Francis Church . \\'l"hat had happened to him, Craig Jordan couldn't understand. He had never done anything wrong in his life . . . nothing good either . . . except for himself. He had attended the best schools and made quite a name for himself in the hotel business. He'd only been really happy though when he'd met Not that he ever complained for, in every way, he found her a dutiful, loving wife. Craig Jordan W:1S no fool. He was willing to ad~ 49 mi t he was jealous . . . not of a live, flesh and blood man but of a thirteenth century pasty-faced monk! All tha t tomfoolery of candles, pageantry, and incense he was willing to pass off indulgently as feminine sentimentality. He was at a loss to explain her behavior even to himself. She was a beautiful, intelligent woman-full of warmth and vitality. Yet this medieval Romanism had gotten such a hold on her personality. The mystery of it clung to her and repelled him even as ita ttracted. steeled himself to silently abide that leering portrait painted of the brown "beggar" by one of those pious nuns from St. Francis Church. And then, the child was to come! Marty was ridiculously happy and Craig was secretly triumphant. Here was something which was th ~irs alone to share. He would use this new fruit of their love as a wedge to pry Marty loose from the fanciful dreamworld of the monk and Romanism. He sighed wearily as he savored once more the bitterness of that silent defeat. It had never been in his power to openly, physically oppose her-he loved her too much for that. It was not in him to wish to coarsen her perfection by seeking to change her, even to rid himself of the monk's shadow. Francis, as she called him, was for her a vibrant personality, a pillar of strength to which she clung. The Little Poor Man had had his " Lady Poverty." Martha, as Craig's wife, had considerable funds at her disposal; yet, money was for Martha as Francis was for Craig-a shadow which held no true meaning. From Marty and Francis, Craig had learned of a love, all-embracing, and self-sacrificing. This love he couldn't understand nor make a part of himself as they did. Craig . checked himself subconsciously; Even to himself he did not wish to admit the possibility of this monk's personality - he must remain a hoax, an illusion. Craig was a man. He felt the need for action. The tension was mounting within him, almost to the bursting point. With a start, he rose from his stupor and flung himself into her room. His frenzied movements mounted to a crescendo until he stood before the "portrait in brown." This, he could see and feel-and destroy. It symbolized for him the wall which had separa ted them for so long. A t last, she would be wholly his. He tore the portrait from the wall, crumpled it in his big hands, as he awkwardly removed it from its gilded frame. Shaking with emotion, he stumbled into the basement and flung it into the furnace. Leaning against the damp clammy wall to support his trembling body, breathing in short, painful, gasping motions-he Without realizing it, Marty had constantly paraded this man's personality before him. It h ad started when he had decided he wanted to share all her life. He had picked up the book in her sitting room, The Little Poor Man, and had read it. A lot of pious, wishy washy mush! He had laid it aside in cynical scorn and forgotten it. There were other books that followed and he even 50 wait:!d. He waited for the sense of relief and triumph which did not come. He was empty-emptier now than he had ever been. Mockingly her last . words came to him, "Fran-." In her last hour when she needed love most, she had called out for a shadow and left him alone. As his muscles relaxed and his breathing became normal, with his last ounce of strength, Craig Jordan surrendered to a small woman he loved and a silent brown ghost he abhorred. :J~e Seraphic J(nighl Marty had been one who always gave of herself and asked nothing in return. Now he would give. (True, he would give poorly for he could not give of himself.) He would build her a beautiful chapel to replace the shack in the west end. It would be a chapel of St. Francis. Craig shirked inwardly at the thought of erecting the edifice which would symbolize for him the monk's triumph. It was painful but he would do it-for her. (Continu ed from page 18) the acceptance of their Rule as widely as possible. To this end he extended to the Tertiaries all the indulgences and spiritual favors enjoyed by members of the First and Second Orders. Pope Pius X, called the Pope of the Eucharist, opened the sacramental treasury of the Church even to little children through early and frequent Holy Communion. Devotion to the Eucharist waS" the devotion, not one of the devotions, of the Seraphic Saint. His knightly service and his love of Christ were intensely fervent and real. For him the Divine Master lived and breathed. The altar was for him the heart of his faith, his hope, his love-the goal of his thoughts and actions. His followers who imitate him closely find, like Sir Galahad, the Holy Grail, but do not die of the finding; instead, they are born again. knelt down to adore the Blessed Sacrament when he heard the bell announcing the Consecration. At that moment . the Blessed Sacra. ment was presented to him in a monstrance supported by angels hovering in the air. At a time when churches were, to a great extent, in a deplorable condition, when the Holy Eucharist was trea ted with shameful indifference and neglect on the part of the clergy and laity, Francis sounded the clarion call to his Brothers of the Round Table to undertake the Eucharistic crusade. This call has been heeded throughout the centuries by many of his followers. The Brothers of the Seraphic Knight's Round Table are still hard at work. Not to be forgotten are the Tertiaries, the "modern brothers." Of these, Pope Pius X was one of the most outstanding. He never missed an occasion to secure 51 by JOYCE The Franciscan Order has been given the privilege of using a Supplement to the Roman Missal. This Supplement contains the special feast day Masses which have been granted to the Order by the Popes. Only Franciscan Friars or priests serving Franciscan communities are permitted to say these Masses. Five of the Masses have sequences narrating in poetic form the history of the feast. . BREEN za praises Him Whose name is being honored: SiOI1, lift thy voice and raise To thy Saviour hymns of praise; With joyful heart His Name adore. It continues by exalting the boundless power of this sacred Name: By that N allte was eal,th created, And the laws of nature stated; SlIn and sky its praises sing. Love and honor for the Holy Name became an important devotion of the Seraphic Order. A number of Franciscan Saints, among them Bernardine of Siena and John Capistran, did much to propagate devotion to the Holy Name. Through their influence Pope Clement, in 1530, gave the Order of Friars Minor a special feast of the Most Holy Name of Jesus to be celebrated January 2. In 1721, Pope Innocent XIII extended the feast to the Universal Church. B'y the power of Thy Name, Demons proud are put to shame And their might is overthrown; I mages of idols scattered; Their tyrannic priesthood scattered, Now Thy soz.:ereigl1 jJower must own. The last four lines plead: Jesus, Lord, 0111' souls are yearning! Jesus, come, Thy dear Name bUl'1ting On our hearts, and make us thine. Amen. Alleluia. This Feast Day Mass has the first beautiful sequence in the Franciscan Supplement. The opening stan52 This rule is still observed in communities and cities where there are both Franciscans and Dominicans. Following the example of St. Frmcis who practiced special devotion to Christ Crucified, the Friars 111ve always deeply venerated the bitter suffering and death of the SJ viour on the cross. Since the days of St. Francis they have remained in Palestine, almost uninterruptedly, guarding the Holy Places. Because of th :!ir deep devotion to the Passion of our Lord, Pope Pius X, in 1906, gLll1ted Franciscans the privileg~ of celebLlting the Feast of the W/ ay of the Cross on the first Friday of March. The sequence of St. Dominic recounts his life, his work, his miracles, and his power; and like the other sequences it, too, ends with a prayer. Like their holy Father, St. Francis, the Friars Minor have a constant and tender devotion to the Bbsed Virgin. They honor her espxi::t lly by their devotion to her seven joys. Because of the influence and preaching of St. Bernardine of Siena, they wear the Rosary of the Seven Joys on their cord and recite the decades daily. Their fervent love for the Franciscan Cro w n, as this ros ::u-y is called, induc ed Pope Pius X, in 1906, to institute for them the Feast of the Seven Joys to be celebrated on August 22. In the seq uence of this Mass, the unknown author vividly pictures the intense agony our Lord suffered in every part of His body and th~ torments He was made to endure. It begins by asking us to mourn and to concentrate upon -His p ;: ssion and ends with a prayer to the glorious King of Splendor tint, through His love and mercy, He will free us from the stains of sin and lead us to our heavenly home. . For the Mass of this day Father Paschal Brugnani composed a seqU ence, devoting two stanzas to each of the seven mysteries: the Annunciation, th~ Visitation, the Nativity, the Adoration of the Magi, the Finding in the Temple, the Resurcction, and th ':! Assumption and Crownin:; of 0 ..;1' Bles s ~ d L:1_d y in Heaven. The third sequence in the Supplement was writt en for the feast of St. Dominic celebrated on August 4. At first sight this may be surprising since St. Dominic was not a Franciscan, but not if we consider that St. Francis and St. Dominic were intimate friends and had many spiritual conferences together during their lifetime. Their strong per501111 fri -;ndship has been perpetuated by th~ Orders they founded in th ~ establish~d rule that a Franciscan is to peach in a Dominican church on the feast of St. Dominic and a Dominion in a Franciscan church on the feast of St. Fr ~ll1cis. Th ~ verses written for the Mystery of the Nativity are typical of th e others. The first stanza hails the \Voman who received the highest honor of being chosen by God as His Mother, a pure Virgin who partakes of the joys of motherhood. Th ~ second stanza adds a prayer. The author follows the same order for each of the other mysteries. Th ~ last sequence found in th ~ Supplement was written by Thomas 53 of Celano for the feast of the Solemnity of our holy Father, St. Francis, celebrated on October 4. In this sequence the author traces very briefly the life and virtues of St. Francis from his conversion as a carefree youth of the material world to the time he received the Stigmata on Mount Alverna. It ends with a prayer asking St. Francis to give his protection, aid, and guidance to his children in order that they might obtain -rhe joys of etern,a llife: We pray thee, by the Cross's sign, Marked on the flesh, whereby 'twas thine, T he world, the flesh, all things lnalign, To conquer gloriously. o Francis, talu us to thy care, Protect us here from every snare, T ba t we thy great reward may share 111 hea'//en eternally. o holy Francis, Father sweet, Devoutly we thine aid entreat. May we and all thy children meet, Crowned victors in the strife. In virtue's path our footsteps train And guide us where the saints now l'eign, That we, thy children, lnay attain The joys of endless life. Amen. Alleluia. BOOIi REVIEWS by MOTHER M. CLARISSA and SISTER MARY OLIVIA The centenary celebration of the Sisters of St. Francis of Oldenburg, India-na, afforded the opportunity for two contemporary members of the Congregatioh, Mother M. Clari'ssa and Sister Mary Olivia, to unfold for the public the beautiful story of the founding and development of their Sisterhood. Ordinarily, as. one picks up a volume writte~ to record the history of a religious community, one finds it necessary to wade through a spiritless, dry chronicle of colorless facts and dates. The authors of W ith the Pov erello have succeeded in overcoming the literary reflection usually cast upon such works by their freedom of presentation and simplicity of style. bibliography included clearly indicates that this historical account of one of the most active Sisterhoods in Indiana entailed extensive :md thorough research. Since its foundation, January 6, 1851, by Mother Theresa Hackelmeier f~om Vienna, Austria, and Rev. Francis Joseph Rudolph, the Congregation has prospered and increased a hundredfold. This Franciscan family, which counts more than eight hundred members today, has extended its educational and charitable activities .into nine States to bring the blessings of Catholic educa tion to thousands of children. As one reads the history of these humble followers of St. Francis, one cannot but stand in wonderment at their growth and achievements. One is convinced that God was pleased with the work of the founder and with those who joined 10 her new field of endeavor, and, A unique characteristic of the book is the correlation of the content with the subheadings which consist of quotations taken from the writings of St. Francis. The 55 l as His Excellency, Paul Schulte, admirably points out in his preface to the book, "no doubt it was the fact th1t Mother Theresa and those that came after her tried to follow the pattern given them by their patron saint, Francis of Assisi, that God blessed and prospered them." The path followed by the members of this religious communi ty, however, was far from being free from trials and tribulations. Already at the very outset, the Community was severely tested by fire, hunger, and hard labor-made en- durable only by the Sisters' firm trust and confidence in Divine Providence. Although the Sisters engage in external works of charity, the primary purpose of the Congregation is the personal sanctification of the individual members. Each Sister seeks to make of herself another Francis, and, thus, the Little Poor Man of Assisi is reborn time and again as eJch young postulant takes the c)Jd . . . W' ith the Povel'ello. -Joyce Abrams by RAOUL PLUS FJ ther R ;1oul Plus, S.J., the renowned auth:Jr and th ~ologi a n of Frmce, h?s prese nted us with some of . th ~ most uplifting spiritual books of our day. Father Plus was born and educated in France. After receiving his degree he entered the Society of Jesus and was ordained a priest at the age of thirty-one. During his lifetime he has been promin :!nt as a lecturer, spiritual director, professor, theologian , and author. pity f or those w ho suffer are some of the exa mples chosen for considention. Each particular essay is com p !et:! in itself, and is "for the use of souls of good will who, in acquiring one or the other of these virtues, have met with difficulties which they did not expect." Although some of the virtues treated in this work are not, strictly speaking, supernatural virtues, they are aids in enriching one's spiritual life. On~ of the la t ::st of Father Plus' publications is S01n .~ Rare Virtu('s, a study of eight virtues which are seldom thought of or recognized as virtues. Gratitud e, the spirit and love of recollection, the art of using time, courage in facing life, and Father Plus' book, originally written in French, was made avail a ble to English -speaking readers by Sister Mary Edgar Meyer, O.S.F., professor of Romance Languages at MJrian College. - Anl1 McCa1,thy 56 by SISTER MAR y SALESIA POGGEL, O.S.F. Born on the very day, January 6, 1851, when :M other Theresa Hackelmeier from Vienna, Austria, founded the Congregation of the Sisters of St. Francis, Oldenburg, Indiana, Sister Mary Salesia seemed especially chos:!n to live as a part of the Franciscan community. This she did for almost forty years, writing during that time under the pen-name of "Ave." At one time her poems appeared regularly in the St. Anthony Messenger. Ave's poems are collected under four cycles: Christmas, Easter, Pentecost, and the Saints cycle. These include a series of poems for the various titles of Christ and Mary. Outstanding among them are the poems about St. Fr.lllcis and one which tells how St. Clare, with the Blessed Sacrament, overcame the Saracens attacking her convent: A11d OX!y, As if some ovcrwhclm,ing martial band Had risen up with conquering sword in hand, Fell back, and terror stricken fled away, And to the mute and hidden Victor, Left the day. Sister Mary Salesia also wrote patriotic poems, such as the C L'11tennial Ode to Our Nation's Capitulo Not to the Pilgrims but to Columbus goes the honor of having celebrated the first Thanksgiving Day in America. The prayer of gratitude on his arrival in the New \'Vorld is expressed in Amerira's 'First Thllnlugiving: Th ere burst from those long pe11t-up hearts V jJOl'l the morning dir, A mighty shout of fervent tha11lu In b1lrning words of prayer. T hat was our fi rs I "T ha11!ugivi11g" T bat WdS Ollr country's 11atalllzor11, For then a11d the rc~ "America a11d Liberty" were bont. -Joyce Ann Edwards 57 by SISTER M. Was it fate or Providence that the first biography of the Bavarian artist, Berta Hummel, famous for her sketches of children and her figurines, should be written by one, who like Sister Hummel; is a daughter of St. Francis and also of Bavarian parentage? St. Francis, no doubt, guided his daughter's hand and assisted her in accomplishing this charming biography. Born in 1909 in Massing, a small Bavarian town, Berta Hummel was a member of a happy and deeply religious family. Her parents soon discovered her unusual artistic abilities. She was but a little girl when her playmates used to plead with her in chorus: "Sketch me, Berta Hummel"-for her little portraits were very good. After attending four years the Volkschule of her home-town, she advanced to the Institute of the Englischen Fraeulein in Simbach, a secondary school, where she was most interested and proficient in art. There could be no doubt about her future career; her talent and keenest interests were in the field of beauty. As soon as she graduated from Simbach she entered the Art Academy of Munich. She was then a grown up "Hummele," but she . 58 GONSALVA WIEGAND, O.S.F. still was the happy, always smiling girl whom everyone had to like. A t the Art Academy she met two Franciscan Sisters. This was an important milestone in Berta's life. She became interested in their way of life. She listened and followed the divine call. Although she surprised, she did not disappoint her friends when, after graduation from the Academy as the first of her class, she entered the convent of the Franciscan Sisters of Siessen on April 22, 1931, and became Sister M. Innocentia. Her talents were encouraged by her superiors. She drew and painted in her peaceful studio and her name began to spread all over the country. The smiling faces of the "Hummel" children became famous, but she remained humble and unassuming, giving glory to God for her lovely olent. y~ung Th ~ second World \'V' ar brought hard times for the Sisters who had to leave the convent because of a government order. Berta Hummel was back in Massing again with her family but pining to return to her beloved convent. The French occupation in 1945 gave the convent blck to the Sisters, but Sister Innoc entia was not present for the f(!opening. She had developed a lung infection aggravated by pleurisy. On November 6, 1946, she departed from earth to meet Christ in heaven. One is not surprised at Sister Innocentia's time. Her cards, pictures, and the figurines of her well known characters travel all over the world. Sh2 was an artist of childhood, who understood children and Nature and was able to give reality and humor to her caricatures as well as beauty and charm to her serious subjects. The reading of Berta Hummel's biography has afforded me great pleasure. The story is true to life and the facts are narrated in a simple but interesting manner. Every detail was obtained from her parents, superiors, and intimate friends. The author's description of German towns and villages connected with the life and labors of Sister Innocentia is characterized by a fidelity and vividness which one would expect from a native. Of special beauty and exclusive value are the rare photographs presented to the author by the Hummel family and the Siessen Community. One must read Sketch Me, Berta Hummel! to appreciate the beautiful life story and charming personality of this outstanding Bavarian artist. Sister M. Gonsalva, the author of this book and professor of classical languages and German at Marian College, Indianapolis, has also made a collection of Berta Hummel's pictures, sketches, and figurines. Her art collection includes copies of 385 paintings and sketches, over 200 of which were printed in Germany. -Marta Kilczer by SISTER MAR Y EVA, O.S.F. Everyone appreciates floral beauty and for most of us flowers tend to refresh and renew memorable occasions of the past and present, either joyous - a first orchid, Mothers' Day roses, birthdays and weddings-or the sadder aspects of sickness and death. Sister Mary Eva, in The Garden Enclosed, a collection of reflections and meditations, enhances our concept by using the best known varieties of flowers, each of which is symbolic of a distinct virtue. Many spiritual writers have used flower symbolism in their works, but Sister Mary Eva is unique in her method of using it in her meditations. She finds each plant beautifully adaptable for its respective virtue. Her skill in revealing this adaptability is the basis of her uniqueness. Inspired by the beautiful words of the Magnificat she se59 ' lects the virtue-plants under Mary's They must flourish regardless of season or c1ima te and blossoming requires much personal care. Th~ soil with its weakness and imperfection is, through grace, made productive and ready for the plants. As we cultivate these flowers in the spi ri tml garden of our soul we become less selfish and sensitive and ultimately better persons. couns~I. Of all the virtues considered by Mary Eva I have chosen two ;rs outstanding examples: The Lilyof - th~- Valley of Pover ty anti the Gla diolus of Patience. S ; st~r Th~ Lily-of-the-Valley with its in vert ed blossoms and leafless stems r~nounces the conventions of the fl ora 111 11 I1da e. She seems independent of th e sturdy leaves surrounding her and the bell-shaped blooms refus~ to look to the world about th ~ m for light. \' e, too, must have this SJme s~n se of freedom and not look to th e world for wealth and m at eriJI comforts which in realitv are a bondage. " \\7hat better exam'pIes have we th111 the majestic King at B ethlehem? The omnipotent Saviour \'1ho had no place whereon to lay His H ead? The Eucharistic King Whose identity is hidden in a morsel of bread ?" Truly, we must cultivate this beautiful plant. The lower blooms of the tall, stJtely Gladiolus burst forth into color and completeness but only to wi ther before the top buds have blossomed. Yet these buds undiscouragingly open their petals for the w orld to see and admire. Similarl y we must endure our trials with ch eerfulness and should be grateful th 1t God thinks us capable of C1rrying a cross. St. Theresa said, "Patience gaineth everything!" Therefore, we should bear patientlya ll, burdens, whether it be an inconvenient weather condition, a phys ical p ain, a mental strain, or a dis l ppointment, so that we may triumph as the top buds of the gladiolus an d by our example may encourage others to follow the path th:H leads up the mount of perfection. From th~se examples we see how the p ac;;s of our daily Ii yes, small but sure, advance us many miles alon s the lighted path because "perfection of soul is made up of trifles, but p erfection of soul is no trifle." -Mary Morin. 60 by SISTER M. ALVINA POEHLING, O.S.F. Like her guide, the Little Flower, Sister M. Alvina shows in her poetry childlike simplicity and cheerfulness. The last four years of her religious life were spent in a quest for health lost through tuberculosis. During these years she wrote her verses of resignation to God and affection for her Divine Lover. No hint of depression is detected in her verses; rather they are filled with her philosophy of finding joy in ::my ~ituation: The clouds but couer the sunshine T bey cannot banish the sun, And the earth shines out brighter W hen the weary rain is done. A parallel with the Little Flower can be found in Sister Alvina's longing for union with Christ. \Vhen umble to r;::ceive Holy Communion she expressed her feeling in D esolation: My Loue is hiding Could He be chiding? \V hat have I done to hurt '111)' Lo'L'('? In bitter al1,guish, My soul doth languish. Oh, how it ),earns to soar above! T here He al/url's m e, So ofi aSSll'f('S me, T hat I am loved by Love divine. But oh! this morning(Is it a warning?) He fails to come to be all l1zine. Th ~ poems of this little "Rosebud of Christ" are enjoyable to reld. They are written in a flowing manner and filled with lovely sentiments. For a conclusion to the consideration of her collection, these stanzas from Th f Night of the Soul give a summary of her life of physical suffering and close union with Christ: Is our honey-moon over, dear Jesus? Now I f eel that 0111' union's complete; Each day may my lov e grow more a1'dent, Your loue is ioo tender and SWN:t. Many souls would I give You, fond Lover; My union with You must bear fruit. Little pa,:ns, little griefs, little heartaches, Lrt me bear; be they e'er so aC1lie. -Joyce Ann Edwards 61 by SISTER M. OLIVIA FRIETSCH, O.S.F. x Activities celebrating the centenary of the Sisters of St. Francis, Oldenburg, Indiana, were crowned with a dramatic pageant, By the Light of His Star, written by Sister M. Olivia, Director of StudentTeacher Training at Marian College. "For God and for Youth," the objective for which the Congregation has labored for one hundred years was clearly portrayed in the presentation. Depicting the history and the work of the Sisters of St. Francis from 1851-1951, the pageant consisted of narration, music, and descriptive scenes. The first part, consisting of three scenes, was devoted to the history of the Order; the second part, to the life and the work of the Sisters. In the second part were scenes representing the work of the Sisters among pre-school children, the elementary grades, high school, and college. Of special interest were the scenes depicting the work of the Sisters among the orphans, the Negroes, and the Indians, in catecheti.-::al groups, and in the field of Social \Xlork. Two scenes were presented in which the Sisters were found at prayer-the recitation of the Office of the Blessed Virgin Mary, which is a daily obligation according to the Rule of the Sisters of St. Francis, and Perpetual Adora tion of the Blessed Sacrament, which has been one of the objectives of the Congregation. Several Sisters of St. Francis contributed to the success of the pageant. The magnificent, artlstic performance was under the direction of Sister Mary Jane, instructor of dramatics at Marian College. Musical compositions written by Sister Francis Anthony, Sister M. Carolyn, Sister Vivian Rose, Sister Mary Vitalis, Sister Charles Louise, Sister Mary Ruth, Sister M. Emmanuel, and Sister M. Olivia were most fitting and served as connecting links which brought the story together into an inter-related whole. That the Sisters have worked for one hundred years "For God and for Youth," then, is evident. Certainly, the spirit behind the pageant \"ill live long in the hearts of those who saw the presentation. -Peggy O'Hara 62 PATRONS Miss Mary Louise Alter Mrs. Nell McCarthv Mr. and Mrs. \Villiam F. Baker Mr. and Mrs. H. ]. Method Mr. Charles]. Bashe Miss Marilyn Miller Dr. and Mrs. E. ]. Bashe Mr. and Mrs. G. L. Murtaugh Mr. and Mrs. Carl \'V. Boersig Miss Virginia Nordmeyer Miss Mary Ann Brickweg Mrs. Thomas O'Gara Mr. and Mrs. John Cangany Mr. F. L. O'Hara Miss Mary Catherine Cangany Miss Antoinette Pang:llio Mr. and Mrs. John]. Carey Mr. and Mrs. Norman Parshall Miss Mary Carson Mrs. Joan Kervan Patterson Miss Joan Courtney Mr. and Mrs. Carlos F. Pem Miss Anna Ca therine Dean Mr. and Mrs. August Powell Mr. and Mrs. George Dietz Mr. and Mrs. Charles N. Raben Mr. and Mrs. M. ]. Eckrich, Sr. Miss Harriet Reifel Miss Virginia Esq ui vel Mr. Joseph W. Ripberger, Sr. Miss Joan Fischer Mr. Eugene Runyan Miss Jane Fugikawa Mrs. Frank C. Ryan Mrs. Margaret L. Gallagher Miss Barbara Schenkel Miss Jane Gaughan Miss Joan Schwartztrauber Miss Janice Gaughan Mr. and Mrs. John L. Schuck Miss Mary Gaughan Miss Ca therine Anne Miss Loretta Spaulding H ~me y Miss Mary E. Stieff Miss Mary Harmon Mr. and Mrs. J. B. Urrutia Miss Mary Haugh Miss Marianela Urrutia Miss Sarah Jo Mahan Mr. and Mrs. B. W'assel Miss Marie Martino Mr. and Mrs. Robert J. Wechsler Mr. and Mrs. Walter F. Maloney Mr. and Mrs. N. E. Wehlage Dr. and Mrs. Bernard]. Matthews Mr. and Mrs. Michael \Vokna Miss \Vinifred Matthews Miss Rita W okna Miss Dorothy Mayer 63 BUSINESS PATRONS ARLINGTON SUPER MARKET 6005 E. 10th Street BELMONT CAFE CORP. 210 S. Belmont DELLA PENNA RADIO COMPANY ApjJ/ial1ces, FurnOture, Tele vision 5044 E. 10th St. \'\1e Service TV, IR. 7565 KINGSTON PRODUCTS JIlinois Building HARRY K. LANDES 837 N. Illinois, RI. 3655 lvlR. ED \\7 ARD McNULTY 1271 Kentucky Avenue REILL Y TAR & CHEMICAL CORP. 1651 Merchants Bank Building, MA. 9461 WEGE MARBLE & TILE COMPANY 927 Architects & Builders Building, PL. 7531 RURAL PHARMACY 2801 E. Michigan Street 64  ...

... c%Cari n College India11apolis, India 1a THE FIORETTI AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE VOL UME SEVEN Marian College Indianapolis, Indiana 1949-1950 To HIS HOLINESS, POPE PIUS XII this volume is dedicated in commemoration of THE HOLY YEAR OF 1950 POPE PIUS XII lbe Staff Editor LORETTA SPAULDING Assistant Editors MARIA PORRAS MARIAN RYAN Art BILLIE JEAN EILERS Business MARIANELA U RR UTIA Circulation CAMILLE SCHNEIDER 4 Contents Page Editorials ______ ________ ____ ___ ___ ___ _____ __ _______ __ ___ ____ _____ ___ __________ ______ ____ _____ __ ___ ___ ___ ____ 7, 9 T he Bark of P eter _____ . ______________ . ____ _____ __ __Rita \'Vokna '53__________________________ 8 R Ol1'1eward Bound __ ___ ________ ___ __ __ __ _____ ____ __ _Patricia Feighner ' 52________________ 10 The Etem:ll City __________ ______ __ ___ ____ _____ ____ _Ethel James '50 _____ ___ _______ ____ ______ _ 13 Es peranto_ . ____ -- __ _______ ___________ __________ __ _. _____ Loretta Spaulding , 50________________ 14 De Laude Pii XII. __ ______ ___ _________ _____ ___ _______Ethel James '50 __ ___ __ _____ ______________ 15 A Plea for RefugeeL __________ __ __ ___ __ __ ____ ____ nhrta Kilczer ' 5 L__ ________________ 16 It's Everybody's Job ___ __ ________ ___ ______ ____ ___ _Helen Eckrich '5 L ________ ____ ___ _. ___ 17 Prayer for Peace--__ _____________ ___ ___ _____ _____ ___ -Joyce Edwards '5 L _____ ___ __ ___ __ ___ __ 18 1-11 Any Language __ ___ ___ _. __ ____ _________ ___ __ _____ Blrb :lB Reder '52 ______ ____ ___ __ _______ 19 H e Who Sings Well, Prays Twice ____ _____ _A udrey Kraus ' 53 _________ ____ ____ ____ _ 20 S ~cd Mission of the C/ntrch. ____ _______ __ ___ Jean Mortlock '50 _____ _____ __ __ .__ __ .__ 22 Oberammergau __ ____ __ ___ __ ____ ___ ____ . ____ __ ___ __ __Mary Wassel '52 ____ ___ ____ __ __ _________ 23 Joyce _____ _______ ____ _____________ ___ ______ _______ ___ _.____Marian Ryan' 52 _____ __ ___ __ ____ ____ ____ 25 The Church and the Working Class ______ A lice R aben '5 L __ ___ _______ ___ _________ 27 A Universal Proble11l,____ ____ ____ __ __ ____ ____ ___ __.Marie Martino '5 L ___ ___ _____ __ . ____ 29 No t es from a PilgriJit's Diary (1950) __ _Bctty Kennedy '52 ___ _____ _____ ___ ___ _ 30 Ka ther.ine Moran ' 50 An Maria Goretii ___ _____ . ___ . ______ _______ ___ _____ _and Suzann Reith '52. __ ____ ____ ___ ._ 32 Co -jJilgrim w,'th a Cham pion of the Papacy ____ __ ___ __ ___ ___ ____ ___________________ __ _Jc:mne Griffin '5 L __ ___ __ ___ ___ _______ 33 Roma, la Seda del Santo Padre ________ _____ __ .Marth:l Dousdebes '50 ____ . _____ ___ ___ 35 Wanted: More Christophers _____ _________ ____ .Rita \'(Tokna '53 ___ ___ ___ __ __ ___ _. ______ 36 \'7 hy Worry About Palestine _____ __ ___ ______ -.Tean Mortlock '50 _____ ______ ___ ___ ___ __ 37 Into the Church Through ArL __ _. ___ ____ __ Billie Jean Eilers '5 L _______ ._______ _ 39 A Painter, Sculptor, and Architect ___ ____ .Fran<;;:)iseMerckel '5 L __ __ ___ ___ ____ 41 Undyin g H ope__ ___ ___ __ _____ ____ ____ ____ ___ __ _______ Martf- Kilczer '5 L ___ _____ ___ ____ ____ _ 4 3 W hich Way Education? __ ___ ________ ______ _____ Jeanne Griffin ' 51 __ __ __ ____ ________ __ . _ 45 Book R eviews "The Story of t he Trapp Fal1dy Singers" ____ _____ ____ __ ___ ____ _______ ___ __ ___ __ __ .Ann McCarthy , 52 __ ___ __ ___ __ ____ __ __ "Lilte Lesser Gods" __ __ ____ ______ _____ ___ ___ _--Suzann Reith' 52 _______ _. __ ____ ___ ____ __ "Father Flanagan of Boys T ou:n" __ ___ _Mary C atherine Cm gany '50 __ __ "The Perfect l1wader" ____ __ _____ _____ _____ _.5luronlu Sheridan '5 L __ . ______ _____ Patrons ______ ___ __ _____ ______ ___ ___ __ ________ __ ____ ___ __ __ ____ __ ___ ___ __ __ _____ ___ ___ ____ ___________ ___ __ __ 47 48 49 50 52 Prayer for the Holy Year Almighty and Eternal God, with all our heart we thank Thee for the great gift of the Holy Year. Father in heaven, who seest all things, who searchest the hearts of men and reignest over them, make all men docile to the voice of Thy Son in this time of grace and salvation. May the Holy Year be for all of us a time for the purification of heart and the sanctification of our lives; a year of interior reflection and reparation; a year of the great return and of the great pardon. Grant to those who suffer persecution for the sake of the faith Thy spirit of fortitude which will bind them forever to Christ and to His Church. Protect, 0 Lord, the Vicar of Thy Son on earth, the Bishops, priests, religious, and the lay faithful. Draw them all togetherpriests and people, the young, the adult, and the aged-into a unity of thought and affection which the fury of Thine enemies will break in vain. By Thy grace, enkindle in the hearts of all men a love for those unfortunate ones whom abject poverty has forced into a life beneath the dignity of a human being. in Instill the souls of those who call Thee Father a hunger and thirst for justice and for fraternal charity, in work as well as in word. "Give, 0 Lord, peace in our days," peace to the individual wul, peace to families, peace to our country, peace among nations. May the rainbow of peace and reconciliation enclose within the arc of its soft-blending light the Holy Land sanctified by the life, suffering, and death of Thy Divine Son. o God of every consolation! Deep is our misery, grave are our faults, innumerable our needs; but greater still, 0 God, is our trust in Thee. Ever. conscious of our unworthiness, we, as loving sons, place our destiny in Thy hands, joining our weak prayers to the intercession and the merits of the ever glorious Virgin Mary and all the Saints. Give to the sick a spirit of resignation and bless them with good health; make our young men staunch in their faith, our young women pure; give our fathers the necessary blessings of prosperity and make the life of the family holy ; make our mothers capable and conscientious in educating their children; extend Thy loving care and protection to the orphans; may the refugee and the prisoner of war return to his homeland. Shower Thy graces on all of us as a preparation and a pledge of eternal happiness in heaven. Amen. PIUS PP. XII. 6 EDITORIALS . en 1950 that n~ed not hinder us from gaining the Holy Year special indulgences. Our Holy Father, in his charge as Shepherd of the Fold made certain that everyone of his Sheep would have the opportunity to enrich his soul in this holy celebration. He warns those pilgrims who will travel to the Eternal City that the trip should not be made in a traveler's spirit "but with the spirit of piety which animated the faithful of past centuries, who overcoming obstacles of all kinds . . . came to Rome to wash away their sins wLth tears of sorrow and to implore of God peace and forgiveness." His Holiness asks particularly th1t this Jubilee of 1950 be an instrument of Christian regeneration. The year 1950 means for the whole world the beginning of a newer and perhaps brighter halfcentury. For the Catholic \V" orld this year will be a time of preeminent joy and sanctification, for Our Holy Father, Pope Pius XII, h1s proclaimed it a Holy Year of Jubilee. With the opening of the closed door of St. Peter's Basilica, Pope Pius opened for all mankind a "golden door of opportunity." The fruits of this opportunity may l~st a life-time but the door is open for a year only. Thus it is most propitious that Catholics the world over should take advantage of the Jubilee purpose, as our Holy Father stated it: "to summon all the faithful to expiate their faults and to amend their lives and to lead them t::> acquire virtue and holiness." \'7hen, in this century, could a Tubilee be more needed than now when uncertainty and unrest fill the hearts of men and when our Church is faced with actual persecu tion on all sides? Noone has to look far to realize the need for a Holy Ye'u nor to re'llize the necessity of fortifying himself and his church with the extra spiritual aids offered. \V"hether we make the pilgrimage in actuality or in spirit, each one can and should so enliven himself spiritually in this jubilant year that he may in turn strengthen and increase in Christian practice, his church, his f amily, his nation, and ultimately, his world. Pope Pius XII, as the Vicar of Christ, is providing us with the means! As objectives he hopes that we may sanctify our souls through prayer and penance and through unshakable loyalty to, and defence of, Christ and the Church. He urges us to Few of us will be so fortunate as to be able to make the Jubilee Pilgrimage to Rome this year but 7 OPPORTUNITY I{NOCKS IN 1950 prayer and penance and thus be instrumental in the realization of these motives? It is little that we must do but great is the harvest of benefits we can gather. It is the worker who reaps the most; so let us all become "Workers for Christ" in this our Holy Year of 1950 that we may make bright the name and fame of Jesus Christ wherever we walk! pray that those in error, the pagans and the godless, may obtain the true faith. Lastly he pleads that we strive for the betterment of social order in the world. Therefore, it behooves us all to petition God to reshape a misshapen world to His design. If our Beloved Pontiff can have such worthy motives in his heart for this Jubilee can we not too open our hearts and minds through -Loretta SPaulding THE BARil OF PETER "Cm It possibly pass through the storm?" I asked . . A nd my doubt made me weak, made me sick, made me weary . For the shadows were long, and crept quickly. "Can It possibly pass through the storm?" I asked. "It must," screamed my heart, while reason danced wildly, "Or our nature is madness." " If It cannot pass through the storm," I asked, "Why then, is longing not to be satisfied?" And I had no answer, save agony. "But It did, and It will," said a soft gentle Voice, And my mind was eased, and my heart rested. -Rita Wokna 8 :lhe :lhingd 0/ Caedar and lhe :lhingd "Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's and to God tbe things that are God's." 0/ (joJ State and to the World. The Holy Father himself stated that Catholics must t'lke an active interest in politics, when "by politics is meant the common good in opposition to the individu?l goods." On the other h:.: nd, to promote and conduct the wel1bein ~ of its citizens is not only a right but a positive duty of the St1te. It is 2.1so a right and a duty of the State to protect and preserve the b ~ sic principles of religion, since religion is the foundation of the civil edifice. When in a State religion is neglected and atheism is prevalent, at th:lt very moment the true brotherhood of man, mutual loyalty, veracity and reverence for authority cease to exist. Such are the conditions in the C<)mmunist State. Communism h'1s repeatedly m anifested to the w orld in a more or less graphic and drama tic manner its hatred of God, religion, and the Church. Events such as have taken place recen tly in countries of northe'lstern Europe st3nd as proofs that the Communist State and the Church cannot stand side by side. The Church is willing to perform her duty t oward the State but can it be said that the Communist State is willing to do its duty toward the Church and the individual? Is it n ot obvious that the Communist State dem ands all for Caesar when it does not permit its people to render to God the things that i re God's? -Maria Porras The Church does not undertake to decree what form of political government her children should establish, and while she is capable of ad apting herself to every form of legitimate government, it seems th?t she thrives 2nd flourishes in a special m 2.nner in a democracy and fin :!s it peculiarly suited to her genius and character. Today when there is such a diversi ty of religious beliefs, a union of Church and State would spell n J thing hut friction and would be unpala6ble to all parties. Separation of Church and State with freedom to both within their separate domai.ns and friendly cooperation to promote Jomt interest, has proved to be the most satisfactory plan. The Church does not look with hvor or compbcency upon the grow th of any form of government which opposes her principles, for in her philosophy, so sacred is the personality of the individual citizen th2.t he has rights which cannot be abrid ged even by the State. The individual does not exist for the State, nor for the politico-social order, but these exist for him. Despite the unfriendly attitude of the materialistic or atheistic state to the Church, the Church h ~ s a definite obligation to the 9 by The Atlantic Ocean was hardly the place to discover one had made a bad decision. Gazing into mountains of the translucent azure surrounding the vessel, and enduring the eddies of salt spray taking such fiendish delight in taunting his patience, Allen Winters slumped against the guard rail of the "Queen Mistress" and meditatively cursed himself for chasing the proverbial goose halfway across a universe. For t~n ye ars he waded outside the Church in waters deep enough t.') drown a less' stalwart man, yet when he re ali zed that his pool of perplexity W ;1 S whirling in the Yf r :m 3 direction he determined to begin anew and christen his return to . C::ttholicism with a visit to Rome. But doubts and suspicions inv:> ded his mind, hurlin~ resolve to the winds. The sojourn from religion had ' dampened his spirit and clouded his mind. Night hastened to shade the waters. He flipped a well-smoked cigarette overboard, glanced warily :.'I t the cloud-stacked heavens abov~ him, then turned and clambered d')wn the ladder, and hurried into the dining room below deck. The steward guided Allen to his usual t~ bIe, far at the back of the smokefilled room, shoved the menu into his hand, then dashed to the beck PATRICIA FEIGHNER of another guest. Dining at this hour could hardly be called a pleasurable experience. No one seemed to care to speak with him. He fumbled for the lighter in his vest pocket, then withdrew a cigarette, lighted it, and inhaled deeply. The waiter certainly was slow! "Hello." Allen Winters jerked his gaze to a thin, pale gentleman eyeing him with interest from the next table. "Haven't I met you before?" he asked pleasantly. "Not to my knowledge," replied \'Vinters, as equally amiable, "but there is no time like the present for an introduction. My name is \'Vinters, Allen Winters." "How do you do. My name is Saul Anders. Did you embark from the States?" "Yes, New York. And you?" "I left Gotham for the Indians too. What is your destination?" Allen \'Vinters cringed. This man w as obviously Jewish. Wouldn't an explanation lead to a slightly embarrassing discussion-inferring thlt this fellow intended to establish a topic of conversation? "Why, relatives," he blurted, "relatives in Italy bring me across the ocean."- Saul Anders mistook Allen's eagerness for a want of companionship and picked up his cocktail and moved his person and chair to Allen's table. 10  When their stomachs were filled and their ego was satisfied, Saul Anders and Allen Winters adjourned their chance meeting until the next morning when breakfast in the dining room would initiate the activity for that day. Allen had chosen his words carefully, and Mr. Anders had complied gracefully. Winters hailed goodnight as he left Saul at his cabin. Saul Anders watched Allen saunter away. As he fished for the key from his pocket he felt something slip from his h".nd and clatter to the deck. He sto:Jped and picked up his rOS 'HY, kissed it, then walked into his state-room. \'Vhen Allen Winters awoke the next morning, the "Queen Mistress" had been docked at Liverpool Jess than ten minutes. He threw on his clothes and tumbled onto the deck to view the early morning 'splendor of the sun climbing over the city. Saul Anders had risen much earlier. He was gazing into space as Allen stopped alongside him and fixed his foot on the rail. "Beauty of a morning," he sighed. "Umm," acknowledged Anders, " They're loading now. Seems to be quite a group. I wonder if they're Romew ard bound?" "Romeward?" questioned Allen. "\'Vhy yes. I don't believe many are on this boat for any other reason. In fact you're the only person I've t'llked with who isn't crowning the Holy Year with a visit to Rome." Saul Anders shook his head, then continued, "The children of God have tramped over many barriers of life to follow. Some have wearied and fallen, and failed, but somewhere, sometime they are stag- gered by the realization of that which dropped out of their lives when they faltered and fell. Time has tested many. They're salted and seasoned, but the rest will come back, like tired children who've run away from home." Emphatically he finished speaking and cast his eyes heavenward. \X'inters shifted uneasily. It wasn't enough to push himself from God even in the act of pilgrimage to Him, much less deny it too. \'Vhy had he been such a coward! Strong winds whipped the liner along its course from Liverpool, each knot bringing Allen Winters and Saul Anders closer to their destination. Two days remained until the liner would dock at Leon in France. Allen searched his heart and mind continuously for some way that he might unburden himself to Saul. They had eaten breakfast together once since they left Liverpool-dinner, twice. Conversa tion had proved a drudgery to both, and eventually dragged into an uncomfortable silence. Saul's indifference could not be mistaken. Yet Leon and land were but a day away. The evening before the "Queen Mistress" docked at Leon, the sky shone a million stars, their constant pa ttern broken only now and then by the racing wisps of night clouds. A copper moon hung low over the sea, reflecting a weird, fragmented b::tll on the water. Allen Winters restlessly hurried his packing, anxious to escape into the lovely night which hovered outside his cabin door. Saul Anders was also aware of 11 ROMEW ARD BOUND damper on the spmt, Allen. You can't blame a man for thinking. Oftentimes it's of some benefit to him." "Yes, of course," agreed Allen. "Nature seems to have expected sightseers tonight, eh? Look at those stars! There must be a million. She's certainly putting on the show." "Not h -df the show we're puttin g on for her," muttered Anders. "I don't un -1erstand," questioned A llen Winters wrinkling his forehead. Anders continued, "The capt1in called me over this morning. It seems you left your passport at the breakfast t able. He asked me to give it to you." "Strangely enough," said Allen, "I h 1ven't missed it." Saul h anded Allen his p assport 2nd a pocket-miss'1l, then turned and walked away. Stupefied, Allen shot his g" ze from the figure of his friend to his just recovered belongings. Then Saul Anders knew! "Saul!" Allen's voice carried high and clear above the heads of the people milling about the deck. S1Ul Anders slackened his pace, permitting Allen to fall in step with him. " Changed your mind?" asked Saul. "Yes," smiled Allen Winters, "I think my course has been altered a bit. If you don't mind my company and a long explanation, then expect a companion tomorrow to Rome. My relatives can wait!" the tranquil, evening beauty. He closed the lid of the last suitcase and snapped the lock. There wasn't too much left to do. That which he left undone could be attended to in the morning. He had more important things to do right now. He switched off the light in his cabin, then gently closed the door behin -1 him. Never had he seen a lovelier evening. So many stars! Skyg2Z:!rs were propped against the guard rails, all intent upon the masterpiece of nature surrounding them. Among the groups Saul spotted a lone figure fixed upon the inky depths of the sea, splashing and churning at the ship's waterline. He walked toward Winters slowly, "Good evening, may I join you?" "Of course," Winters answered invitingly. .' Saul coughed, then watching Allen closely, spoke, "I was wondering if you might be headed in my general direction tomorrow, after we dock. I dread traveling alone. My idea was that you might care to join me part of the way." "No, I'll manage alone," murmured Allen. "Why I'm quite sure you are capable of that, Winters. I'm sorry to h ave crashed your solitude. Good evening!" "Oh, don't leave Anders. I'm sorry-just thinking. One of those confounded moods everyone experiences now and then. Forgive me for being so abrupt. Do stay." Allen proffered cordially, and Anders accepted. "I fear my intrusion effects a 12 I f i I by ETHEL JAMES In the earliest days of the Church, Rome, formerly the mistress of the pagan world, was chosen by Christ through Peter as the center of Christianity. Peter's successors have continued to guide the faithful from Rome except for the short period that the popes were in captivity at Avignon. Consequently, to the Vatican City at Rome, the minds and hearts of Christendom turn with love and respect during this Holy Year. The following lines are a translation of one stanza of a Latin hymn written in the tenth century in honor of Saints Peter and Paul's day at Rome. Although its author is unknown, all Christians can even today echo his sentiment~ as he sings: o Roma nobilis, orbis et domina, Cunctarum urbium excellentissima, Roseo martyrum sanguine rubea, Albis et virginum liliis candida; Salutem dicimus tibi per omma, Te benedicimus; salve per saecula! o Rome, thou mistress of the world, Most passing fair of cities bright, Ruddy, enriched with martyrs' blood, Bedecked with virgins' lilies white; Thee do we laud in joyous praise; Thee do we bless through endless days! 13 by \Vhat is Esperanto? Is it a new fad, a candy bar, or perhaps another new soap discovery? Wrong -all around! Esperanto is the international language. It is, as its name suggests, the long-awaited and hoped for language by which men from every corner of the eartn can converse in the simplest and yet the most flexible of all languages. Esperanto could well be the key to world harmony for by its use men can negotiate directly with one another without a middle man 2.nd .could in the expression of one l: nguage come nearer to the expr~ssion of one ideal. It has a vo<;:1~uL:.ry of but a few hundred words ro:>ted in the other better k n o"7,rn western languages and a p':!rf:!ctly ph:metical spelling and pr::munciation. The grammar may be mastered in two hours since there are only sixteen rules without exceptions. One of the best features of Esperanto is tha tit does not displace any na tional language but rather it serves as a neutral, second language for everyone and avoids the mistake made by other one-language movemen ts which hurt national prides by giving precedence to one language over another. Esperanto is not unknown. Millions of people throughout the world already have learned it in :- nticip ztion of the world brotherh :::od movement. Hun:lreds of news- LORETTA SPAULDING papers and books are printed in Esperanto and business men are beginning to see the possibilities of world trade through its use. Most of all, travelers are becoming conscious of its benefits, for in every country of the world they are finding it easier to make friends through Espennto. As we know a country better through its own language thus we can know the world better through the international language. Since our Holy Father Pope Pius XII has always proclaimed his dream that all men may be as "one flock and one shepherd" it seems most proper to consider Esperanto, whose very purpose is directed toward this end, in the Holy Year spirit. Our spiritual leader has always taught that there is a unity of all men through their human nature and through Christ and the Church. How much greater could the realiza tion of this be if men could also have a unity of tongues? This year, when millions of pilgrims from all over the universe are and will be flocking to Rome and other holy places, how wonderful it would be if they could have a unity of language to equal the unity of their holy intent in making the pilgrimage. Then the barriers would be broken down and men could pray not only as one he art but also in one voice. Pope Pius has ::llready broken 14 barriers by learning to address his followers in at least eight languages. For the less able man there is now Esperanto and we have no doubt that our Holy Father will be among the first to take it up, if he! hasn't already! There will be one international group meeting in Rome this summer which will have no need of interpreters but will try to show that "the curse of Babel" can be overcome. It is the 22nd International Catholic Esperanto Congress. Perhaps at this Holy Year of 1950 it is too soon to expect all the pilgrims to have mastered the international language that they might be "one in Rome" but perhaps twenty-five years from now, at our Holy Year Jubilee of 1975, every man, woman and child will be able to converse as "citizens of the world" proclaiming In one tongue-one ideal! DE LIlUDE PII XII Latin original and translation by ETHEL JAMES Pie, praepotens caelorum claviger, Examine in praesente promissio pacis Noster in hoc mundo princeps benignus, Vicarius Christi, Viae nostrae Vitaeque; Praestet abundanter tibi gracias supernas Qui est sempiternus fons omnis virtutis. Pius, thou bearer of Heaven's keys, Vision of peace in present strife, Of Christendom the earthly head, Brave Vicar of Christ, our Way and Life; May He from whom all strength doth flow Supernal grace on thee bestow. 15 by MARTA KILCZER 1 I 1944 . . . That was the time when the Eastern countries of Eu- rope were burning with wild flames -literally burning because of the modern technique and weapons of war, and burning in a figurative sense because of the red fire of Russi:m Communism. That was the time when thousends - an::! more than thousands of pilgrims of the twentieth century v"501":: wandering on their way from the E 2St to the W est. Wealthy men 2n::! p c~ s .lnts were leaving homes and fatherland with the same aimto save their lives. There were different people from different countries fleeing for the same reason. Among them were children continuing their childhood dreams and old men well knowing the tragedy which was happening on the continent. membrance of a better life and memories of a country they loved. Before them-nothing-but the great uncertainty. 1950 . . . Six years have passed since tha t time-six years in a strange country, full of hardships, need, worry and hope-hope for a return to the native land, hope to meet the family members again, hope for a home of one's own. This is the Jubilee Year for the Catholic Church, a time of special prayer for the Catholic world. Everyone's attention is focused on the Holy Father, the head of the Church. He calls upon us to pray for the return of the refugee and the prisoner. Listen to his words! Through him Christ is speaking to you and me. Through him Christ sends the message to the world to pray for the thousands who look to him with hope-hope for the return to their beloved country and home. Refugees . . . Thousands of people standing at the crossroads. Behind them-nothing-but the re- 16 I ~ I I I by This is the age of science; it's the reign of science. Ours is a world worried about the atom bomb, and the H-bomb, a world troubled by the cold war. Great men of our time have tried to find a way to world peace and the solution they have proposed has been international co-opera tion-bu t their in terna tiona I coopera tion has come to nothing more than to fight, defeat, and, if possible, terminate the forces of opposition. But one great man has offered to all men a solution. It is the oldest and simplest of them all. Our problem is not an international one solved by war; it is a personal one solved by the individual. That great man standing quietly in the midst of a frenzied world led by frenzied rulers is the Holy Father, and the solution he suggests is our consciousness of the necessity of pers::mal s:mctity. HELEN ECKRICH selves a very vital part of our lives if we believed otherwise. Rich and poor, strong and weak, leaders and followers, teachers and taught, rulers and beggars: all have been included in God's call to holiness. It's important to all of them. It's not beyond nor above any of them; it's not beyond nor above any of us. How can we imagine that what is so essen tial to all men would or could be reserved but for a few? \Ve realize then that holiness isn't a Sunday Special; it's an every-day job and it's a difficult one. But let us remember that difficul t does not mean impossible. \'7e know th2 t God asks nothing of us beyond our capabilities. He asks nothing of us without providing sufficient means. And if we look around us we can find them and take advantage of them, for they are at our disposal. Our lives in all their trifling and particular details can be truly ple::sing to God, and it is in these details that we are to find sanctity. Again it isn't beyond us; it's all about us. God has surrounded us with persons, those who please us and those who do not, and with duties, those which bring us joy and those which do not-all these ;: re our means to holiness. We should not allow, however, the do(Please Turn to Page 44) The call to holiness is addressed to all of us. Sanctity isn't something locked up in a convent or buried with the early Christians. The religious have no priority on it, neither did the anchorites. It's something real, present, vital, living. It's just as essential to a mother and to her children as it is to a missionuy. It can and must be found in every state and condition of life. We would be denying our17 Grant peace, 0 Lord, in our daysPeace to souls who hunger and thirst for the springs of spiritual refreshment; Who grope blindly in a world that knows you not; Who grope unconsciously for Y ouFor you, of all things the Beginning and the End. Grant peace, 0 Lord, and lightLife to souls who are dead to your grace, unacquainted with its wondrous joys; To storm-harried souls who toss on the sea of life, A sea where, as they lie waiting, waves of secularism Drive and sweep and mislead them into a lethal peace. Grant peace, 0 Lord, and lightLight that souls may realize for what it is they search, And may ell?-brace the means of reaching You, the Cross, Carrying it as You will them to along their waysAlong their ways to You and the Father and the Holy Spirit. Hear the unworthy prayers of those who, already knowing and loving You, enjoy that peace; Forgive those who refuse to love You, for truly they know not what they do; And by Your infinite merits and Your kindness without end, Grant peace, 0 Lord, in our daysPeace to every individual soul. -Joyce Ann Edwards P~x 18 . I by BARBARA REDER "More Americans! never stop coming?" "W'ill they side them. These were the kind of people I was looking for; these were the kind of people who always drew my attention. As soon as I saw them I turned and slipped quietly out the door, smoothin'S my hair and straighten- . ing my shabby clothes as I headed across the street toward them. They were so busy looking around that they didn't see me at first. So I stood and waited until one of the women glanced down and, noticing me, cooed, "Oh, look! Isn't he precious? A little Italian boy!" Another answered her, "Just too cute for words! I wonder if he can understand us?" That was my cue and I didn't hesitate. I stepped forward with a little bow and, using the same words that I had used over and over again, I said as best I could in their tongue which was strange to me, "Good morning, ladies. \Velcome to Rome. My name is Antonio. I am eleven years old and I live in the house across the Square. I will recite for you a poem if you like." They liked, so I repeated a poem I had painfully learned mdnths before. I got the same response from them that I always gotwonder, admiration, amusement, and MONEY. It was the money that I wanted and for it I had waited, for it I h ad pr::cticed to master the I didn't bother to answer mother's question. With my face pressed tightly against the window pane, I was intently watching the people-men, women and children -pouring from the buses that were lined up across the street. I would not have needed that word "Americans!" to tell me who they were. I could have told that from their clothes, their faces, their very walks. I knew who they were and why they were there, across the way, in St. Peter's Square-they had come for the Holy Year, for the special blessings and to see the Holy Father. But it was neither of these things that interested me. I was busy searching the faces of these newcomers, for I had learned since the beginning of the year to know just by looking into their faces what kind of people they were. My eyes passed quickly over the faces of the priests who still frightened me a little; they passed over the faces of the numerous pious and respectful people and rested finally on a small group of women standing off a little from the rest. They were gazing about with gauking looks, chattering wildly, affected no more by the religious a tmosphere around them than were the blank-faced buses standing be19 IN ANY LANGUAGE difficult "Yankee" words. Now . . . There, just enough." that I had it, I said a few polite \\7hen I left the shop I held things and, bowing again, left tightly in my arms my treasure them quickly. When I was safely and as I walked slowly home, I out of their sight (although they whispered softly so that only the forgot about me as soon as I left wind and God could hear: "Dear them) I carefully counted the Lord, I hope I did nothing wrong money they had given me for my in taking money from those ladies performance. Then I searched my who came to Rome not for You ragged pockets and withdrew more but for themselves-to enjoy themmoney that I had stored thereselves. I did need the money and I money I had gotten before for like knew of no other way to get such performances. It was just enough, a great amount. I am too little to for what I wanted. Happily I ran work as the older boys do. So don' t down the street and I didn't stop be angry with me, Lord. I meant until I was inside the little shop. nothing wrong and I did so much \~rhile catching my breath, I want-I will say a rosary for each pointed to the shelf on which my of the ladies so that they will get treasure lay and panted, "That. I the blessings of the Holy Year-" vf1 nt-,-th:1 t!" As the clerk wrapped rr y purchjse I carefully counted Then, reassured I added, "0 Lord, I just had to have this statue oat the money I still clutched in or Your Blessed Mother." . :1 .[rC,-1 y h l nd. "One-two--three by This is the Holy Year! From far and near, from all over the world, Catholics will journey to the Etern al City fulfillin g the requisites of ~ pilgrim to gain the particular indulgences. They will thrill to sights of unforgettable beauty; they will pl'Ofit spiritually, joining with others in the praise of their Maker. T hese pilgrims will be aided in their pr:.yer::; by ehborate programs of AUDREY KRAUS the finest Church music and will be greatly impressed by such music as the ancient chant. Sacred Music wields a special power and is of deep spiritual value. It unites us in a more meaningful expressioI1- of prayer and assists us in directing our thoughts to God. H ave we not prayed at times with more devotion because of the 1:eauty of the singing of a High 20 Mass? The Holy Father wishing to re-emphasize this spiritual value of sacred music has designated May 25-30 for an International Congress of Sacred Music to be held in Rome. This meeting is most significant as no such congress of international scope has been held for almost a half-century and the progress or failure of these years will be discussed together with suggestions for reform and the restoration of ecclesiastical music. Pius XII in his recent encyclical letter Mediator Dei discusses the liturgy of the Church in all its aspects . Of music he stresses, in particular, Gregorian Chant and congregational singing. How few of us realize that Chant is among the most beautiful of liturgical composltIOns. Rather, how few hwe an appreciation of it. The Pope points out that "Gregorian Chant, which the Roman Church considers her own as handed down from antiquity and kept under her close tutelage, is proposed to the faithful as belonging to them also." Indeed, Gregorian Chant is defini tely prescribed for certain parts of the liturgy. How could one participa te better in the Mass than by singing alternately parts of the Mass with the priest? Pius XII urges us to take part in congregational singing; in fact, he states that it is "very necessary that the faithful ... take part in the sacred ceremonies, alternating their voices with those of the priest and the choir, according to the prescribed norms." But how many congregations in our country are ever given opportunities to sing Gregorian or plain chant? Whatever the reasons for the lack of interest in congregational singing may be, the facts are deplorable. Can we hope that during this Holy Year, with the cooperation and persistent efforts of American Catholic organists and lay people, our Church music standards will be raised? American organists will attend the Congress; Americans will journey to Rome as pilgrims. Both will witness the beauty of sacred music, and both, no doubt, will carry home with them a deeper appreciation of it. Here is a challenge! Are we going to take it up? Remember this old saying which our Holy Father quotes in his Mediator Dei: "He who sings well, prays twice." 21 The Family Move1nent in France by Paris, long a leader in the world of fashion, is becoming a leader in the field of Catholic Action. Ever since the Revolution of 1789, France has been troubled with social unrest. Various remedies for the problem have been suggested. until today the true solution is recognized by many laymen to be the modern social doctrine of the Church. Ca tholic Ac tion, including Catholic social teaching, assumes many forms, such as the well know n student ' movement, the pe'a sant movement, and the family movement. Not much has been written concerning the family movement. It was founded by young . married couples who had been members of the student movement, and who missed the incentive that the student movement offered to spread their Catholic principles. Gradually these groups became larger and later consolidated under the Mouvement PopuZaire des Familles, better known as the M.P.F. Some of the strongest groups in the family movement consist of workers' families, who feel the greatest need for the guiding influence of the Church since it is to them that the socialists and communists appeal. The M.P.F. has the high spiritual JEAN MORTLOCK motive of sanctification of family life, but also includes such concrete programs as the improvement of housing conditions. One of the first steps of this project was to conduct an extensive housing survey. To increase the purchasing power of the lower class the M.P.F. encourages the maintenance of coop stores and the bartering of supplies among families. These projects do not always win immediate approval even among Catholics. There are some who think that such help tends to be socialistic in character. These obstacles, however, are being overcome, and with their disappearance comes increased interest in the social mission of the Church. The outstanding mark of the family movement is its tendency to bind the family closer together instead of separating the members as so many organizational activities do, The integrating force of the M.P.F. results from a realization th at every member of the family can contribute his share to the success of the M.P.F. Even bachelors and spinsters have been incorporated. The apostolate has thus far proved an inspiration to both Catholics and non-Catholics. The family movement could e:!sily and profitably be emulated (Pleas e Turn to Page 44) 22 OberammerlJau by It is a strange word, but even stranger is its beautiful story. To anyone traveling through Bavaria, the first approach to the Kofel Mountains has the emotional impact of the immigrant's first glimpse of New York's colossal skyline. Traveling gradually upward through rolling verdant hills, the wanderer soon finds himself gazing on the little irregularly sc:1ttered town of Oberammergau with its red roofs amid green cr0wns of trees. As he wanders through the town, he sees that the o:.,ltside walls of many of the houses zre decorated with fresco paintings, reproductions of famous biblical masterpieces. The villagers carve wooden crucifixes, rosaries ,and images of the saints which are shipped all over the world. They are more famous, . however, for a practice dating back to the year 1634. MARY WASSEL pIe wished to see His whole life, particularly the story of His Passion. Thus a series of dramas originated which were called Passion Plays. In 1633, when the Thirty Years \'0/ ar came, so did the pestilence, all around the little town at the foot of Kofel. The guards built huge fires to protect it, but missed a lone man, who, after years of absence from his family, yearned to be home again. Sick, he staggered over the mountains at night and, unseen, joined his family. Next mornin !S, Kaspar Schissler-bringer of death-lay dead. The all-powerful Reaper began his work, but his arrival incited in the village a spiritml awakening. The villagers assembled in the little parish church making a solemn vow to enac t the Passion of Christ every t en years 2 S an expression of gratitude if the scourge ceased. It did, and the first performance w?s given in 1634 and repea ted every ten years until 1674, after which the dates were chan ged so as to fall on decimal years. This h-s been faithfully kept with the exception. of 1870 when the Franco-Prussian "W!ar interfered j 192 0, due to the afterma th of World \)7ar I and 1940 because of World \V/ ar II. This p n ctice was influenced by a form of song, the "trope," sung by people many years ago a~ the Introit of the Mass on Easter Sunday. This simplest form of liturgical E 2ster celebration was elaborated in many ways by the addition of Biblical sentences, hymns, and sequences. Nevertheless, this most important event in the life of the God-Man did not suffice. The peo23 OBERAMMERGAU The playhouse, a stage 140 feet wide, i~ the direct source of sustenance for 1,200 of the villagers and indirectly feeds the whole town. No one may participate unless he is a native of the village and is of unimpeachable moral character. He must be dramatically qualified to enact the character for which he is chosen. Over 700 people particip ate in the play. No wigs or facial make-up are permitted. Costumes are of the biblical period. P articip ants train their h air and beards and study to assume the general appearance of the character they portray. The play begins at 8: 15 A .M. and continues until 5 :25 P.M. with two hours recess for lunch. T he beginning of the performance, ;- nnounced cy the boom of cannon disch'u gei on a dis,tant hill, plunges the!. 2.ld ien ce into deep silence. Orch'.O st n , choir, prologue and tablC:!Ex heighten this mood, then the curtains part against a background of green and partly wooded hills, the arching sky and the ceaseless train of clouds. Christ triumphantly enters Jerusalem and in a series of eighteen progressive acts the events of His last few days on earth are portrayed. In the last scene we see Jesus Christ rise from the tomb. Above that glorious closing scene stands the bleeding evening sun, and, as it casts a ruddy 24 glow over the stage, Oberammergau would like to see a few beams fall also into the hearts of many so that they might take back with them into the dr abness of life a bit of inspiration and the memory of a lofty inner mission carried out by the simple people of Oberammergau for 300 years. The prospects for the 1950 Holy Year were none too bright. Some villagers died in the War, old age has weakened many and some seem to have lost that deep faith once so visible in them. Perhaps the Passion village is living its famous drama in its daily life. That village once so peaceful, so Catholic in the full sense of that word, is being drawn closer to its Lord along the road He traveled, the road of crossbearing. Nevertheless, the drama will be enacted. The spectacle presented by the crowding thousands who are making their way to Oberammergau this Holy Year leaves no doubt that the play is going to be a far grea ter success than ever before. Christ's own words were that when He should be lifted up on the Cross, He would draw all men to Him, and this is eminently exemplified in the widespread appeal the Passion Play has for people of our time. '~ , i ~ I by t. MARIAN RYAN "Me neither, but I like to play tag." I remember, it was Wednesday the seventh of September, a long twenty years ago. My three older brothers, Jimmy, Johnny, and Joey plus Mary and Alice escorted me to school. It was so wonderful thinking about first grade and the new friends I would meet, but I was a little scared too. Even if there were five of us at the same school, they were all older. The red brick building looked a little frightening to me and I clung to Joey's hand. He smiled down at me and said, "Don't be scared; remember what Mom ~aid." . "Me too." That was the beginning. We became very good friends. Every day we played together and she used to come over ' to our house very often. At first she thought it was odd that we said the Rosary every night. I suppose they didn't say it in her home. Mom and Daddy liked Joyce. Mom thought she was sweet. I didn't think that quite fit her, but Daddy liked her long black hair. Just before Christmas Joyce came to school one day especially happy because her mother had promised that she could bring me over to d!nner the following Tuesday. . Mom always told us that as long you were full of God's grace there wasn't anything to be afraid of. I didn't exactly understand what she meant by God's grace but she was always right; so part of the jumps in my tummy stopped. They took me into the room marked "I" and introduced me to Sister Cecilia. She seemed very nice and I liked the way she smiled. I sat down in my seat and looked around. The girl across the aisle was staring at me. "What's your name?" 2S I ran home ri.ght after school to tell Mom. She seemed quite pleased and told me I could wear my new blue dress. Daddy didn't say very much except that he hoped I'd have a good time, but I heard him talking to Mom la ter and he said that Joyce's mother was a social climber and it surely was a shame. I didn't know w ha t he meant. The big day finally arrived. Everything in the house looked new. The pilloW's were all puffed up and it looked like nobody ever sat in them. Joyce's mother was one of "Judy. What's yours?" "Joyce." "Do you like dolls?" (tNo." 25 JOYCE the most beautiful women I'd ever seen. She had black hair like Joyce, only short, and she was tall and slender. She asked me all sorts of questions like what did my daddy do, where did I live, did we belong to a club. I thought she sounded a little silly and Mom always said that it was rude to ask a lot of questions, but then grownups are different. Joyce's father came in and I liked him. He said he knew of my daddy and had heard a lot of nice things about him. I smiled. Then a lady came in and said that dinner was ready. At dinner Joyce's mother talked about some club meeting she'd been to :md what she would wear to somebody's ~ea . She said that she didn't hwe anyt~ing to wear. But the dress she h ad on was lovely. She cert1inly w:!s funny. Then she asked me how many brothers and sisters I had. I said, "Five older and two younger." She sort of gasped, "Eight!" "Dh huh, four boys and four girls." "How does your mother ever stand it?" she asked. "Oh, she loves us." "Does she have any help?" "Oh, yes, we help and Mrs. Hardy comes in and helps with the laundry." "See what I mean George," she said. I guess he didn't see because he looked kind of sad. After dinner Joyce and I played in her room. \Ve had lots of fun; then Joyce's 26 daddy drove us home. We sang all the way home in the car and Joyce's daddy said he hoped I'd come back real soon. That spring Joyce and I made a real tree house and what fun! She stayed at our house more than she did at home. She always said that her mother didn't care because she usually wasn't home anyway. Tha t summer there were a lot of pictures in the papers about Joyce's mother but Joyce hardly ever looked at them. Then one day she came over" to our house and she was crying. It seems that her mother h ad decided that St. Michael's parochial school wasn't 7 00d enough for Joyce and that she should go away to a private school. I was shocked and heartbroken. We had a party for Joyce before she left but it was rather sad. School wasn't quite the same at first but then I heard from Joyce. At her new school they didn't have Sisters and they wore uniforms. Our friendship slowly drifted apart throughout the years but today I happened to pick up a paper and as I was paging through it I noticed a familiar face. Memories rushed into my head and I started to smile. My three children came running into the room so I didn't have time to read the article. Later, after I had tucked them in bed, Paul and I were sitting in the living room reading. I found the evening paper and read the head line under the picture. \VOMAN COMMITS SUICIDE. :lhe Ckurch and tke Working Cfajj by Toward the end of the last decade of the nineteenth century, the industrial revolution had infiltrated almost every part of the globe bringing misery and despondency to the working class. As the wealthy capitalist was steadily acquiring more and more wealth, the lowly working man was proportionately declining into a position of distress. In this state of affairs, Pope Leo XIII saw not only a material disorder, but a moral disorder as well, and .in 1891 he produced his indispensable pronouncement on the condition of the workin~ . class, the R erum Novarum, which brought light to the darkened, hopeless lives of the many who were unfavorably affected by the new social and economic system of industrialism. This established a precedent which most likely would be followed by all ecclesiastical leaders until the property which God had created for all men for the common good would be used for this end. So when Pope Pius XI in 1931, found conditions among the working class still unfit for children of God, he again represented the attitude of the Catholic Church against the social injustice of industrial capitalism and issued his famous Quadragesil110 Anno. But ALICE RABEN as the industrialist turned a deaf ear to his pleas and as the living conditions of the workingman were not improved, our present Holy Father was compelled to speak in behalf of the laboring class again in his "Radio Address on the Fiftieth Anniversary of Rerum Nova1'um." As we are all brothers under the Fatherhood of God, it behooves us to pray for these brothers that their wretched condition may be alleviated and especially in this Holy Year of 1950, when with Pope Pius XII at the head, the universal Church prays to God "that He might arouse in the hearts of all Christians a hunger and thirst for social justice ... " Social justice, the virtue which recognizes the natural rights of all men is a t the basis of our American system, for is not the principle that "All men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights ... " our American belief and ideal? But is A merica truly a land of equality 2nd a land of the fulfillment of the rights of man? You will be able to find many whc, from their experience, can only 2nswer this in the negativem any who feel that they are not receiving the true benefits of a society that is founded on the prin27 THE CHURCH AND THE WORKING CLASS ciple that "all men are created equal." These are men who are suffering from the selfishness of employers who are misusing the right of private property by snatching up the wealth and fruits of the land, while the lowly are left to starvation and the most abject living conditions . only for the necessities of life, but a salary that allows for the development of his cultural and spiritual life as well. These same people, however, give little of their support to the workingman's cause, or may actually oppose him, when it meam that they walk during a bus strike, or live in an unheated house during a coal strike. With these inconveniences testing their support for the dejected working class, they begin to apply different interpretations to the principle of equal rights for the workingman. It h .-.s been st:lted that the "mortal sin of our society is the economic misery of our brothers," caused by the crime of the rich man and the employer who so unjustly defraud the laborer of his just wage. Our present system in which a small minority owns the greater part of the property and wealth and to whom others must co:ne for work is not in itself unjustifiable, if this small minority of o-:vn ers accord to their laborers a sj Lry which allows them to live p ro?erly and befittingly as human beil1;s . The rich man has a right to possess private property, but the use of this property entails many duties and obligations. The rich m an is only "steward of his wealth" for to God alone belongs the supreme property right. And when, through greed and avarice, he fails to administer his wealth justly, he can not but be regarded as an unjust steward in the eyes of God. There are many of the lowly class who are hungry for food and material necessities, it is true, but this material hunger is exceeded by an urgent hunger for justice, friendship and charity, for without these, hope is driven out and only a state of desperation and despondency is left to haunt the hearts of the lowly classes. There will be no solution to their economic and moral wretchedness as long as the rich employer and industrialist cripple them with their injustice. This mass social degradation is an inveterate evil of our modern industrialism. Remedies have been proposed and attempted-remedies like those of Marx and Lenin-but these remedies have failed. Our Holy Fathers have taken the lead in appealing to the non-workingm an and in offering a true solution. This solution is found in their encyclicals and pronouncements on capital and labor, but it is valueless until men in numbers large enough (P!e.1se Turn to Page 44) A survey would undoubtedly reve:ll that the greatest percentage of pe:: ple agree that the workingman is entitled to justice and that he h as a right to use proper means to achieve justice. The majority would also agree that the workingman is entitled to a salary that allows not 28 J by I MARIE MARTINO Regardless of time or civilization the traffic of any congested area becomes a serious problem. Roman public officials anticipating such a problem during the Holy Year of 1950, in view of the predicted large numbers of pilgrims who would visit the Holy City, had the Via della Conciliazione leading to St. Peter's widened and repaved. But this year is not the first time in the history of the Church's Jubilee Years that Rome faced a traffic problem. In the first Holy Year of 1300, pilgrims streamed into Rome from all corners of the world. To remedy the inconvenience occasioned by the crowds passing over the bridge of St. Angelo, Pope Boniface VIII, the reigning Pontiff, caused the bridge to be divided lengthwise by a partition, ordering that all those who were going to St. Peter's should keep to one side, and those returning to the other; that is, those going to St. Peter's faced Castello Sant' Angelo, and those returning faced Monte Giordano. In the following lines taken from Dante's Divine Comedy, we have a reference to the regulations made for maintaining such order: Come i Roman, per l' essercito molto, L' anno del Giubileo, su per 10 ponte Hanno a passar Ia gente modo colto, Che da l' un lato tutti hanno la fronte Verso '1 castello, e vanno a santo Pietro, Da l' altra sponda vanno verso il monte. Even as the Romans, for the mighty host, In the year of Jubilee, upon the bridge Have devised a way to pass the people o'er So that on one side they all have their faces Toward the Castle, as they g? to St. Peter's, On the other side they go toward the Mountain. (Inferno, XVIII, 28-33) 29 by April 14 BETTY KENNEDY past Italian schoolchildren with big bow ties who skipped along in play. Lighted candles were given us as we descended into the catacombs. We followed past hundreds of niches where the first martyrs lay. The air was filled with a spiritual silence and shadowy sanctity like that found in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament. It was late afternoon and the setting sun lazily painted gold stripes on every spire, dome and wall as the plane circled in from the sea over Rome. I gasped. with astonishment when I saw how small the city was. How could all that beauty, history, and magnificence, which I had read about, fit into such a small space? This was indeed a city, not of the dead, but of the living, ever working in the hearts of many, many Christians. F rom the air I could see the famed silver cupola of St. Peter's church with the circular Square spread out before it. Two huge steel-laced towers pointed out the Vatican radio station built by Marconi. I could distinguish a few of the seven hills with their churches and imperial ruins. We ascended into the bright Italian surilight and followed the road back into the city. We were anxious to gain the indulgence granted by the Holy Father to all Holy Year pilgrims and so hastened to St. Mary Major's where we recited the required prayers. This indeed is a church of extraordinary beauty. The queen of all Marian churches, it is the shrine of the manger in which the Christ Child lay so long ago. My heart was impatient to begin the tour of Rome at once, but my body was weary, so I willingly followed our guide to the hotel. . . . April 17 As I wanted first to explore the subterreanean city of the catacombs, we followed the Via Appia out of the city past the ruins of tombstones of Emperors and soldiers who were so ironically buried above those they had slaughtered, April 20 . . . What a surprise when I found I could walk upon the roof of St. Peter's! The roof resembles a large balc0'''' :1.nd from it we 30 could see the entire Square surrounded by 162 statues of saints, and centered by the Heliopolis Obelisk which is 84 feet high. Immediately above the entrance of the great church are the nineteenfoot statues of Christ and the apostles .. rebuilt especially for the Holy Year pilgrims. We walked along the finely paved road buying postcards and souvenirs. They were not hard to find for street vendors and shopkeepers alike catered to the welcome pilgrims. A little cafe with tables outside caught our eyes and here, where our sightseeing would be uninterrupted, we lunched. A typical Italian dish was set before us, ham cooked and served in a savory hot tomato sauce. A salad steeped III garlic completed a spicy meal. April 21 On either side of St. Peter's IS an entrance into the Holy City. We p.1ssed through the Bronze Door, which is the entrance for pedestrians, and made our way to the greatest art collection in all the world. April 26 Today again we went through the Bronze Door, past the colorful Swiss Guards in their red, yellow, and blue uniforms, and into the San Damascus courtyard. Here the Pope receives large audiences. In the Sistine Chapel we marveled at the work of Michelangelo; in "Raphael's Loggia, at the artist's magnificent . conceptions of Biblical scenes. We saw an Etruscan warrior's chariot, gods of Greek mythology in sculpture and statues of Canova. My favorite was the room of Renaissance Madonnas where the talented inspired artists had left their impressions of Mary and her Child. Str;:nge to feel so insignificant and yet so important! This was my thought as I joined other pilgrims from far and near in paying homage to our Holy Father. I felt insignificant because stood in the shadow of the Vicar of Christ and successor of St. Peter, Pius XII, a great and holy manyet important, for I was with him, a member of the Mystical Body. As we walked along the Roman streets, we noticed more artists in the making. Foreigners and Italians alike had settled with their easels in the most picturesque places. One barefoot boy of not more than twelve was doing a water color of a street scene while sitting at the base of the Piazza Colonna. As I pondered this, and the importance and greatness of our faith so centered here in Rome, there were tears of sorrow in my soul, tears of love in my heart, and tears of sincerity in my eyes. April 24 The ViJ Della Conciliazione was 31 }iN MARIAIiORETTI German original and translation by KATHERINE MORAN and SUZANN REITH Ju ~gfra u u~d Maereyrin des zwa n ,igsten J ahrhundert s Starb am 5ten JuIi, 190 2 in Vereeidigung ihrer Unschuid im 11 ten J ahre ihres leben s H eiIggesp rochen am 25ten Juni , 1950 So schwach als Kind, doch stark wie Held, Italiens Jungfrau tapfer stellt Als blutbefleckte Lilie rein, Ihr Leben Lr die Tugend cin. Bitt auc~ Lr unsr:'! Madchen Schaar, Dass sie stets rein das Herz bewahr; Mari.a, Kin::!. und Martyrin, S::> cin in T 2. t un::!. \'Vort und Sinn; Erfleh fur sic an Gottes T ron, Der Reinheit Glanz als Tugend Lohn. TO MARY GORETTI Virgin Martyr of the twentieth century Died J;J I y 5, 1902 in defendi ng her vi 'gini ty at the age of eleven Canonized June 25, 1950 So frail the child, and young in years, But Italy's maid no combat fears, As in defense of virtue's prize, She death and dire pain defies. Do thou sweet virgin, martyr fair, For youthful maidens breathe a prayer; Lest worldly glamor them allure, Do thou for them God's grace secure. 32 by JEANNE GRIFFIN Dawn was beginning to break as we left Siena, and it must have been very lovely, but I remember nothing of the road we took, nor how the fields looked, if there were houses, or if we met anyone on the way. I remember only Catherine, how she looked, and what she said, and how terribly sad she seemed. "God sends us to help the Pope; let us pray that we may arrive in time, my child." As she spoke Catherine looked straight ahead, and did not lessen her pace in the slightest. She wore the habit of the Mantellate, and beside her black and white austerity, m y twentieth century dress might have seemed out of place. But there was rio incongruity in my dream. Fourteenth century or twentieth, I did not know. I only knew that here was St. Catherine, and we were going to Rome. I did not speak, and the saint continued, "I could not rest in heaven, when the Pope needed me, and so my Lord has sent me once more to walk the earth that I may help His Peter." Again I said nothing, it seemed I could not speak. And Catherine went on, "There is a totalitarianism which threatens the Church today, even as it did when I lived; you call it communism, the name does not Siena is a quiet, charming Italian city. Or at least it was last night when I dreamed that I walked its streets with St. Catherine. In my dream she stood before the Church of San Domenico, on the hill of Camporeggi, and waited patiently my slow ascent. There was a little smile playing about her lips, but her eyes were not smiling; in her dark Sienese eyes there was only pain, and acceptance. When I reached her side she nodded in gre~ting, and with the whispered "Come," began to walk rapidly down a street which would take us to the ga te of the city, and southeast to Rome. Just before we reached the gate, Catherine turned, and stood, wrapt in contemplation. For a moment I could not understand, but then, suddenly, as so often happens in dreams, I knew. She was taking a last look at San Domenico, perhaps remembering how Christ looked, and how He had blessed her when, at the age of six, she had beheld Him, together with St. Peter, St. Paul, and St. John the Evangelist, on the roof of the Church. She sighed audibly, then, squaring her thin shoulders, turned to me, and with the words, "Rome waits, my child," led me from the city. 33 Co-Pilgrim With a Champion of the Papacy way . . . the only way," she repeated sadly; and then, very slowly, "Do not be satisfied with little things, for God expects big ones." matter. Christ's enemies have always hidden behind a name, a theory, but they have always been his enemies." Her pace slackened a little, and she turned to look at me. "Do you know that our Lady weeps because of your complacency? There is no place for complacency ip. the life of a Catholic." We walked and walked; still I could say no~hing. My tongue seemed no longer mine; my powers cf speech had flown. Cltherine seemed to be in deep thought. Once more she spoke. "Pny for the Pope. Prayer is the key that opens the door to God's grace. Pray to her through whom all graces come. Personal sanctificationand prayer, that i!; the only San Domenico and Siena were far behind us. We had come a long way, and in the distance the outlines of the Holy City could be seen. "Pray God we are in time," said St. C:nherine, and then the dream shattered into fragments, and was gone. I awoke to a sunny, springw2shed morning; peace drifted into my room with the birdsong, but in m y soul there was no peace. Because, you see, we had not yet reached Rome. Pray God there is still time. 34 Boma, la Sede de Santo Padre By MARTHA DOUSDEBES Spanisb original and translation Oh Roma! ciudad eterna de las siete colinas, T estigo fiel de hazanas y pesares, Ciudad escogida por San Pedro Apostol Para siempre la Sede del Vicario de Cristo. Tu eres, Oh Ciudad S:mo! un tabernaculo, Que encierra en su seno al segundo Pastor. Ttl eres, Metropolis, del Santo Padre el bando; Dejad que compartamos en algo tu fulgor. Dejad que unamos nuestras pobres preces, A las de Aquel que en el mundo a Cristo representa, Y que unidos todos a coros muchas veces, Pidamos por el mundo y su lucha sangrienta. 'Rome, the Seat of the Holy Father o Rome! immortal city on the seven hills, A witness of victory and defeat, Chosen by Saint Peter the city to be The Seat of Christ's Vicar on earth. You are, 0 Holy City! a tabernacle. Enshrining in its bosom the Shepherd of the Flock. You are, 0 Metropolis! the Holy Father's support; Let us share with you always your beacons of light. Would that our humble prayers be joined To those of the Vicar of Christ, And that all be united oft times in choirs To pray for the world and its bloody strife. 35 by Cynicism spoke the other day ... RITA WOKNA There exists not only an opportunity, but a very real obligation. It is incumbent upon every young Catholic graduate, or prospective graduate, that he think of his talen ts in terms of their usefulness to the apostolate of Christ, rather than in terms of their personal profit alone. His protege, Skepticism, echoed him heartily. Actually, there is nothing unusual about hearing from these twentieth century oracles, for they are not to be restrained. In fact, the vogue seems to be complete subjection to the strange gods. One is considered childish or naive, if not light-headed, if he believes that there are still spiritual values, that m an is not a glorified ape (-why look at science's discovery only recently furthering that sublime theory), tha t a return to higher standards of morality might effect a' solution to the chaotic world's difficulties sooner than would violence. The need of spiritual regeneration is eviden t; tha t i t can be brought about might not be quite so evident. To accomplish even the smallest part of this may seem impossible. But the burden is upon our shoulders. To attempt to disregard it would be imbecilic; to attempt to defer action is simply to become tepid. The radical change must ..come in our a tti tude. Why not be on the offensivefor a change-instead of on the defensive? Catholics, having at their disposal all that is needed to pull their fellow beings from the morass of materialism and pessimisiTI, n ~ed .:Jnly sieze their opportunity . The stimulus alone seems to be lacking. Yet surely there could be no sharper stimulus than the activity on the American scene today. Just think, and really think, about it. We conciliate, always conciliate, However, the unswerving devotion 'w hich these pessimistic cults accord their spokesmen-the pseudo-philosophers, poets, writersmight serve to emphasize the acute necessity of an effective means of combating this gradual envelopment of all thought III a cloud of defeatism. Today, perhaps more than ever before, there is a crying demand for true intellectuals, Christian intellectuals, And the majority of these leaders must come from Catholic campuses, for only there are ideas, theories, philosophies measured against immutable criteria. 36 and rather pride ourselves upon it. The boy in a state school rushed by a frat with a small Catholic qUOtl, makes it despite the difficult qualifications. The select few! The businessman too tactful to discuss religion with his atheistic associates is accepted as unusually unbiased. Diplomacy! The politician, carefully evading a definite statement on the Church's position in rela tion to the state, is re-elected. The eloquence of silence! \V/hy should this be? We have the answers; yet, we avoid the questions! The average Catholic has literally to be cornered to supply the information an interested non-Catholic desires. The world is eager and we are timid-inexplicable. A writer describes hauntingly every pleasure and beauty of life, yet communicates only an emptiness. And man wonders at this meaningless, purposeless existence, for it is not life. A poet vituperatively decries the world's imperfection and in his disillusionment inveighs against its Crea tor . Yet this world was not made to be loved. \Ve know all this. How well we know all this. Then why do we secretively treasure our knowledge -the key to detachment and happiness? Ought we not stand and sho!lt-and be heard, rather than hesitantly whisper or timorously remain silent? Does it really matter that we possess that which others are blindly groping for? that they stumble and sink into a pit of despair while we hug our comfort? by The history of the city of Jerusalem, while colorful is also torn with strife. It is the history of a city from which it is impossible to divorce the influence of religion from the political and economic issues. The Palestine problem call never be solved without the consideration of religion and the Holy Places. The recent strife over Palestine while not directly concerned with the Holy Places cannot be com- JEAN MOR TLOCK pletely separated from them. The Holy Father, Pope Pius XII, stressed the importance of the religious aspect when he expressed concern over the state of Palestine in his Encyclical, In Multiplicibus Curis, of October 24, 1948. The Holy Father reaffirmed his position in his second Encyclical issued Good Friday, 1949, concerning the disposition of the land in Jerusalem proper. When the Encyclical of Octo37 WHY WORRY ABOUT PALESTINE? ber, 1948, was issued, the Jews and Arabs had been at war approximately ten months. Before the strife the Jews had accepted the plan of the United Nations to partition Palestine and to internationalize Jerusalem, but the Arabs formed a bloc. After the conflict ended with the Jews in possession of New Jerusalem, the Israelites insisted that the General Assembly of the United Nations had not acted soon enough to prevent war, nor did it have the power to order the Israelites to move the government offices recently established in New Jerus'1lem back to Tel Aviv; therefore, they, the Israeli government would never agree to the intern'1tionaliz'1tion of New Jerusalem. a regime," he thinks, "seems in the present circumstances most adequate and most suited to the protection of these sanctuaries." This apparently is the only plausible solution for this weighty problem. The Israeli faction recommended as a solution that Old Jerusalem be internationalized, that is, the part controlled by the Arabs. It is true that many of the famous shrines are in the older part of the city, but the new ci ty con tains the Upper Room and the Mount of Olives. Another factor to be considered is that Jerusalem is not only holy to the Christians, but also to both the Moslems and Jews. To the Jews it is the seat of the promised land, and to the Moslems, the third holiest city, containing the Mosque of Omar. To the conflicting parties the issue is not always such r,a clear one; therefore, all Christians throughout the world are urged to pray with the Holy Father: Of course, both Jews and Arabs ;:ssert th'1t they will not hinder religious visitors to the Holy Land, but this is not enough. With the Jews encamped in New Jerusalem, <. nd the Anbs in Old Jerusalem, it is hud to im'1gine how real harmony can be promoted. "M 4 ')1 God look kindly upon the whole world and upon that land h~llowed with the Blood of the \Vord made Flesh, that the charity of Jesus Christ which alone has power to give calm and peace m,ay drive out all hatred and confiict." In his Encyclical Letter of October 24, 1948, the Holy Father stated that it is fitting that "Jerusllem and its neighborhood, where the hallowed memorials of the Divine Redeemer's life ' and death are preserved, should be placed under an internation'11 regime, juridically est'1blished and guaranteed." "Such (Encyclical letter on the Holy Places in Palestine-Good Friday, 1949) 3il Ilt IIIImll~ ~B on by There was a definite sign of enin Ann's expression, but it was mingled with confusion as she viewed with increasing interest a group of pos'ters to be submitted ' to the Chair Unity Octave Contest. They were on display in the art department of Marian College. She knew how to appreciate art; she had received the proper emotional response: there was good design in each line, and the coloring was equally effective, but somehow her appreciation was not complete. She realized this deficiency as she asked her companion: "Carol, just exactly what do these signs, or symbols mean? They all seem to be striving to denote unity. But what does this unity den J te? Is there a basis or foundation or specific purpose?" "Fortunately, Ann, I believe I shall be able to help you. Being a C.ltholic often demands the answering of similar questions, and BILLIE JEAN EILERS having been confronted with them on many occasions I took it upon myself to probe the hidden source of symbolism. But first, let me explain what the Chair Unity Octave itself is. Its primary purpose is to bring all people into the one true Church. Its Latin slogan, Ut Omnes Unum Sint, meaning That All May Be One, indicates this goal. Each year from the feast of St. Peter's Chair, January 18, to the feast of the Conversion of St. Paul, January 25, we observe this Chair of Unity Octave by participating in the prayers designated to foster unity of all peoples under the one true Shepherd-Christ. Pope Benedict XV, in 1916, extended its observance to the Universal Church enriching it with indulgences. It also has the commendation of our present Pope, Pius XII." "And now for these symbols, if you please," Ann interrupted with an eagerness to learn of the un- joy~ent 39 INTO THE CHURCH THROUGH ART known pressing up::m her mind. "To begin with, these signs, as you have rightfully stated, are symbols, which represent the mysteries in the Church. And, in spite of what people usually think, religious symbolism was not all developed after the birth of Christ." "Then how was this form of symbolic art developed, and what is its use?" Ann further inquired. "Of course, signs regarding God the Father date back to the Old Test:::nent. It was the person of the Father who revealed Himself to the Jews, but not until His Divine Son lived on earth was the Blessed Trinity clearly and openly revealed." Cuol feared the inevitable, coming question; even she was not capable of comprehending this mystery. .' "Are any of those three persons implied here?" questioned the inquirer as she continued to search for a possible understanding of such an aw ful statement. Slightly relieved, Carol pointed out that the white dove is a symbol of the Holy Ghost, the third person in the Trinity, and that the IHS is a monogram of Jesus Christ, the second person in the Trinity. She then continued: "The former dates back to the sixth century, when it generally became recognized as an adequate symbol of the Holy Ghost. This person of the Trinity is also characterized by seven lighted lamps which in turn signify the seven gifts of the Holy Ghost bestowed upon the Apostles. The IHS has been derived from the Greek word for 'Jesus.' " These facts did not completely s:ltisfy Ann's inquisitive mind; each new thing mentioned seemed to entail a search for more knowledge. She pushed these thoughts momentarily aside as she interposed: "Perhaps the circle in this poster could suggest the oneness of these three persons?" "Quite true, with regard to their divine nature, but they still remain three distinct persons. A circle may also represent eternity or infinite duration of God. This mention of circles brings to my mind the halo, or what was formerly known as the nimbus. This symbol attributes its origin to nature. About certain substances and in certain lights there often appears the phenomenon of a circle of light apparently emanating from the substance itself. Long before the Christian era, the nimbus was used to imply a form of dignity. Roman emperors and empresses were frequently pictured with a rayed crown. In fact, in early Christian times, saints and 2n}els were seldom distinguished by this h alo, which tod'!y is the most commonly used indication of divinlty and of sainthood." "But back to the significance of the poster," interrupted Ann again, "which interests as well as puzzles me." "Let's see; what's nex t?" thought Carol, the informer, but then her eyes focused upon the keys and she began, "The keys-" "Represent the keys of heaven given to St. Peter by Christ?" Ann 40 put in quickly but with uncertainty clearly evident in her voice. "Fine, fine, but very few realize tha t keys are also a sign of penance and forgiveness of sin, for in St. Matthew's Gospel we read: 'And I will give thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven; and whatever thou shah bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed m heaven.' " Confession and forgiveness of sin-these two subjects had always confused Carol's non-Catholic friend, but now her curiosity was more deeply aroused. "Perhaps, or even positively, there was a way by which these mysteries could be drawn to a logical conclusion." This thought prevailed in Ann's mind as her "teacher" companion ch:-: nged her discussion to the city of Rome: . "It is the residence of the Vicar of Christ on earth-the Pope-and as such is not strictly speaking a symbol. The chain too, is not specifically a symbol, but again would be associated with unity. As a whole it could stand for the Church and we, the members, form its links. More questions followed; subsequent answers somewhat illuminated Ann's clouded mind, but it w as not until the next year during the Chair of Unity Octave that true satisfaction resided within her heart and soul when she walked up to the Communion rail to receive that God whose mention once conveyed only states of agitation and perplexity. Now the word "God" was a symbol of the merciful, just, and omnipotent Being who was to remain always the ultimate goal of her earthly activity. "Yes," Ann frequently remarks with a distinct note of thankfulness in her voice, "I came into the Church through art." By FRANCOISE MERCKEL Pilgrims who tour Rome this year will be impressed by the magnificent works of art produced by Michelangelo, one of the greatest painters and sculptors of all times. The most grandiose exhibition of his artistic talent is in the Sistine Chapel. As an architect he .is noted chiefly for designing and building the great dome of the Basilica of St. Peter's. The praises of this great genius of the Renaissance who produced his masterpieces under the patronage of the Church are sung in the following s:::mnet by Jose-Maria de Heredia: 41 Michel-Ange Certe, il etait hante d'un tragique tourment, Alors qu'a la Sixtine et loin de Rome en fetes, Solitaire, il peignait Sibylles et Prophetes Et, sur Ie sombre mur, Ie dernier Jugement. II ecoutait en lui pleurer obstinement, Tit1n que son desir encbine aux plus 11auts faites, La Patrie et l'Amour, la Gloire et leurs deaites; II songeait que tout meurt et que Ie reve ment. Aussi ces lourds Geants, las de leur force exsangue, Ces Esclaves qu'etreint une infrangible gangue, Comme illes a tordus d'une etrange fa~on; Et dans les marbres froids OU bout son arne altiere, Comme il a fait courir avec un grand frisson La colere d'un Dieu vaincu par la Matiere! Michelangelo Indeed, he was haunted by a tragic torment, . When in the Sistine Chapel and far from festive Rome, As a solitary, he painted Sibyls and Prophets And, on the somber wall, the Last Judgment. Within himself he heard obstinate weeping, Titan losing his battle with the Olympian gods, Fatherland and Love, Glory and their defeats; He was thinking that all passes and dreams are deceiving. Also those heavy Giants, weary with their bloodless force, Those Slaves who grasp an infrangible gangue, How strangely he has fashioned them all; And through the cold marble where his lofty soul wells up, How there he has caused to run with a great shudder The anger of a god conquered by matter! 42 by MART A KILCZER The kingdom of Hungary has existed for 1000 years on the meeting point of East and West in Central Europe. For 1000 years the "Magyars" have been fighting for the freedom of this small country against the enemies from East and West. But never in the history of Hungary has there been such a need to pray for freedom, for resurrection as there is today when the red terror has lordship over the country. The people of Hungary have not lost their hope and among their prayers during the Holy Year of 1950 they recite the following creed as their ancestors did with faith in their hearts: Hiszek egy Istenben, Hiszek egy hazaban, Hiszek egy isteni orok igazsagban, Hiszek Magyarorzag feldmadasaban. Amen. I believe In one God, I believe In one fatherland, I believe In the eternal justice of God, I believe In the resurrection of Hungary. Amen. (H ungarian Credo by Papp-Vary Elemerne) 43 IT'S EVERYBODY'S JOB Living sanctity isn't pictured with its hands folded, its eyes downcast, and a gleaming halo over its head. It has its sleeves rolled up, its hands covered with the dirt of real work, and a big, broad smile on its face because, although as we have said its job is a hard one, its rewards are happiness and the joy of living. ing of the many and various duties of our state in life become our chief concern. We 111-USt not allow them to become important in themselves. Sanctity is not in the what and when of our actions, but in the how and why. Holiness consists in doing all for the love of God, in enduring all for the love of God, and in knowing that all which comes to us is the will of God. SOCIAL MISSION (Continued from Page 22) in the United States. With our high percentage of divorce and general lack 'of respect for marriage, the ideals represented by an organization similar to the M.P.F. would be beneficial. There is already some work being done in the United States on family life .in the way of Cana conferences, pre-marriage instruction, and recently, retreats for THE CHURCH (Continued from Page 17) the entire family, but no movement on such a large scale as the organization in France. Until such times as a unified effort is made, it is the duty of every Catholic to see tha t in his home a model Christian family life is led. Only by such example can we hope to reinstate the true concept of Christian marriage in our land. (Cont:nled from Page 28) are found willing to cooperate in bringing about a better social and economic life. The Church alone by answering the call to carryon the social apostolate, can bring about the realization of the type of social order we need, for this new social order must be filled with the justice, wisdom, charity and understanding which characterized the Divine Model and Founder of the Church. From Him, through His Church, we get the true and proper concept of this social justice which claims that God has indeed made the earth for all men that they may live a full life as responsible human beings and that they may eventually enjoy the realization of their eternal goal. 44 education? by Universal education has reached a high point in America. Given a strong shot iri the arm by returning vets, the colleges have begun a mass-production job that may be far-reaching in its consequences. The days of sliding through school are on the way out, together with the rah-rah characters of campus fame. Those who have fought a war and looked death in the face have done with wishful thinkingthere's a goal ahead for which they're striving, and all efforts are directed towards that goal. The energy and seriousness with which these returning students are attacking their college studies is bound to have repercussions in the student world, repercussions for the good. But look a little closer. Concentrate on tha t word "goal." What does it all mean? Where are they and we going? Thoughtful people are beginning to wonder about the future. \Vith the awe-inspmng scientific advancements of the past few years, the H bomb and its possible effects, and the political hash that world politics has become, who knows the value of that ephemeral term, "the future"? Thus it seems clear that the goal is not to be a material one. Today goes on being today, and who can say that tomorrow will 45 JEANNE GRIFFIN come. There is one alternative, a spiritual goal. And this is just the goal that secular colleges, for the most part, have ignored. Pragmatists are waging a very successful battle, and their arena is the classroom. Learn all that you can, and then use that knowledge to further your own ends. Ignore God; don't you know that science scoffs at His existence? Be a man; stand up for your rights. Yes, stand up for your rights. But who gave you those rights? The same God that your professors have rejected. And has the great god Science yet explained the miracle of birth? How can there not be a Crea tor! In two thousand years the mission of the Church has not changed. Christ said to His Apostles, "Go, therefore, and make disciples of all nations; ... teaching them to obs'erve all that I have commanded you." All nations, all things. That is a comprehensive statement. Oh, the answer is so simple, so ready! It is our own blindness that prevents us from seeing. "YOJ,[ shall know the truth, and the truth shall make free"-free from the terrors of yO'll a world quivering in a web of its own weaving. Universal education IS a tremendous power for good, just so long as it is education di- WHICH WAY EDUCATION? rected to an ultimate end for good. We must educate for God, or we shall educate for the devil. Or don't we enlightened moderns believe in devils anymore? not only sets a goal for its followers, but directs them to that goal, as Alice Meynell has expressed it so beautifully: "Thou art the Way, Hadst Thou been nothing but the goal I cannot say If Thou hadst ever 111et my soul." Catholic America has accepted the challenge. Secularism has no place in a God-centered life, and a life that is not centered in God is not a real life. One of the most wonderful things about Catholicism is its essential order and harmony. First things are put first, and everything else falls into place. That is why the atom bomb, the hydrogen bomb, have no terrors for one who looks first to the Creator, 2nd then at His creations. Everything He created was made for a purpose, an essentially good purpose, or God could not have created it. Hence it is not with Him that we are to find fault, but with the g;eatest of His creations. It is man w ho hos perverted to his own materialistic ends the good things of God. Heaven is a real place, and our eventual destination, but the world is real, too, and it must be made a better place, a good, truthful place in which to live. This is the Catholic way of life, the Catholic aim, simply because it is God's will: "My food is to do the will of him who sent 1ne." Accept the challenge, youth of America. Be aware; make yourself pr:lyerfully aware of your own responsibility. Take Christ with you into the home, the office, the factory, the schoolroom; don't reserve Him only for Mass on Sunday. You'll miss a lot of living that way. Oh, take the truth. It's waiting for you. No one can educate you. You must educate yourself. All that the Church can do is present the facts. It's up to you to heed them. Listen, an-j act! Out of the chaos and pain of this world of ours at the halfway mark of the twentieth century, m ay come the order and beauty of a world at last set right, a world at peace with itself and its Maker. "Yau sh:dl know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." That's a large order, but one very p::lssible of attainment. Our Catholic schools an::! colleges are implanting the truth from which flows much of the good in the world. More and more, people are becoming aware that Catholicism is more than a static religion. It is an active, living organism, one that 46 BOOK REVIEWS :lhe Slor,! 0/ lhe :lrapp ~alnit'! SingerJ by A delightful story full of love, sorrow, joy, and sanctity, a wholesome entertammg story is The MARIA AUGUSTA TRAPP spiritual wealth. It was during the war tha t they met Father Wasner and began to sing professionally. Story of the Trapp Family Singers. Then, when the Trapp family came to this country as immigrants, the real interest for the American reader begins. With humor and wisdom the baroness describes the vastness of the country and the wonder of it all. Her gratitude makes the American realize how fortunate he is to be an American. Her attitude with that of the family is one of sheer joy at becoming American citizens. For all the unfortunate things that happened she blamed herself and val ned it as experience. Their talent together with her initiative and ambition brought about their fame as singers. It would be difficult indeed to read this book without increasing one's desire for peace, harmony, and hap.piness. The story is told by the mother of the family, Maria Von Trapp. She who h 4 d been forced to leave the convent because of ill-health was first employed as governess for the five children of the Baron Von Trapp, a widower. Later, in spite of her desire to give herself entirely to God, Maria saw tha t i t was God's will that she marry the baron. This marriage led to one of the happiest . of family lives. Maria dedicated herself wholly to her family. In teaching them to sing she showed them a new way to praise God. This singing also brought about a closer union within the family. When the war came she retlined her calm sensibility and good judgment bringing the family courageously through in spite of their loss of wealth and position. Through her faith in God and love for Him she proved that material gain is not half so important as It is quite natural for a mother to overlook the faults of her husband and children, but it is incredible that there could be ten people with so few imperfections. If the reader overlooks this one huh he realizes that Maria Von Trapp h2.s accomplished her purpose by presenting her cherished f:lmily to the world. -Ann McCarthy 47 by MARIA TOMASI Maria Tomasi has set her moving story of sturdy workers against a background of rock dust, carving sheds in the granite quarries of V ermon t. Like lesser gods the granite workers fashion memorials in stone. of all the villagers . Asa Conway, the stingy storekeeper, the beautiful widow Lucia, Denny Douglas, wealthy son of the quarry owner, 2S well 2S the Dalli family with whom Mr. Tiff lives are helped directly or indirectly by the latter. ''7oven into a pattern of h '~ppi ness, tragedy, and final achievement this story seems to have been picked from real life, and set between the c:)vers of a book. A reflection of contrasts in the characters is skillfully outlined to offer a contrast in mood and personality. Maria Dalli perhaps of all the characters seems to have some of the qualities of the granite of the region. Lacking emotion, Maria remains cold and unresponsive through the illness and death of her beloved husband. Throug-h the eyes of Mr. Tiff, the .penniless, frail, but intelligent scho:ll teKher, the story of the granite workers is told. Mr. Tiff, a real, active person is always at h1nd at the crucial moment to offer advice or suggest a remedy. He possesses almost more power than his patron St. Micbel. This quality seems t::> detract from the picture of Mr. Tiff making him seem less a living person and more an imaginary character. The common everyday life is presented with a fresh outlook and does not slump into monotony. Sens1tionalism is not employed to m'1ke the story interesting. Simple but unforgettable people in ordin cry circumstances are its drawing p:)int. Life is not e2SY, but the people of Graniteville can laugh as well as cry. Mr. Tiff, setting out from Vermont, loses his money. After a lapse of six months he returns to his friends. Remaining, he watches the children grow into adulthood, hears their problems, is counseler, teacher, and judge to all in the village. Warm and sympathetic with all human problems Mr. Tiff becomes entwined in the ipner lives \Vell acquainted with her locale Miss Tomasi carefully depicts the Vermont granite district and the granite industry. She is intimately acquainted with her characters who live because they are flesh and blood and lovable. -Suzann R eith 48 by FULTON and WILL OURSLER ward was not good. As is often the case, however, his will along with faith in God, paved the way and on July 26, 1912, his vocation was realized. The remainder of the life of Edward J. Flanagan was devoted to the cause of destitute starvelings. In the pages of the book you see the old house in downtown Omaha gradually grow into the hine hundred acre farm that today cares for one thousand boys. You become acquainted with these boys who make up the town. You grow to love them all as did Father Flanagan as you see them prove his theory that there are no bad boys. And when Carlo, the first dog of Boys Town dies you feel, along with the young lads, a sorrow that only human beings who are treated as such can feel. As the boys file into chapel on May 15, 1948 to ask God's blessing, you too will find yourself saying a prayer that more people with a heart like that of Father Flanagan will be born to carryon his work. Yes, in the pages of this book you will find a story of human beings, not only those who represent the kindlier side of life as do Father Flanagan and his boys but also those who must be taught the value The name of father Flanagan and his philosophy of love which proves "There are no bad boys" is revered and honored the world over. His name has become synonymous with Boys Town, an incorporated village located just eleven miles from Omaha, Nebraska. The story of his life together with the founding of Boys Town thirtytwo years ago on borrowed money ' and with five young destitute lads is now in print. For the first time we are abk to journey to Omaha, to Boys Town, and there to see the philosophy of Father Flanagan in action. As we read through the pages of Father Flanagan of Boys T own by F ul ton and Will Oursler, we become acquainted with the personality of the man who gave his all that homeless boys might know love and kindness, the lack of which, as he proved, was the cause of juvenile delinquency. Born in Roscommon, Ireland, in 1886, Edward Joseph Flanagan enjoyed a home life, the likes of which he was to reproduce in Boys Town. Early in his life he felt the calling of God and determined to become a priest. A long series of seemingly impossible hardships lay between this decision and his actual ordination, for the health of little Ed49 FATHER FLANAGAN OF BOYS TOWN of love and faith in God. It is a biography in the real sense of the word as it tells the true story of a person's life. Fulton and Will Oursler obtained much of the information contained in this book from intimate conversations with Father Flanagan himself and with those persons who were closest to him. What they have written is much more than a mere biography. It is a story of human life in which are intermingled sorrow, love, despair, hope, and above all faith in God. It is the story of the life of the man who for a half century was the most beloved man in the United States. -Mary Catherine Cangany by Many novels have sprung from the events connected with World Sl at II, as is true of almost every war. Some of these are true incidents of lesser importance which will escape history books; others h :1Ve authentic background; and still others are completely fictitious. \'V'hen books are written by persons who had nothing to do with the war we hesitate to accept these books as being true to fact. \'V'hen, however, a book is written by a person who has taken an active part in the war itself, even though that book be only partly true we are more inclined to accept the fictitious part as true. Robert Burns, a Catholic and a veteran of World War II, is now only twenty-five. From his experience in the Austrian theater he has produced a novel on the American occupation of Austria. The back- ROBERT BURNS ground of his story is true; the story itself is fiction. Burns first previews the life of the people of Grafenburg and Enns in Austria before the Americans came. There the countryfolk, with their tiny governn;;.ent, which was centered in the burgermeister, a wealthy farmer, were facing a grave problem. That problem was whether they should surrender to the Russians who were advancing from the east, or to the Americans who were coming from the west. As they did not wish to see the Russians in Grafenburg and Enns, it was decided at a council meeting to send a delegate to the Americans inviting them to occupy the two towns. Bannon, the young Technical Sergeant from Chicago was placed in charge of the battalion which occupied Grafenburg and Enns. Sinr ~ --~e majority of the 50 people followed the orders of the Americ:ms willingly, Bannon soon found that his duties were comparatively few. Much of his time was spent at a nearby farmhouse where two elderly women and a pretty young girl lived. In the course of the story, Bannon meets a Russian lieutenant whom Burns uses as a means of showing different Russian tactics. The Russian army is not stressed in this book, but the lieutenant's actions and the observations on the part of the American lookout man give a definite picture of the Russian system. The characters in The Perfect Invader are individuals. Bannon, Jake, and the other G.I.'s live. Their actions are those of a specific personality, not of a type. Bannon at times acts in a way which is not what you would expect and approve of in an Army official. However, when he repents you forgive him readily since Burns makes him so very familiar to you. The Perfect Invader is written in a flowing style and does not betray the fact that it is Burns' first book. Authors have worked for years to gain such an easy and rythmic style as Burns has produced in this his first -novel. -Sharonlu Sheridan 51 PATRONS Mr. and Mrs. Carl W. Boersig Mr. and Mrs. Norbert V. Booker Mrs. F. B. Bruggenschmidt Mrs. Catherine Cangany Mr. and Mrs. Jerry S. Comella Mr. and Mrs. Thomas F. Carson Mr. and Mrs. Frank F. Della-Penna J. Eckrich, Sr. Mr. and Mrs. M. Mr. and Mrs. Robert L. Fowler Mr. R aymond C. Fox Mr. ,md Mrs. Cornelius F. H augh J. Kennedy Dr. and Mrs. B. J. Matthews Mr. and Mrs. P. Miss Winifred Matthews . Mr. an:! Mrs. Frank B. Mayer Mr. an:! Mrs. Cecil McConahay Mr. and Mrs. Wm. McKibben Mr. and Mrs. Leo G. Miller Mr. and Mrs. W. J. Mooney Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Murello Mr. and Mrs. Harry C. Reifel Mrs. Frank C. Ryan Mrs. Mayme Schneider Mr. and Mrs. Harry L. Schopp Miss Betty Sorg Mr. and Mrs. D. J. Sullivan Mr. and Mrs. P. D. Sullivan Mr. and Mrs. J. B. Urrutia Miss Marianela Urrutia Mr. and Mrs. J. B. Wassel 52 BUSINESS PATRONS HARRY K. LANDES COMPANY 8 37 N. Illinois Street JOHN GRANDE & SONS 2401 W. Washington Street KINGSTON PRODUCTS Illinois Building REILLY TAR & CHEMICAL CORP. 161 5 Merchants Bank Building SP.AULDING TYPESETTING 528 S. Meridian Street WEGE MARBLE & TILE COMPANY 927 Architects & Builders Building Ri. 7531 53  ...

... Marian C~llege Indianapolis, Ind. THE FIORETTI AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE VOL UME THREE 11 Marian College Indianapolis, Indiana 1945 -1946 To THE VERY REVEREND MSGR. JOHN J. DOYLE, PH.D., Chaplain of Marian College, this volume is dedicated in commemoration of the twenty-fifth anniversary -of his ordination to the priesthood. "The Priests of the Gospel are one with Christ." - -"Cardinal Newman. "Prom the full horn .of heavenly grace Thy Spirit did anoint. "And he becomes a father true, SPending and spent, when troubles fall, A pattern and a servant too, All things to all." -Cardinal Newman. *May 30 , 1947, will mark the centeJ'.ary of N ewman 's ordination to the R oman Catholic priesthood. 2 CONTENTS Short Stories E PLURIBUS DUO Patricia Parker '49 HE CARRIED A PACKAGE Mary McCarthy '49 FANCIES TURN Patricia Wessel '49 31 Sarah Page '49 10 Mary Jo Foley '49 18 .Joan Coyle '49 17 27 SAJ:>i'CTUARY RESOLVE OPEN FOR BUSINESS HOLOCAUST 35 Essays WITH MALICE TOWARD NONE IRISH MELODIES Geraldine Sc'hloeman '49 Mary Anne Gallagher '46 15 Ruth B echtol '47 39 Aurora Menendez '46 20 Anna Roffelsen Jeanne Stiens '46 '47 21 22 MARY IN ROMANTIC POETRY Verse In Prai se of Mary TO THE VIRGIN MARY MOTHER OF DIVINE GRACE MOTHER MOST PURE Mary Rhodes '48 2:1 TOWER OF IVORY Catherine Pangallo '46 24 Margie Mellen '47 25 Stella Pinto '46 26 38 MORNING STAR QUEEN OF PEACE A CHILD'S FAITH UNREQUITED A WILD DOVE HIGH STAR FOR A NIGHT APRIL MAGIC 3 H~len Norma Veiders '48 AmID Roffelsen '46 11 Lois Tenbieg '48 33 Lois Tenbieg '48 29 Jeanne Gallagher '48 13 CONT ENTS Sketches SW AMP-DA WN' OLD MAN OF THE STREETS CATASTROPHE Jacqueline Byrne '48 12 LaVena Valant '49 14 Joan Baumer '48 34 34 Sarah Jo Mahan '48 COMPENSA TION Marjorie GuIde '48 12 CABIN COMPANION Ad eline Valdez '48 14 Mary Helen Wells '49 30 Catherine Pangallo '46 41 Barbara Schenkel '49 42 Diana Magnus "47 43 Cath erin e Pangallo '46 45 SPRING MAGIC H OUR Editorials THE MISSION OF BEAUTY WORTHY OF LIFE Book Reviews "CASS TIMBERLANE" by Sinclair L ewis " SURVEY OF CATHOLIC LITERATURE'" by Brown and McDermott 4 STAFF MEMBERS Editorial Editor-in-Chief CATHERINE PANGALLO, '46 Assistant Editors MARY ANNE GALLAGHER, '46 Circulation Finance FALVEY, '47 AURORA MENENDEZ, VIRGINIA CONNOR, '48 GLADYS GONZALEZ, MARY Jo '47 MARY McNULTY, '46 -'48 LOIS TENBIEG, '48 Typist GERTRUDE SCHROEDER, '46 Art Lou KELLER, '46 LOIS TENBIEG, '48 FIORETTI 6 To the left Q1f the birches, St. Francis Drive leads mtt toward fi elds I and woods, hillsides and lakes- the habitat of trillium and daffodil, of totus and water-lily. To the right, the drive winds thrmtgh landscaped lawns wbere crocus, tulip, and iris, in turn, fringe the hedges, and liliesof-the -valley, peonies, and 1'0ses line thoe walks . A few campus "little flowel's" shal'e the jJages of this volume witb thE' literary "little flow ers." Gateway to Campus "Fioretti" He Carried a Package MARY MCCARTHY Conscience and three pairs of eyes decide its fate. startled by the screeching brakes. NGticing the destination Gf the bus-Rock Road-he cut across the street and jumped aboard. He r-eached deep into his pocket to pay the driver with his last token. P e rhaps he shoQuld have saved it, but he had been walking fGr hours, it seemed, and felt unable to go farther on fooQt. Wearily he tOGk a seat near the front. The bus skidd-ed to a sudden halt at the dGwntown intersection. The screech of the brakes, as they checked the roQlling bus Gn the wet pavement, was more penetrating than u sua 1. The streets were nearly deserted, save for a few early morning workers huddled-over and h u r r yin g throQugh the foggy, drizzly atmosphere~ Few light rays managed to find their way thrGugh the thick maze of clouds. As if from nowhere he came. His tattered raincoat coQvered a lean but sturdy body, which drooped slightly at the shoQulders. The dark-brown, mud-spattered shoes oozed water. The trousers were rGlled at the cuff. His CGat collar was tucked closely about his neck. The expressiGn on his face was set and determined, yet his ey-es held a note of sadness. His rain-soaked hat was pulled low over his for.e head, and under his right arm was a bundle co vere d with brown wrapping paper. He clung to it tenaciously. A few passengers were scattered throughout the bus. "Why did they all stare at him?", he thought. "Did they know, too?" Th-e tiny, shriveled lady directly acroQss froQm him seemed toO be reading his mind. Her kindly eyes said, "TooQ bad, my lad." Several seats behind her a stGut gentleman wearing a thick, black mustache glanced out the window and then back, letting his eyes fall on the package wrapped in brown paper. Squirming with guilt, he shifted the package toO the opposite side. If he could only shout to them and explain thE: why .of it all-but nG, he must sit quietly under their scrutiny. Walking tGward the intersection with h-ead down, totally absorbed in his thoughts, he was The bus joQgged along the bumpy ro ad making few stops. A yGung lad, in the last seat, 7 FIORETTI 8 stretched to his capacity in reaching .the cord to stop the car. He was excited over the new experience of riding s uch a vehicle. As he passed the man with the packag.e, he gave him a cheery smile. If only grown people could be like that, eager to make friends and to help others. The happy s piri t of the boy reached him. It was merely his imagination that allowe d him to think each of t he riders was singling him out to watch. His conscience let them accuse him. Tur ning his back, he con centrate d on the view from the window. The better section of town had already been passed. The large houses perched on hills and surr ounded by ' s'hrubs and trees were no longer in sight, but, rather , bungalows lined close to ont=' another. This was the neighborhoo d most familiar to him. "Nasty weather we're having," the dr iver commented. L ooking up he noticed that t h e other passengers h ad left, only he rem ained. "Yes, it is," he r eplied .a bsent-mindedly. "Here's the end of the line. My run back to town will be heavy with the crowds going to work. This your stop?" "Yes, it is." Alighting, h e n oticed streaks of sunlight through th e clouds. G raspin g his bundle tightly, he cut across the field and ove r the railr,o ad tracks. -In a f.ew moments he would face 'his wife and two small children. He loved them dearly, but, lately, facing them had become harder and harder. He tur ned the knob and opened the door. Marie, sitting in a rocker in the f ar corner, threw aside her mending and fairly ran to him. " Oh, J ohn, I've been so anxious about you. This special delivery arrived a few minutes ago . .open a nd read it quickly." Nervously J o hn laid aside his package, tore open the envelope, and read: " . . . Your painting entitled 'My Family' ha.s won first prize, $1,000 ... We offer you a p osition on our staff.. . . " Beaming with joy, J o hn grabbed Marie a nd danced around the r,o om. They rushed through the poorly furnished but tidy home to the back yard where the two yo ung daught ers were playing. Seeing their da d dy, they dropped their toys a nd ran to him. "Daddy, daddy, you're back," they cried a nd threw their arms about his neck. J ohn was supr emely happy. The prize money and offer of a permanent position were a f ulfillment of his dre ams. And yet th ere remained a note of gloom as he re called the package on the sofa. HE CARIRIED A PACKAGE "I'm 'hungry, d addy," said Marcia the younger of the two. " So am I," returned Beth. "Let's go into the house to see what can be done about it," hurriedly put in Marie. "Y.ou kiddies go with dad. We'll have your breakfast in a jiffy." With one daught er on each arm and M arie leading the way, John entered the h ouse. The package was on his mind. Scarcely had Marie gone to the kitchen, joyously resolved to turn t he lone cup of fl our into pancake batter, when he was at h er heels. Onto the table went the package. The little family gathered about him as he b egan to unwrap ittheir eyes more eager as each fold was turned back. ,At last the contents was before them-a leather brief-case. On the outside flap, engraved in gold; were the initials "W.J.D." Inside were legal papers of all types including wills and personal correspondence. In a compartment in the left-hand corner were several rolls of paper 9 bills n ea tly held togther with a rubber band. The children's eyes grew larger and larger as he riffled his fing-~J?.s through the money. Then- followed "ohs" and "ahs" and a deluge of questions-"Where did you get it?", "Whose is it?" . Marie with her quiet reserve wait.ed for the excitement to diminish. Her curiosity was nearly as great as th e children's, but she would wait f.or a n explanation. "Qui,e t down, kiddies. It doesn't belong to us. I . . . I found it this m orn ing, when I stopped at the d r ug store." Closing the brief-case, John recalled the long struggle he .pad had within himself. His paintings of late had brought little r,e venue and the money would have satisfi ed his family 's pressing needfor a time at least. L ooking into the innocent, trusting faces of his children, and beyond them into Marie's soulsearching eyes, he knew now that he could never have kept it. ( Sanctuary Resolve SARAH PAGE In the semi-darkness of church a lone figure knelt prayer. From time to time, flickering candlelight played her lovely, young face. the in the on could never expect to hear his gay voice over the telephone saying, "How about a ride in the m oonlight?" Yes, it would be hardest to explain to Dave. "It isn't easy. It isn't at all easy. In fact, it is a much harder step to take than I imagined. Help me, Lord!" Suddenly she wondered if sh e y-e ally wanted to go. It would mean leaving a world of gay, car efree fun. Was it what He wanted? As if in answer to her question, the flickering red sanctuary light seemed to burn brighter and envel{)p her in its warmth. Martha knew t h-en that the life she was going to would be worth more than the one she would l ea ve behind. Doing for other's would be a life of joy. Christ, as her Divine Lover, would always be faithful t{) His bride. As Martha spoke to Christ in the Blessed Sqcrament, she realized all that she would leave behind her. There was her family. She knew thos-e bright, laughing eyes of Dad would dim when she left. Mom-Mom, who would feel it most of all. Yet she knew Mom w ould not cry. No, she would not give way to her feelings until she was akm-e. Martha could see Mike, her big brother whom she loved so much, with his pleasant smile. He would understand. He always understood her. Martha did not like to think of saying goodbye to Dave. There had always been an understanding between them since they had been in their "teens." Now sle I:q her -exultation, Martha prayed, "I give Thee my body that it may be chaste and pure. I give The-e my soul that it may be free from sin. Above all, 0 Lord, I give Thee myself in life and inaeath, that I may be Thine forever and glorify Thee eternally." 10 UNREQUII'ED o burning Ship, Which shelter seeks Within the harbors of the world, Your flames seem powerless to melt The ice that blocks Your entrance there. o Light of lights, that ever strives To penetrate the darkness dense, Your radiant beams outshine the sun, Yet distant stars accomplish more. o purest Fount, Your waters cool Flow copiously, but all in vain; For thirsting lips avoid Your kiss As from pollution they would shrink. o best of Shepherds, tirelessly You toil to guard Your fretting flock From dangers which it will not heed, Since discontent its senses dulls. o gentle Lamb, Whose sacrifice Alone could quench the wrath of God, Your meekness and humility Dra w scorn from man instead of love. Omnipotence, Infinity, You hide Yourself 'neath bread and wine, That You may nourish famished souls With strength both human and Divine. o Love incomprehensible, What more could You have done To win the hearts of selfish men?You dare not force the will that's free. -Anna Roff.elsen. 11 Compensation MARJORIE GULDE He is still, his entire being intent, listening, ever listening, for what he can never more see. H is clm,ed eyelids conceal the blankness but recently inflicted; :h is blanched countenance and bent shoulders bespeak a soul w-eighed ,down. Suddenly, through the gloom, crash the tones of B,eethoven's "F ifth Symphony." His bony finger.:; clutch his mahogany cane, his constant penance; his lips, until now closed in resentment, part in wonder. His heart pounds with enlighten~d hope as the insp iring strains first whisper, then cho and re-ec'ho loudly t heir message of hope, "All is not lost, my son, all is not lost." The music c'hanges. Tschaikowsky's "Conc,erto in B-Flat" pours f.orth its faith and love in a golden stream of light which fills the prison-cell of his confinement, bathing its walls and illuminating its s'hadowy corners. The eyes of his troubled mind respond; beautiful recollections flood his spirit; he is no longer a slave to this earth and its miseries. He smiles tremulously. It is as though the notes have captured the pearls of his scattered thought s, threaded them on a silken stra nd, a nd clasped it tightly aro und his eag,er heart. Swamp.?Dawn J ACQ UELINE BYRNE ,drowsy garden snake slithers over the sandy bank while the tiny rocks rattle their disapproval. H e hisses at them hatefully and unw ittingly startles the sleeping bull-frog. A loud splash follows; dead lotus leaves skim over the qu iet water. This is God's gentle way of calling toO a new day's life His beloved creatures of the swamp. T h e distant h owl of a hound br.e aks the misty, b reathing qui et that is the dawn of the swampland. The terrifying scream of a brilliantly-feathered bird, prot.esting his early awakening, bursts loudly on the atmosp here and echoes a nd re-echoes over t h e area. A family of b eavers paddles acr oss the water, and the day's work has begun for them. The 12 APRIL MAGIC Earth feels the warm fingers of sun Upon her breast, and stirs. Fresh new winds and gentlest rain Brush barren treetops and speak softly To the grasses. They, in reply, Smile their new smile Into the face of the sun. Pink-tinged the clouds drift overhead Reflecting cherry blooms, Frothy mounds afloat in the ky Like lotus heads strewn on a lake Cerulean blue. All nature's awake, Vibrant in the awareness Of its continuity. -J-eanne E. Gallagher. 13 Cabin Companion ADELINE VALDEZ It was dusk when I approached the cabin. The wind was whistling and howling unsympathetically through the dark trees. As I hurried up the narrow, lonely path , the shrubbery cast ghostly shadows which seemed to follow me closely. Finally I reached the cabin door and, after an endless minute, the latch gave way. Rusty iron hinges squeaked when I opened it. glow it cast gave the room a haunted appearance. The air was damp and strong with the smell of mold. When I was accustomed to the scant light, I saw, standing on a small table, a statuette of the Blessed Virgin. . Courage and joy surged ane w in me, and the fear that had oppressed me vanished. The room took on a friendly warmth , and light, while everything unpleasant was forgotten. At least . I would no t be alone; for here was a friend whose companionship I could share in the coming days. Lighting the one small candle that had been in my pocket, I entered slowly. The faint yellow Old Man of the ,.Streets LA VENA VALANT As was my custom, I sat at my window looking down upon the street. Children were playing hopscotch; couples strolled by, the girls clinging possessively to their escorts; nurses walked by, pushing sleeping babes in their perambulators. Then came the old man. I wouldn't have thought him old if I hadn't seen his face with the bright sunlight shining upon it. .It was wrinkled and worn. The mouth drawn down at the corners gave him a saddened, depressed air. He wore a black shabby felt bowler, obviously not his own for it made him look ridiculous. His shirt was white and stiffly starched, his suit black and shiny. The hand that gripped the cane was long and narrow, the skin almost transparent, the blue veins showing distinctly. He walked past my window, his shoes creaking. Since then I have seen him often; he is always the same. He seems to be searching for someone. Eagerly, hopefully, he scans the face of each passerby. It rather amused me, at first, his heartfelt belief that he would find the someone he was searching for. But now, as he continues to pass my window each Sunday afternoon, I look away. His disappointment tugs at my heart. 14 Irish Melodies MARY ANNE GALLAGHER Thomas Moore, lyricist, preserves Gaelic song traditions in English verse. When Thomas Moore, about 140 years ago, decided to write a series of English poems to traditional Irish melodies, it was his professed intention to popularize Irish music outside Ireland. He hoped, moreover, to preserve for many Irishmen the musical heritage jeopardized by the suppression of their language, their institutions, and their culture. Moore succeeded beyond his expectations. FOr years following their publication, his "Irish Melodies" were sung, studied and imitated not only in Ireland, but in England, in continental Europe, and in America. Even today his "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms" is sung and loved by p-eople all over the world. When the "Melodies" first appeared, Moore's English public pronounced the poems, as well as the music, remarkable for originality of form, rhythm, and mood. Yet these forms and rhythms and moods had characterized Gaelic poetry for over a century before he wrote. It was not that Moore consciously jmitated Gaelic poetry. Rather, he unintentionally duplicated basic characteristics of Gaelic poetry because he faithfully reflected the characteristics of Irish national music. Through Moore's lyrics, therefore, Irish music is the bridge linking Gaelic rhythms and flavor with English verse. Vivid patriotism informs the "Melodies"; these rise, in fact, to the height of Irish national songs. His devotion to the memory of the generous and ill-starred Robert Emmet was the finest chord in Moore's affectionate heart. Erin felt the spirit of Emmet hovering in the sadly fluent melodies and mournful lines, for instance, of "She Is Far From the Land." It was the passion for independence the revolt against monstrous tyranny, the unreasoning, blind, defiant instinct of liberty which caused Irish hearts to give Moore such a welcome. Some twenty of his melodies like "The Harp 15 16 FIORETTI That Once Through Tara's Halls," will carry the story of Ireland's aspirations and sorrows to all future generations. The style in which Moore excels reveals simple tenderness of feeling expressed in simple language, without imagery or elaboration. Versed in music, he adapts the lyrics perfectly to the accompanying melodies. No song-writer, perhaps, has gathered his subjects from so many sources or acquired greater dexterity in the use of his tools and materials. His natural wit and vivacity save him from being dull, and his enthusiastic love of country give to many of his poems that force and dignity which are ever the result of genuine feeling. Moore should be recognized as an innovator in verse: with him the poetry of modern Ireland begins. He gave a lead both to Byron and Shelley, and he anticipated many of the developments of present-day Celtic poetry. The first poet of a national awakening, he fell heir to the music of his country, to the curiosity about the Celtic past that MacPherson had stirred, to the Romantic movement with its interest in national expression. Shelley admired Moore's verse, Coleridge praised his deftly mingled poetry and music, and Byron was a loyal friend . . However compelling the beauty of Moore's verse when he is moved by the contemplation of broken hopes and lost causes, he is by no means a specialist in sadness. On the contrary, he is often consummately deft in the lighter numbers in gallantry, humor, piquant and even magical moods, and the honest yet not heavy expression of domestic affection. Whether jovial or tender, Moore's lyrics of love and friendship owe their inspiration to the mood of the music to which they are set, and they also owe to this music their form, the arrangement of their rhymes. As a literary influence in Ireland. Moore's "Irish Melodies," though widely imitated, have been more significant for the reaction aroused than the imitation suggested. In England and America leading poets have found Moore a fertile influence. The second generation of English Romanticists, particularly Byron and Shelley, who paid Moore the tribute of direct imitation, owed much more to Moore'R virtuosity in poetic rhythms than to similar, but more limited techniques of Collins, Cowper. Burns. Scott. and Coleridge. Victorian poets borrowed not only from the "Irish Melodies" but from the structurally more elaborate creations of IRISH MELODIES 17 Moore's Romantic admirers. Among Americans, Edgar Allan Poe did not hesitate to acknowledge Moore as a teacher. Stephen Foster studied Moore's "Melodies" closely, and they remained an enduring influence on both his music and his verse. Ireland, as well as the literary world in general, owes Moore a better place than has been awarded him. Hi's position among the artists in English of his native land must be likened to that of the legendary knight who, seeking the Grail, failed of worthiness, yet merited the privilege of leading others to the holy vision. Holocaust JOAN COYLE It could have been told 'by a retutned veteran. The sun beat hard uJon the low to clear the tower. He ran out seeminglyendl-ess strip of yelloOw on the balcony and waved his sand leading to the bright coral arms frantically, signaling them beach. To fhe left of the field the to climb and circle. The battered tall palm tr-ees hardly stirred in victim, loOsing its fuel, hovered the sultry atmosphere. The en- so near he could almost touc'h it as it skimmed over his head. tire base was silent as death. A spluttering sound broke the One more try ... oOne more ... stillness . . . a plane in troOuble. one. But they had turned too Jim's eyes went to the sky and soon! His heart pounded madly. stayed th-ere. Into sight veered If there w-ere only something he a B-4'9, its left wing shattered, its could do! Then instantly, without fuselage lopsided. The engine wa):-ning, the engine failed, and coughed and choked and, just as the crippled "Fighter" hurtl-ed it seemed ready to give up, some- swiftly to the ground. The earth thing urged it on. CoOuld they quaked with the impact; then make it? God help them. flames leaped out into t'he air Suddenly Jim jumped from his like blazing wings consuming seat in the control tower, his face "The Fighter" and all her crew, blanched and studded with beads befoOre the rescue squad could of sweat. He clutched wildly at reach it. the radio controls and tried to As Jim stoOod motionless watchcontact them. It proved impossible; evidently the radio mech- ing the funeral pyre, tears sEq . anism had been hit. They had down his cheeks and he murovershot the field and were too . mured, "My buddies." Open for . Business ARY JO FOLEY A business woman should expect it. It was 10:30 on a Saturday morning. All the shops in the square were open and busy. Inside Marilyn's Beauty Shoppe, there was one lone customer, -Clares sister-in-law. Mar i 1 y n stood by the' window hopefully. The shop had been open for business exactly two weeks. Marilyn knew the town was large enough to accommodate another beauty shop. She also knew the average am.ount of business to expect. She even had an assistant, Clare Douglas. But for some reas-on her business was very poor. . ' . Turning away from the window, she noticed a young girl looking at the sign. Immediately her spirits rose and her quick mind began t.o think. When the girl . opened the door, Marilyn sighed, smiled, and then picked up the phone and dialed the number to her apartment. While waiting for the number she hummed and -smiled at the girl again. "Hello, Mrs. Van Sites, this is Marilyn of Marilyn's Beauty Shoppe. About your appointment, I'm afraid a week from Thursday is the best I can do. Terribly sorry. Pardon? That's fine. ' We'll make it 10 o'clock then. Goodbye." Marilyn noticed that the girl, 18 who was still standing by the door was favorably . impressed. Beckoning her to a chair, she said, "Now what can a beauty operator do for a lovely girl like you?" "Why, I am ... " "Oh, dear, I forgot about my lady in the back roo~m~ Will y.ou excuse me? I'll be right back. HEre is our c'hart, you can decide what style of coiffure you would prefer." She rushed from the room. Clare and her customer looked a li ttle puzzled as they watched her running from booth t.o booth, turning on faucets, singing gaily, dropping boxes and then picking them up again. When she returned to the reception room, the girl was businly turning pages in a magazine. In her best business manner, Marilyn walked over to the desk, picked up a pencil, and asked, "Have you decided? I, myself, think the feather cut would look well on you." "It probably would, but I simply adore long hair. Now Miss . . a . . Miss . . Marilyn, to get down to business. I attend the local high school and I was wondering if you would care to place an ad in our school paper." In Praise of Mary Santa Madre di Dio, Santa V er gine delli V er gini . .' . Rosa mistica . . . Caso d'oro . . . Porta del cielo . . . Soccorso dei Christiani, Regina dei angeli ... Regina di tutti Santi. For centuries now the people of Italy, called by Longfellow "the blessed Mary's land," h ave greeted Our Lady with th~se invocations from the Litany of Loreto. Composed for the use of pilgrims to "The Holy H~use"': of Loreto, the litany received ,f ull ecclesiastical approbation in 1587. Across the Alps to the north and across the seaseast, west, and south-those praises have been caught up and reframed in uncounted languages. In three of these and in the official language of the Church, the following poems para phase titles from the litany. *According to well authenticated tradition this is Our Lady's cottage, miracu:ous ly transported from Nazareth t o thh site in the thirteenth century. 19 A LA VIRGEN MARIA Spanish original and translation By Aurora Menendez Patron a, - Con encantos celestiales~ Mas preciosa que el oro, Mas bella que la luna, Tu proteccion imploro. Virgen, Bondadosa y dulce, Fuente de gracia y amor, La escogida entre millares, Alivia mi dolor. Reina, De los cielos y la tierra, Cuanto amor en mi Tu inspiras! . Al contemplar Tu rostro, Tu sonrisa, Y el modo que miras. Madre, Mas tierna de las madres, Oye mi ruego al partir, Haz que el sello de Tu imagen Lleve sfempre hasta- morir. 20 TO rrHE VIRGIN MARY Patroness, So full of celestial charms, More precious than gold, More beautiful than the 'moon, Your protection I implore. Virgin, So generous and sweet, Fountain of grace and love, Chosen among millions, Alleviate my grief. Queen, Of heaven and earth, How much love in me you inspire As I contemplate your face, your smile, And the way you gaze upon me. Mother, Most tender of all Mothers, Hear my last, my farewell plea, May I bear the stamp of your image In my heart until death. 21 MATER DIVINAE GRATIAE Latin original by Anna Roffelsen Translation by Jeanne Stiens Ecce ancilla humilis, Quae Jesum mundo donavit Auctorem omnis gratiae, Et Dei Filium Patris. Mater Coelestis Muneris, Quod Deus Pater promisit Redemptorem omnibus, Ora pro liberis tuis. Mater spei et veniae, Obtine pro sperantibus Salutem, quae per te venit, Mater Divinae gratiae. MOTHER OF DIVINE GRACE Behold the humble handmaid Who gave Jesus to the world, Author of all grace And Son of God the Father. Mother of a heavenly Gift, Promised by God the Father As Redeemer to all men, Pray for us thy children. Mother of hope and of palidon, Obtain for trusting souls Salvation, which through thee does come, o Mother of Divine Grace. 22 REINTE MU'T TER German original and translation By Mary Helen Rhodes Heilige Maria, Mutter so rein, Mache mein Herz keusch wie Dein; Bitte Mutter, nimm mich bei der Hand Und fuehre mich durch dieses Pilger Land. Sieh auf mich, meine liebe Dame, Dein kind tragt Deinen holden Namen. MOTHER MOST PURE Holy Mary, Mother most pure, Keep my heart for Jesus secure; I beg thee, Mother, take my hand And lead me through this pilgrim land. Look upon me, lovely Dame, This child who bears your blessed name. 23 TOUR D'IVOIRE French original and translation By Catherine Pangallo Ne reculant pas dans d'asile ombragee Mais viellant, sans fatigue, dans d'eglise de villeVne forte, calme donne use de paix, Pour tous l-es hommes, peccables et ennuyes Qui viennent pour vigeur a renouer la dispute Contre la vie moderne-atomique Ou trop est perdu, peu est gagne. Ne meprise pas de$ essais repetant Des hommes a la perfection. Pur donne use d'espoir nouvelle, Quand, apres l'effort soigneux, Les hommes perdent grace par peche vieux Et crainte assambrit l'esprit, Prdcurez Ie force pour un autre debat. TOWER OF IVORY, Not standing apart in some shady retreat But watching, tireless, in some city church- A strong, quiet peace-giver For all . sin-trodden, weary men Who come for strength to renew the struggle Against modern-atomic life Where much is lost, little gained. Not scornful of the repeated attempts Of man at perfection. Pure giver of new hope, When, after painstaking effort, Men lose grace through inveterate sin And fear befogs the mind, Supply the strength for another bout. 24 MORGEN STERN German original and translation By Margie Mellen Morgen Stern im lichten Glanze, Leucht' herab vom Himmelstron; Schoenster Stern im Sternenkranze, Fuehre mich zu Deinem Sohn. Wenn die Wellen hoch sich tuermen, Und das Schifflein sucht den Port; In des Lebens rauhen Stuermen, Morgen Stern, sei Du mein Hort. MORNING STAR Star of the Morning, in radiance bright, Gleam from Thy heavenly throne; Most beautiful Star in the starry realm, Guide me to Jesus, Thy Son. When waves are rolling rough and high, On Life's tempestuous sea; Be Thou my Pilot, Sweet Morning Star, For all my trust is in Thee. 25 REINA DE LA PAZ Spanish original and translation B y Stella Pinto Reina de la paz, Ruega por nosotros, Del mundo destierra La sangrienta guerra. Haz que nos amemos eual pueblos hermanos; Acrecienta nuestra fe Y enciende nuestro amor; Aviva nuestras esperanzaz, Enj uga n uestras lagrimas Y oye esta oracion ferviente Que es mi plegaria ardiente, Senora, por la bendita paz. QUEEN OF PEACE Queen of Peace, Pray for us. From the world banish Bloody war; Make us love one another As brotherly people; Increase our Faith And inflame our love; Enliven our hopes, Dry our tears, And hear this fervent prayer Which is my ardent plea, My Lady, for a blessed peace. 26 , 'With Malice Toward None' Prize Essay in National Interracial Week contest. GERALDINE SCHLOEMAN Over New York harbor towers a flaming torch. The light of it shines down on all the land and on all the people even as the people raise their eyes to its cheering beams. It is the symbol of peace, and of democracy. Through the war years that light was dimmed, and all America hoped and prayed for the time when it would shine forth in Victory. Years of darkness layover the land, but finally there dawned the day of peace, and the light once more shone forth. Again people could turn back to normal pursuits, to peaceful ways, yet not one dared forget that the job was unfinished, that the task ahead was greater-. than the winning of the war. . Beacon of peace, the newly relighted torch brings also a new challenge to America. One of the gretest problems facing her is to rid the world of "racial hatred." She has seen the horrible outcome brought by the ruthless persecution 'o f minority groups; she has also seen her own people work together as one, no matter what their color, race, or religion. She must strive toward the uprooting bf all racial prejudices. Can she, then, turn her back on her own racial problem at home? She must secure honest relations in her own society before she can h'o pe to remedy the problems of other lands. She must eliminate the Negro prejudice which is a blot on her soul. America raises her eyes to the light, and it tells her what she is-a rich, young country, firmly built on good standards and ideals, and protected by a great hand called democracy. America knows well the price it has cost to obtain and keep this treasure. She is ever striving to preserve it because it is a breathing, living thing-it is the people. One-tenth of the people of America are Negroes. We have grossly discriminated against this minority group. Our attitude towards this race is a threat to the whole theory and practice of democracy. The Negroes have made the most of every freedom and opportunity given to them, but the masses are still far below the average AmeriCan standard in almost every phase of education, health, self27 28 FIORETTI reliance, and economic prosperity. The meanest and poorest, the most illiterate or uncultured white person is given a "social" standing superior to that permitted any Negro, no . matter how cultured or educated or wealthy. Can America continue to preach democracy, freedom, and honor while she stoops to such depths of injustice? She cannot if she truly means all that she professes through the Constitution and the Bill of Rights-that all men are born equal. She must go much further in equalizing opportunity, before democracy can be anything more than a high-sounding term to Negroes. These human beings must be allowed a full existence through development of their God-given faculties and talents, which are just as sacred to the Negro as to the white person. Yes, America, these people have all the potential greatness of any human being. The Negro has proved himself worthy of the right to a high place in American society. He has borne the responsibilities of an American. He pays his taxes; he contributes to the country's welfare. He has willingly given his life for the ideals and standards of his country, probably bec,ause no one knows better than he that they are worth fighting and dying for. The Negro has shown his devotion to duty in every war. He has never deserted his country when it needed him. The Negro is not a menace. Indeed, America is fortunate to have him living on her shores. He has brought a wealth of beauty by his characteristic songs and spirituals. He has contributed much to literature, art, and dramaticsin fact to all cultural arts. He has taken his place in the fields of sports, business, education, and science. Many Negroes have blazed the road to fame. When given a good education and opportunities, he proves he can be of great benefit to his countrymen. The under-current of tension and unrest now present in the country is not all the Negro's fault. By nature he is a peaceful character, but he is also a human being, filled with the desire for justice for his race. Race hatred is not inborn; it is acquired. Only through education can the wrong attitude!5 be corrected. Correcting the erroneous opinions will bring about respect and kindness toward the Negro. But human understanding is not enough. Means must be taken to insure his rights in all phase8 of American life. STAR FOR A NIGHT Off into the sky one night I sailed on a maple leaf. High, high, up in the sky Above the moon and the stars My leaf swooped and swirled And dipped and twirled And rose and whirled, High in the sky one night. And the wind was there, The lovely wind That played so gently around me And softly mussed tny hair. The wind moaned and mumbled And rushed and rumbled And tossed and tumbled And softly brushed my cheek. My leaf was a star For one wonderful night, A . bright, a glittering star, Then a fading, falling starA star, dim and dying And slight and sighing And limp and lying Disenchanted on the earth. -Lois Tenbieg. 29 , The Magic Hour MARY HELEN WELLS Cinderella ina Department Store. I glanced nervously at the clock. Only fifteen minutes until dosing time. There was so much to be done hefore the magic hour of twelve. of dolls was still quite oomplete, ranging from the lowly Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy to the lordly Princess in Blue and Prince in Shining Armor. The jolly pre-Christmas shoppers jostled and shoved their merry way past our counter. The season was indeed a happy one for them, but it gav,e me only a headache. Mable finished her task, rescued her purse from its precarious position on the edge of the counter, waved a cheery good-bye and made her way across the store to the basement stairs. Our counter was the busiest in the store, for everyone knew .' that Christmas was not the day it should be unless a wide-ey.ed, curly-haired doll rested under the tree for that very special little Eomeone. I glanced at the clock again. Where had the time gone? I had only a few minutes to get ready for the dance. Pulling myself to a standing position, I made my way along the count,e r to the mirror. I pushed back my hair and clipped it firmly with a jewelled pin, smoothed out the wrinkles in my blue dress, and rubbed the dust from my shoes. Just as Mr. Watkins, the section manager, was handing a refund to a ruffled customer, the bell, announcing the cLearing of the store, rang. The customers slowly filed out, while I sighed and sank wearily against the wall. Another hectic day was through. Footst,eps, tiny footsteps echoed and re-echoed in the empty store. The tiny footsteps came closer. Across the counter walked the Prince in Shining Armor followed by the rest of th~ dolls and ' soon I, the Princess in Blue, would be dancing with all of them at the Toyland Ball. Now only the tired clerks r,e mained. Mable, the head salesgirl of our department, stood at one end of the counter, slowly putting a sheet ove r the dolls. I glanced at the shelves. Our stock 30 Fancies Turn PAT WESSEL Tom was in love and everyone in church knew it. Timothy O'Malley, the park policeman, had formed a friendship with an elderly man w'ho came to the park every day to sun himself, enjoy nature, and feed the pigeons. Today was no exception. The old man arrived precisely on time, half past eleven, and seated himself on the bench near t'he statue of Grant. It was a typical spring day. O'Malley walked toward the bench with a friendly "Good mornin'" in mind, but a most attractive nurse with a small girl caught his eye ... and his fancy turned. So did his footsteps. "Mornin' ma'am. To be sure it's a fine day." The nurse answered 'him with interest, and soon the two were engaged in conversation. The little girl, unheeded, went off seeking adventure. Soon she was standing before the old man now busily feeding a flock of pigeons. At his kindly invitatior:. she "helped" ~him. Atfer all the peanuts were gone and there was nothing more to do, the little girl looked up at the old man and, as is the custom of 31 small children, said, "Do you know any stories?" "Well ... ," t'he old man began. "Nancy, my nurse," the girl iI).terrupted, "tells me stories all the tim'e, but ... " The old man looked over to the huge fountain in the center of the park where Timothy O'Malley and Nancy were now lost in conversation. " I see," ~he laughed. "Maybe, maybe, I do know a story. Let me see . . . Oh, yes, here's one you probably won' t understan~ ver y well, but it's a good one." / "Tell me, tell me," the little girl insisted, edging closer to the old man. "Well, it goes this way," the man hegan. "It was a bright, sunny spring day, just like today, a long, long time ago. It was Sunday, and the bells of the little w'hite church in the center of town were ' telling the t{)wnspeo ple that the services were about to start. "Tom, a seventeen-year-old farm boy, walked slowly toward the church. But it was spring, and something down inside him made 32 FIORETTI him stroll along, take 'his own begin to turn red. He stood there, swet time, and observe the beau- hearing nothing, his eyes on tyaround him. His heart skipped Laura. Laura. . . . a beat when his eye beheld the "When the choir finished, the first daffodil in Mrs. Peterson's congregation sat down, and Revgarden, and when a yellow but- erend Stewart began his usual trfly went by, his heart gained announcements. All was silent the lost beat. Tom was complete- when he intoned the usual prayly under the spell .of spring. All ers, but 110m could not concenhe could think or dream about trate. H could only continue was the wonders of nature around watching Laura, who, like the him and . . . and Laura. There others, had lowered her eyes in was a lightness in his walk, and reverence. 'h could see nothing but feathery "After the prayer, Reverend white clouds drifting overhead Stewart began, 'We are going to and Laura . . . and Laura . . . have a special solo this morning. Laura. "Th Old Rugged Cross." Laura "To Tom, Laura was the most blushed a little. Tom's heart beautiful girl in the whole wide leaped, and the pulse at his temworld. Her hair was as yel10w ples was furious. Laura ... Laura. as Mrs. Peterson's daffodils. Laura. "The organist played the inIt had ~ll started about three trodlJction, and LaU-Fa began. Her weks before at the dance in high tones were beautiful and Helen Steven's dad's barn. Tom clear. Completely helpless, Tom and Laura, well, you see, uh ... " sat in awe. To him there was no "What do you mean?" asked one within a hundred miles. Laura . the wide-eyed little girl. and he were alone on a pink "Going on his way," continued cloud. th old man, clearing his throat, "Th song ended. Laura return"Tom now drew near to the little ed to her seat. Suddenly, from white church. He shook hands the ninth pew, came an applause with Reverend Stewart, greeted that snapped the silenc,e of the old Cyrus at the door, and went church. to his usual seat-the ninth pew "The preac'hr, quite astonished, from the front. peered at Tom over his glasses. "In a few minutes, Reverend Two venerable spinsters busily Stewart entered, the congregation exchanged whispers, and old Cystood, and t'h e choir began to sing. rus awoke with a jump from his Tom's face lit up, and his heart ,c ustomary Sunday morning nap. pounded .w hen he saw Laura sev- Tom could fel himself shrink eral pews ahead of him. She into Tom Thumb's shoes; his neck glanced sheepishly over Tom's . burned under his starched collar. way, and Tom could feel his ears "Tom heard very little of. the FANCIES TURN 33 SErmon that followed. The townsfolk still talk of the happenings of that morning. "Laura, however, was much plEased that Tom liked her song. She wasn't the least embarrassed. In fact, when Tom asked to see her hom-e after services, ,s'h e smiled happily and said, 'Yes'. She' was the proudest girl in town as she walked past the gossipy spinsters. "There's your story," said the old gentleman. "Did you like it?" " O h, yes!" cried the little girl. "Nancy never tells me stories like that." "No, I don't suppose she does," the man chuckled. "I'll come again tomorrow." "Will you tell me another story then? Will you be here?" asked the little girl excitedly. "Yes, I'll be here," laug'hed the man. "What's your name?" questioned the little girl as she prepared to I-eave. "Mine's Suzie." "My name? Oh, just call . me To m." A WILD DOVE HIGH A wild dove high on a tension wire Against the evening sun, High, free, before the sky, Alone, flaunting fire-clouds, Unafraid of the coming night. Oh, I pray So my spirit should be Free, Alone, Unafraid, against things to come. -Lois Tenbi-e g. Catastrophe JOAN BAUMER the futile hopes and unfulfilled desires of men who had fought and died for lost causes, of those who had dreamed their idle dreams and then returned to the dust from which they had sprung, taking the dreams with them. The ghosts of all the armies of the world were there in the swirling black waters, and each was shouting his battlecry, "Democracy""Nazism" - "Equality" - "Fascism," and each cry went unheeded and mingled unheard with the others. The visions -o f wise men were there, and the aspirations of evil men, all lost forever beyond the reach of time. The lake was a mirror of frozen loveliness. Dazzling white in the bright winter sumhine, it looked as though the bountiful God had sprinkled it with diamonds. Nothing marred it:s perfect beauty. The jagged tree tops on the neighboring -hills only emphasized its smoothness; the gray of twilight only made it seem more white. And then, in an instant, the frosty exquisiteness was gonebroken by a rock hurled from a thoughtless hand. Black water came up through the splintered ice and ran over the whiteness, like black ink spreading on a clean sheet of paper. What had been sheer loveliness was now a ruined piece of art. The shattered mirror seemed to symbolize the ' shattered dreams of mankind. It seemed to portray Yet even then the ice was beginning to harden again, just as men go on forever in quest of their dreams. Spring) SARAH Jo MAHAN to life a host {)f riotous colors . The birds chirped and sang merrily, while tiny squirr-els scolded and chased each other fr om tree to tre-e. The brook ran frivolously on, gurgling, laughing. Along its shore blue violets raised their shy, sleepy heads to the sun. The gentle patt.er of soft rain on the roof-top -c ombined with the light breeze swishing gently in through the open window, announced the approach of my favorite ~eason, spring. The clouds gradually separated forming a fleecy frame for the sun. Coaxed by his rays, the earth brought 34 E Pluribus Duo PATRICIA PARKER W hen a celebrity visits a school, anything can happen. Kerr ian Catholic High School was buzzing with excitement; rarely did they expect such a renowned visitor as Professor John C. Scout. sorry the professor was out. But Carrie was persistent. "But Miss," she cried, " I just have to see him!" The secretary was firm. "I'm sorry, dear, but the professor really is very busy." _"But just for a second," Carrie protes ted. "Aw, c'mon Carrie," Rod put in, "she's right. He's much too busy to see us." Just then the profe ssor came out of his office. Carrie ran over to him and poured out her story. "So you see," she concluded, "if you'd come, just for half an hour, everything would be perfect." The professor threw back his par tially bald head and laughed. "My dear child," he chuckled, "I had fully intended visiting Kerrian. The Hean is an old friend of mine. But as to a lectu r e-well, this tour is to exhibit and explain my collection of rare coins. I hardly think high school students would find them interesting." "Oh, but they would" interrupted Carrie, "wouldn't they, Rod? " Rod just glared, but Carrie went on, undaunted. "See, Professor, Rod wants you, too." "Well, young lady," said the professor, "my sole o bjection is Carrie Nelson had started it all. S he remembered reading about it in Monday's paper. After the funnies and sport page, and a quick glance at the society page, she idly looked at the headlines-as a: matter of p r inciple, she put it. T.here it was: "Prof. Scout, Noted Collector, to Lecture Here." She tossed the paper down, then grabbed it up again, this time reading t'l:}e whole article. "Imagine," Car r i e thought, "someone famous coming to Warr-enville! Wouldn't it be wonderful if he would come to Kerrian for a lecture!" And if she could get himwhat a feather in her cap. Surely she would then be elected editor of the yearbook. Each year the student who did the most for the class during the year was elected editor. Carrie was among the most eligible, and this would clinch it. So "Tuesday afternoon found Carrie and Rod, Rodney Kilpatrick III, that is, in Prof. Scout's office being politely rebuffed by his secretary. She said she was 35 36 FIORETTI based on the fact that the guards wouldn't be with me. You see, I have two very rare coins in my collection, and the guards won't arrive until Thursday. I had planned m:y visit for Wednesday. w Bu t Carrie was riot to be refused. "Look, Professor, no one will even know you were t here until you're gone." So here it was, Wednesday morning,and Carrie and Rod were being congratulated for capturing such a celebrity for their usually prosaic Wednesday assembly. Rod was wholly unaffected, but all the way to school Carrie had bubbled with joy. In her excitement the attention she received from a shifty-eyed, graysuited man went unnoticed. Nor did she realize that this same man followed them closely, straining his ears to catch their conversation. Suddenly the man turned and walked quickly down a side street. Assembly was over, the lecture had been a huge success. The entire student body seemed to enjoy the talk on numismatics. Only a few honor students, the class officers, and, of course, Rod and Carrie, had the privilege of meeting the Professor and being shown the two rare coins. No one seemed to notice the two young men who slipped quietly past the front door and into the line filing into the dean's office to see the coins. One of the men, dressed in a gray suit, looked anxiously around. Rod was leaning against the doorway watching Carrie, who felt a proprietary interest in the coins, exclaiming over them in what he considered a disgusting way. He whispered impatiently to her to hurry and then wondered, indifferently, who the two strangers were. Almost simultaneously with his thought, one of them pulled a small black object from his pock-et aI}d leveled it at the Professor. The one in gray spoke. "We want those two museum pieces, Professor, where are they?" Rod stiffened and glanced at Carrie, who had turned a frightening white. He jerked his head backward slightly, signaling to her. She caught on and suddenly flipped the two coins through the air to him. The men yelled and Rod began to run down the empty hall, because he could think of nothing else to do. The men chased him-down the hall, through the library, past the chapel. Rod was frantically wond-ering what to do. He said a brief prayer and suddenly it came to him. He stopped short and cut through the chapel, vaguely wondering if his action were sacrilegious. He was out in the side hall now, and had about five seconds to get rid of his treasures. The Blessed Mother seemed to smile upon him, for he had no sooner carried out his inspiration when he saw the two men, _one coming through the chapel, the E PLURIBUS DUO other bearing down from the opposite corner. "If they just didn't see," Rod hoped. They dashed up to him and the one in gray grabhed his lapels. "C'mon, you little brat," he panted, "let's have 'em." 'They shoved him against the wall and s-earched his pockets, but in vain. The silent one covered the hall hurriedly, while the one in gray threatened Rod. He knew th-ey didn't have much time, and were becoming desperate. As he hegan to speak, the Professor, Carrie, the n ean, and two policement came breathle.ssly around the corner. The thieves were not quick -enough; the police had them, and it was all over. But Rod still felt a little weak. The Professor was pulling on him, asking for the coins, and t h,e Dean was anxiously peering into his face ; while Carrie just sto od and stared at hi.\TI. The hall was filling with inquiring, wide- 37 eyed students by now, and the policemen were complimenting Rod and Carrie for their quick action. "Why, if you -hadn't act-ed so quickly, and hidden those coins," the Corporal was saying, "they'd have had your p r ecious coins and been gone." The Professor nodded eager agr-e-ement, but insisted, "Please, Rodney, the coins, where are they?" "Oh," said Rod, "w-e 11 , I figured the safest place was the most obvious place. With that he walked over to the statue of the Blessed ,V irgin, picked up the " Sacrifice for China" plate and emptied it out into his band. There among the nickles, dimes, and penni,e s w-ere the Professor's rare coins. Now the yearbook is in the making. One whole page is devoted to Professor J. C. Scout's lecture. And the assistant 'e dit or, Carrie Nelson, thinks Editor Rodney Kilpatrick is the most wonderful boy in Warrenville. A CHILD'S FAITH A child was gazing at the skyI, earth-centered, wondered why. Thinking he had spied a plane, I, too, scanned the cloud's domain. Since nothing unwonted met my view I asked, "Dear, what is attracting you?" But my query was in vainThe child but pointed up again. "Be not a dreamer, child," I said, "Come, it is late, ' now go to bed." Still with . wistful eyes he gazed His face unto the Heaven's raised. "Last night I found a star up there. Surely the good God could not bear To take the little light awayBecause it dared to face the day!" My halting answer staid not sleep, Guarded by angels who children keep. When at the dawn I did arise God's star gazed into that child's eyes. -Norma Corrine Veiders .. 38 It Our Lady In Rotnantic Poetry RUTH BECHTOL Cur Lady's inspiration seen in tbe English romanticists. Man can scarcely know a purer joy than the contemplation of the inner life of God's mother. Poets and artists, together with the saints of all times, have immersed themselves in Mary's soul and found inspiration and sanctity. To t he Romantic poets, Mary is particularly a symbol of beauty. In her immaculate loveliness she is not only their true ideal of womanhood, but a gateway to the beauties of nature. Frequently the explicit subject of Romantic poetry, Mary is also present in its undertones. The Romanticists call her "the shining of dew" on the grass and rose petals, "the sweetness" of spring blossoms, "the blitheness" of lark and thrush and nightingale , "the gentleness" of the little lamb, type of her Son. Springtime and May furnish Romantic geniuses their best opportunity to draw parallels between Mary's ineffable graces and the beauties of earth made new. She is pre-eminently the Mother of Delight. The song of Ellen in Scott's "Lady of the Lake" is a tribute to Mary's power of transforming life's sorrow into sheerest joys. The sweet innocence of the singer, reflecting the humility and purity of the "Maiden Mild," gives this "Ave Maria" peculiar charm. The simplicity of Mary appealed especially to Wordsworth. She fitted into the world of simple things that he loved. His sonnet, "The Virgin," drawing its imagery from the rose-strewn skies of dawn and the central ocean foam, couples her mother-love and maiden purity. Similar in theme is this poet's modernized version of the "Prioress's Talp." in Chaucer. . Coleridge, whose works abound in references to Mary, singles out her mothering of the Divine Babe as the special 39 40 FIORETTI subject of two poems. "A Christmas Carol," of eight stanzas, shows Mary exulting in the birth of the Prince of Peace. To justify her joy at His coming, even though her station in life is lowly, lhe poet has her answer his argument that a Warrior Prince would have brought her fame and glory. The "Virgin's Cradle Hymn," is a true lullaby. Sleep, sweet Babe! my cares beguiling! Mother sits beside Thee smiling. Sleep, my darling, . tenderly! If Thou sleep not, mother mourneth, S:nging as her wheel she turn'eth. Come, soft slumber, balmily! Prayer to Mary is immortalized in three Romantic tributes. Keats, in "St. Agnes Eve," pictures the beadsman saying his rosary with numb fingers as his frosted breath "Like pious incense from a censer old, See1n'd taking flight for heaven, without death Past the sweet Virgin's picture." Southey finds the custom of praying at the sound of the "vesper bell," in accord "with the calm and sober thoughts of even." Lord Byron's exquisite "Ave Maria" in "Don Juan" is in response to the "Angelus" bell at sunset. Among the lesser Romantic poets, Mrs. Felicia D. Hemans deserves special mention. Her "Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin" is a contemplation of Mary's glory side-byside with her self-abasement. "The Song of the Blessed Virgin" depicts Mary herself pouring out an undying song, doubtless, the "Magnificat." The above citations, while not at all exhaustive, amply testify to the Mary-influence as a definite trend in Romantic poetry. Editorials Taste and See . The Mission of Beauty "A thing of b-eauty is a joy f.orever." Set up against the short-lived fairness 'o f youth, the one-day freshness .of the plucked gardenia, the instantaneous crumbling of art monuments under the shock of ai-omicenergy, Keats's dogma of beauty seems unfounded. If, 'h owever, the permanence is transferred from the "thing", to its impress . 'On the appreciative observer, the p oet's dictum voices a p rofoQund truth. That truth implies a mo unting upward from ' the created bea uhes to the Uncreated B eauty W hoQ se eternal possession alone is truly "a joy fore ver ;" To appreciate beauty is toO value, to esteem, under any circumstan ces, every object meriting the judgment. A diamond set in lead, a t alisman r'o se Gn a tenement window-sill, graciousness in a street sweeper-each calls for recognition. Once ac quire d, trw~ appreciation is an ev,e r-present endowment, not a thing reserved foQr museum-visiting. It embraces not only the stamp ed-with-appr,oval, t ime-tested classics, but beauty unheralded-in a snatch of melody, a scent, a geometric design. B eauty counts its lovers in all soQcial groQups. No "keep-out" placards can bar the man of lowly means from reveling in the multiple heauties of nature. Perhaps no ruler of Italy or millionaire toQurist of Umbria ever extracted from the valley of Spoleto as much joy as did "the little po,o r man of Assisi." L ove of the beautiful is part of culture; it is inseparable from love of truth and love of goodness. Not Gnly is it the mark of a mind trained to discern true worth, but of an understanding. sympathetic spirit. The lover of beauty 'h olds a key to world culture . Sensitive t.o beauty, no matter how unostentatious, he can close the gap between the familiar and the fe-reign . He can appr,e,c iate the Oriental's love of line as well as the F re nchman's love of form. Kin to beauty lovers everyw:h ere , he is, po:,enti.'l.lly, a citizen of the w orld. 41 l f J . . . See and Become Worthy of Life Life is a gift '0f God. It is a gift, h'0wever, whose value is conditioned by our use '0f it. Genuine mastery of life means far more than the elimination '0f . personal poverty, the promotion of health, or the acquisition '0f learning. All these require the support of deep convictions which will endure even though the material fruits of labor be never attained, or, once gained, be lost forever. Mastery of life demands that our eff'0rts be directed toward a definite goal. As we strive to achieve this goal we are faced with challenges. We may accept or reject these challenges, but by our choices regarding them our life is cut to certain patterns. If our choices are unwise, the 42 pattern pieces will be jagged and the whole, misshapen; if wise, the parts will be clean cut and the whole, harmonious. This choice '0fchallenges is not, then, guess-work. It calls f'0r careful attention. Such far-reaching effects flow from our avoidance or accepta~ce of a single obstacle thrown in our path, that we may say our choice of challenges m'0lds our character and eventually makes us what we are. If we take, one by one, the opp'0rtunities offered us t'0 be gracious and helpful and reverent, we shall build a personality worthy of a child of God and our days will be living acts ' '0f gratitude for the gift '0f life. -Barbara Schenke:. Book RevieW's Cas Timberlane By Sinclair Lewis R eviewing the reviews. "Cass Timberlane", IS inc 1 air Lewis's latest noval, has had interestingly divergent receptions. Repre~entative evaluati.ons in print are those submitted by Lewis Gannett .of the New Ycrrk Herald Tribune, Mary M. C.olum of the Saturday Review of Literature, and Harold C. Gardiner of America. T hey reflect the attitude, respectively, of a fourth estater, a literary critic, and a Catholic thinker. Time and Newsweek give the weekly news magazine view. Sinclair Lewis, a self-appointed crusader, was born in Sauk Genter, Minnesota, in 1885. The "future sc.ourge" of his hometown went to Yale where he began w.ork .on "Main Street." Since its publication in 1914, he maintains, he has never done an honest day's work. "Writing novels is an easy life-don't let any writer tell you how hard it is." Although Lewis refused the $1000 Pulitzer Prize for "Arrowsmith" in 1J)26, he accepted the Nobel Prize of $46,350, in 1930. He is the first American novelist to be S'0 honored. Having successively married and divorced Grace Livingstone Hegner and Dorothy Thompson, 'h e is now courting y.oung Miss Marcella Powers. Since "C ass Timberlane" is the story .of the romance .of an older man and a young woman, the Time reviewer, f.or one, feels that Mr. Lewis may be trying to reconc ile his friends and the public to his current romance. "Cass Timberlane" is a tale of G ran d Republic, a midwestern town, population -85,000. The story opens with Cass Timberlane, a f.armer Congressman and now judge in M inn es,o ta, fa lling in love with Jinny Marshland, a "half-tamed h awk of a girl," and most of it portrays their courtship a nd marriage. Cass has a hard time persuading his friends that his young fi ,mcee is fit to be his wife. After their marriage he has a still more difficult time holding the wayward Jinny. She finally runs to New York with one of Cass's best friends. Cass is willing to forgive all; so Jinny returns. She t ells he r husband in the final pages "I am going to get new stormwindows on my room, even if I have to put them up myself. I'm the best storm-window fixer in this town. You'll see." There is 43 , '44 FIORETTI nO' promise af future fidelity, only the calm sureness af fargiveness. should admit that he is a "straight-forward s t to r ' y-teller withaut a sacial message. " Subtitled "A Navel of HusTime, attempting to be fav orbands and Wives," this book intermingles with the chief stary able, is canstrained to apalogize the pathetic tales af the Zebra f.or the extreme paganis m of the sisters who think their husbands characters. and brothers-in-law are perfe ct; Newsweek des,c ribes them as af a martician, in lave with a "old Sinclair Lewis items, only dipsamaniac; of a dentist, whase warmed over by a tired chef." wife frustrates even his hope far T he five commentators agree a happy suicide. These ar'e typical Americans, accarding to' Sin- on the gross abno rmality and the un-American qualities af these clair L ewis. narmal Americans. The critics are plainly puzzled. In his attempt to picture ... mer Is Lewis a social satirist? ican hame life Mr. Lewis shows Mr. Gannett suggests that he is. "Lewis," 'h e camments, "has haw limited is his knowledge af always hated the smart aleck and the thing abaut which he writes. the phony as we,ll as the smugly The educated or slightly intelliconventional; he has always be- gent are all simple adulterers; lieved that with a little e ffart and the p eaple whO' make up the intelligence any Minnesata town happy hames are either marons, cauld be the sweetest village an imbeciles, or plain, simple social misfits. Treating the baok as a the plain. He still thinks sa." :L\1iss Colum sees Lewis's satire whale, the reviewers are in subas mere caricature. "As always stantial agreement that it has he is satirical, and we as always, almost no real merit. are in a quandary, nat knowing Mr. Gannett, whO' , as aav'e rtiser, has sold "Cass Timberlane" exactly when he is conscious af his own satire ar its abjective to the public, and M iss Colum assume the attitude of an induland when he is merely bamboazgent parent toward ,a favoritp ling himself, ar his persanages are bambaozling thems,elves . . . . child who has made a slight misWhat he really is, is a caricatur- take and will easily make up for it. Irked by its "kitten phraseist. " Father Gardiner finds nei ther alagy," Miss Galum still calls it the satirist's sympathy with or "an able and even brilliant book." Father Gardiner canr.ot pa;;ron"acid anger" taward his characters in Mr. Lewis's novels. He ize, he cannot c ondane the philthinks that Lewis, instead of con- asaphy af life portrayed. He does tinually mounting the pulpit, . grant that the main stmy is CASS TIMBERLANE ":;t rewc" <=xtremely well managed in dialogue, and well paced." Time, though devoting its entire b ook section to the life of Lewis, to insights into his former w orks, and finally to " Cass Timber lane," admits that th2 book will add nothing to Lewis's lit- 45 erary stature. Ne,w sweek bluntly labels the book a failure. For all t he adverse criticisms, the American p'20ple are reading " Cass Timberlane" and will proba bly r ead any f::Jrthcoming n ovels by Sinclair Lewi.s . -Diana Magnus. A Survey of Catholic Literature B y Stephen J. B rown, S. J. , and Thomas McDermott Widespread observa n c'2, in the in tim2 . While fact is its firs t objective, fall of 1945, -of the centenaries of Cardinal Newman and Father the work is not mere chronology. F a b er, no ted convert authors, has Evaluation of individual . works, refocu:;ed atten t ion on o n e im- inter pretation of trends, and inp or tant sector of English Catholic t imate personality glimpses add literatur e-t he Oxford Movement. specific values. A lmo:;t in panorama the story Significantly, the fir st over-all s urvey of Ca tholic literature, the unfolds. First come the Ages of SUbj.2ct of this review, appeared Faith made glorious by the apoloin that centenary year. gistic literature of the Church W ritten jointly bya Dublin F ather s. St. Augustine whose auth or-librarian, the Reverend "Confessions" are a world -classic Step'hen J . Br'o wn , S. J., and Mr. . and whose " City of' God" is still Thoma:; McDermott, veteran Mil- valuable a:; a philosophy of hiswaukee -editor, in contact with tory, is foremost. The Dark Ages sources on the fi ve co ntinents and bring the founding of B en edictine Oceania, the volume is a definite a nd Golumban monasteries a nd c on tr ibution to world culture. the Anglo-Saxon a uthors-VenerInterpretin g the term "Catholic able Bede, Caedmon, King Aelli ter ature" as any literature in fr ic. Highlighting the Middle Ag~s which t'h'e Catholic faith plays a are St. Thomas Aquinas, 3t. Franp art, it treats not only literary cis of Assisi, Petrarch, Villon, productio ns from the acknowledg- More . At their clo:;e stands Dante, ed fi elds of creative writing, but greatest of Christian poets, "marall works ,of lasting value, re- ried to immortal verse." gardless of subj ect matter. CovClassical antiquity dominates ering the tW'enty centuries of the the Renaissance scene. In its Christian era, it i:; "Catholic" also course the Protestant R eformatio n FIORETTI br,e aks o'(er Europe. Literary giants, like St. Francis de Sales, take the defensive. With the seventeenth cent).lry a golden age sets in for France and Spain. Next -comes the Age of Voltaire. ncyclopedists, like Diderot, and fanatical rationalists, like Rousseau, make their onslaught of skepticism and ridicule against religion. Then in the wake of the Frenc'h Revolution dawns the nineteenth century bringing the Catholic Revival, first in the European countries, then in North and South America, and finally in the Far East and .oceania. Extending to our own times, that revival continues, counting among its exponents Belloc, Chesterton, Claudel, Gheon, ' Kilmer, and Yeats. Especially - valuable are the pages devoted to the status of Catholic literature in minor countries of the western world 'and in the Orient. In these areas there is not yet a flourishing Catholic 1 i t era t u r e embracing "belles-lettres": apologistic and 'h istorical writings pred'o minate. Norway, however, has its Sigrid Undset, and Austria, its Enrica Handel-Mazzetti, both novelists of power. Singling out the field of fiction, the authors discuss the fewness of good Catholic novels. T'hey point out in explanation, ,the lack of craftsmanship, the use of unrealistic th'e mes, and, most important of all, "the error that Catholic novelists may not come to actual grips with sin and reality." The over-all picture given of Catholic literature, today, however, is heartening. Catholic writers are making valuable and widely accepted contributions, not only in theology and philosophy, but in law and sociology, no less than in 'c reative writing. Imbued with true Catholicism, their realistic, alert attitude promises much for the future. -Catherine Pangallo. PATRONS Mr. and Mrs. George W. Bersch Miss Dorothy Bersch Mr. and Mrs. L. H. Bill Mr. and Mrs. C. G. Dippel Miss JO'a n Duffin Mr. and Mrs. Edward J : Gallagher Mr. and Mrs. Alfred J. Glasser Mr. and Mrs. N. P. Hermann Mr. E. D. Hunter Mr. and Mrs. L. C. Keller Mr. and Mrs. Henry L. Kessling Mr. and Mrs. Raymond A. Luley Mr. and Mrs. C. R. Lund Mr. and Mrs. F. C. McCalley Mr. and Mrs. Leo McConahay Mr. and Mrs. M. L. McManus Mr. and Mrs. H. J. O 'Neill Mrs. Frank Pangallo Mr. and Mrs. Pedro Pinto Guzman Mr. Germanico Pinto Davila Mr. and Mrs. William Roffelsen Mr. and Mrs. John F. Schroeder Mr. and Mrs. Ed J. Stiens Mr. and Mrs. L. B. Tenbieg 47 FIORETTI DIRECTORY Business and Professional Patrons ( S t udents a n d r ead er s a re as ke d to cons ult th e direc:ory b efore pur chas ing . or a r ranging f or ser vices.) Grocer Doherty's Market 3326 E. 10th St. CH. 2544 Cleaners Tuxedo Cleaners 3332 E. 10th St. Dairy Products Carey's Dairy 918 E. 30th St. WA. 3232 Insurance Harry A. Dudley 806 Kahn Bldg. 7 N. Meridian St. MA. 3351 Dentists Dr. James F. Healy 4612 E. 10th St. Dr. C. P. Obery 743 S. East St. MA. 7177 . Dr. B. A. Richardson 704 Hume Mansur Bldg. LI. 1160 Lunch Sanco Snack Shop 136 E. 30th St. TA. 2136 Florists Delaware Flower Shop 2922 N. Delaware St. TA. 4568 Kiefer Floral Company 2901 W. 16th St. BE. 1562 Pharmacists Rice Pharmacy 4837 E. New York at DeQuincy IR. 3777 Wyard Pharmacy 5066 E. Michigan St. IR. 3344 Funeral Grinste:ner's Funeral Blome 1601 E. New York St. MA. 5374 Photographers Porter's National Studios Illinois Bldg. RI. 9114 Furniture Graham Furniture Company 3832 N. Illinois St. HU. 1635 Radio Della Penna Radio and Records Shop 3157 E. 10th St. CH.8177 Jewelers Dee Jewelry Company, In c. 18 N. Illinois St. RI. 9790 48  ...

... ," ,.. Marian College Indianapolis, Indiana THE FIORETTI AN ANTHOLOGY OF MARIAN COLLEGE PROSE AND VERSE VOLUME TWO 11 Marian College Indianapolis, Indiana 1944 .. 1945 1 To Our Beloved Archbishop, His Excellency, THE MOST REVEREND JOSEPH E. RITTER, First Archbishop of Indianapolis and Chancellor of Marian College, this volume of the Fioretti is lovingly dedicated under the patronage of ; St. Bernardine of Siena (1380-1444) "the greatest Franciscan since the time of St. Francis". 2 DD., FOREWORD This volume is not a history of Marian College during the past twelve months, in the sense in which the original FIORETTI is the history of the earliest Franciscans. Yet, it is a record. Some articles commemorate events significant to Marian students as members of lar ger social groups than the college. Some reflect campus life and activities~religious, social, scientific~ literary, and artistic-in that indefinable way in which expression mirrors experience. Some are the unfoldings of inmost thoughts and emotions evoked by the present world situation; others are personal responses to the appeal of universal truth and perennial beauty, independent of time, place, or events. Each is the record of an idea, caught and held fast and transmitted to posterity through the medium of written language. That the success attained in the art of literary self-expres:sion by the contributors to the present volume will be, for them, an incentive to h.).rther production and to all Marian students an encouragement to cultivate the art of writing, is the earnest wish of the editors. 3 STAFF MEMBERS Editorial Editor-in-Chief BETTY ARMSTRONG, '45 Assistant Editors CATHERINE PANGALLO, '46 MARIAN GUENTER, '47 MARY ANNE GALLAGHER, '46 Business Finance Circulation RENILDA MENY, '45 GERTRUDE SCHROEDER, '46 MARY Jo FALVEY, '47 PATRICIA WINSHIP, '47 CONTRIBUTORS CARMEN DE BARROS, '44, writes constructively on PanAmerican relations ... JULIANA DILLHOFF, '46, compares scientifically, two classic English lyrics of the romantic school ... JOAN DUFFIN, '45, argues for the -aesthetic and moral values of Harold Bell Wright's novels ... BEATRICE HYNES, '46, turns from romance to realism in Wordsworth, mosquitoes, and world progress ... JOANNE (LAUBER) KERN, combines reflection and literary style in A Meditation . . . GERTRUDE SCHROEDER, '46, presents the historical aspects of Cardinal O'Connell's career . . . MARYANN A TODD, '44, first editor-inchief of the Fioretti, silhouettes adolescence in David . . . JOAN BISCHOFF, '48, MILDRED DANIELS, '47, DOROTHY KISE, '47, and SUZANNE PUR SIAN, '48, sketch personal impressions . . . RITA KREKELER,'45, ANNA MEHN, '44, NAOMI RANEY, '44, LOIS TENBIEG, '48, NORMA VEIDERS, '48, and MARIAM WILLIAMS, '47, contribute an intriguing group of poems inspired by faith, nature, the war, and the deep realities of life . . . DOLORES MARTINI, '45, ANNA ROFFELSEN,'46, ERNA SANTAROSSA, '44, and MARY TOFFOLO, '44, recapture, in verse, fervent poetic tributes paid to Our Lady in foreign languages . . . MARY TOFFOLO and ANN A ROFFELSEN add originals. 4 CONTENTS At Our Lady's Door .... . . . . . . . . . ... . . Rita Krekeler, Guarding the ' Campus . . Betty Armstrong, Freshmen ........... . .... Dorothy Kise, Watchword . Marian Guenter, Oracion a La Virgen . . ....... Mary Toffolo, Land of Make Believe .. . ... . . .. .. . ... Naomi Raney, Twin Inspiration .. . . . ... . . .... Juliana Dillhoff, Mosquitoes ........ . .._. . .... . Beatrice Hynes, Navy Wife ........ . ... . .... . .. Rita Krekeler, College Spirit at Marian ......... Catherine Pangallo, Frost Fairies ........ Lois Tenbieg, Pan-Americanism . Carmen De Barros, To a Robin . . ... . .. . .... . . . .... . .... Anna Mehn, Spring Song . . . . ... . . ...... ... ....... Naomi Raney, "Q". . . . . . . . . . . . ..... . Mary Anne Gallagher, David ... ... .... . .... Maryanna Todd, Black and White . . . .. . . Mildred Daniels, .Joanne (Lauber) Kern, A Meditation . . . . . . . . Floral Accent . . . . . . . .. . .. . . . . Joan Bischoff, . . . . . .. . . . . .. . . .Norma Veiders, A Tomb . . .. . . To Wordsworth .. . . . . . . . ... . . .. ..... Beatrice Hynes, The Nature of "Swing'! ........ .. .. Marian Guenter, It All Depends . . . . . . . . . . . . . ...... Joan Duffin, A Poet's Lament . . . Mariam Williams, o Guide Through the Billows . . . . . Erna Santarossa, The Virgin at Noon . . . . . . . . .. .. Dolores Martini, Hail, Mother of Mercy ........ . . . .... Anna Roffelsen, Canticle to the Virgin .. .. . . . . ..... . .. . Mary Toffolo, Coast to Coast . . . . . . . . . . . .. .. Beatrice Hynes, Nominal Confusion .... . . .... .. .... Suzanne Pursian, Pageant of Memories .. . .. . . . ... Gertrude Schroeder, Two Scenes. .. . ... . .... . ........ . . Anna Roffelsen, 5 '45 '45 '47 '47 '44 '44 '46 '46 '45 '46 '48 '44 '44 '44 '46 '44 '47 '46 '48 '48 '46 '47 '45 '47 '44 '44 '46 '44 '46 '48 '46 '46 7 9 10 11 13 14 15 17 18 19 20 21 23 24 25 27 28 29 31 31 32 33 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 46 47 49 ILLUSTRATIONS St. Francis (left of Main Drive) Martha Galbis, '48. . . . . 8 Ambulatory (west of Alverna Hall) Gina Santarossa, '48 . . .. . 14 Lotus Lake Lois Tenbieg: '48 . . . .. 24 Marian Hall Viewed from Lotus Lake Julianne Jackson, '47 . 32 Madonna Licia Toffolo, '44 . 40 Arch (rear of Library) Lillian Lieland, '48. . . .. 50 6 A TOUR LADYS DOOR AT OUR LADY'S DOOR RITA KREKELER, '45 Pardon, Madam, this interruption. I realize how busy it must keep you Being mistress and lady of this heavenly house. Surely such a place, as large as this, Requires a lot of time and attention. Your earthly children, too, must cause you Many anxious moments. But some one chanced to mention The visits you pay each Saturday To the poor suffering neighbors In Purgatory and the good you do for them. So I thought you might Spare a moment to listen to my trouble And ask the Master of your house to help. You see, my little boy is lost. His Uncle Sam-my son was staying with His uncle at the timeHis Uncle Sam writes that he was lost While playing with a boat. He was wearing a sailor suit And he was with a gang of boys Just about the same as he. I miss my son so muchYou know how it is. And I was wondering If you would keep An eye out for him And send him right home If you see him. I won't keep you longer, Madam, I hear your children calling Thank you so much for listening, And please watch for my J uniot. 7 8 . FIORETTI GUARDING THE CAMPUS 9 Guarding the Campus BETTY ARMSTRONG, '45 Have you ever walked leisurely up the main drive at Marian? The first object to stand out individually from the entire view before you, is the familiar statue of Saint Francis. In the white winter, budding spring, drowsy summer, or colorful autumn, he stays there faithful to his Marian charges. The benevolent smile and the welcoming arms call each Marianite to place her entire trust in him. In the morning llOurs, as each bus, loaded with gay, laughing students pulls up before Alverna hall, Saint Francis is the first to greet each girl. He blesses each as she drifts, or rushes, into the cafeteria at noon; and he smiles and silently commends each to God's care as, finished with another day's classes, she takes her leave of Marian. The task, however, is not yet completed, for there remain on the campus numerous girls whom the Saint must guide and guard through the remaining hours of the afternoon and night. Then, too, there are teachers whom Saint Francis aids and counsels. The birds and animals about our campus love to frisk and play near him, emulating their more fortunate kindred. Saint Francis is always the staunch, loyal friend. The friend who is ever at hand to aC,c ompany each girl through the happy "Marian years". Look at him today, and ever remem ber the way he smiles at you. FIORETTI 10 Freshmen DOROTHY KrSE, '47 Timid, awe-struck creatures, scurrying on and off busses, carrying loads of books heavy enough to put a strain on Atlas -these are first-day freshmen. Without them high schools and colleges would cease to exist. Who else bear the brunt of foolish jests by upper-classmen? Who else must inquire the way to the most accessible classroom or laboratory, or be assured that the art studio is not the chemistry.laboratory? Who else are looked down upon with condescension and reminded how happy they will be when they reach the exalted state of sophomores? In their own naive way, freshmen are docile and quite ready to listen to tales of senior bravado. This austere group considers it a duty to acquaint the freshmen with all the ancestral dignity and hallowed tradition-to say nothing of regulations-of the venerable institution which they are attending. Orientation week, however, is the true touchstone of freshman prowess and endurance. No room for vanity is there in the horribly mismatched outfits and grotesque accessories. No trace of uppishness can abide the sanctions of the kangaroo court. Compensation comes-eventually: Not only is there toleration for their slow learning and their oft-erring ways, but genuine affection. If freshmen good-naturedly accept what is given, they will soon find themselves treated like true college students, sometimes even like seniors. WATCHWORD 11 Watchword MARIAN GUENTER, '47 Liturgy, history, and heraldry meet in Archbishop Ritter's motto. "Miles Christi sum" (I am a soldier of Christ), the official motto of the Most Reverend Joseph E. Ritter, D.D., takes on new significance from the Archbishop's installation, December 19, 1944, as first metropolitan of the archdiocese of Indianapolis, and from the simultaneous erection of Indiana into an ecclesiastical province. Scripture and the liturgy unite in establishing the special appropriateness of the motto. Deriving its basic inspiration, perhaps, from St. Paul's counsel, "Conduct thyself in work as a good soldier of Christ Jesus" (Timothy 2, 3-4), the motto receives a fuller explanation from the same writer's outline of Christian warfare. (Ephesians, 6, 10-17.) The episcopal insignia are a form of armor. The mitre, in the language of the liturgy of the consecration ceremony, is "the helmet of protection and salvation" and a prayer is offered that the' recipient, "armed with the horns of both testaments, may seem terrible to the opponents of truth, and . . . may be their steady adversary." The crosier, bestowed so that the bishop "may be lovingly severe, giving judgment without wrath . . . not neglecting strictness of discipline through love of tranquillity," easily supplies "the breastplate of justice" and "the sword of the spirit." That the position of archbishop entails a new call to spiritual valor is recognized in the petitions of the installation chant, Protector Noster, "Let not Satan prevail over him." "Nor the son of iniquity have power t<;> harm him." Studied in its setting on the Archbishop's coat of arms, the lTlOtto has further implications-personal and historic. Inscribed on a scroll the full width of the blazon, it applies both to the crest, containing the archepiscopal insignia, and to the shield, or escutcheon. 12 FIORETTI From the symbolism of the sinister h3li of the shield, the words, "I am a soldier of Christ," draw special reenforcement. On a silver background, honoring Mainz, the ancestral home of the Ritter family, is emblazoned the red cross of St. George, patron of knights. ("Ritter" is the German for "rider" or "knight"). Occupying the central position is a gold ciborium, signifying Christ in His most intimate relation with men, the Eucharistic Lord of hosts. This symbol is also a tribute to Bishop Chartrand, Archbishop Ritter's consecrator and predecessor in the see of Indianapolis, who earned the title "the Bishop of the Blessed Sacrament." The pierced mullets, or spur-rowels, flanking the ciborium, complete the symbolism of knighthood. The four patches of ermine suggest the Archbishop's first name Elmer, the Latin equivalent for which is "Ermelius", akin to "erminia." The name itself is of AngloSaxon origin and means "noble", "great". The dexter side of the shield, dedicated to the diocese, commemorates two historic influences-the French and the Indian. The blue cross on a field of gold and the fleur-de-lis are borrowed from old French heraldry, the fleur-de-lis appearing on the French national coat of arms in 1179. They are a tribute to the French colonists who laid the foundations of Catholicism in Indiana, to Vincennes, the seat of the present archdiocese of Indianapolis, 1834-1878, and, especially, to the first six bishops of the diocese, all of whom were of French lineage. The Indian element is embodied in the fish and fishingspear. Indiana, "land of Indians", and Indianapolis, "city of the land of Indians", are designations which pay tribute to the Algonquin tribes who once peopled the state. According to current interpretation, the name "Algonquin" is derived from the Micmac algoomaking, "at the place of spearing fish." That local history should have so prominent a commemoration in the archdiocesan blazon is peculiarly fitting, since Archbishop Ritter's own career is completely Indianian. Born, reared, and educated in the state, his priestly and episcopal service has been given to the people of Indiana. The inspiration of eleven years of zealous promotion of Catholic life and activities, on the part of the Archbishop, his motto may well be a spur to all who serve under him. ORACION A LA VIRGEN ORACION A L l\ VIRGEN Original Spanish poem MARY TOFFOLO, '44 Senora, reina del cielo, Como sonries dulcemente, En tus ojos eternamente Hallare esperenza y consuelo. Buena eres y poderosa, o Madre del senor nuestro, Como con el nino vuestro, Se conmigo bondadosa. Madre, en mi affiici6n, Cuando pena es mia Y en mi ultima agonia, Se tu mi protecci6n. Dama, madre de dulzura Tu, que tanto has sufrido, Cuando yo este afligido, Ven, siempre se mi ayuda. Senora, ruega por mi; Cuando vere a mi Dueno En aquel eterno sueno, Yo pondre mi fe en ti. 13 14 FIORE:TTI LAND OF MAKE",BELIEVE N AOM! RANEY, '44 ., I have delved into the realms of sciehce and I know The reasons that the wise men give For winter dawns and azure skies; For purple shadows~ and the blue Of lilacs after April rains. All this I know-and yet When I have slipped away From books and tasks To walk along autumnal roads, I find a faerie people waiting there To blind my mind to scientific truth . And lead me, unprotesting, To a land of Make-Believe, Where elves and gnomes are frolicking, And tiny hands are daubing busily At maple leaves. TWIN INSPIRATION 15 Twin Inspiration? JULIANA DILLHOFF, '46 That a bird should serve as the starting point of a comparative study of two great anthors is somewhat of an anomaly. \Villiam Wordsworth and Percy Bysshe Shelley in the poems To a Skylark reveal not only their respective literary merits, but their divergent philosophies of life. Wordsworth is content to draw what joy he can from the companionship of the skylark-its beautiful song, its simple way of life-and then to hope for greater personal happiness in the life to come. Shelley is not so content. He must delve into tbe mystery of the skylark's joy, questing for an explanation in the fields, the mountains, the waves, and the sky. Not love, nor ignorance of pain, but the possession of thoughts more true and deep than man's is the satisfying explanationan answer which only whets the poet's desire for equal joy. Shelley seems to have an inborn longing to rise above the levels of space and time, to perfection. According to one critic, "He wove together the beauty of creation and its Creator, understanding neither, but struggling for knowledge of both." Imagination, as Wordsworth defines it, is the "accurate, faithful, and loving observation of nature." Shelley's senseexperiences, on the contrary, are enriched with an almost superhuman insight. He can see through the screen, spying "the warm light of life." To Shelley, the skylark is, in turn, . a spirit, a cloud Qf fire, a star, a poet, a maiden, a glowworm, and an embowered rose. As to style, Wordsworth's distinction as a poet rests largely upon his power of expression. "At his best he could combine a towering splendor of diction with passionate feeling" as he does in the following lines from the longer of his two poems called To a Skylark: . I have walked through wildernesses dreary And today my heart is weary: Had I now the wings of a Faery Up to thee would I fly. 16 FIORETTI There is madness about thee, and joy divine In that song of thine: Lift me, guide me, high and high To thy banqueting-place in the sky! Such rare felicity of diction is almost natural to W ordsworth when he forgets his theories about the "very language of men." His poetry then becomes "solemn and fragrant as incense burned before a shrine." Shelley, like Wordsworth, has a rare power of expression, but with this he combines remarkable lyric excellence. His was the power to represent unseen things in melodious picturelanguage, to find images for thoughts, aspirations, and emotions, which enchant the soul. Image and personification, condemned by Wordsworth, thus reappear in unsurpassed subtlety and splendor. His language thrills with emotions of supreme grace and intensity, whether the mood be cheerfulness or blank despair. To a Skylark abounds in new and exquisite rhythms expressing the inner rhythm of thought, as in the following lines: In the golden lightning of the sunken sun O'er which clouds are bright'ning Thou clost float and run Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. Shelley was, for his generation, a creator of beauty, as Wordsworth, it seems, was a prophet of nature . . To Shelley, "Nature's vast frame" and "the web of human things" were not only a source of consolation, they were a problem-a problem to whose solution he was certain his pantheism was the key. Nature, to Wordsworth, was a conservative ideal. He looked upon the world as an object of religious meditation, believing that in its depths the Spirit of God dwells and functjons. In the W ordsworthian sense, Shelley is not a poet of Nature. "For, with Nature, Wordsworth will admit no tampering: he exacts the direct interpretative reproduction of her; that the poet should follow her as a mistress, not use her as a handmaid." To such a following of Nature, Shelley felt no call. "He saw in her, not a picture set for his copying, but a palette set for his brush." Fundamentally, however, the difference between Wordsworth and Shelley, as Nature poets, is merely that Shelley's love of Nature was the more passionate; Wordsworth's, the more profound. MOSQUITOES 17 Mosquitoes BEATRICE HYNES, '46 Perhaps war was responsible for t-his. Who knows? Have you ever stopped to realize the plans and preparations that must be made before a mosquito can bite you? This mosquito-biting is not a helter-skelter, devil-may-care proposition-rather it is a carefully laid scheme, executed by only the best trained mosquitos and motivated by sentiments of retaliation for centuries of persecution. Spring training for mosquitoes usually begins about March 15. ' There is a mass meeting of all the mosquitos in a certain precinct. Nominations are proposed, votes cast, and promptly on March 18, the precinct leader and his executive committee are announced. Immediately things begin to pop-reconnaisance groups are organized and sent out to determine the number of inhabitants in a given area, to search garages and cellars for the number and power of window screens, and to investigate local supplies of insecticides. All mosquitoes over the age of two weeks are submitted to a rigid physical examination, and the Joe Louises of the diptera tribe are selected to I undergo bite training. . Those ' who are not perfectly fit, perhaps having a crooked antennae or flat tarsi, are drafted to work on the ground crews or to do other essential home front tasks. Promptly, new flying fields are built from discarded pie plates. Over-turned thimbles serve as hangars and storage centers. Mosquitoes enlisted in bite training are geared in preparation for almost any opposition from the enemy. Patented armored masks resist the ack-ack fire of any ordinary flit gun. A secret chemical formula loosens the sticky grasp of fly paper. Days are filled with drilling, test flights, and 18 FIORETTI maneuvers. Then after days of rigorous studies, these trainees are graduated. On the day of graduation each mosquito is given a detailed map of the house to which he has been assigned. There are about twenty mosquitoes to a house, depending, of course, upon the number of inhabitants. Then the graduates retire to secret stations to meet with their comrades who have been assigned to the same house. Here takes place further charting and planning, and an up-to-theminute schedule is worked out for the group. This schedule records the time in which the enemy rests on the front porch glider, the approximate hour in which he waters the lawn, and most important of all, the determination of the hour at which he retires. Having taken care of all minute details, the mosquitoes await the coming days of revenge. Then, one balmy May evening they strike. Attacked without warning, you are incapable of resistance. It is not until about their fifth mission that you even think of going down to the hardware store for some new screening and a can of Flit, or to the drug store for a bottle of citronella. And each time you scratch those itchy bumps, you realize what a formidable enemy you are now facing. So the next time a mosquito lands within firing range and your swatter is aimed to kill, KILL HIM!!! NAVY WIFE RITA KREKELER, '45 My heart has gone from me today As it's never been gone before. My heart has fled from out my breast To some strange, distant shore. A full life now I seek in vain; My life has been curtailed. A part of me is torn away; Today he sailed. COLLEGE SPIRIT AT MARIAN 19 College Spirit at Marian CATHERINE PANGALLO, '46 What is college spirit? It's four years of learning, prayer, and fun; not just four years of courses ending in a degree. What makes an uninitiated freshman go through the two-edged fun of orientation week? The assurance that the experience . will achieve an invaluable something-it will make him a college student. Yet, it isa precarious dignity, sometimes jeopardized by freshman exuberance. College spirit is enjoying field trips if you take biology, or delving into indoor experiments if you take chemistry. It's breezing along with studies in October, and being jolted by quarterly examinations at the end of November. It's studying feverishly for a philosophy examination and looking glum after it. Browsing around the library when you should be looking for a reference book is one symptom of it; the feeling of accpmplishment when you make a good grade, or, better still, the passing of an unexpectedly difficult test is a more telling indication. Deciding what to give at class assemblies nurtures it; the queer feeling you have when you first wear your cap and gown is close to its essence. You can't mistake it in the thrill you get from your first college play, the pride in the school's literary publications, that humble feeling that steals over you after retreat, and the special pleasure that comes from hearing Mass in the college chapel. It's evident in the first campus snow fall; in the ejaculations that laud the blessed warmth of Marian . Hall, after a trudge in the snow. It prompts the excited preparation for the first college dance, and the causerie following it. It is the drive that brings a similar enthusiasm to all college activities. You can see it in ridiculous snapshot poses; you can hear it in the passing of classes and, more emphatically, in the running for the bus. You cpn feel it in the general satisfaction that accompanies a chili luncheon. College spirit implies noticing how lovely the chapel looks at Benediction. It's the natural way you praise the school to 20 FIORETTI others, no less than the crazy things you do and say among yourselves-covering up Saint Francis, for instance, because he's cold. Ifs calculating when the new building is going up. It's looking with interest at all the exhibits in the art gallery. It's shivering, slipping, and sliding, but still being determined to ice-skate on Lotus Lake. It's looking at your friends and wondering . whether you will ever see them again, and desperately wanting to; It's the wrench your heart will know when you are being graduated. It's that cocky, inquiring air of the freshmen, looking for and discovering somethirig ;new about college every day; the superior feeling of the s()phomores; especially about the fresh;.. men; the complacent, knoviling,dashing attitude of the juniors; the in-class dignity, the unchallenged knowledge of the seniors. College spirit exists even after graduation. It wWcome back to you, wife and mother or career woman, when you least expect it, making you realize that you have a special warm spot- always in your heart for Marian .. . FROT ;F AIRIE National College Poetry Anthology Entry LOIS TENBIEG, '48 Dancing on the city panes, Drifting in the country lanes, Light and airy, Clean and white, Frozen fairies of the rains. Glistening on a window sill, Spinning cobwebs on a rill, Small and dainty, Pure,.and sweet, Giving all they touch a thrilL Tiny mites of peerless white, . Shimmering 'neath the moon's pale . light, Frail and fragile, Thin and small, Disappearing now from sight. PAN-AMERICANISM 21 Pan? Americanism CARMEN DE BARROS, '44 A sincere statement of inter-A merican friendship in practice by one who is both a true Latin and b"ue American. Pan-Americanism, Good-Neighbor Policy, Good-Will articles, Pan-American societies, Inter-American projects-each has its part to play in the great scheme of uniting the Americas in a closer bond of friendly unity. Yet, do all these combined phases of Pan-American activity tend to bring about the relations desired? My answer is no, not entirely. Complete successs will not attend our efforts until the obstacles which separate us are removed. The truth of the matter is that we do no know each other as neighbors should, and, until we do, we will not be good neighbors. It is true that we live in the same New World geographically, but the people of Central and South America are even farther removed from their northern neighbors than the Europeans are. They speak Spanish and Portuguese, their civilization is Latin, their religion is Catholic, and their economy is ' agricultural. Contrast this with the situation in the United States, and the great cultural abyss between them is only too evident. A lamentable ignorance of each others' habits, customs, peculiar mannerisms, and even appearances further tends to widen the gap. The average North American is inclined to regard life south of the Mexican border as one continuous round of music, dancing, and romance; he envisions that vast southern expanse as a luxurious tropical vacationland made gay with bright cabaleros and lovely dark-eyed senoritas of highly emotional temperament. Whereas, the Latin-Am~rican th,inks of his northern friend as tall, slender, blond, red:cheeked, with little or no emotional response, and apparently 22 FIORETTI unaffected by changing circumstances. Furthermore, he is led to believe that his North American neighbor entertains imperialistic ambitions, holds himself superior to his southern . friend, and is chiefly concerned with the hard practicalities of life. Of course, nothing is farther removed from the truth. In an attempt, then, to understand each other we must seek to correct prevailing views and ideas, to surmount purely superficial differences, and to establish a common bond. It is precisely here that the Catholic Church plays a vital part. Latin America is Catholic; the people feel their religion strongly, in fact, Catholicism permeates and gives significance to their social and domestic life. If approached from this angle, they cannot help but be won to complete confidence and friendship. However, if Catholicism is to be the means of approach, it must be true Catholicism, based upon the un iversallaw of human solidarity and charity, as taught by the Church and recalled so urgently by our present Holy Father. Another potent means of establishing friendly rel<;ltions with South America is through education. Catholics of the United States can contribute tremendously toward inter-American friendship by exchange of students. Through the National Catholic Welfare Conference an increasingly large number of scholarships is being offered each year to lay-students of Latin Americ<:}. There is no better place for fostering the growth of inter-American neighborliness than on the Catholic college campus. . Here the Latin American will find an ideal atmosphere for the study of the English language, for learning American ways and customs, and for establishing a better feeling. Through social contacts at college he can visit typical American homes, attend Catholic forums, and take his place among Catholic students at social gatherings, conventions, and the like, where he has the privilege of expressing his own views and hearing those of other students. For the past four years it has been my privilege to attend Marian College. Here I have found a home second only to my own in Cuba. There is nothing that I would take in exchange for the wealth of experience I have gained here. Not only have I acquired additional knowledge, but I have changed many erroneous views and ideas. North Americans are not at all as I had hnagined them-a cold, calm, undisturbed, am- I PAN-AMERICANISM 23 bitious people; on the contrary, they are kind and lovable, full of life. and satisfied only when they can share their happiness with others. Their eagerness to listen for hours to stories of our beloved homeland, customs, and manners alone proves their genuine interest in us. Just as they have shared their home joys with us, we hope to share ours with them. We, therefore, invite North American students to come to South America, to attend our schools, to learn our language, to observe our way of life, to meet our friends, to share our hospitality. Only when the visit is returned will' the bond of friendship be complete and Pan-Americanism truly. a success. TO A ROBIN ANNA MEHN, '44 Dark are your wings and head, little bird, And red is your little breast, Small are your blue, unspeckled eggs, And of strings and of twigs is your nest. Swift is your flight and keen is your eye, Sweet is the song you sing. After King Winter has had his reign, You come to herald the Spring. Perched on a bough, you saucy bird, Rocked by a soft, summer breeze, You sing to all nature your glad'ning song, Of flowers and verdant trees. I'll sing with you, ' my dear welcomed friend, Twitt'ring as happy can be: You sing of your happy life in the wood, I'li sing of "the land of the free." 24 :fIORETTI SPRING SONG Fioretti contest prize poem, 1944 NAOMI RANEY, '44 Yesterday I saw the snow clouds scudding Across a dark and dreary-looking sky. I felt the tangy bite of wintry breezes; I heard a shivering kitten cry. Today, what magic wonder fills the air? A robin's hopping on the lawn, And crocus leaves are struggling toward the light. The ice is breaking on the lake below, And a young sun is making the world bright. Yesterday you were not here, The world and i were lonely. Today you came, . And suddenly, it's spring! "Q" MARyANNE GALLAGHER, 25 '46 A critic stands criticism. His close friends and acquaintances always referred to him as "Q." It was a nickname given to him in schooldays, and it stayed with him throughout his life. In literary circles, however, and to the vast numbers of his admirers, he was Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, British man of letters. His death, May fifth of this year, although a great loss to the world of literature, has caused hi~ to be recognized by many who until now were not acquainted with his life and work. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch was born in Fowey, Cornwall, November 21, 1863, and received his education at Newton Abbot College, Clifton College, and Trinity College, Oxford. It was while at Oxford that his literary ability first manifested itself, and his career as author was assured. Quiller-Couch combined the arts of critic, novelist, poet, and teacher. It was as critic that he gained the highest distinctiOli. His volumes of critical essays, thought-provoking, yet humorous, rank with the best of twentieth century English literature. The universal recognition given to The Oxford Book of English Verse, an anthology edited by him, is a standing .tribute to his power of discrimination, no less than to his erudition. Shortly before his death one of his fellow-countrymen rem.arked, "There is no sounder critic living today." This opinion, however, is not shared by all modern critics and poets; some consider his taste too conventional. Dead Man's Rock, an adventure story comparable to Stevenson's Treasnre Island; was not only his first novel, but also his first published literary work. Cornish ih locale, his novels reproduce the dialect, mannerisms, and entire way of life of his native province. Not without reason has he been compared with Charles Dickens. His novels like those of Dickens have depth of plot; they are vigorous and soundly argumentative. By means of compelling narrative ~nd vivid 26 FIORETTI description, he forcibly records the moral and social ideas of contemporary England. The poetry of Quiller-Couch, marked by lyric quality of high order, fills several volumes. His style is clear-cut, his humor, subtle and poignant, and his imagination, vigorous and colorful. As a parodist he is outstanding. His serious poetry is both meaningful and effective. As an educator, he is easily a leader. John Cournas says that Quiller-Couch had the supreme gift of being able to charm while he instructed. He had very definite ideas about the advantages of higher education and fully believed that a liberal education was not an appendage to be purchased by a few. On the contrary, he held it to be the right of the human individual. - One of Quiller-Couch's pet theories was that of the improvement in the manner of teaching English in the grammar schools of England. He was convinced that the real battle for English takes place in the elementary schools and in the training of elementary school teachers, for there the foundation of a sound national teaching has to be laid or it is there that a wrong trend will lead to incurable diseases. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch taught that literature was not a mere science to be studied but an art to be practiced. Great as is the national literature of England, he considered it a legacy to be improved. He believed that any nation which potters with the glory of its past as a thing dead and done for, is to that extent renegade. He once stated, Not all our pride in Shakespeare can excuse the relaxation of our effort however vain and hopeless, to better him or some part of him. If with all our native examplars to give us courage, we persist in striving to write well, we can easily resign to other nations all the secondary fame to be picked up by commentators. Quiller-Couch was forced to admit, however, that since 1900 much of the most thoughtful work on English has come to the English-speaking world from -America. The many works of this distinguished author will stand, in coming ages, as a memorial to one who "wore his learning lightly and bent it to bright use." DAVID 27 David MARYANNA TODD, '44 A debutante and a seaman-worlds apartbut one of them will never forget. It was her first service-man's dance, and she was enchanted. With that thrilling new cloak of assurance the age of seventeen imparts to its possessors, she stood near the entrance, watching the dancers. There was glamour for her in the soft beat of the music, the mingled scents of perfume, the muted conversations, and the contrast of gayly colored dresses with the somber navy and dull khaki of uniforms. All this spelled excitement and romance to her young heart. So thrilled was she, that she half hoped no one would disturb her, as yet, with an invitation to dance. This was a new experience, and she must drink it in, deeply and eagerly. As she surveyed the bright scene, her gaze rested upon a young coast guardsman, standing with a group of his friends. Her body became tense, and she drew a soft, quick breath. For there was "David", of whom she had always dreamed. Yet "David" was to have been tall and dark, dashing and handsome, an Army Air Corps pilot. This young man fulfilled none of these requirements, but she knew without hesitation that he was the "David" for whom she had waited. She would have been content to stand watching him all evening, but she was claimed for dances. "David" stood with his friends, all of whom were apparently uninterested in the dancing. . The room was suddenly quiet as the hostess asked for volunteers to present an impromptu program. Several of the coast guardsmen glanced significantly at "David", whispering and nodding their heads. Two in the group took his arm as if to push him, but, finally disengaging himself, he walked rather casually and indifferently to the piano. He was young, not Qver nineteen, of slight build, and with thick blond hair. His face had an oddly finished look to it, as though life had touched him unkindly. His thin lips 28 had an uncompromIsmg look, strange in a youth, Only his eyes were different, brown and wistful, the eyes of a dreatrier. His long fingers touched the keys of the piano caressingly, lovingly, coaxing forth the aching sweetness of Intermezzo. The warm throb of the music seemed to course through her whole body. She was oblivious of everything; only the pianist, wit,h his exotic music that filled every corner of the vast hall, existed. It was as if time had ceased; he might have been playing a minute, five minutes, an hour. The rhythm of the music seemed to be her own heartbeat. Then the music ceased, and "David" arose, accepted the applause with a shy, half-smile, and joined his friends again. As she stood there, she realized the utter improbability of the situation, the u selessness of her dreams. At seventeen, that age of illusions, she held no doubts about her future. She felt with a strange wisdom that life would be good to her. Happy girlhood days, a fine husband and children, a life rich and complete-these were what she asked of fortune. Yet she felt, with deep intuition, that she would never quite forget a slight, dreamy-eyed boy and the haunting loveliness of Intermezzo. As the dance ended, the group of coast guardsmen hesitated at the door, thanking the hostess. Then "David" walked out of the door, carrying with him forever a precious bit of her heart. Black and White MILDRED DANIELS, '47 There was a swift movement, and then silence. Almost simultaneously came the rattling of a long brown Rosary and a flutter of black cloth just above a pair of plain black oxfords. A whHe cord, with three knots near one end, hung from the waist and over it was a black scapular. A .veil, also black but lined in white, framed a rather small brown face. It was a very lovely face , with dark, laughing eyes, expressing more feeling than a book of many pages. Now the Sister has gone, but she smiled as she whisked silently by, and this alone makes me glad she passed my way. A MEDITATION 29 A Meditation JOANNE (LAUBER) KERN, '46 o Lord,Jesus Christ, who art both the pattern and the reward of true humility: we beseech Thee that even as Thou madest blessed Francis follow gloriously in Thy footsteps in the contempt of earthly honors, so Thou wouldst grant us also to become his companions alike in following Thee and in his glory: Who livest and reignest world without end. Amen. (CoIled-Mass of St. Francis Borgia, October 10) o Lord Jesus Christ Creator of heaven and earth King' of all Thou surveyest Lord and Master of every creature Babe on Mary's knee Child in Joseph's workshop Leader of the Apostles Teacher of the rabble Savior of mankind Friend and Confidant of all Who art both the pattern Our perfect Model \ Our complete Example Our true Ideal And the reward In the Blessed Sacrament at Benediction at the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass in every tabernacle In Holy Communion when thou unitest Thyself with lowly mortals when Thou comest to me Of true humility As found in the Blessed Virgin As found in the lives of the saints As found especially in St. Francis Borgia 30 FIORET'T I We beseech Thee In our hour of need In time of sorrow In time of temptation In disappointments In time of war That even as thou madest blessed Francis follow gloriously in Thy footsteps As a child As a man As a duke As a husband and father As a priest . As "another Christ" In the contempt of earthly honors When Francis released his dukedom When he refused the friendship of an earthly king for that of his Divine King When he denied all worldly pleasures and dignities to enter the Society of Jesus So Thou wouldst grant us All that we ask of Thee All that is good for us because we are Thy children because we are members of Thy Mystical Body because we are temples of the Holy Ghost because Thou lovest us Also to become his companions alike in following Thee To cultivate the same virtues To model our lives on his To attain the same goal And in his glory In heaven in the communion of saints In union with Thee Who livest and reignest Over heaven Over earth Over hell Over every creature Over me World without end Eternal-Everlasting-God's world. Ampn . FLORAL ACCENT 31 Floral Accent JOAN BISCHOFF, '48 When you're walking along Marian lake shores in autumn, your eye is caught immediately by the colorful array of beauty that nature has lavished there. The white-jeweled foliage of Virgin's Bower, tangled and trailing, almost hides the meadow fence from view. Poised between shrubs that flaunt their multi-colored autumn leaves, Spotted Touch-Me-Not fringes the water's edge and casts bright orange bells into the water. Should you grow tired while tramping through the tall meadow grass close to the marshy ground between the lakes, a rare pleasure awaits you. Resting in the grass, you can glimpse the delicate tints of the Dayflower, its pale blue corolla, bright yellow center, and leaves of the softest pastel green. The wide, solid yellow petals of the Evening Primrose shoot boldly through the grasses, nearly keeping from view the dark, dull blue of the short-stemmed Self-Heal. Beyond, it). the meadowy stretches, the Dandelion sprinkles the grasses with its golden blossoms and white tassels. And, on the hilly slopes between the lakes and the orchard, still thrives the purple Violet, fondest of childhood's floral memories. Shyly hiding from view beneath autumn leaves and weeds, it bows its twisty petals over tall slim stems. Blending with each familiar autumn fragrance, yet alone pervading all the atmosphere, is the rich aroma of Honeysuckle. National College Poetry Anthology Entry NORMA VEIDERS, '48 A tomb, a dark and dreary place, A tomb, a last and weary place, A tomb, where shells of persons stay, A tomb, end of life's busy day. A A A A tomb, tomb, tomb, tomb, where everyone must rest, of resting places, best, where each must spend his might, where dwells no day nor night! 32 FIORE'T TI TO WORD\VORTH National College Poetry Anthology Entry BEATRICE HYNES, '46 I found you And with y ou a new feeling, A wonderment that I had thus far ignored. I looked and I saw Cool green valleys and steep slopes On which truant sunbeams played. I saw a budding twig and For the first time realized its essence. Now the humble daisy Excelled the parasitic orchid. You made me also understand That whatever is, is right By mere fact of its existence. o may I see The hand of God in the simplest thing And remember what you taught me Always. THE NATURE OF "SWING" 33 The Nature of "Swing" MARIAN GUENTER, '47 A popular subject from a scholarly point view. of The battle between the scowling, long-haired followers of Beethoven and the gum-chewing, jitterbugging fans of Dorsey rages on, as perhaps it is destined to do forever. It is difficult to imagine it . otherwise, for the Beethoven worshipper could never find inspiration at a juke box, and the "hep cat" . could never find his "beat" at the concert hall. Both factions, however, can develop an appreciation for the other type of music, as both have definite contributions to offer. What has swing to offer against the deep-rooted age-old conventions of the classics? The following discussion of the constituents of this "modern" music is a partial answer to that question. Swing, it has been said, is music of unknown quantity and quality. Its characteristics can best be described by a series of comparisons and contrasts . .. The first and foremost thing a student of the classics learns, is that all music printed on paper is dead music until it is properly interpreted. The first and foremost thing a student of swing learns, is that the printed music is only a background-a kind of canvas on which his abilities and talents permit him to embroider whatever he chooses. This is the real meaning of swing. In most music, the composer creates the musical idea, and the performers re-create these ideas as near]y as possible as the composer conceived them. In swing, however, the performer does not simply transmit to the listener what was original with the composer; he, himself, creates the musical substance which is heard. True, the melody is often the work of another, but the performer makes that melody individualistic by improvising around it, transforming or arranging it to his own tastes. The tune is no more than a taking-off place, so that the members of a swing band are creators as well as performers. The beauty of the finished product depends on the personal genius of the performers. 34 FIORETTI Therefore, . unlike othel," music, swing is accidental and never twice the same. While other music is premeditated and fixed so that it may be performed over and over again, swing is the result of whatever may happen. Sometimes the result is very beautiful, while at times it is merely a deafening kind of maniacal din. Now that the elements of swing have been pointed out, it may be well to stop a moment and consider its origin. Swing has been developing for years, as a result of the combination of ragtime and jazz. Some contend that it sprang up from the early Negro bands of New Orleans, while others hold that it found its real birth in the "honky-tonk" of western mining towns. The jazz element in swing accounts for its peculiar canons of rhythm. A continuous rhythm is fundamental in jazz, but it is not jazz itself. Rhythm is inseparable from swing, but only as a means of developing a continuous melodic pattern. Also, all jazz music must have "swing." "Swing", in . this sense, ~s a dynamic element-a rocking of the rhythm and the melody, which makes for dynamic po.wer. It is the vital element of this new music, the very essence of the performance. Swing is a gift-either one has it deep within him or he does not have it at all. .If a person can play with absolute correctness, he can hold a good place in a symphony orchestra; and he can 'obtain this skill by study and hard work. But neither study nor hard work will help one in jazz if he does . not have a natural instinct for swing. Swing carries a sense of ease and freedom so that it makes every performance different from the last. Much swing music, while it professes to be primitive and semi-savage, is often little more than a rowdy spree of sound; but out of it all, there are likely to be born, ideas of permanent worth. Its moments of beauty, though seldom, are nothing short of the expression of the spirit of young America, restless and adventurous in its seeking for new paths to explore. Contrary to the predictions of wishful thinkers, it has captured the hearts of many peoples. Swing music of the crude sort has given way to many beautiful harmonies and instrumentations that even Debussy, Berlioz, and Wagner would have appreciated. Where it will lead in the future, only time can tell. IT ALL DEPENDS 35 It All Depends JOAN DUFFIN, '45 Some authors tell stories; some authors create people. Here is one who creates people and lets the stories tell themselves. To some, the obituary of Harold Bell Wright, carried by the daily papers last May, didn't mean a thing. To others, it meant the passing of an era of frontiersmen~strong, silent Americans. " Rugged individualism" with its philosophy of equality is a phrase that has been bandied back and forth in the history of the United States. Asa national trait, it finds exemplification in the lives of the pioneer settlers. Here it is seen not only in outline, but with the wealth of detail expected in a finished picture. Harold Bell Wright uses that pattern from which to trace his ideal of American manhood and womanhood. The people of the West are to him the "real" people of the States. A master of characterization, he peoples otherwise ordinary stories with living. . exemplifications of that philosophy. .. . ~, Plot is a secondary element in Wright's story; character is its raison d' etre. While his style is, at times, actually naive, the author's subtlety in impregnating his creations with the "Golden Rule", for instance, is refined. So delicate is his touch that the reader does not suspect the lesson he is being taught. The good thus effected often takes deep root. The people of today read a great deal. But what do they read? Best-sellers, it would seem, form the major portion of their book reading. Would that the sentiments expressed and the ideals lauded in all best-sellers were worthy of their wide circulation. The plots of Harold Bell Wright, it must be granted, are not as complicated or as ultra-emotional as those of the books which the public clamor, but his interpretation of life is far more wholesome. . 36 FIORETTI Wright does not limit his literary work to the painting of character. His books abound in picturesque settings. Sometimes, as in the following, the setting is made the subject of almost poetic contemplation. The far-away cities were already in the blaze of their own artificial lights-lights valued not for their power to make men see, but for their power to attract, and intoxicate-lights that permitted no kindly dusk at eventide wherein a man might rest from his day's work-a quiet hour; lights that revealed squalid shame and tinsel show-lights that hid the stars. Sjmplicity of plot and structure is balanced by the aura of mystery with which Wright surrounds his stories. There may be mystery about one detail only, but that one detail is of sufficient importance to keep the reader with the story until the end. Doubtless, the works of Harold Bell Wright will never gain immortality. They do not possess the necessary qualities of gr~atness. In ignoring his books, one will not miss the presentation of some astounding literary or scientific theory, but he will have passed by many an enjoyable and fruitful hour of reading. A POET'S LAMENT National College Poetry Anthology Entry MARIAM WILLIAMS, '47 Oh heart of mine so drenched in sorrow's dew, That shall ever long in vain for one last glimpse of you, Whose face I see before me day by day, Whose arms could thrust all fears and doubts awaySuch love could fill my heart with ecstacy again, Had death not made my hopes to be in vain. Oh love, to do whose wish was joy abounding, Whose gentle voice I hear in fancy fond, resounding, I would not call you back from Heaven's perfect bliss, E'en though my heart does always ache for one more kiss. But, though I miss you more with each suceeding day, I know more love than grief can ever take away. TRANSLATIONS 37 Translations This section of Mary-poems transl~ted from Latin, French, German, and Span~sh sources is a special tribute to Mary, patroness of Marian College. Selected from mediaeval and modern literature, they represent a variety of poetic forms, each praising her through a distinctive, delightful approach. o GUIDE THROUGfl THE BILI~OW Translated from the German ERN A SANTAROSSA, '44 o guide through raging billows This fragile bark of mine, Sweet Mary, to thine altar And to thy hallowed shrine. Help in temptation's hour, When dreadful tempests lower. - OMary, 0 Mary, Mary, Mother, help! o Dove in grace abounding, Bless our beloved landThe grain fields and the vineyards, Our toil of brow and handAnd those who dread in sorrow The hunger of the morrow. OMary, 0 Mary, Mary, Mother, help! Obtain us peace, loved Mother, And holiness of life; Unite what is asunder, Appease all hateful strife That each as friend and brother May greet thee as his Mother. OMary, 0 Mary, Mary, Mother, help! FIORE'T'T I 38 'rHE VIRGIN AT NOON Translated from the French of Paul Claudel By DOLORES MARTINI, '45 'Tis noon, I see the open church and enter there. Mother of Christ, I do not come in prayer. I have no gift to bring, no cause to plead anew; I come, Mother, simply to look at you. To look at you, to weep for joy to know That you are near this son who loves you so. To let the world, its cares, go by a while, To be with you, Mary, in this quiet aisle. To say no word, to gaze upon your face so calm and still, To let my heart sing on unhampered by my will. Not to speak, but sing; because my heart, so full of joy, must sing, Like the blackbirds whose thanks in sudden trills through woodlands ring. Because you are so beautiful, ' be_cause you are immaculate, Because it pleased our God, in you, grace to reinstate. Because your soul alone was made all pure within, Because its splendor never knew the dark'ning touch of original sin. Wholly pure because you are the mother of the Eternal Light, Our only hope, a beacon to our weakened sight. Because you are the woman who righted Eden's wrong, Who with a single look brings repentance to the throng. Because you have saved me, because you have saved France, Because it, like me, was favored by your glance. THE VIRGIN AT NOON 39 Because when all is dark, you light the way, Because once more of France you've been the stay, Because it is noon, because We are here today. Because you are always here, because you are Mary, simply because you exist, Mother of Christ, I thank you. HAIL~ l\1[OTHER OF MERC'Y Translated from Latin chant ANN A ROFFELSEN, '46 Hail, 0 Mother of mercy, hail, Mother of God and Mother of grace, Mother of hope and Mother of pardon, Mother full of holy joy, o Maria! Hail, glory of the human race, Hail, Virgin, worthier than the rest; For thou, surpassing all by far, Art 'throned on high .amid the blest. o Maria! Hail, happy Virgin Mother, For He Who shares the Father's power, Ruling heaven, earth, and air, Made of thy womb his cloistered bower. o Maria! *" o wondrous. handiwork of God, Possessing true humility, To Him a loving spouse art thouThere is no creature like to thee, o Maria! o Mother be our comforter, Be our joy, 0 Virgin bright, And when at last our exile ends, Our joys to heavenly choirs' unites, o Maria! 40 FIORETTI CANTICLE TO THE VIRGIN Translated from the Spanish of Gil Vincente, 1470-1540 MARY TOFFOLo, '44 How graceful is the maiden How sweet and lovely is she! Will you say, 0 mariner Who on the ships and seas dwells, Whether the ship, or the sail, or the star Is as lovely? Will you say, 0 holy knight, Clad in your armor, Whether the steed, or coat of arms, or the war Is as lovely? . Will you say, 0 little shepherd Who guards the flocks, Whether the flock, or the valleys, or the mountain Is as lovely? 'COAST TO COAST' 41 Coast to Coast BEATIUCE HYNES, '46 The announcer's clear tones rambled along the ether waves . . . "The Allied Scientific Research Corporation in conjunction with the Central Broadcasting System is happy to bring to the radio audience one of the foremost authorities on American postwar problems and prosperity, Senator Carter Clarke. Good evening, my friends. I am happy to have this opportunity to speak to a nation-wide audience , an audience which represents the heart and core of democratic life. During the dark days that lie ahead . . . C-L-I- C-K "Johnnie, you know you shouldn't fool with the radio. And please put down that airplane. You know I've asked you not to play with it. Come over here and give it to mommy." The dimpled knees of a four-year old reluctantly toddled across the living room floor. "Here are your color books and crayons." Elizabeth dangled the bright color book before his eyes while retrieving the plane from the caress of the little fist. "But why can't I fly my plane just like daddy?" Elizabeth felt the little whimper drilling her heart. Just like daddy. Just like daddy. She had to break Johnnie of his growing interest in "bird-machines." How was she going to tell him that his father had been killed on a bombing mission; that in some devious way his plane had turned upon him and exploded, shredding his body and the bodies of all the brave men aboard. Some opportune moment would come when his young mind would be more receptive, more mature and understanding-some time in the future when his eyes would glow with wonder and warm pride upon seeing the DFC. The advancements of science will bring us marvels and comforts of which we have never dared dream. The FIORETTI 42 inventive progress will be tremendous-there will be strides in every field. A bitter grimace spread over Elizabeth's fragile features. Progress, inventive strides-could any of these bring back her husband? Marvelous new mechanisms would bring her no relief, while she longed for a pair of strong arms,anunruly shock of hair, and a wide, friendly grin. Deeper and darker grew her philosophizing. Wars, she was sure, would go on and on as long as man was man. Helicopters and television would not effect a revolution in man's heart . . . For a bar of steel, a bolt, a screw, man would even forsake his God. Johnnie was now complacently outlining Superman with a purple crayon. Elizabeth watched the stubby little fingers tighten and loosen, she watched the active little head bob up and down. Johnnie was big for his age. Already she could see him leading the rest of the neighborhood boys, first to attempt what to them seemed impossible. He would grow healthy and strong as a rock, and then some day he would come to her, and they would talk together about his future. He .would tell her all his hopes and dreams, and he would announce to her in a clear-cut tone that he wanted to . . . Elizabeth sprang from the chair and hurled the plane to the floor. IF GOD HAD WANTED MAN TO FLY HE WOULD HAVE GIVEN HIM .WINGS. For a moment she stood trembling and then rushed from the room. Superman immediately lost his fascination for Johnnie. He looked around and finally spied the forbidden treasure under a chair. He tried to put the. bent wing back in its place and smiled when it yielded to his clumsy tugging. "Now/' he cooed, "I can still fly like daddy." * The end of the war will see the opening of a new world. We will triumph over our blind stqmbling of the past. We will surge on and break the shackles of illiteracy and scientific ignorance which have held us enslaved so long. C-:L-r-C-K "But, Mr. Simpson, your schedule doesn't call for radiolistening after eight o'clock. Dr. Jameson will disapprove, I'm sure." The figure in white starched linen entreated. . 'COAST TO COAST' 43 "I don't give a blast what Dr. Jameson disapproves of and you know it. Now get out of here and let me alone. And take that glass of milk with you!" Old Simpson pursed his lips and ran his fingers through the few remaining white patches on his head. Just because he was over seventy was no reason they could pester him, of all people, with their coddling. Yes, sir, they could tab all the "exclusive sanitarium" signs around they liked, but when you got down to it, this place was no more than an old folk's home. But, at least, you had company here-it wasn't like living in twenty~room house by yourself, without even a stray ghost or two to haunt you. He'd thought he'd always have Gwenn, but then children grow up, fall in love, and pretty soon you wake up and find that once more you're all alone. a . , . we'll do away with the drudgery of the past, and open the door to a bright new future. Outmoded contraptions and outmoded ideas will be swept away by the onrush of a truly modern civilization. "Drudgery of the past. . . modern civilization.. . 1 wonder." He began turning the pages of his memory, pages yellowed with age but still quite readable. He recounted his greatest joys, and found that they were the simplest things. The sensation of the mud from the river bank oozing through his toes when he was a little boy. His father's contented smile when he was pleased with his son. The wrinkles of his mother's hand outlined with snowy white flour. The smell of newly cut lumber that came from the old sawmill. The shock and thrill of realizing he was in love with Mary. Gwenn's first ',' Da-da." "After all," he mused, "these are the things that really matter, . and they can't be concocted in a laboratory. Already mankind has been pampered to a state where. it is be:coming sluggish and slovenly." Simpson slipped on his jacket and opened his door quietly. He sneered at ' the elevator. and descended the long flight of stairs. He pushed open, the, door to the, huge kitchen. "Why, Mr. Simpson!" "1 came down to get a that?" gl~ss of milk. Anything wrong in 44 FIORETTI The opportunities that will be presented to America's youth are numberless. Unemployment will be blotted out. Every hand will be a skilled hand, every mind will be given the chance to become of industrial value. Jo came bursting into her room in the sorority house. She grunted a greeting to her roommate, Jennie. Flinging herself on the bed, she pulled an apple out of her blazer pocket. She stopped munching only long enough to give vent to her feelings. "Girls, girls, girls!! I'm sick of the feminine gender. That's all I see from morn till night. My mother told me this college was co-ed. Well I'd sure like to know where Ed is." Jennie, knowing it was best to ignore Jo at times like this, swirling the dialer on the radio. s~arted Jo grunted again-"See what you can pick up in the way of jive on that Marconi miracle." "Don't you ever get tired of jam?" "Only in jars, date-bait, only in jars." The switch from station to station revealed no scintillating symphonies. Jo, the apple in one hand and the door-knob in the other, paused with the slightest gleam of hope in her brown eyes. "I'll be down with Rosamond if someone calls, or something." Jennie watched the pair of saddle-shoes shuffle out and shortly the door banged. J 0 was a little hard to take sometimes. Maybe if Jen hadn't possessed one of those never-say" die spirits, she would have told her roommate off long ago. But the optimist in her conquered again and once more the dialer was swirled. "And, in conclusion, I make a special appeal to the younger generation. Enrich and enlarge your mental and physical abilities as far as possible. The future lies in your hands. Prepare for it. There will be many new worlds to conquer. Good night." C-L-I-C-K 'COAST TO COAST' 45 Cameron College's outstanding sophomore turned off the radio and settled back. New worlds to conquer. The chern:.. istry manual slipped to the floor. Jen was in a white lab apron peering at a yellow-green mixture in a test tube. The rays of the afternoon sun were playing hide-and-seek among the bottles on the acids shelf. She had received the official thanks of the government and had even been nominated for the Nobel Prize. She was a savior of humanity, another Madame Curie. She lighted the dark paths for mankind with her Bunsen burner. She had rooted herself in research and nothing could upset her equilibriu m-not even the odor of carbon bisulfide. Down the hall a door banged. Jennie heard the race of footsteps andrecognized a bit of melody from Aida. Down in the pit the orchestra was t uning up, and an air of eager expectancy filled the Metropolitan. Jennifer Stevenson, famous colouratura, was spraying her throat. _ The climax of her operatic career had come . . . . A familiar grunt broke into her reverie. again. Jo was back "You still here! " "Yes, chum, but why so glum? Surely you're not going to let a dreary evening get you down," Jen chirped. "Oh, it's just that there's nothing to do-nothing to live for." "But there is, Jo, there is. Let's go down to the fountain and have a malt. I want to talk to you." "Okay, see in' as how I don't have anything better to do." Jennie put one arm around Jo's shoulder and drew her toward the door. Methodically she switched off the light. "You see, J 0, our world is going to be very wonderfulvery, very wonderful!" The door slammed on two pairs of retreating saddle-shoes. FIORETTI 46 Nominal Confusion SUZANNE PURSIAN, '48 Joneses and Browris may find fault with the too great commonness of their surnames, .but I think the bearers fortunate. In fact, I consider anyone fortunate who does not have my last name, Pursian. First of all, it is the spelling that causes confusion. The fact that there is a Persian cat is reason enough for some persons' spelling my name the same way, and nicknaming me "catty". The continual joker exclaims, after being introduced to me, "Are you General Pershing's daughter?" If he were more attentive to the introduction, he would notice that my name has a pronunciation far different from General Pershing's . .The worst of such disconcerting experiences, however, came to me one day' in a confectionary store. Hardly had I seated myself when someone called, "Persian nut." At first I thought my ears were deceiving me, but when I heard it repeated, I knew that I was hearing correctly. I looked around to see who my assailant might be. Not being able to identify the offender, I called a waiter, expressed my indignation, and asked his intervention. He began to laugh and promptly announced to the other waiters that there was a live Persian nut in the store. Thoroughly angered, I demanded to see the manager. He came. Hearing my story, he explained that Persian nut sundaes are a specialty o f that store, and that it was the waiters I heard calling, "Persian nut." With genuine courtesy, he even offered me a Persian nut sundae free of charge. Here's to the common name, the safeguard against unwanted publicity. PAGEANT OF MEMORIES 47 ._Pageant of Memories GERTRUDE SCHROEDER, '46 Few autobiographies cover seven decades so packed with things humanly interesting as does the subject of this review. Far more than a personal history, William Cardinal O'Connell's Recollections of Seventy Years is a panorama of historic events, a running commentary on contemporary life, made by a keen analyst and deep sympathizer. Popes, presidents, European and Asiatic royalty, and world leaders of thought are introduced with a familiarity born of close intimacy. William Henry O'Connell was born in 1859 on the feast of the Immaculate Conception, the youngest of eleven children. Of his childhood home, he writes, "Standing out as the centre . . . is the vision of my dear mother, a noble figure, crowned with a wealth of silvery hair, a look of quiet power and confidence in her lovely face." His saintly father died when William was four years old. He received his elementary and high school education in the public schools ' of Lowell, Massachusetts, at that time the center of bigotry and hatred toward the Catholic population. The account of his boyhood experiences, of life in the cotton mills, and of Catholic life in general in a New England permeated by Puritanism are contributions to history. "Adam Smith, John Locke, and Stuart Mill," he explains, "were the patron saints of industry both in England ahd America . . . An ordinary slave . in the South, under a humane-minded master, was leading a far more humane existence than the mill workers." . Responding to an early recognized call to the priesthood, Cardinal O'Connell, already distinguished for his rare intellectual gifts, studied at St. Charles College, Ellicott City, Maryland, at Boston College, and finally at the North American College in Rome. In his recollections 'of these college years he sketches penpictures of professors and fellow-students, as well as reproduc- ~ 48 FIORETTI --- tions of humorous class-room scenes. Recalling Father John Tabb as professor of English, he writes, "Words with him be.:. came jewels of speech." Journeying to Rome in the "gay nineties," he toured Ireland, England, and France. Keen is his analysis of the Anglo-mania or "American Invasion of England" then at its peak. Student days in Rome laid for the Cardinal that broad international outlook which, later, in critical situations, he firmly maintained. Contrasting the East with the West, "enamoured of its own activity," he remarks that "the Orientals value infinitely more than any creature comforts, the tranquillity which allows thoughtfulness and meditation." The calling to Rome l of all the archbishops of America in 1883 prior to the First Plenary Council of Baltimore, gave him an opportunity of meeting many noteworthy prelates. Ordained at St. John Lateran, June 8, 1884, Cardinal O'Connell shortly afterwards returned to Massachusetts, where he served as curate first at Medford, then in Boston. After ten years of hard labor among the twelve thousand souls of St. Joseph's congregation, he was appointed rector of his Alma Mater in Rome. This appointment, as well as his subsequent assignments-domestic prelate of the papal household and, later, assistant at the papal throne, Bishop of Portland, Maine, Papal Envoy to Japan, Coadjutor Bishop of Boston, Archbishop of Boston, and finally, Cardinal, he received with genuine humility. He could say in truth, "In all my work and in the various posts of responsibility which I have occupied, I have unswervingly looked to God alone, for help, encouragement, and consolation." The six years of rectorship were crowded with social contacts. "One of the charms of living in Rome," he comments, "is that there one meets all the world." The one person, however, whose friendship he valued most was that of Pope Leo XIII. Present at the Holy Year proclamation, 1900, he saw the aged Pontiff, "his face, though pallid as death, still lighted up with those eyes which refused to weaken or grow dim with time. He seemed like a great mediaeval saint, who had come from many ages past to proclaim and to bless the twentieth century now opening." His memoir on the mission to Emperor Mutsohito, as personal envoy from Pope Pius X, 1905, is peculiarly interest- PAGEANT OF MEMORIES 49 ing. He speaks of the Japanese as "a people whose very religion is politeness and formality," and is relieved to find them "uniformly kind and sympathetic." As bishop, archbishop, and cardinal he was distinguished for tireless zeal. In Boston, he completely reorganized the archdiocesan system of charitable institutions and b:uilt many churches and schools. He made The Pilot the official newspaper of the archdiocese. An engineering project sponsored by him saved from ruin the church of San Clemette, Rome, of which he was cardinal priest. The same sincerity that characterized his ecclesiastical duties also stamped his dealings with political leaders. He says of himself, "from President McKinley to President Franklin Roosevelt, I have always stood in that relatio:rship,asking no favors , but only wishing to serve." He was not only a n:an of letters, but a profound student of science and philosophy, and master of languages. Holy Cross hymnal, containing twenty-two original hymns, is a memorial to his musical ability. At his death, April 22, 1944, universal tribute acclaimed him not only a great ecclesiastic, heroically devoted to duty, but a true patriot and brilliant scholar. Cardinal Dougherty, of Philadelphia, is his sole survivor in the native cardinalate of the United States. TWO SCENES ANN A ROFFELSEN, '46 Two scenes I love to contemplate At Marian. In one, old Sol has risen fr:om His icy bed, And sprinkles snow-clothed twigs With golden warmth. The other finds him hov'ring o'er His spring-kissed bed, And making gold the lake 'neath clumps Of orchid lilac trees. The white and gold of winter morn Speak best of purity; The gold and orchid springtime eve, Of royal dignityAt Marian. 50 FIORETTI PATRONS 51 PATRONS Mr. and Mrs. Jose A. Acosta Mr. and Mrs. Victor A . Aiken Mr. and Mrs. G. E. Armstrong Major and Mrs. Louis Aull Mr. and Mrs. B. J. Baumer Miss Doris Ann Becker Mr. and Mrs. W. J. Bearly Mr. and Mrs. Geo. W. Bersch Captain Jacob H. Bersch Mr. and Mrs. L . H. Bill Mr. and Mrs. W. J. Bischoff Mr . .John Burgr af Mr. and Mrs. B. R. Byrne Mr. and Mrs. Fred A. Casler Mrs. Agnes P. Conner Miss Virginia Conner Mr. and Mrs. W. S. Cronin Miss Mary Margaret Cox Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Davey, Jr. Ensign Hugh J. Davey III Miss Rosemarie Davey Mr. and Mrs. Jos. H. Dillhoff Mr. and Mrs. C. G. Dippel Mr. and Mrs. John P. Duffin Miss Margaret R. Foltz Mr. and Mrs. Roy Falvey Mr. and Mrs. Frank Frey Mr. and Mrs. R. L. Gaden Mr. and Mrs. Richard Galbis Mr. and Mrs. Ed. J. Gallagher Miss Eileen Gaughan Miss Jane Gaughan Mr. and Mrs. Dan. A. Gearin Cpl. William Gillman Mr. and Mrs. Ramon Gonzalez Dr. E. Gronlier Mr. and Mrs. Joseph GuIde Mr. and Mrs. Louis Hagan Mr. and Mrs. P. J. Heinz Mrs. Julia Jackson Mr. and Mrs. Leo C. Keller Mrs. Helen Klaiber Mr. and Mrs. H. B. Krekeler Pvt. Jim Long Mr. and Mrs. R. A. Luley Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Magnus My. and Mrs. Benj. Martinez Mr. and Mrs. Joaquin Martinez Miss Mildred Martini Mr. and Mrs. W. J. Martini Dr. and Mrs. B. J. Matthews Miss Margaret Ann McCarthy Mrs. Mary 1. McCoy Mrs. J ames McNulty Mr. and Mrs. Edward McNulty Mrs. Mary McShane Mrs. Bernadette R. N. Mellen Miss Aurora Menendez Mr. and Mrs. Luis Menendez Mr. and Mrs. Bernard E. Meny Rev. Hilary G. Meny Lt. Harold C. Paetz Mrs. Frank Pangallo Miss Pauline Pflum Mr. and Mrs. Pinto-Guzman Miss Anna Roffelsen Mr. and Mrs. Wm. Roffelsen Mr. and Mrs. Louis Sanchez Miss Erna Santarossa Mr. and Mrs. J. E. Schroeder Miss Rita Sham Mr. and Mrs. William Spotted Mr. and Mrs. Ed. J. Stiens Mr. and Mrs. Geo. Sunderhaus Mr. A. E. Taske Mr. and Mrs. L. B. Tenbieg 52 FIORETTI PATRONS (Continued) Miss Licia Toffolo Miss Mary Toffolo Mr. and Mrs. Bel Valdez Mr. Hugh Veiders Miss J osephine Venezia Miss Alice Walpole Mr. and Mrs. L. J. Wendling Mr. and Mrs. C. Wennen Miss Mary Wheeler Miss Genevieve White Mr. and Mrs. A. S. Wolff  ...