Vol. 33. No. 123, Wlft ©ailj> ittaromiSING CLIMAXESFESTIVITIES OFALUMNIREUNION1000 Graduates Returnto Campus Today,Tomorrow UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO, FRIDAY, JUNE 9, 1933 Price Three CentsA thousand alumni will return tothe quadranjfles today and tomorrowfor the annual reunion and convo¬cation which will hold the spotlisrhtof campus interest until the conclu¬sion of the projrram with the 17Sndconvocation services on Tuesday.Conferences, forums, tours, din¬ners, assemblies, and luncheons willvie for the center of the stage, withthe twenty-third annual sing retain¬ing its traditional place as the highlight of the entire program, begin¬ning at 8 tomorrow night.Dean Chauncey Boucher will pre¬side at a discussion of the new planthis morning at 9 in Judson Courtlounge. Dean A. J. Brumbaugh,Merle E. Coulter, and Harry D.Gideon.«e will represent the faculty,while Loui.se Craver, John Barden,and Preston Cutler w’ill speak for the.'tudent body. At 2:30 this after¬noon the conference resumes with aforum on “Developments in the Di¬visions and Professional Schools,”with talks by Deans Gordon Laing,Henry Gale, Frank Lillie, BeardsleyRuml, Harry Bigelow, and WilliamSpencer.Pretident Hutchins Speak*President Robert Maynard Hutch¬ins will address the conference to¬morrow morning at 9. Other speak¬ers will be Harold Swift, James Stif-ler, John .Moulds, Robert Woellner,Ken Rouse, and Charlton Beck.Several cla.^^s luncheons are sched¬uled for tomorrow noon, and in theafternoon at 4 the Dramatic .A.ssocia-tion presents the “Reunion Revue,”directed by Frank H. O’Hara, in.Mandel hall. The annual reunion din¬ner will be held in Hutchinson Com¬mons at 5:30, when President Hutch¬ins will speak.Preceding the twenty-third annualInter-fraternity Sing, the Universityband will play a concert, between7:30 and 8:15 in Hutchinson Court., ^Continued on page 4)Mrs. Minna SchmidtDisplays Figurines atCentury of ProgressFigurines representing 400 out¬standing women of the world and thecostumology of their time are ondisplay in the General ExhibitBuilding rotunda at A Century ofProgress. The exhibit marks the cul¬mination of four years of work andresearch by Mrs. Minna Schmidt, di¬rector of the costume workshop, whohas also compiled a record of por¬traits and biographies in a book,“Four Hundred Outstanding Womenof the World and the Customology oftheir Time,” recently published.Portraits and biographies werefurnished by the embassies of vari¬ous countries or their consulateshere. In addition to this materialMr.«. Schmidt has included in thebook 250 pages of illustrated lec¬tures and pageants she has executedin the past. Name Hansen asAssociate Editorof Daily MaroonBetty Hansen, by a majority voteof The Daily Maroon Board of Con¬trol, has been selected as an Associ¬ate editor lor the 1933-34 staff, su¬perseding David Levine, whose resig¬nation from the position was accept¬ed yesterday. Betty Hansen has serv¬ed as a junior editor of The DailyMaroon during the past year, i.s amember of Federation, W. A. A.,Mirror, and the Dramatic Associa-j tion.I With reference to the new staff ofI the Maroon which was announced inj yesterday’s issue, the following let-j ter has been received by the retiringj editor from William E. Scott, Assist-! ant Dean of Students:IMy dear Mr. Thompson:The Maroon of the past year hasbeen one of the best, if not the best,! in recent years. You and your staffare to be congratulated. The enmpen-; sation 'for the energy and good judg¬ment you have shown may seem to^ be meager, but I assure you that theywill become steadily more apparent.The Maroon is more importantthan the individuals who successive-; ly comprise its staff. Yet the goodwork of one staff serves as a stimu-lus to the next, and this contributesto the growth and prestige of theMaroon. I offer John Barden and hisassociates my good wishes. I hopeand expect them to meet the chal-(Continued on page 2)ANNOUNCE WINNERSOF JUNIOR COLIEGECOMPETITIVE EXAMS ORIENTAL INSTITUTE Distribute Large CAP AND GOWNArt Posters to ...Publicize Campus IS ASSURED OFUNIVEKSITYr-, __ - ■■■ 4.* V. yyOF nu OAjOiO"2 ' •thI F/nMOUS chapel andINTERNATIONAL HOUSEiLTiCARl LLONrCHlMESilpArA’AND ORGAN REOJALSATTHE 'QUADRANGLESLMPCRTANT LECTU’RESThe results of the University’s firstannual junior college competitiveexaminations held May 13, have beenannounced by the University.Those awarded full scholar.«hipsfor the year 1933-34 are: RaymondW. Biggar, Flint Junior college,Flint, Mich.; Howard Chandler, Shel¬don Junior college, Sheldon, la.; Nat.J. Grossblat, Crane Junior college,Chicago; Erne.st W. Thacker, SantaAna Junior college, Santa Ana, Cal.;William E. Zimmerman, Junior Col¬lege of Kansas City, Mo.Half scholarships were awardedto: Marion Bardesley, Duluth Juniorcollege, Duluth, Minn.; Allen Brands,Junior college of Kansas City, Mo.;Leo Burns, State Agricultural and-Mechanical College, Magnolia, Ark.;Harold Burnson, North Dakota StateSchool of Science, Wahpeton, N. D.;Allen W. Burton, Junior college ofKansas City, Mo.; Jack Charnow, ICrane Junior college, Chicago; Joe jClark, Texarkana Junior college, |Texarkana, Texas; Warren J. Dun- jdon. North Dakota State School of jScience, Wahpeton, N. D.; John J. IFranke, Lyons Township Junior col- |lege, LaGrange, Ill.; Florence Green- jberg. Crane Junior college, Chicago; |Merrill W. Hoehn, Blackburn Junior |college, Carlinville, Ill.; John Hola-jhan, Duluth Junior college, Duluth, IMinn.; Edward Konchal, J. Sterling'Morton Junior college, Cicero, Ill.; 'Marvin La.ser, Crane Junior college, i(Continued on page 2) I Convocation toInclude Partyand 2 ServicesGraduating seniors take theirleave of the campus with a three-dayconvocation program, including twoSunday services, a senior receptionon Monday, and the 172ncl convo¬cation Tuesday.Dean Charles W. Gilkey andPresident Robert Maynard Hutchinswill participate in the Sunday events,with a convocation prayer service forseniors at 10, conducted by Dr. Gil¬key, and the regular 11 o’clock serv¬ice with President Hutchins assistingin the reading.All seniors are invited to thePresident’s reception Monday even¬ing ffom 9 to 10:30 in Ida Noyeshall. In the receiving line in the li¬brary will be President and Mrs.Hutchins, Vice-president and Mrs.Frederic Woodward, Dean and Mrs.George A. Works, and Harold Swift,chairman of the Board of Trustees.Deans of the divisions and the pro¬fessional schools and aides and mar¬shals will as-Mst in the entertain¬ments.President Hutchins will presentthe address at both convocationservices Tuesday. Show Picture ofNear East inMandel TonightThree reels of “The New Pa.st,” amotion picture being made by theOriental Institute of the University,showing its archaeological excava¬tions in Egypt and Asia Minor, willbe -shown for the first time tonightin Mandel hall on the campus, dur¬ing the annual Alumni assembly.The pictures which will be shownwere made by Charles Breasted, ex¬ecutive secretary of the Institute,and Reed Haythorne, the Institute’scameraman, who made an air tour ofthe various expeditions last year. Thepicture will not De completed in itsentirety until this autumn, and thereels to be shown tonight deal chief¬ly with the work at the palace atPersepolis, Persia, which was built byDarius the Great in 521 B. C. andlater destroyed by Alexander theGreat.The Assembly will climax a dayi of alumni conferences, luncheonsand dinners during which the variousdeans will explaiii the working-outI of the New Plan of education to theformer students. An effective and unique art posteradvertising the University and ex¬tending an invitation to visitors inChicago to inspect the campus and itsvarious special exhibit halls andbuildings has been printed and dis¬tributed by the promotional office ofthe University. The poster, whichmeasures five by two feet, is donein two colors. A reproduction of itis printed in an adjoining column.William P. Welsh, renowned pos¬ter artist, was engaged by the Uni¬versity to draw the poster. He hashad wide experience in commercialart work, and terms the poster “thebest piece I have done.” The back¬ground of the poster is the famousKing Sargon’s bull now on display inthe Oriental Institute, and which wasbrought to this country by the Uni¬versity expedition which discoveredit in the Far East. Superimposedupon this figure Mr. Welsh has re¬produced the head of Queen Nofro-tete, an Egyptian figure, the bust ofwhich is also on display in the Orien¬tal Institute.The poster will be placed on dis¬play in hotel lobbies and railroadstations throughout the country, aswell as on elevated platforms and instations within the city. It suggeststhat visitors to Chicago stop in theOriental Institute, the UniversityChapel, and attend various events onthe campus.PAUL H. DOUGLASLAUDS ROOSEVELT,CABINET MEMBERS“Thing.'i are on the up and up,”was the theme adopted by Dr. PaulH. Douglas in his address, “ThreeMonths of the Roosevelt Program,”given at the final meeting of the So¬ciology club held last night at 7:30in the Social Science a.ssembly room.In a rather hasty survey, Dr. Doug¬las summarized the three months ofDemocratic administration, pointingout the personnel of the democraticoffice holders, the mea.^ures adoptedand proposed, and the depre.ssion at¬tacking aspects of the administra¬tion.In the opinion of Dr. Douglas, thecabinet selected by Pre.-^ident Frank¬lin D. Roosevelt is one characterizedby bravery and liberalism. “It isnot,” stated Dougla.-', “a group ofmen that meets often to determinethe future of the nation, but rather agroup of well informed, liberal, andnon-stuffed shirt members that actas advisors to an able executive.”Also favoring the Public WorksProgram adopted by the Democraticparty, Douglas sees this measure asone of the steps mo-st necesary forthe restoration of prosperity. In car¬rying out this program the govern¬ment will, by the process of typicalbond floating, cause a period of “re¬flationary occurence.”Other steps that were lauded byDouglas were the removal of cur¬rency from the Gold Standard, andthe proposal of the Industrial Recov¬ery Bill Act. '34 PUfiUCATIONAppoint MontgomeryAs AdvertisingManagerThere will be a Cap and Gownnext year!Walter Montgomery, former busi¬ness associate on The Daily Maroon,has been made advertising managerof the 1934 Cap and Gown. In ad¬dition to this position, he is adver¬tising manager also for the Under¬graduate Directory and the Univer¬sity Handbook.Lorraine Watson, Quadrangler andSenior Aide, has taken the positionofi Senior Women’s editor. The mem¬bers of the Executive Board are Ev¬erett Parker, Editor-in-Chief; Wald-emar Solf, Business Manager; Wil¬liam Watson, Managing Editor. Atthe head of the editorial staff asWoman’s editor is Katherine Reiter.Staff MembersStaff members include: HelenHiett, Elizabeth Sayler, Jean O’Ha¬gan, Marguerite Chumley, WallaceCrume, Gertrude Wilson, DonnaDickey, Elizabeth Daines, MargotB'oertlein, Arnold Schwartz, VernonLyon, John Shallenberger, JohnHorne, Francis Hoyt, Thomas Eadie,and Hans Eisenlohr.Those who will work on the busi¬ness staff of the three publicationsare: Thomas Barton, Helen Carey,William Jordan, Stanley Lang, Jame.sMcDevitt, William Philbrook, LouisM. Marks, and Francis Hoyt.The Executive Board has re¬solved to sell the Cap and Gown, theUndergraduate Directory, and theUniversity Handbook for $2.50. Thehandbook will be printed and readyfor sale by September 15 before theresidence halls open next fall.In planning the Undergraduate Di¬rectory, the staff has decided to en¬large it to include the names of grad¬uate students if the preliminary saleswarrant it. An intensive sales cam¬paign for the three publications willbe conducted beginning with the first(Continued on page 4)Wason, Hepple, andBenson New Officersof Crossed CannonThomas Wason, unattached, waschosen commander of Crossed Can¬non, honorary military society, in anelection held Tuesday in the officeof the military department. Wason,who succeeds Henry Sulcer, the pres¬ent head, holds the rank of captainin the University R. 0. T. C. unit andis a member of the polo team.Robert Hepple, a member of Del¬ta Upsilon, was selected as adjutantby the group of 14 to take the placeof Edgar Freidheim. Hepple is alsoa member of the polo team andwas publicity chairman for the Mili¬tary Ball. A third officer, BruceBenson, Delta Kappa Epsilon, waselected to act as treasurer, a posi¬tion formerly held by 'Burton Do¬herty. Benson is captain and theonly major “C” man returning tothe polo team.Wi»rT»>n F. Thoinnson Rub* Si' Frodin^ .Ir. Maxinp D. Cr«»vi«ton John ClanevPage Two THE DAILY MAROON. FRIDAY, JUNE 9, 1933Last Year's View Forecasts Tomorrow’s I-F Singiatlg iiarnnuFOUNDED IN 1901. Maroon is the official student newspaper of theUniversity of Chicag^o, published mornings except Saturday,Sunday, and Monday during: the autumn, winter, and spring:quarters by The Daily Maroon Company, 6831 University avenue.Subscription rates: $2.^0 a year; $4 by mail. Sing:le copies;three cents.No responsibility is assumed by the University of Chicago Ifor any statements appearing in The Daily Maroon, or for anycontracts entered into by The Daily Maroon.Entered as second class matter March 18, 1903, at the post-office at Chicago, Illinois, under the Act of March 3, 1879.The Daily Maroon expressly reserves all right of publicationof any material appearing in this paper.BOARD OF CONTROLWARREN E. THOMPSON, Editor-in-ChiefEDGAR L. GOLDSMITH, Business ManagerRUBE S. FRODIN, JR., Managing EditorJOHN D. CLANCY, JR., Circulation ManagerMAXINE CREVISTON, Senior EditorCHARLES NEWTON, JR., Student PublisherASSOCIATE EDITORSJane Bieeenthal David C. LevineWilHam Goodstein Edward W. NicholsonBetty HansenRobert HerzoB Eugene PatrickBUSINESS ASSOCIATESWalter L. Montgomery Vincent NewmanEdward G. SchallerSOPHOMORE EDITORIAL ASSISTANTSJohn Barden Robert Hasterlik Howard RichTom Barton Howard Hudson Sue RichardsonClaire l>anziger David Kutner Jeanette RifasNoel Gersou Dan MacMaster Florence WishnickSOPHOMORE BUSINESS ASSISTANTSWilliam Bergman William O’DonnellRobert SamuelsAMENAs we look through the numerous college news¬papers that reach our desk we find most of theireditors, in final issues during the past week, in¬clined to weave a slightly sentimental, certainlytrite and more or less inane essay about the bleakworld which confronts graduates as convocationexercises pour several thousand more men andwomen into the group of educated unemployed.The respect of readers for editorial writers whohave entertained them during a college year wouldprobably be much greater if no valedictory edi¬torials were written. But we care not, and here¬with proceed to ignore this obvious fact.However, it is not a bleak world about whichwe would write. We merely wish to make onecomment about, the experience of the past fouryears, and then one comment about the societyinto which we will pass upon leaving the Univer¬sity campus.The first is just this: Perhaps it is because weare an old plan student and perhaps it is because |we have studied for no profession, but whatever jthe qualifying circumstances, we are convinced to¬-day, as we were convinced upon graduation from'high school, that all academic work to which wehave been subjected has been but routine back¬ground to the more vital, more appealing, morebeneficial and more useful personal training, busi¬ness experience, leadership qualities, thinking abil¬ity, tact and intuitiveness which extra-curricularactivity and part-time employment together have..brought to us.It is a trite truism.iBut it cannot be said too often on a campuswhere the emphasis is so academic, the prestige ofpure scholarship so great.And our second point—that about the worldin which we of the class of 1933 will find ourselvesquite shortly—is concerned with that most unfor¬tunate habit its society has of looking with slightamusement and a fair degree of patronage uponthe young man and woman who dares to seek aplace in its pre-arranged, smug order and systemof things.Middle-aged philosophy, amusingly enough,sees fit to smirk at youth and to continue to playits game of life according to rules which youthfulsuggestion must not dare to criticize or change.Everywhere one turns, the world and its business,universities, churches, politics and culture are inthe possession of a smug middle-aged group whoseem to think that they have the situation well inband.A recent writer has calmly stated it as a caseof too many level heads and not enough lopsidedyouth.We, in publishing this final editorial, are in¬clined to agree, and to wonder at those who haveproceeded so long without new ideas of their ownthat they now cringe from the enthusiasm and the<]aring of a new generation which finds so manyweak points and figures in the citadel of Amer¬ican middle-aged philosophy and practice that the |task of taking possession should not be difficult, jA few of us are resolved to try.—Warren E. jThompson. «iiiiuiiHiu;iiiMiiii«iiiiiim«iiiiiinniiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiininnuuiiiii.3iiiiiuiiiiimmiiiinniiiuiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiii>iii<iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii'iii:iii>iii. iiiiiiiiiiMinI The Travelling Bazaar |I® By Jerry Jontry f'IWHIIIIIIIIUWIk.;iillliii.lllliltllll!IIIUfllllUlllllinUIIIUIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIiniHIIIIIIIIIIUIi|UWIIUlUIIWUNIH(IIIIIUIUItH»UIIIIIIIUnWWNIHHhlll(ll||niuGOODBYE AND GOD BLESS YOUMilt Oltn, for songs and columns I’ll never for¬get; Margaretha Moore, for that smile of yours;Madclene Rummler, would they all could dancelike you; Haroid Block, for wit unparalled; Ron¬nie Morse, for your face and accent; Mr. Bretz,for your stand on the Phoenix; Lonita Bloss, thebest punster of your sex; George Cameron, thefastest hair raiser that ever went out for track;Don Bimey the champ of the rickshaw boys;Sara Gwin, for her giggles in Mirror; M^ish New¬man, for being such a handsome lad; Bob Hut¬chins, for your infrequency on campus; Pat Ma¬gee—a swell uncle Tom; John Hardin, for laugh¬ing at our jokes; Bill Watson for your laughalone; Frank O'Hara for patience unheard of;Steve Hawkshurst, one of the best rioters I know ;Milly Hackl, may the Buick last for years! TeddyLinn for being an idealist; Alice Johnson forknowing where Galesburg is; Walter Maneikis foryour beautiful dive in the Botany Pond; RtiheFrodin, because I feel sorry for you; Ed Nichol¬son for your ability to plug; Don Kerr for beinga real guy in spite of being a Lovely Lady; JaneScouller for a date I had once back in 7th grade;Andy Dahlberg despite your being a Psi U; HerbPeterson for your special hair tonic; John Hollo¬way for sticking it out with me for four years;John Clancy for the trips we had planned toKnox; John Dille for the tales you brought backfrom Kansas; Betty Hansen for more help thanyou’ll ever know; Frank Harding for your ideasof college; Bill Scott for being broad minded at avery important time, once; Ed Goldsmith for theWoodlawn Alliance and square shooting; BruceBenson for closing the windows on winter morn¬ings; Jack Weir for your tales of Prof. Carlson;Lennox Grey for your way of reading papers;Alex Kehoe for your work in the A. D.’s plays;Ned Merriam, may you some day learn how to dis¬cipline men; Keith Parsons for two extra convo¬cation tickets (I hope I get ’em); Dorothy Tradefor being so desirable; Bob Wallace for some beeryou owe me; Bill Dee for your Lonnie Stagg stor¬ies; Lorraine Ade for your ability to misunder¬stand jokes; Bill Sills for knowing w’hat's mostworth while in life; Lida W'hitmore for tales ofOmaha society; June Guion for teaching me toknit; Frank Nahser, may you have lots of fun inthe Council next year; John Brooks for many aswell track performance; Nels Fuqua for refus¬ing to give up that undergraduate urge; MarvinFrank for his way with the women; David Le¬vine for jokes I stole from you; Leonard Coulsonwho got about the same thing out of college thatil did; Maxine Creviston for being kind in myearly days of this column; Strother Cary, mayyou never wait table where I am eating; Jim Por¬ter for the socialable ride we had one night on theSanta Fe; Jim Sharp for genuine campus interest;George Schnur, for beer we still you for; TedDecker for wearing the same brand of clothesyour father makes; Bill Heaton for your damnedcelebrations; Sue Richardson for taking societyby the horns; Betty Zeigler for being one of us;Lita Dickerson for her black hair and white dis¬position; Nora Mcljaughlin for stories you told meabout too late; Charles Tyroler for his willing¬ness to forget things; Dexter Fairbanks for hisfamily line and “400” humor; Helen Hiett forhaving known you when you were very young.Peggy Holahan for having relatives downstateand for a good tap club; Georg Mann for nevergrowing that goatee; Mr. Swenson for havingbeen a small town boy who made good; KotsyCramer for living life in a big way for such alittle girl; Adele Sandman for your ability toadapt yourself to new surroundings and for onetime at Red’«; Bill Hughes and Frank Springerfor making a profit of nearly $410 in the DramaticAssociation; Doc Pelton for your sharp littlechisel; Warren Thompson for your fairness andsupport at all times; Marguerite Chumley foryour encouragement; Betty Tressler for nevergoing sour on Chicago; Alice Stinnet for convul¬sions she gave me in the O’Neil Skit; HermanStein for knowing a good girl when you see one;Gerry Smithwick for playing parrot with me;HCnry Sulcer, may you not find next year too biga let-down; Bobby Storms and may you get wellsoon; Bob Sharp for your heavy weight of theFair beauties; Maxine Novak for popularity youdeserve; Bob Lee for many verses to Sweet Vio¬lets; Ilo Carr for being Ilo Carr; Charles Newtonfor being an example of a boy with a head whoused it; Henry Isele for being a damned goodScar-Brow; Lorraine Walrm for being every¬thing a man could want; Mr. Hutchinson for play¬ing Santa Claus for three quarters; Betty Mc-Clintock for knowing my past; Gcne Foster forbeing the champ hot dog-vender of the Fair and aJunior Phi Bete; Eleanor Wilson for you abilityto really blush; George Bentley for your frank¬ness in the classroom; Betty Sayler for your“bigger” stories; Wayne Rapp for your ability todo Frankenstein; Noel Gerson for all your inside-information; John Barden for being the para-mout news-reel of the campus; Stonewall Jack-son who just “Kain’t do it”; Becky Hayward forbeing a good gal; Ross Whitney for your goodwine.That brings us close to the end, my friends;so goodbye again. It’s been fun knowing you all.I’ll miss trying to dig up scandalous stories aboutyou. Good luck to you, and here’s hoping you maynever have to live through another depressionas bad as this one. Goodbye now... .be good... .begood. Alumni and undergraduates unll meet when fraterni¬ty spirit reaches its apdx at the twenty-third annualInter fraternity Sing tomorrow night. Noted graduates and lowly freshmen will combine their voices in whatpromises to be one of the most outstanding ev^ts of1932-1933 fraternity life.ANNOUNCE WINNERSOF JUNIOR COLLEGECOMPETITIVE EXAMS(Continued from page 1)Chicago; Leslie Mekkelson, PhoenixJunior college, Phoenix, Ariz.; Ros¬alie Munoz, Phoeni Junior college,Phoenix, Ariz.; David S. Nelson, Pas¬adena Junior college, Pasadena, Cal.;Raymond Peltzman, Junior college ofKansas City, Mo.; Ruth Robert.«,Phoenix Junior college, Phoenix,Ariz.; Morris Rosenthal, CraneJunior college, Chicago; Lubert San-derhoff, Pasadena Junior college,Pasadena, Cal.; John 'Scherm, Juniorcollege of Kansas City, Mo.; Carl J.Skau, Crane Junior college, Chicago;James F. Stevens, Phoenix Juniorcollege, Phoenix Ariz.; Max TeiYi-berg, Crane Junior college, Chicago;Benjamin Weinberg, Ci’ane Juniorcollege, Chicago; Alex Wididger, J.Sterling Morton Junior, Cicero, Ill.Junior college student® to receivehonorable mention are: Irving Ach-tenberg, Junior college of KansasCity, Mo.; William 'Brett, PhoenixJunior college, Phoenix, Ariz.; Vel¬ma Doreith, Crane Junior college,Chicago; Charles Fisher, LyonsTownship Junior college, LaGrange,Ill.; Dorothy Fisher, Lyons Town¬ship Junior College, LaGrange, Ill.;Noal Gray, Phoenix Junior college,Phoenix, Ariz.; Marion Holt, JolietJunior college, Joliet, Ill.; MeyerIsenberg, Crane Junior college, Chi¬cago; Rheem Jarrett, Phoenix Juniorcollege, Phoenix, Ariz.; RussellKoons, Santa Ana Junior college,Santa Ana, Cal.; Helen Rei.sman,Crane Junior college, Chicago; Rich¬ard Seip, Crane Junior college, Chi¬cago; Woodrow Tichy, J. SterlingMorton Junior college, Cicero, Ill.;William Whitman, Kemper MilitarySchool, Boonville, Mo.; Beatrice Wil¬liams, Packer Collegiate Institute,Brooklyn, N. Y.TENNIS NUMERALSThree more members of the fresh¬man tennis team were awarded theirnumerals according to an announce¬ment made yesterday by Walter He¬bert, coach. The new possessors of1936’8 are Rdchard Cochran, RupertChutkow. and David Jamieson, B^tty Hansen Namedas Associate Editor(Continued from page 1)lenge that your excellence repre¬sents.Cordially yours,(Signed) William E. Scott.Charles Newton, Student Publish¬er, yesterday sent the following noteto The Daily Maroon:To the Members of the Maroon Staff;1 wish to congratulate you in thepositions to which you have beenelected. 1 have every faith in thejudgment of those who appointedyou; I am sure you will justify thisfaith. To John Barden, particularly,1 wish to offer my best wishes; I trust he will surpass the record ofLouis Engel, the last junior editorthe Maroon had.Sincerely,(Signed) Charles Newton, Jr.SUMMER STUDENTSCarl C. Cabel has taken over theLAMBDA CHI ALPHAHouse at 5729 Woodlawn Ave.for the Summer QuarterROOM $3.75 a week($35 the Quarter)BOARD $.75 a dayPlenty of good food in pleasantsurroundings.MAKt YOUR RESERVATIONS NOW!VARSITY CLUBMEMBERSHIPAll those interested in member-bership in the Varsity Club of theCongress Hotel, please apply at TheDaily Maroon Office.Varsity Club membership en¬tities the bearer to special rates onFriday evenings in the Joseph Urbanand Hawaiian Rooms.«Winter Varsity Club cards willnot be honored.STA6G PRESENTS 33SENIOR LETTER MEN,WITH 'O' BLANKETS THE DAILY MAPOON, FRIDAY, JUNE 9, 1933 Page ThreeThirty-three Seniors who havewon major letters during their cam¬pus careers will be presented with«C” blankdts to-Coach Staggmorrow night byCoach Amos Alon¬zo Stagg at the In¬terfraternity Sing.Thirteen foot¬ball players, ma¬jor letter winners,are graduating.Those who havewon letters in¬clude WarrenBellstrom, DonBirney, WilliamCessels, BernardJohnson, Hugh Mendenhall, Keith IParsons, George Schnur, Robert jShapiro, John Spearing, Allen Sum¬mers, Frank Thomson, PompeoToigo, Raymond Zenner, and GeorgeMahoney.Two basketball and two baseballplayers will be honored tomorrownight. The cage men are Keith Par¬sons and James Porter, co-captain.s. |The baseball men who receive blan-!kets are George Mahoney and Carl |Geppinger.Five swimming men, who will belost by graduation, include SearingEast, John Elam, Lawrence Good-now, John Marron, and Harold Lauf-man. The four graduating trackmen who graduate are Edward Hay-don, John BLrooks, Jerry Jontry, andFrank Waldenfels. ffOld Man Honoredby Order of “Cat Annual DinnerCoatless and perspiring but amidan atmosphere of friendly good will,three hundred “C” men feated AmosAlonzc Stagg, retiring Athletic Di¬rector at the University, with a ban¬quet in Hutchinson Commons at 6:30last night. Judge Walter Steffen,who has been elected to succeedStagg as head of the organization,was in charge of the banquet.“C” men from a number of states,some of them who won their letterswhen' Stagg himself was playing,were present at the banquet. All ofthem stood as one man and thund¬ered an applause of respect that last¬ed for minutes to the “Old Man”when he arose to address them.With a tremor in his voice, evi¬dence of the deep sentiment that hefelt on the occasion, the “Old Manof the Midway” gave his farewelladdress to his team mates and play¬ers of many years with whom he hadworked on the gridiron.Judge Steffen began the talks ofthe evening and was followed byHarvey Harris, secretary of the Or¬der of the “C”, who read the min¬utes of the last meeting. Nels Nor-gren, basketball coach at the Uni¬versity, awarded the “C’s” to thenew men of the Order. LawrenceW'hiting spoke next and introducedPat Page, assistant football coach.He was followed by Dr. Ralph Ham- jmel. Coach Stagg spoke last and thebanquet was ended with the singing |of the “Song of the Order of the‘C’.” VARSm SPLITS PAIRWITH ALUMNI STARSIN BASEBAU FINALEHarlan O. Page, varsity base¬ball coach and freshman basket¬ball coach for the past threeyears will leave soon to assumehis duties as Director of Ath¬letics at Montezuma Boys’School, Los Gatos, California, itwas announced yesterday.The University baseball team yes¬terday concluded a rather disappoint¬ing season as they split a twin billwith as many of the Alumni whocould weather the tropical heat. Theybeat a group of the older old-timersin the first game, 3 to 1, but lost toa more sprightly bunch of ex-servicemen in the second contest, 3 to 0.Both games were cut to seven inn¬ings apiece.Coach Harlan O. (Pat) Page, con¬cluding his final season here ascoach, was presented with a hand¬some black leather traveling bag be¬fore the game by members of theVarsity squad.The sweltering Varsity were rath¬er under a handicap. Playing withtheir regular nine-man team, theylooked on hopelessly as the Alumnirushed their reserves on the field, oneafter the other, fresh from the coolconfines of the fieldhouse showers.Two members of the Gym teamwill receive blankets: Carl Jeffersonand Sumner Scherubel. Three wrest¬lers who will be honored include JohnHeide, Bion Howard, and ArchieHubbard. Two members of the Polo.squad. Burton Doherty and EdgarFreidheim, will be rewarded withblankets.The only tennis man to receive thehonor is Herman Ries. WHEELER AND BOWERSCAPTURE INTRAMURALGOLF CHAMPIONSHIPSPEEDWRITINCTHE WONDER SHORTHANDIn B we«)ia you tak# rapid dictation andtranreribe notes accurately. Not a machine.Both aexes. Adulta only. Very low cost.Many colleite vraduatea.FREE DEMONSTRATIONSCHICAGO BUSINESS COLLEGF/.4th Floor. IIK) N. State. Franklin 4122.(Walter Harris. B. S.. M. A., Prea.) The team of Wheeler and Bowers, 1Sigma Chi, yesterday defeated thePhi Psi entries, Hilbrant and Wernerby a score of 3 up and 2, for thefinal round of intramural golf.The match was one of close play,neither team holding the lead formany consecutive holes. The Phi Psiteam led as the end neared but at thefourteenth and sixteenth holes thetide turned as Wheeler slipped 'through with two birdie threes.As a result, the Sigma Chi houseis better by one I. M. golf trophyand Wheeler and Bowers are the pos¬sessors of gold medals. Art Cahill and Bob Kaplan heldthe Varsity to five scattered hits inthe aftermath affair though Bakerdid them one better by limiting theAlumni to four safe blows. One ofthem, a double by Kyle Anderson,combined with three Chicago errors,the last of the season, to shoveacross the three winning runs in thefirst frame.Phi B. D. Wms I-MOrganization andIndividual TitlesNORTN AMERICAN TRAVEL SERVICE407 So. Wabash Ave. Harrison 6714BUSES EVERYWHEREALL LINESExcursion RatesCLEAN COOL FASTU. of C. RepresentativeDICK WHITE — MAROON OFFICETO UNIVERSITYSTUDENTS!For Over 30 Yearswe have served University students with their textbook requirements for all courses.—Our book stockis one of the largest and most complete in the MiddleWest.—Remember the name Woodworths when inneed of hooks on any subject.Woodworth’s Book Store1311 E 57th St.Near Kimbai^k Ave. Open EveningsPhone Dorchester 4800LilSlLvii; Phi Beta Delta repeated its twintriumphs of last year, when it cap¬tured both the individual and or-ganiz^ition Intramural champion¬ships. The Phi B. D.’s piled up 564points which was 82 points higherthan the second place total of 482made by Kappa Nu for the biggestlead ever taken by a fraternity inIntramural competition. Phi SigmaDelta followed with 452 markers,with Phi Delta Theta in fourthplace with 424 points, and KappaSigma in fifth position with 372points.A1 Marver captured the individualtitle by amassing 504 points whilesecond place award went to his fra¬ternity brother, Julian Weiss, whogarnered 478 markers. Two KappaNu’s with 415 points, Strauch andIsraelstrom, took third and fourthpositions respectively, as fifth placewent to LaRue of Beta Theta Pi with375 points.The winning group copped theplayground ball, touchball, free-throwing, and ping-pong doubleschampionships while second placeswere taken in wrestling and tennisdoubles.Three fraternities, Phi B. D., Del¬ta Upsil'on, and Phi Delta Theta nowhave two legs on the plaque whichwill be permanently awarded to thethree-time winner. EDWARD CUIXEN ISNAMED CAPTAIN OF1934 TRACK TEAMNeither of the games were unin¬teresting to watch. Langford pitch¬ed the first game and was nicked forbut three hits, two by Nels Norg^i’en, Iplaying first for the former Maroon Istars, and one by Marshall Fish. |Lewis, Wehling, Langford, Berkson, Iand Ratner collected the eight Var- jsity hits, the first three getting apair apiece. Sullivan, Page, andWally Marks were the Alumni twirl-ers. Edward Cullen, Psi Upsilon andmember of Owl and Serpent, waselected captain of the track team ata meeting yesterday noon of all Ma¬jor “C” and Major Old English “C” winners at Bartlett gymnasium.Cullen was one of Coach Ned Mer-riam’s outstanding 440 men this sea¬son until he pulled a muscle at thestart of a race during the wintertrack competition and was forced togive up track as well as participationin spring football practice. Cullen isfrom New Trier high school in Win-netka where he was prominent in football, basketball, and track. Afterone year at Dartmouth, he came tothe University to begin his sopho¬more year and to make a name forhimself in football and track. He wasalso recently appointed to the chair¬manship of the Freshman Orienta¬tion committee- by the Dean of Stu¬dents office.For the finals of theyeaFs social season ...SUMMERFORMALSJust a short week or so and exami¬nations will be forgotten for a gayround of spring formats that willmark the end of the 1932-33 socialseason at Chicago. What with thePsi U’s at Vista Del Lago, the Dekesat Midlothian, and the Phi Psi’s atExmoor, the evening of June 16seems to be the big night — butwhether you’ll be with one of thesethree, with the Chi Psi’s at Medinahthe 1 7th or the Alpha Delts at Lake¬side the 19th, you’ll want to lookyour very best—which almost auto¬matically demands a pair of flannelslacks and blue double breastedjacket from Field’s. Not only willthe outfit mark its wearer as onewho is “well up in there’’ on what’sgood in summer formal wear thisseason, but long after the first com¬pliments of admiring friends havebeen forgotten the comfort andwearing qualities that characterizeField clothes will make themselvesduly evident.THE SLACKS, $5.95THE JACKET, $18.50The Sportman’s FloorFIFTH FLOORTHE STORE FOR MENMARSHALL FIELD& COMPANYDTHqUIThe Church ofTHE REDEEMER(EPISCOPAL)S€th and BlackstoneRev. E- S. White, Episcopal Student Pastor THE FIRST UNITARIANCHURCHWoodlawn Avenue at 57th StreetVON OGDEN VOGT, Minister/ SUNDAY SERVICESHoly Communion, 8:00 A. M.Choral Eucharist and Sermon, 11:00 A. M.Evensong and Sermon, 5:00 P. M.Three services every week-day. Church opendaily for prayer and meditation. SUNDAY. JUNE 11. 19331 1 A. M.—*^‘Leaders and Followers.”Vogt. Dr.Page Four THE DAILY MAROON, FRIDAY, JUNE 9, 1933The Daily Maroon Expresses ItsSincere Gratitude to theSubscribers andAdvertisers1932-33COMING SOON!THE CAMPUS ROOMA New AdditionREADERS CAMPUSDRUG STORE61st and Ellis Ave.“MEET AND EAT ATREADERS”Good Food — Popular PricesUse the Campus PhoneFREE DELIVERYVAGAtlOKf SOCIETYbySUZANNEAnd so we must say goodbye. Ithink we all wish that this were thebeginning of the fall quarter, insteadof the end of the spring season. SoI many happy parties would be in theI future then, instead of in the past.Anyway, it’s been a lot of fun, andin spite of old man depression, weall enjoyed the year.Aren’t we nice people, though? Onlooking back to the past festivities,the campus crowd made the goodtimes what they were. We should feellucky to know such people. A few ofthe many such were glimpsed at theIron Mask party at the Dells and in¬clude Violet Elliot and Jim Henning,Bobby Storms and Wayne Rapp,Eylo Carr and Bob Sharp, FrenGethro and Frank Springer, GwenEvans and Vinnie Newman, BettyCason and Ed Nicholson, and Kay(and so are business trips)Now’s the time to go byGREYHOUND• EXCURSION FARES LOWEST EVER• GOOD EVERY DAY, EVERY BUS• COOL, COMFORTABLE TRAVEL• MOST FREQUENT SCHEDULES• SERVICE TO ALL AMERICAHundreds of Savings Like TheseSample One-Way Fares - j Music and Religious ServicesI Divinity Chapel. “The Making ofj Tomorrow,” Dean Mathews, at 12 in1 Joseph Bond Chapel,j Organ music, at 7 in the Univer-I sity Chapel.Public Lectures *Division of Social Science. “Thei Crisis in the Far East. American In-i terests and Policies in the Far East.”j Professor MacNair. Social ScienceAssembly room at 3:30.MiscellaneousThe President’s reception to Alum-j ni, at 10:30 p. m. in the ReynoldsClub.I Alumni conference, at 9 a. m. inJudson Court.Alumni assembly at 8:30 in Man-! del.I University Aides Alumnae. DinnerI at 6:30 in Cloister Club,i Class of 1918. Dinner at 6:30 inj sun parlor.W. A. A. tea in Y. W. C. A. room: at 3:30.Los Angeles ...$34.50New York 15.00Detroit 4.00Milwaukee 1.50Ft, Wayne .... 4.00Pittsburgh 9.00Boston 17.00 Minneapolis ....$ 5.00Cleveland 7.00Buffalo 10.50Madison 3.50Gr’d Rapids .... 4.00Duluth 8.00Philadelphia .... 14.00For ALL travel informationPHONE WABash 7700Union Bus Depot 1157 S. Wabas’Greyhound Loop Depot 170 N. StateSooth Side 6302 Stony IslandPhone Hyde Park 5170CAMPUS REPRESENTATIVEJOHN C. NEUKOM5733 University Ave.Hyde Park 2953 I SATURDAYI Miscellaneousi Alumnae Club. Breakfast at 11:30j in Cloister Club,j Phi Delta Upsilon, Library 3-5.Quadrangler Alumnae, dinner inIda Noyes sun parlor at 6.Phi Beta Delta, dinner in Y. W.C. A. room at 6.SUNDAYMiscellaneousAlumnae tea in Ida Noyes libraryat 3.Delta Sigma, tea in Y. W. room at3.PUBUCATION OF CAPAND GOWN ASSUREDGREYHOUNDT/HL I (Continued from page 1)I day of school next fall.According to the Executive Board,plans for the Cap and Gown in¬dicate that it will be the biggest andbest in years. Many new features arebeing planned at present, and an ex¬tensive snapshot lay-out is promised.The motto of the staff is “Every¬body’s picture in the book.”Blackhawk presents another College Night at about1 1 o’clock tonight. Stars from the Blackfriars willentertain you.• Wallace Johnson and Nathan Krevitsky• Walter MontgomeryHAL KEMP and HisORCHESTRAwith Deane JanisAND SMART FLOOR SHOWfeaturingWADE BOOTHCorry & DeSylvia, Character DancersJoy Kenlay Toe DancerWaba at Randolph Collins and Burt Young. And theseare but samples of the sort of col¬legians that make our life so inter¬esting.In keeping with the spirit of sen¬timentality that’s rife these daysnow that it’s June, I have a coupleof brand new mergers to announce.Virginia Russell announced her en¬gagement to Paul Stagg at the Wy-vern party at Lincolnshire CountryClub last Friday evening. Every¬one is felicitating them, for this ro¬mance has been hopefully watched. The couple are most popular andwell known on campus, what withVirginia in the tap chorus of Mirrorfor the past two years, and Paul anathlete, a Psi U, and son of theGrand Old Man.There’s a new campus wedding,too. Helen Eaton was married toRobert McKinlay in Bkmd chapel lastSaturday, in a simple but lovely cere¬mony. The romance between this Es¬oteric and D. U. began while theywere undergraduates, so the coupleare to be especially congratulated. I-F SING OCCUPIESFOCUS OF ATTENTIONTODAY, TOMORROW(Continued from page 1)A national radio-hook-up over theNational Broadcasting System hasbeen arranged to begin at 8:30,when five fraternities will be heardin a half-hour program. During theevening, twenty aides and marshalswill be inducted into office by Rob¬ert V. Merrill, University marshal, and Coach A. A. Stagg will present“C” bankets to 33 graduating “C”men.HILL’S cafeteria1165-75 EmI 63rd Si.We Feature Noonday Lunchtfi.n25cEvening Dinner 50cSunday Dinner 76cServed on 2nd Floor• Slow to wrinkle . . . slowto soil... Palm Beach suitsare handsomely tailored tohold their smart lines nomatter how often they'rewashed or cleaned. Newmaterials, beach tans, sum¬mer blues, tweedy graysand PLAIN WHITES insingle and double breastedmodels ... all one pricefor coat and trousers.^2*50A NEW LOW PRICETROPICAL WORSTED SUITS *20Coat, vest and trousers or coat and 2 trousers. Cool,celanese lining. Light grays and trans. Dark shades, too.SUMMER TEX-SUITS .50To be perfectly cool and perfectly dressed wear this smart,^ lightweight suit. Gray and tan mixtures, also plain blues.FINE LINEN SUITSCoat and trousers, of fine imported pre-shrunk linen—singleand double breasted styles. Other fine linen suits at $15.SMART FLANNEL SUITSSoft, handsome St. Andrews flannel in greys, blues, browns,tans, and in styles to suit both men and young men. $ 10$THEC!i')HUBHenry C. Lytton & SonsSlate and Jackson Orrington and Church Marion and LakeCHICAGO EVANSTON OAK PARK Broadway and FifthGARYCOMMENTA Literary and Critical QuarterlyVOLUME I — NUMBER 3 SPRING QUARTER (2) PRICE FIFTEEN CENTSTHAN ALL THE‘Jons said he looks like a diseasedrabbi or something fungoid. Hedoesn't like him. Nor do manypeople. Placid, with an eye radi¬ated with gold, and hair (uncut)for a Byron, and hands as whiteand flexible as stuffed gloves, hesees himself in one of Chekov'splays, frustrate, beautiful andnonchalantly tragic, or the son ofdecadence. He's read his OscarWilde and weeps at Tnstran aspeople always do in novels.’This quotation was intended as aportion of James Kenniston’s sonnetsequence Puphues in Ppiccnia, butunfortunately it was never com¬pleted. He explained by saying. ‘I havetried, and there is nothing more I can say.but 1 kow there is something more to say.It IS very distressing.’I have two purposes in using this frag¬ment as a preface: first, because it presentsin Kenniston’s incomparable and incisiveway the Donald Carpenter that everyonesaw; second, because, in my own verbosemanner. I shall attempt to make a precis ofthe lines that remain to be written.Kenniston had not begun to write hishuphucs at the time I first saw Carpenter,but my impression then was substantiallythe same as his. later. Carpenter was a manof medium height, slightly heavy, dressedwith careful and obnoxious elegance. Hisface was round and indefinitely bland: hiseyes, however, w’ere rather fine, of a pecu¬liar hazel quality. I would not say that hisaiMtudc was offensively effeminate, but it wasirritatingly so. He walked with lightenergetic steps, his voice slid up and downthe scale, becoming embarrassingly shrill oruncomfortably soft and confidential, hishands were never still: in moments of excita¬tion they seemed to twitter and in calmermoguls they described long inclusive arcs.1 K-^tliered most of these impressions thatfirst time at William Joris’s. Juris is knowntor his ability to pack more uncongenialpeople into less space than anyone else in'l;e world, and I looked at his new recruitv.'itli very little wonder and no amusement,i;: was standing inside the door (I w'as onthe terrace) talking to an Italian photog-. - *tIons slid out ot another door, noticedinstinctively my distaste for Carpenter, andpromptly dragged him towards me to beintroduced, after which he left us. I didnut like him any better at close range. Heflapped his hands towards me. asked if Iwere an American and had I noticed MadameIlunter-Brilivik’s orchids. I said yes to boththings and indicated the view.When he had spoken I noticed that hewas the sort of person who begins all his WORTHIES DIDsentences as if they were going to be epi¬grams. The view,' he said, ‘reminds meof . . . have you ever been in Greece?’‘No, I have not.'That is very good. It is not a countrythat you can see serenity in.’I had nothing to say to that.‘It is not so much a land of great dis¬appointments, as of disappointing great¬nesses.’ He seemed to consider this his epi¬gram, and leaving me to ponder it, he walkeddown the terrace. As I turned to escape Ifound myself facing Madame Hunter-Brilivik, that lean tubercular madwoman.She was wearing a large straw hat, the brimof which drooped with real orchids. Acoral necklace was wound about her thinthroat to the chin. She seized me with heremaciated hands and began to drag me intothe room. Indoors the company was citheropenly quarreling or sitting in silent brood¬ing ranks. She walked me up and down,talking in emphatic bad French which Icould not understand.a.The next time I saw Carpenter was atthe Symphony. He ran towards me. hishair flopping like an unstable wig and hishands dangling before him. He was some¬what breathless. ‘Didn’t you think.' hesaid, ‘that the Schumann was predominantlywoodsy?’THAN ALL THE WORTHIES DIDGuy CardenHOW TO BE UNHAPPYSoan O'Shea! FAREWELL MIAMI Arthur ShumwayIBITTERSWEET Cyril John ClarkeTHY ROD AND THY STAFFE. and F. RichardsSTEEPLE-JACK Robert McAlmonLOVE SONG Elder OlsonEDITORIAL COMMENT . . by GUY CARDENWoodwinds?' I asked.‘No — woodsy, like trees. MadameHunter-Brilivik thinks it was pine trees, butto me it seems as if it were beech trees. Whatdo you think?’‘Well, it seems to me that the woodwindsare quite flat tonight.’The bell rang at this instant and weparted. However, in the lobby afterwardsI saw him with the group that habituallysurrounded Madame Hunter-Brilivik. Shewas as usual excessively animated andarticulate, though no one listened to her,unless Carpenter’s stolid expression betok¬ened attention. She was swinging her cloth-of'silver cape about, flashing her diamonds,and tossing her ear-rings furiously. Heleaned on his cane, his opera cloak fallingin suave lines to the floor. She caught myeye and came upon me in one long swoop.‘Cheri.’ she said, softly, ‘take Donald farfar away from me.’‘No,’ I said, ‘I have an engagement.’‘Cheri.’ she breathed, ‘if you do not takehim away, I shall remove my shoes andthrow them at you.’‘Very well,’ I said, for I believed hercapable of it.He remonstrated somewhat, but he wassoon trotting beside me expostulating on thewoodsiness of the Schumann, the pear-shaped tones of the Debussey, the purplewraiths of the Tchaikowsky. I let him into my rooms, sat him down, and poured hima drink. He kept chattering, elevating hishands, twitching his eyebrows: goingthrough his whole repertoire of mannerisms.He stayed for hours, rising in waves of in¬tense animation and sinking into deep con¬fiding hollows of confession. He had beenin Italy last year, in Greece. The Parthenonwas a symbol of what we knew of theGreek Spirit. We could only guess at theoutlines and speculate at the proportions.We had only the fragments of beauty torecreate a beauty. Jesus was his judge thathis life was a futility, a road in the desertplaces, an intellectual mirage. Had I readSpengler? Spengler was so true. Mechan¬ization, and all the poetry gone out of theworld. Had I read T. S. Eliot? Onlywith Eliot and Honegger was he in com¬plete accord, though there was sometimescommunion with Tchaikowsky, especiallyin the last movement of the sixth, a vastlyunderrated work. Vastly underrated. Wasn’tMadame Hunter-Brilivik stunning tonight?In short—he bored, irritated, and faintlyamused me. He left with the promise that(Please turn to Page Ten)HOW TO BE UNHAPPY“. . . and our lives archaunted by a Georgia slat¬tern, because a London cut-purse went unhung.”Thomas WolfeINCH time immemorial, man has beentelling his fellows how to think, howto eat, how to reproduce, how to behappy, how to live on twenty-five dol¬lars a week or twenty-four hours a day:in short, man has been and always willbe fond of giving unasked advice. Ourmuch heralded and long awaited Super¬man, whether he be created by a Deityweary of the sordid spectacle the earthnow affords, or developed in some highlyendowed university laboratory — the Super¬man, if he comes at all, will be simplythat superior person who will mind his ownbusiness, who will spend his short time onearth in nobler pursuits than giving unaskedadvice or heeding the unsolicited advice ofothers.But alas! I am not the Superman: rather.I am merely Scan O’Shea, cx-college-boy,taking his stereotyped, production-line mindout on a tear, displaying his literary talent,airing his little ego. (Yea! I, too, havethought and thought and burned the mid¬night oil; I, too, have lived and loved andsuffered; I. too. have seen the Light!) So Ifollow the usual procedure. I tell all. Iexplain how. Gather ’round.Unlike many of our modern literary cob¬blers, however, 1 stick to my last. I knowmy subject. I should like to tell my read¬ers—if any—how to think, how to eat, oreven how to reproduce: but I feel incapableof such teaching. I think like a collegesophomore, eat seldom and then like a w'olf,and have had no success—I hope—in repro¬ducing my kind. But 1 have succeeded inbeing unhappy without too much effort,seem, in fact, to have a singular faculty forunhappiness, so as explanation of that fineart is within my scope.I he prime requisite of a career m unhap¬piness is birth. Obviously, the unborn can¬not be unhappy. Once you arc born youare well on your way to your goal; you arepotentially unhappy. But a hardly lessimportant point is to be born in a religiousenvironment, religious in the good, old.militant, our - gods - are-the-true-gods-and-your-gods-are-sons-of-bitches, sense. I'o at¬tain this is not impossible. It is surprisinghow much of that sort of thing exists evenin this scientific, enlightened age. Humanityclings to the venerable traditions—or per¬haps venerable is not the word.But let it suffice that you are born in anatmosphere of hard-shelled sectarianism. Bythe time you discover your mind—or becomeso deluded, if you will—it will be crammedso full of Biblical drivel—that is to say,none of the poetry and all of the absurdity—that no matter how you try to thinkstraight, for years you will be torn betweenfact and fancy, reason and faith, and con¬sequently you will be deliciously unhappyfor some time. But as you grow older, thatpoignant ache of unhappiness will subsideinto the numbness of indifference, so youmust strengthen the groundwork in yourstructure of unhappiness. This can be donein various ways, but the easiest is by becom¬ing aware, at an early age, while you arestill young and vigorous in spirit, compara¬tively sound in mind and body.To become aware of the meaning of life(as doubtless you have been told time and time again) you must become steeped inexperience, you must live. But first you canget a great amount of vicarious experience byreading. Read anything, everything, in¬discriminately. After a few years of assid¬uous reading, you will become thin and weakand almost blind, but even so. for awhileyou will think that you arc defeating yourown purpose; you will be happy. 1 he eye¬glasses which you will be forced to wearwill give you an intellectual look, accentuatedby your high cheekbones and sallow com¬plexion. Your mind will be cluttered witha jumble of half-truths and platitudes whichyou will mistake for knowledge. Peeringthrough your rimless eyeglasses, you willspout your rote disguised as the great truth.you will wallow in your little ego. you willbe disgustingly happy. But sooner or later,especially w'hen you get out into the world,my boy. (he said paternally) your platitudeswill bounce back in your face, you will be¬gin to see that you are not wise, but merelyclever. Your unhappiness will return inrushing tide when you learn that you arenot even clever, but only a clown, anignoramus.Yes, my boy, get out into the w’orld andreplace vicarious with direct experience. Viewyour scribbling theorists in the light of prac¬tical, everyday life. (Mv God. how' manytimes this Depression has been cured onpaper. ) See your academic windbags de¬flated by the common, ordinary man-in the-street. (Ah, the inexplicable wisdom ofthe great unwashed!) But ignore suchthings and strive painfully for that friend¬ship you have read about, and learn that itIS a fiction, because everyone is as selfish,hypocritical, and cowardly as you arc. Fallin love, by all means, while you still be¬lieve in fairy talcs; soar high, higher, thatyou may fall the harder. (Newton, whaf*)Remember how' the heroes of your prettybooks acted when they were disappointed inlove or friendship. Go to hell in theromantic fashion.Prowd at night when virtuous men shouldbe in bed, play the lone wolf, snarl and fightand lick your wounds. Crouch in darkcorners. Observe. Learn that virtue hasno monoply on brains or courage. Get intoconversation wdth a stranger, have him de¬flate your whole glorious philosophy of life,your treasured opinions, have him prove thathe is a better man than you are. much moreintelligent; then discover that he is a pimpor a drug peddler or a pickpocket, an outand out scoundrel in the eyes of the world.Fight with a hoodlum at a bar and learnthat your strength is not necessarily thestrength of ten because your heart is pure.Lose faith, then, get lecherous, drink andcarouse, try your talents at the darker arts inbars and bedrooms. Let your brain seethein alcohol, get the defeatist attitude, dwellon the good old frustration theme, negation.(Verily, there is nothing behind the cur¬tain.) See men you have considered inferiordo easily what you cannot do at all. (” . . .Desiring this man’s gift and that man’sscope . . . ”) Degenerate into self pity andstrangle in your tears, make the night hideouswith your lamentations. And all the while,know that you cannot deceive yourself,know that you arc acting for the benefit ofyour pretty, little vanity.Grow older, then, and come back to thegood life through the healing influence ofnature. Walk in the parks, look up at the . . by SEAN O’SHEAsky. the clouds, the trees: (1 think that Ishall never see. tra la la la la la) and downagain to the paths and lawns cluttered withevidences of man’s ignorance, gluttony,sluttishness, and lechery.Consider yourself superior, then, turn upyour nose at the vices of other men, observehow spotless you are yourself. Walk downthe street and see some brutal person mis¬treating a horse or a dog. Smash the foulbrute into the gutter with one terrible blowif he is weaker than you are—for after all,there are some things that make a gentle¬man’s blood boil. Or call a policeman tobe your whipping boy if the brute seemscapable of defending himself—for after all,would not this be a terrible, terrible worldif everyone took justice into his own hands.Pat yourself on the back, praise God that Hemade you a man, and then go home and lashyour wife, mentally if you do not have thecourage to do it physically. Or your em¬ployes. or the w'aifresses in the corner restau¬rant. or the blind beggar W'oman in the cellarof whom no one knows but youYes, become aw^are: of the sickening inhu¬manity of man and of your own slyinhumanity; of the rank injustice of theexisting social order and of how you profitby It even as you rant against it; of thestupidity and unfairness of the social castesystem and of how stupidly and unfairlyyou concede superiority to some men,equality to others, inferiority to most; of theinsanity of w'ar and of hew' you stir at thesound of martial music; yes, become awareof these and a thousand other things, be¬come aw’are of the misery of man and ofyour owm misery, and then go out andwelter in your unhappiness.Of course you must see the W'holc glori¬ous panorama, must get the proper perspec¬tive, the correct arrangement of light andshade; and you must see yourself as a de¬tail of the beautiful picture. You can lookat other men's inhumanity, refuse to recog¬nize your own. and be happy; you canrattle the skeleton in other people’s cupboards, say that the one in your cupboardis Mahatma Gandhi, and be happy; youcan point the finger of shame at another per¬son’s dirty undershirt, swear that your ownwas black w'hcn you bought it. and behappy; you can thank God that you arc notlike other men. and be happy; but you willalso be a liar, a cad. a prig, (in the modernspelling), and a hypocrite.But perhaps even if you are as fortunate asI am. even if you can understand the intricatePattern, perhaps you will not be unhappyafter all. Maybe you will be merely amusedI have watched numerous men when theythought they were alone, have noticed aflicker of a smile on their faces, the trace ofa cynical grin. Perhaps at the time, theywere sublimely isolated from their petty re¬lations with their fellows; perhaps theystood momentarily alone on an intellectualmountain top. looking down, divinelyamused at the ludicrous spectacle of gregari¬ous mankind: but I am afraid they werethinking with sardonic glee of the millionthey stole while giving away a thousand,with moronic delight of the last two-reelcomedy at the Bijou, or with sly malice ofthe bad two-dollar bill they passed on theMadame at the successful conclusion of theirlast lodge night.Thus spake Zarathustia,COMMENT Paqe Twoby ARTHUR SHUMWAYFAREWELL MIAMII HADN'T been back in Miami two dayswhen Doo Latshaw called up. “We'rehaving a little party over at the housetonight/’ he said, alter a nervous ques¬tion about my health. "We want you tonuke it if you can.”Why—you bet, Don," I said, tryingnot to sound too surprised. “How's Dale?”( This casually).“Oh. she's fine. She asked me to callyou.’’I’ll be there, ” I said, and heard him hangup.I he winter before this Don Latshaw hadbeen my rival, if that’s the word. He was ahometowner, a young solid citizen, an LIkand a Lion, with a good dental practice, aFlorida boy ot good tamily. quiet, seriousand self-conscious, with a rather pitilul wayof trying to be carefree and the govvl fellowwhen he thought the occasion demanded itHe had been somewhat engaged to DaleYoungblood when 1 met her. Within threeweeks I was taking her about and he waspracticing a hurt, beaten look.I felt sorry for him, and 1 suppose Daledid. but we liked each other too well toworry about him much, and, anyway, Inever had been a man tes question a gift fromheaven. For a while. 1 suppose, 1 thoughtof her seriously.Not as seriously, though, as this Latshaw,Wherever we went we found him. stagging,for he must have thought Dale would relentwhen slie kept seeing Ivm alone and forlornMaybe he thought, too, that he could touchmy heart. But Dale didn't relent and myheart wasn’t touched and his Lonesome Lover campaign hurt only himself and got onlyhis own pity, though there seemed tv) beplenty of that.I don’t know how it was Dale and Ididn’t get married that winter. I know 1was never closer to the altar I never had aprettier girl or one who flattered me as much.She used to tell me I might not know it hutshe was meant for me; she felt it; she justfelt it. And that was very flattering comingfrom her because she had an idea she was abit psychic; she said she knew and feltthings beyond the reach of prosaic {)eopleand I could laugh if I liked.Psychic or mildly paranoiac, she broke offwith a respectable young dentist with ahouse, a bank account, a good practice and alot of southern background and tradition togive her company exclusively to a migratoryhack whose idea of wealth wms an occasionalfive hundred dollars all in one piece. Shesaid she loved me, anti 1 said 1 loved her, and1 wonder sometimes if I didn’t.There were nights on the beach, on FinchMurphy's little cruiser and on lonely fdviridaroads with the moonlight and the sweetheavy night air of the South that remain asclimaxes in my memory. But I don’t know.All I can say now is that when April cameand 1 couldn’t afford to stay down anylonger I found myself kissing her goodbyeand getting on the train wdth a sort of numb,stupid feeling that couldn’t have been sor¬row. 1 know 1 could have become tearful,as she did, and make some definite, passion¬ate promise, but I didn’t; I only said “Good¬bye, darling. I’ll write every night.’’ andwent to my berth feeling that somethingwithin me was being shut off slowly with asmall dull pain; and, of course, I didn'twrite every night: within a month when Ibegan knocking around the Midwest doing a series of articles on the Condition of theFarmer I had quit writing to her at all.Dale’s letters kept coming a long time.Jaunty at first, funny and full of unre¬strained. downright indiscreet assurances oflove; then they began to change gradually:the assurances of love disappeared and thejauntiness increased until it became almostsmartaleck: then it, too, vanished, and thelast few letters were short, matter-of-fact re¬ports of life with the old crowd, restrainedto a point that was stifling; then there wereno more letters.I'he next word came in July. It was awedding announcement. Dale was marryingher Lonesome Lover. As I read it thosenights came back: I could hear the insistentrhythm of the surf, the rattle of the rain inthe palms, the lap of the black w'ater on thehull of Finch Murphy’s boat lying out onBiscayne bay through tropical nights. Ibegan to feel sorry for Dale, ended by feel¬ing a little sorry for myself and wonderingwhy anybody ever left Florida anyway, andwithin a couple of days I had forgotten thematter. This was January now and I wasback in Miami feeling superior and detached,merely a tolerant, observant former residentback for a sojourn in the sunshine.It was a little different after Don’s invita¬tion. He had been frank; “She asked me toinvite you” Why.'* What was I going tosay to explain the lapse in correspondence.'*Should I even mention it.'* How was I sup¬posed to act toward Dale? And toward Don:*I tucked away a few Bacardis before start¬ing that night. I was going to be jolly, atleast, and polite, and impersonal. Thatseemed to be the program.The house was out north, a two-story tanstucco of the Spanish-boom type. Judgingfrom the lights, music and voices and thenumber of cars around the place the partywas well in session. A rather gvivid-lookingblond with a flat, open face and an air oleager tipsiness welcomed me at the door.“Come in, come in! Don't know whoyou are and don’t give a damn, but it isn’tmy house anyway. Were triends, allfriends.’’“I’m—’’ I began when Dale appearedfrom somewhere,■Joe!” she said. She took my hand andsmiled as if reading my mind. Her mannerwas sweet and mild. “It’s nice to see you,”she said, backing off and taking a look."Gee!” Unlike the others, she was coldsober. She looked better than when I sawher that last night at the train; she wasn’t soheavy about the eyes, the little hollows hadIv'ft her cheeks and her figure had filled a bit.It was really good to see her.Familiar faces leered smilingly over out¬stretched hands and I was whisked fromgroup to group, saying hello to the old onesand meeting the new ones. Drinks appearedeverywhere. There was no time to talk in¬timately with Dale. It was Don, thoughthat I was wondering about.“Where’s our host?” I asked one of theold ones. Chuck Titus.“Don!” he shouted. “Company. Don!”He grabbed my arm. “Come out to thekitchen. Don's bartender.’’In the kitchen there was Don mixingthem and pouring them while three or fourguests kept busy getting in his way. Donlooked up, then back at the drink he wasmixing, as if caught at something shady. Hegrabbed a towel and fussed at drying hishands, his eyes still down. “Glad to see ♦you back,” he said, coming forward and tak¬ing my hand. He went back to his bartend¬ing, pausing to down the one he had justmade. He was unsteady and his face was abeautiful red.Chuck was trying to be the clown of theparty. “Bet you birds are glad to see eachother again,’’ he snickered,Don mumbled something and I grinnedlike a Jukes.Chuck took up the big butcher knife Donhad been using on the limes. “Boy, howdy,is this knife sharpl’’ he said. “Hey, Don,look at the swell knife. Why don’t youtake it and cut Joe’s throat now he’s righthere and everything?’’The kitchen crowd, all new ones andtherefore innocent, I suppose, began to laugh.Don looked up with as sickly a smile as Iever saw. I grabbed two drinks. “I’ll takethese in to the troops.’’ I said and lost notime.Dale met me as 1 entered the living room.“Did you see Don?” she asked.“I did,” I said.“Do you think he’s changed much?”“Why—I don’t know.”“He’s put on twenty pounds.”Good for him then.”Fie weighs a hundred and seventy now.Last winter he only weighed a hundred andfitly.’’“Married life must agree with him,” Isuggested.She nodded complacently. “That’s whathe says. Do you think it’s agreed with me,Joe?”She was being peculiar, “I guess it must,”I said. “Anyway, you’re certainly lookingswell. You’ve put on a little meat your¬self—not too much, though. You lookgreat. Dale, really. But then you alwaysdid look pretty sweet.”"You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”she said shyly.“ No—honest—you know what I mean.”“Any new . , . adventures?”“Well ... I met A1 Capone.”“You’re not engaged or anything, I mean?No little ephemeral affairs of the heart?”“Oh. no. No, still a free agent. Youknow me. What would I do with a wife?”“I don’t know. What would you dowith a wife?”“Probably beat her and kick her and callher nasty names,” I said.Dale was looking up into my eyes, herown half closed and her lips pursed quiz-ically.“Well. I probably would,” I insisted.You know the kind of an old lecher I am.”She only smiled.A lot of sentences began popping into myhead. Such as I’m awfully sorry I didn’tanswer your last letter. Or: How do youand Don get along? Or: I was an awful ass,Dale. As it was I stumbled on and said,“Are you happy. Dale?”She kept looking into my eyes throughthose half closed lids and smiling that purse-lipped sidelong smile. “Are you?” she asked.I shrugged, “You know me, the oldplayboy of the midwestern world,”She widened the smile a little, then re¬laxed. “Most of your old playmates arehere tonight.”“So I see.”“Let me get you another drink.”“Don’t mind if you do. Say, aren’t youdrinking tonight?”She shook her head and smiled and wentoff into the kitchen. I took a deep breath(Please turn to Page Four)Paqe Three COMMENTHOW TO BE UNHAPPY .... 6i,SEANOSHEA"... and our lives arehaunted by a Georgia slat¬tern. because a London cut-purse went unhung."Thomas WolfeINCH time immemorial, man has beentelling his fellows how to think, howto eat, how to reproduce, how to behappy, how to live on twenty-five dol¬lars a week or twenty-four hours a day;in short, man has been and always willbe fond of giving unasked advice. Ourmuch heralded and long awaited Super¬man, whether he be created by a Deityweary of the sordid spectacle the earthnow affords, or developed in some highlyendowed university laboratory — the Super¬man, if he comes at all, will be simplythat superior person who will mind his ownbusiness, who will spend his short time onearth in nobler pursuits than giving unaskedadvice or heeding the unsolicited advice ofothers.But alas! I am not the Superman: rather,I am merely Sean O’Shea, ex-college-boy,taking his stereotyped, production-line mindout on a tear, displaying his literary talent,airing his little ego. (Yea! I, too, havethought and thought and burned the mid¬night oil; I, too, have lived and loved andsuffered: I, too, have seen the Light!) So Ifollow the usual procedure. I tell all. Iexplain how. Gather 'round.Unlike many of our modern literary cob¬blers, however, I stick to my last. I knowmy subject. I should like to tell my read¬ers—if any—how to think, how to eat, oreven how to reproduce; but I feel incapableof such teaching. I think like a collegesophomore, eat seldom and then like a wolf,and have had no success—I hope—in repro¬ducing my kind. But I have succeeded inbeing unhappy without too much effort,seem, in fact, to have a singular faculty forunhappiness, so as explanation of that fineart is within my scope.The prime requisite of a career in unhap¬piness is birth. Obviously, the unborn can¬not be unhappy. Once you are born youare well on your way to your goal: you arepotentially unhappy. But a hardly lessimportant point is to be born in a religiousenvironment, religious in the good, old,militant, our - gods - are-the-true-gods-and-your-gods-are-sons-of-bitches, sense. To at¬tain this is not impossible. It is surprisinghow much of that sort of thing exists evenin this scientific, enlightened age. Humanityclings to the venerable traditions—or per¬haps venerable is not the word.But let it suffice that you are born in anatmosphere of hard-shelled sectarianism. Bythe time you discover your mind-—or becomeso deluded, if you will—it will be crammedso full of Biblical drivel—that is to say,none of the poetry and all of the absurdity—that no matter how you try to thinkstraight, for years you will be torn betweenfact and fancy, reason and faith, and con¬sequently you will be deliciously unhappyfor some time. But as you grow older, thatpoignant ache of unhappiness will subsideinto the numbness of indifference, so youmust strengthen the groundwork in yourstructure of unhappiness. This can be donein various ways, but the easiest is by becom¬ing aware, at an early age, while you arestill young and vigorous in spirit, compara¬tively sound in mind and body.To become aware of the meaning of life(as doubtless you have been told time and time again) you must become steeped inexperience, you must live. But first you canget a great amount of vicarious experience byreading. Read anything, everything, in¬discriminately. After a few years of assid¬uous reading, you will become thin and weakand almost blind, but even so, for awhileyou will think that you arc defeating yourown purpose; you will be happy. The eye¬glasses which you will be forced to wearwill give you an intellectual look, accentuatedby your high cheekbones and sallow com¬plexion. Your mind will be cluttered witha jumble of half-truths and platitudes whichyou will mistake for knowledge. Peeringthrough your rimless eyeglasses, you willspout your rote disguised as the great truth,you will wallow in your little ego, you willbe disgustingly happy. But sooner or later,especially when you get out into the world,my boy, (he said paternally) your platitudeswill bounce back in your face, you will be¬gin to see that you are not wise, but merelyclever. Your unhappiness will return inrushing tide when you learn that you arenot even clever, but only a clown, anignoramus.Yes. my boy, get out into the world andreplace vicarious with direct experience. Viewyour scribbling theorists in the light of prac¬tical, everyday life. (My God, how manytimes this Depression has been cured onpaper.) See your academic windbags de¬flated by the common, ordinary man-in-the-street, (Ah, the inexplicable wisdom ofthe great unwashed!) But ignore suchthings and strive painfully for that friend¬ship you have read about, and learn that itis a fiction, because everyone is as selfish,hypocritical, and cowardly as you arc. Fallin love, by all means, while you still be¬lieve in fairy tales; soar high, higher, thatyou may fall the harder. (Newton, what?)Remember how the heroes of your prettybooks acted when they were disappointed inlove or friendship. Go to hell in theromantic fashion.Prowl at night when virtuous men shouldbe in bed, play the lone wolf, snarl and fightand lick your wounds. Crouch in darkcorners. Observe. Learn that virtue hasno monoply on brains or courage. Get into'conversation with a stranger, have him de¬flate your whole glorious philosophy of life,your treasured opinions, have him prove thathe is a better man than you are, much moreintelligent: then discover that he is a pimpor a drug peddler or a pickpocket, an outand out scoundrel in the eyes of the world.Fight with a hoodlum at a bar and learnthat your strength is not necessarily thestrength of ten because your heart is pure.Lose faith, then, get lecherous, drink andcarouse, try your talents at the darker arts inbars and bedrooms. Let your brain seethein alcohol, get the defeatist attitude, dwellon the good old frustration theme, negation.(Verily, there is nothing behind the cur¬tain.) See men you have considered inferiordo easily what you cannot do at all. (" . . .Desiring this man's gift and that man'sscope . . . ") Degenerate into self pity andstrangle in your tears, make the night hideouswith your lamentations. And all the while,know that you cannot deceive yourself,know that you are acting for the benefit ofyour pretty, little vanity.Grow older, then, and come back to thegood life through the healing influence ofnature. Walk in the parks, look up at the sky, the clouds, the trees; (I think that Ishall never see, tra la la la la la) and downagain to the paths and lawns cluttered withevidences of man’s ignorance, gluttony,sluttishness, and lechery.Consider yourself superior, then, turn upyour nose at the vices of other men, observehow spotless you are yourself. Walk downthe street and see some brutal person mis¬treating a horse or a dog. Smash the foulbrute into the gutter with one terrible blowif he is weaker than you are—for after all,there are some things that make a gentle¬man's blood boil. Or call a policeman tobe your whipping boy if the brute seemscapable of defending himself—for after all,would not this be a terrible, terrible worldif everyone took justice into his own hands.Pat yourself on the back, praise God that Hemade you a man. and then go home and lashyour wife, mentally if you do not have thecourage to do it physically. Or your em¬ployes. or the waitresses in the corner restau¬rant. or the blind beggar woman in the cellarof whom no one knows but you.Yes. become aware: of the sickening inhu¬manity of man and of your own slyinhumanity; of the rank injustice of theexisting social order and of how you profitby it even as you rant against it; of thestupidity and unfairness of the social castesystem and of how stupidly and unfairlyyou concede superiority to some men.equality to others, inferiority to most: of theinsanity of war and of how you stir at thesound of martial music; yes, become awareof these and a thousand other things, be¬come aware of the misery of man and ofyour own misery, and then go out andwelter in your unhappiness.Of course you must see the whole glori¬ous panorama, must get the proper perspec¬tive, the correct arrangement of light andshade: and you must see yourself as a de¬tail of the beautiful picture. You can lookat other men’s inhumanity, refuse to recog¬nize your own, and be happy; you canrattle the skeleton in other people’s cup¬boards, say that the one in your cupboardis Mahatma Gandhi, and be happy; youcan point the finger of shame at another per¬son’s dirty undershirt, swear that your ownwas black when you bought it, and behappy: you can thank God that you are notlike other men. and be happy; but you willalso be a liar, a cad. a prig, (in the modemspelling), and a hypocrite.But perhaps even if you are as fortunate asI am, even if you can understand the intricatePattern, perhaps you will not be unhappyafter all. Maybe you will be merely amused.1 have watched numerous men when theythought they were alone, have noticed aflicker of a smile on their faces, the trace ofa cynical grin. Perhaps at the time, theywere sublimely isolated from their petty re¬lations with their fellows: perhaps theystood momentarily alone on an intellectualmountain top, looking down, divinelyamused at the ludicrous spectacle of gregari¬ous mankind; but 1 am afraid they werethinking with sardonic glee of the millionthey stole while giving away a thousand,with moronic delight of the last two-reelcomedy at the Bijou, or with sly malice ofthe bad two-dollar bill they passed on theMadame at the successful conclusion of theirlast lodge night.Thus spake Zarathustta.COMMENT Page TwoFAREWELL MIAMI . . . .I HADN’T been back in Miami two dayswhen Doa Latshaw called up. “We’rehaving a little party over at the housetonight,” he said, after a nervous ques¬tion about my health. “We want you tomake it if you can.”“Why—you bet, Don,” 1 said, tryingnot to sound too surprised. “How’s Dale?”( I'his casually).“Oh, she’s fine. She asked me to callyou,”“I’ll be there.” I said, and heard him hangup.The winter before this Don Latshaw hadbeen my rival, if that’s the word. He was ahometowner, a young solid citizen, an Elkand a Lion, with a good dental practice, aFlorida boy of good family, quiet, seriousand self-conscious, with a rather pitiful wayof trying to be carefree and the good fellowwhen he thought the occasion demanded it.He had been somewhat engaged to DaleYoungblood when 1 met her. Within threeweeks I was taking her about and he waspracticing a hurt, beaten look,I felt sorry for him. and I suppose Daledid. but we liked each other too well toworry about him much. and. anyway, Inever had been a man to question a gift fromheaven. For a while. 1 suppose. 1 thoughtof her seriously.Not as seriously, though, as this Latshaw.Wherever we went we found him. stagging,for he must have thought Dale would relentwhen she kept seeing him alone and forlorn.Maybe he thought, too. that he could touchmy heart. But Dale didn’t relent and myheart wasn’t touched and his Lonesome Lov¬er campaign hurt only himself and got onlyhis own pity, though there seemed to beplenty of that.I don’t know how it was Dale and Ididn’t get married that winter. 1 know Iwas never closer to the altar. I never had aprettier girl or one who flattered me as much.She used to tell me I might not know it butshe was meant for me; she felt it: she justfelt it. And that was very flattering comingfrom her because she had an idea she was abit psychic: she said she knew and feltthings beyond the reach of prosaic peopleand I could laugh if I liked.Psychic or mildly paranoiac, she broke offwith a respectable young dentist with ahouse, a bank account, a good practice and alot of southern background and tradition togive her company exclusively to a migratoryhack whose idea of wealth was an occasionalfive hundred dollars all in one piece. Shesaid she loved me, and I said I loved her. andI wonder sometimes if I didn’t.There were nights on the beach, on FinchMurphy’s little cruiser and on lonely Floridaroads with the moonlight and the sweetheavy night air of the South that remain asclimaxes in my memory. But I don’t know.All I can say now is that when April cameand I couldn’t afford to stay down anylonger I found myself kissing her goodbyeand getting on the train with a sort of numb,stupid feeling that couldn’t have been sor¬row. I know I could have become tearful,as she did, and make some definite, passion¬ate promise, but I didn't; I only said “Good¬bye, darling. I'll write every night,” andwent to my berth feeling that somethingwithin me was being shut off slowly with asmall dull pain; and, of course, I didn'twrite every night; within a month when Ibegan knocking around the Midwest doing a series of articles on the Condition of theFarmer I had quit writing to her at all.Dale’s letters kept coming a long time.Jaunty at first, funny and full of unre¬strained, downright indiscreet assurances oflove; then they began to change gradually:the assurances of love disappeared and thejauntiness increased until it became almostsmartaleck; then it, too, vanished, and thelast few letters were short, matter-of-fact re¬ports of life with the old crowd, restrainedto a point that was stifling; then there wereno more letters.The next word came in July. It was awedding announcement. Dale was marryingher Lonesome Lover. As I read it thosenights came back; I could hear the insistentrhythm of the surf, the rattle of the rain inthe palms, the lap of the black water on thehull of Finch Murphy’s boat lying out onBiscayne bay through tropical nights. Ibegan to feel sorry for Dale, ended by feel¬ing a little sorry for myself and wonderingwhy anybody ever left Florida anyway, andwithin a couple of days I had forgotten thematter. This was January now and I wasback in Miami feeling superior and detached,merely a tolerant, observant former residentback for a sojourn in the sunshine.It was a little different after Don’s invita¬tion. He had been frank; “She asked me toinvite you.” Why.^ What was I going tosay to explain the lapse in correspondence.'*Should I even mention it? How was I sup¬posed to act toward Dale? And toward Don?I tucked away a few Bacardis before start¬ing that night. I was going to be jolly, atleast, and polite, and impersonal. Thatseemed to be the program.The house was out north, a two-story tanstucco of the Spanish-boom type. Judgingfrom the lights, music and voices and thenumber of cars around the place the partywas well in session. A rather good-lookingblond with a flat, open face and an air ofeager tipsiness welcomed me at the door.“Come in, come in! Don’t know whoyou are and don’t give a damn, but it isn'tmy house anyway. We’re friends, allfriends.”“I’m—” I began when Dale appearedfrom somewhere.“Joel” she said. She took my hand andsmiled as if reading my mind. Her mannerwas sweet and mild. “It's nice to see you,”she said, backing off and taking a look.“Gee!” Unlike the others, she was coldsober. She looked better than when I sawher that last night at the train: she wasn’t soheavy about tljc eyes, the little hollows hadleft her cheeks and her figure had filled a bit.It was really good to see her.Familiar faces leered smilingly over out¬stretched hands and I was whisked fromgroup to group, saying hello to the old onesand meeting the new ones. Drinks appearedeverywhere. There was no time to talk in¬timately with Dale. It was Don, thoughthat I was wondering about.“Where’s our host?” I asked one of theold ones. Chuck Titus.“Don!” he shouted. “Company, Don!”He grabbed my arm. “Come out to thekitchen. Don’s bartender.”In the kitchen there was Don mixingthem and pouring them while three or fourguests kept busy getting in his way. Donlooked up, then back at the drink he wasmixing, as if caught at something shady. Hegrabbed a towel and fussed at drying hishands, bis eyes still down. “Glad to see ♦ by ARTHUR SHUMWAYyou back,” he said, coming forward and tak¬ing my hand. He went back to his bartend¬ing, pausing to down the one he had justmade. He was unsteady and his face was abeautiful red.Chuck was trying to be the clown of theparty. “Bet you birds are glad to see eachother again,” he snickered.Don mumbled something and I grinnedlike a Jukes.Chuck took up the big butcher knife Donhad been using on the limes. “Boy, howdy,is this knife sharp!” he said. “Hey, Don,look at the swell knife. Why don’t youtake it and cut Joe's throat now he's righthere and everything?”The kitchen crowd, all new ones andtherefore innocent, I suppose, began to laugh.Don looked up with as sickly a smile as Iever saw. I grabbed two drinks. “I’ll takethese in to the troops.” I said and lost notime.Dale met me as I entered the living room.“Did you sec Don?” she asked.“I did,” I said.“Do you think he’s changed much?”“Why—I don’t know.”“He’s put on twenty pounds.”“Good for him then.”“He weighs a hundred and seventy now.Last winter he only weighed a hundred andfifty.”“Married life must agree with him,” Isuggested.She nodded complacently. “That’s whathe says. Do you think it’s agreed with me,Joe?”She was being peculiar. “I guess it must,”I said, “Anyway, you’re certainly lookingswell. You’ve put on a little meat your¬self—not too much, though. You lookgreat. Dale, really. But then you alwaysdid look pretty sweet.”“You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”she said shyly.“No—honest—you know what I mean.”“Any new . . . adventures?”“Well ... I met AI Capone.”“You’re not engaged or anything, I mean?No little ephemeral affairs of the heart?”“Oh, no. No, still a free agent. Youknow me. What would 7 do with a wife?”“I don’t know. What would you dowith a wife?”“Probably beat her and kick her and callher nasty names,” I said.Dale was looking up into my eyes, herown half closed and her lips pursed quiz-ically.“Well, I probably would,” I insisted.You know the kind of an old lecher I am.”She only smiled.A lot of sentences began popping into myhead. Such as I’m awfully sorry I didn'tanswer your last letter. Or: How do youand Don get along? Or: I was an awful ass.Dale, As it was I stumbled on and said,“Are you happy. Dale?”She kept looking into my eyes throughthose half closed lids and smiling that purse-lipped sidelong smile. “Are you?” she asked.I shrugged. “You know me, the oldplayboy of the mid western world.”She widened the smile a little, then re¬laxed. “Most of your old playmates archere tonight.”“So I see.”“Let me get you another drink.”“Don't mind if you do. Say, aren't youdrinking tonight?”She shook her head and smiled and wentoff into the kitchen. I took a deep breath(Please turn to Page Four)Page Three COMMENTFarewell Miami . . .(Continued from Poge Three)and looked around wondering what next.Don wasn’t on the horizon; that was onecomfort.I fell into conversation, if you could callit that, with the open-faced blond who hadlet me in. What I mean is I found myselfin a chair in a dark sunparlor with her onthe arm, chattering.never saw you before tonight,” sheaccused.“That’s right,” I said. ”I thought thesame thing the minute I saw you. I thought,‘All my life, there’s the girl I never sawbefore.’ I don’t know. Fate, I guess.”“What’re you trying to do, mister, kidme?”“Oh la, no, not I.”She giggled and nearly fell off the chair.As it was, she fell into it, onto my lap.“Whoops, m’dear,” she said, and giggledagain.“Oh goodie,” I said, “now we’re en¬gaged.”“I don’t know as I want to be engagedto you. You kid people and your hair iscurly and you’ve got a green tie on and you’refrom Chicago, I bet, and you drink, and—besides I know my mother wouldn’t likefor me to be engaged to more than one boyat a time.” She finished by pouting andtugging aimlessly at my new tie.“Say,” I said, rescuing the tie, “did I evertell you about my operation?”“No, tell me,” taking another death gripon the barathea.So I tried to make a little offhand love toher, but it didn’t go so well. I was sur¬prised, too, because she was willing and re¬ciprocal and really attractive in an obviousway.I heard Dale’s voice. “I thought you weregoing to wait while I got you anotherdrink,” she chided. I looked up bewilderedand rather ashamed.“Oh, he’s got the cutest operation,”whined the blond, starting to giggle. “Hepromised to show me his operation, didn’tyou, Joe?”Dale put the drink on the end table andwent out.“Say,” demanded the blond, “is she madat us or what?”“I'll bite,” I said. I looked after Dale.Her back was straight and told me nothing.It vanished toward the kitchen. “She isn’tdrinking tonight,” I said. "Maybe we seemkind of unnecessary. You know how it iswhen you aren’t drinking.”“I don’t care if she is mad,” said theblond, grabbing the tie and pulling medown. “She isn’t married to you, anyway.”“No,” I said, “she isn’t.”“I’m not mad, are I?”“I don’t know: are you?”I got up and pulled her to her feet. Ikissed her once, hard, my hand on her breast.“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” I said.“How’s for another drink and then out andget the pure, God-given night air?”“Okay by me,” she said, blinking at thelight shining in from the noisy living room.I went out to the kitchen. Don was stillthere, redder than before, and looking verysickly drunk. He was sitting with his el¬bows on the kitchen table brooding over ahalf-empty glass. A couple of lads wererummaging in the ice box. Don looked upat me and scowled dizzily. He reached forhis drink and downed it, then he nodded de¬cisively, thrust out his lower lip and man¬aged to fix a look on me. “Well,” he said,thickly, “how they goin'?” “All right,” I said.“How they goin’, huh?” he repeated.“Okay, Don.”“Okay, huh?”“Yep. Got another couple of drinks forsome thirsty citizens?”“Huh? Drinks? Yeh. There it is, sec.There’s bottle, there’s glasses, ’sfree.” Hewas keeping his eyes on me. You don thave to pay for it. I’m givin’ it ’way.”I poured two drinks and went out. Hewas still looking at me, his lower lip thrustforward, his eyes sejuinted, his elbows sway¬ing on the table.When I got back to the sunparlor a red-cheeked, plump and very young man wasscolding the blond. She was taking it witha silly grin. “Pardon me,” the young fel¬low said curtly, dragging the blond out intothe living room and out to the porch. Shelooked back at me with the same silly smile.She was beginning to get woozy, I judged.“Whoops, m’dear,” she said.A girl next to me took the drink I hadfixed for the blond. “That’s the boy friend,”she said. “He was looking all over for lola-Jean.”“My God! ”“Huh?”“lola-JeanV“That’s her name,” the girl said, noddingsolemnly over the glass.“Say—Gannon!”I turned. It was Don Latshaw. in thekitchen doorway.“Yes?”He beckoned with his head.1 went over. “What’ll you have. Don?”“Want talk to you, see. C’mere,” Hejerked his head again, this time toward adoor on the right. He led me in and closedthe door. It was a bedroom.“This m’bedroom.”“Oh.”“This where Dale an’ I sleep.”1 said nothing.“C’mere.” he said. I followed him tothe dresser. “See that?”It was a photograph of me, one I hadgiven Dale that last winter, framed in asilver frame.I smiled.Don started to take out a cigarette, butmade such a job that I offered him one ofmine. He took it mechanically, his eyescontinually on mine. “Thanks,“ he said,aggressively. I lit his cigarette, then my own.He took a deep inhale.“Know who put that there?” he asked,nodding toward the photograph.“No,” I said, knowing mighty well hehadn’t.“Dale did. She put that there.”“Oh.”“Know what? ” he said, trying to keep hiseyes squinted on mine.“What?”“Know why she put that there?”“I can’t imagine.”“She’s going to have a baby.”“Well—I’ll be damned. I suppose con¬gratulations are in order.”He looked at me with concentrated scorn,swaying from side to side.“When’s the blessed event coming off?”I asked.“Pretty soon.”Then that’s why she isn’t drinking to¬night,”He ignored the remark, “Know why sheput that picture there?” he demanded, get¬ting his face right into mine.“I’ll bite.”She wants it to look like you,” he saidthrough his teeth. He was panting.“You’re crazy.” "Oh. I’m crazy, huh? I’m crazy, am I?”His little eyes had a fierce, insane gleam.“Well,” I said, “that’d be pretty toughon the pcK>r baby, you’ll have to admit.”His lip curled.“Listen, you’re a smart son-bitch, aren’tI shrugged and turned away intending toleave him there, but his hand had somehowgotten onto my arm and he repeated it:“Smart son-bitch, huh?”“I’ve been called both,” I agreed. “Whatthe hell’s eating you?”“I suppose you wish it was your kid.don’t you?”“What do you mean?”“You heard me all right. You’re smartson-bitch all right. I suppose you wish itwas your kid Dale was goin’ to have, don’tyou?” He gave me a spasmodic smile withone side of his face, the side toward whichhis lip had curled, as if the other were par¬alyzed. “Only you didn’t have any kid,did you?”“Shh! Not so damned loud, Don. Now,what the hell’s the matter with you.'’”“You think I don’t know, don’t you?’’“For God’s sake not so loud. You’recrazier than hell—”"Who’s crazy?” he shouted. “I sup¬pose you think I don’t know all about youand Dale.” He laughed in my face, an idi¬otic laugh.“Listen,” I said, “you’re drunker than ahoot owl. Let’s get out of this. Come on.”I took his arm. He recoiled as if I had stabbedhim and flung my hand away. “Take yourGod damn hands offa me!” he screamed.“Don’t you put your filthy God damnhands on me! You thought I didn’t know,didn’t you?”“Shut up! Shut up before I have to gagyou, you crazy damned fool!”He pushed me on the chest so hard I fellonto the bed. “Let’m hear me! Let’m hearme!” he screamed. “/ don’t give a good Goddamn if they do hear me!” He began tosob, and lurching forward, threw open thedoor. Everybody was staring in. I sawtheir eyes as I struggled up from the bed.I jumped over and clapped my hand overhis mouth and tried to kick the door shutbehind us.Chuck Titus was standing in the door¬way with a silly grin on his face. “Fight,fight.” he shouted. “Hooray!”Don’s teeth clamped on my fingers. 1jerked my hand away, pushed him with itand turned on Chuck. “Get out of here,you half-wit.” I said, pushing his face withthe flat of my hand. Chuck went stumblingbackward and sat on the floor. I lookeddown to make sure he wasn’t coming back,but the idiotic expression had left his face.He looked scared. “Don’t, don’t!” he yelled.“Don!”I heard a scream from one of the girls. Istarted to turn when something hit me.There was a grinding jolt and a flame thathurt my eyes and clear back into my head.Then I knew the floor was hitting me andthe curtain was being rung down. It didn’tgo down, though, all the way, because Icould feel my hands beside me on the floor,pushing, as I tried to get up. Somebodymust have helped me. Through the whirlof the room I saw Don Latshaw, tears allover his face, sobbing, and stretched towardme like a dog on a leash. One of the boyshad him from behind. My hand began tohurt. It was wet. I held it up and saw itwas bleeding. I looked down at the floor.There was glass all over it and from it rosea sickening odor of perfume.A hand was pulling at my arm. I sawDale. Her face was tight on the bones and(Please turn to Page Sme)COMMENT Page FourBITTERSWEET . . . . bt/ CYRIL JOHN CLARKE^ HIS isn’t a bad place,” the girl^ I ^ said. “The drinks are alwaysI pretty good.”It's all right.” the youngman said.“I haven’t been here for a long time,” shesaid.“Neither have I.”“I haven’t been here since the last time Iwas here with you.”“I haven’t either.”“That’s two months ago.”“Yes,” he said, "I guess it is. just about.”“It’s exactly two months. Two monthsago tonight.”“What a memory.”“Yes. I’ve got a good memory.”“A good memory isn’t always a goodthing,” he said.She picked up her drink and finished itand set the glass down on the bar again.“Oh yes,” she said, “memory is always agood thing. Sometimes I think memory isthe only good thing there is. You can al¬ways be happy remembering happy times.”“What about the other times though?What about the times you don’t want toremember?”She shrugged her shoulders. “They’repart of the good times I suppose. You takethe bitter with the sweet.”“That’s just it.” he said. “That’s thetrouble. 'Ilie bitter is always mixed upwith the sweet.”“Some bittersweet things are nice.”“Even the things that were sv/oet some¬times turn bitter afterwards.”“Not if they were really sweet to you.Not if you really enjoyed them.”“Yes, even if they were very sweet at thetime. It’s not the same after. You look atit from a different viewpoint afterwards,”“You don’t have to.”“You do though. You have to. Youcan’t stand still. Nobody can stand stillever. You’re always changing. When youstop changing you’re dead.”“Some things don’t change.”“Everything docs. Everything changes.”1 he girl fingered her empty glass. “Stopnursing that drink,” she said.He finished his drink and set the glass be¬side hers on the bar. One of the bartenderscame and stood in front of them,“What do you want?” the young manasked. “The same?”“I guess so.”“T wo more,” he said to the bartender.1 he bartender took away the empty glass¬es and returned in a minute with their drinks.He took a bill from the little pile of moneylying on the bar in front of the young man.1 hey sipped their drinks for a while with¬out talking, looking at themselves in themirror and listening to the music of theradio through the noise of talk and laughterand clinking glasses. A man standing atthe middle of the bar stepped back suddenlyand began to address the room in general.He was very drunk and swayed unsteadily.“Prohibition,” he said. “What is pro¬hibition? Can you tell me? I can tell you.A failure. That’s what prohibition is. It’sa failure.” He flung one arm out in a largegesture that almost upset him. “It’s a suc¬cessful failure, I tan get a diink any timeI want. Who says I can’t get a drink if Iwant? To hell with Volstead, We’ll havebeer by Christmas.”“Christmas is passed. Tommy,” a man atthe bar said. “What if it is? We’ll have beer by gro¬cery stores. To hell with beer. Christmasis a failure. Am I right?”“Sure Tommy, you’re absolutely right,”the man at the bar said. “Come on and havea drink.”“I’ll do that little thing,” the drunk said.“I’ll just do that little thing.” He took hisplace at the bar leaning heavily against it.Everybody along the bar was laughing.“Well, prohibition seems to be a failure,”the girl said.“Too bad. It was a noble experiment.”“What have you been doing lately,” sheasked.“Nothing much. What have you?”“Oh. the usual things.”“I guess that’s about all anybody everdoes. The usual things.”“Oh, I don’t know. What about us to¬night?He glanced at her briefly and then lookedback in the mirror. “What about us?” hesaid.“We aren’t doing the usual thing.”“What do you mean?”“Being together like this isn't the usualVincent (Juinnthing for us. It used to be but not anymore. It’s really quite a special occasion.”He drank from his glass and set it back onthe bar and stared at it.“I suppose that’s one of the things thatchange that you were talking about,” shesaid.“Nothing lasts forever.”“No. No I suppose not.”One of the waiters went past them carry¬ing a trayful of beer to the booths at therear of the room.“That beer looks good,” the young mansaid. “I think I’ll have a beer. Do youwant one?”“No. I’ll have another highball.”The bartender took their order andbrought the drinks,“What is this special occasion about?”the girl asked.“It isn’t any special occasion.” “Oh yes it is. It's a very special occasion.”“You seem to have all the dope on it.”"Maybe I have. You don't know.”"You're quite a clairvoyant.”"Oh no,” she said. “I don't have to bea clairvoyant to know that when you callme up and ask me to go out with you forthe first time in two months it's about some¬thing special. I wouldn't have to be so veryclairvoyant for that.”“Maybe you know what it's all aboutthen.”"Maybe I do.”She looked at herself in the mirror and re¬arranged her hat. The young man staredat the beer glass he was twirling betweenhis hands on the bar.“What is it about?” she asked.“I thought you knew what it’s about.”“I do. I want to hear you say it though.”He continued to stare at the glass in hishands and did not say anything."I don’t really want to hear it,” she said.“I just have to.”“That doesn’t sound very sensible.”“Did you expect me to be sensible?”“Of course I did.”“Well, I will be. It’s all right. I’ll besensible.”“Of course you will.”“I might not have though,” she said. “Imight not have been sensible at all.”“But you will.”“Yes.”She finished her drink and sat for a mo¬ment staring into the mirror, staring withher face impassive and her eyes dark.“Are you going to marry her?” she askedstill looking in the mirror.He twirled the glass uncomfortably in hishands and did not look up at her.“Yes,” he said.“It is a special occasion then, isn’t it?”“How did you know?” he asked.“My woman’s intuition. It’s really awonderful thing, a woman’s intuition. Tex)bad men don’t have it too isn’t it?”She lit a cigarette. “Is she prettier than Iam?”“1 don’t know.”“Everybody thinks I’m very pretty. Youused to think so.”“You are pretty.”“You haven’t told me about it. Whathappened?”“Nothing happened,” he said. “I justfell in love that’s all.”“What happened about me though? Youused to be in love with me.”“This is different.”“Oh yes, of course,” she said. “I know.You’ve found your one true love. The onewoman in all the world.”“I suppose that could happen couldn’tit?”“I don’t know. Could it?”“Why not?”“Nothing lasts forever you said. Whatabout your true love? Will that last?”He propped his chin in his hand andstared into the mirror. “I don’t know,” hesaid. “Some of it may. It will change. Ifwe change with it part of it might last.”“You’re not very sure.”“Nobody’s ever sure. Nothing is certain.”"Except death and taxes,” she said. "Let'shave another drink. I want to drink toyour true love.”"What do you want, another highball?”“No, straight whiskey.”(Please turn to Page Nine)COMMENTPage FiveTHY ROD AND THY STAFF .The road was warm and deep in dust.It ran for the most part along thebase of round hills, whose slopeswere wooded where they were toosteep to be plowed by team. The chain ofhills against the road matched almost topfor top another chain across the narrow val¬ley floor. Sometimes passing clase to thefarm houses which spaced the land the hillsenclosed, a bright swift stream made a waythrough the middle of the green flats of thevalley.Everything — the farms, the land, thefields—was very old. Dogwood ran inwhite and gold patches up the hillsides andthe trees too were very old. The man onthe dusty road could plainly hear the streamamong the stones in its bed, but as in itsvalley it ran before him turning in andaround the hills he could see it glitter onlyin short lengths at one time. The hillsoften cut across the valley and in the mileshe had walked from town the hills closeagainst him rising from the side of the roadhad occasionally come near to the creek, orthe creek had come to the hills—then hewalked with a hillside on one hand and thecreek on another, as the road went narrowlybetween. At times the creek came so closethat the road must cross it on little woodenand unpainted wagon bridges; and crossing,went along the low hills opposite as the val¬ley tightened to only the road and the noisywater.The day was very warm and he was verywarm. He walked slowly—feeling himselfon familiar land, like a homecomer withmuch traveling finished—but yet the roadwas unfamiliar to him. He was damp andvery tired, and the occasional car that rattledtoward the town dusted him as he stood atthe very edge of the road, his face only part¬ly averted from the dust as he tried to lookdown the stares from the cars as they passed.Many were going to town, because it wasSaturday, to buy or to stop and talk withthe people in the town, or to sit in theirdusty cars along the curb, waiting to recog¬nize and casually nod to one of the manyfaces going by.The sun made everything hot and hazedwith blue, and as he crossed the brook againhe left the road and went down under thelittle bridge. He hesitated there, poised ona flat stone with the water rapid and closeto him, looking down at it as he wonderedif it were clean enough to drink. He smileda little as he thought of all the streams likethese that he had eagerly drunk from, in hisearlier boyhood and, laying his ragged suit¬case against a bridge support, he knelt onthe stone and drank from his hands. Itfelt solid and cool in his throat. He dippedwater to his face, bringing it into his eye-sockets and rubbing it into the creases ofhis nostrils—as he had learned to do in thecoal fields. With his handkerchief he wipedhis face, and dried his hands on his pants.After wiping his short moustache with onehand he rapidly made a cigarette and crawledback to the road. He was not so tall as mostmen of this country in the hills and he wasvery dark and thin. His recent boyhood hadclearly been sapped by work, so that hisfirm movements now lacked their first grace.He had never been to the home of hisfather-in-law and as many of the farms hehad already passed showed no name on themail post he had had to ask more than once:have I passed Arthur Lawrence’s farm yet?He thought: I’ll ask again.The next farmhouse was close to the road;a fence of rails was laid before the house. seemingly to keep it out of the road. Itsbarn and other buildings were behind it,while back of them stretched a new wheatfield — starting on the farther side of thecreek and running a little way up the hill¬side across the narrow valley. He walkedinto the yard and around the house to thekitchen door, starting up as he did so thefew chickens brooding in the dirt. He askedthe slack woman who appeared in the door:how far am I from Arthur Lawrence’splace?She stared toward his dark wet face. Hereyes fixed on his moustache, after glancingover him. She said, painful-slowly: afteryou turn the road ahead it s two—you saidArthur Lawrence, did you? — no threefarms. He thanked her and she stared himaround the corner of the house.Walking slowly, with the comfort oftree-shadows at only long intervals alongthe road, he came within sight of the thirdfarm. He had had to cross the valley againas the opposing hills came close and nowthe valley and its brook went along theother hand where before the near hills hadgone. Lawrence’s farm was rooted belowthe road, lower than the other side wherea steep hill was. Behind it was a patch ofapple trees and the beginnings of a longpasture. Farther away a field of cornstraddled the stream and went to the bottomof the hills in the near distance. The hillswere wooded heavily and young dogwoodsflared in white patches up the sides.He turned hesitating from the road andwalked slowly down the rough path to thegate of the yard. The house was unpaintedand built on the ground. The floor of itsporch was broken and the earth beneathcrumbled through. Watching him withdull curiosity a young fat woman sat in arocker on the porch. She was Doric’s sister;she did not know him as he walked up toher. It was cool in the shadow of the porchand taking his cap from off his damp hair,he said; I’m Ralph Thiel, Doric’s hus¬band.The woman started heavily: Doric’s hus¬band! Did you walk out from Williams?She looked at him blankly. I’ll tell Ma,she said, and getting up carefully she wentthrough the screen door into the house. 'I'hesmell of the interior came to Thiel—it wascool and earthy, like the bank smell of ariver is. For a long minute he heard theirvoices in the house and soon a tall old wom¬an came out and looked at him. She lookedat him a long time before she said: so you’reDoric’s husband.He was still standing on the walk, flushedand very dusty. His pants and vest weregray with dust. The tall woman stilllooked at him.I suppose you’re Mrs. Lawrence, he said.He wanted to turn and go back down theroad. She nodded slowly, and said after amoment: well, come on up. Sit there—she pointed to the top step. Gertrude movedout of the way and he sat down. Mrs.Lawrence sat down in the rocker. Shefinally asked, after finding the words; didyou just come from West Virginia?Yes, From Hamlin,When did you leave? She spoke slowly,feeling out her words.Thiel said: three days ago, I left Wed¬nesday.Did they lay you off at the mines?Thiel said: I was only working six daysa month. They wouldn t give me any morecredit in the company store—so I thoughtI’d leave. . by E. and F. RICHARDSWell. She was still looking at him, with¬out expression. In a minute she said: whatdo you want with us?He wanted to go. I’ve got to have work,he said, flushing. My dad’s dead now. Hedied a month afore IDoris. He had a farmover in Greene County but we lost it whenhe died. My brother Alfred’s in the army,I guess. I don’t know where he is. So icame on here to see if maybe I couldn’twork here, for Mr. Lawrence. I did farmwork afore 1 went away from home, to thecoal fields. He wanted to go on talking butthere was nothing more to say. Mrs. Law¬rence stood up. She was very tall and thinunder the porch roof. She stared down atthe dusty suitcase on the path, then glancedbriefly up the road before she said: well.Pa’s working the road grader on the stretchabove here. He’ll be home about five. Yousee what he says. She went on after a pause:but he might light into you. He’s alwaysbeen harsh, speaking of you.And she stopped at the door to say; haveyou had lunch yet?He had to lie, he was not very hungry sohe said; yes. I carried lunch from town. Hequickly added: thank you.Sitting silently on the porch edge, hegraduallv received many impressions thatlinked his earlier days in the Blue Ridgewith this. The sunlight constantly shiftedshadows and silhouettes on the hills and eventhe trees along the brook changed. He hadonly the cattle to watch and the shadowsunder the trees and the long valley. Gert¬rude came and went at the voice of hermother. When she sat on the porch nearhim he could feel her wanting to speak butshe ventured nothing. She wanted to askhim about the miners and the life in WestVirginia. She wanted to know about thetowns and the women and all the otherthings she could only guess had life, beyondthe sameness she had always known.And then, as day cooled. Arthur Law¬rence came down the road and into the yard.He walked slowly and heavily: his face andclothes were hard with dust and sweat. Ashe came to the porch he pushed his hat backand then off as he looked up at Thiel Hishead was almost bald. In his eyes therewas no expression but great tiredness, asthough he had always been weary.The two men faced each other, Lawrenceseeing only a stranger—Ralph seeing thefather of Doris. She had looked like this;the hard stocky frame, the wide face, thetired eyes. The resemblance overcame himfor a moment and neither spoke.Thiel said: I’m Ralph Thiel.Lawrence wanted to hate this tall darkboy, but he was very tired. His frame stiff¬ened and he almost spoke but the life thathad suddenly darkened his eyes caved in¬ward, He only looked at the tense boy fora heavy moment, and he turned at last intothe house, without a word. Thiel remainedstanding below the porch, not sure what hadhappened—until finally Gertrude opened thescreen and mumbled: we’re going to catsupper now. Come in and wash up.He put his suitcase on the porch and wentinto the house. The rankness of fried baconfilled the tiny hall where the walls werepapered with magazine pages and the wood¬en floor was bare. He passed through intothe dining room and around the table with¬out looking at the food on it. In the hotkitchen Mrs. Lawrence worked over therange stove and the old man, with his backto the room, was pouring coffee at a table.They had been talking together but when(Please turn to Page Eleven)Page SixCOMMENTSTEEPLE-JACKPASSING St. Mark’s church Maggienoticed that men were repainting itsspire and watched the high farawayfigures. Not being a nervous personshe assumed that such work was no moredangerous than work upon skyscrapers. Go¬ing by the church again, after lunch, she wasaware that a tall man. with windblown face,clad in paint stained workclothes, observedher closely. Shortly she was sure that hewas following her, but Maggie felt no fear.Back in the office Maggie felt restless. Itwas a hot day. and business was slack. Mostof the advertising force were lax about hoursthese days, since the boss knew they’d be onthe job if a rush of work came. Don And¬rews stopped to tease Maggie before loiteringinto his small office. Most of the men inthe firm liked to chat with her. She wasseventeen, a crack stenographer, and likedcomedy. Kiddish as she was. there was aresilience about her which attracted them, andher laugh had a gay voluptuous promise.Maggie too was sure she knew how to handlemen and take care of herself, and the men inthe firm were gentlemen.Maggie thought how nice it would be outon the lake, or in swimming. Her face wasflushed with heat, but her eyes had a warmsparkle. When the door opened her mindwas far away from office duties, but she re¬ceived the incomer with no show of surprisethat it was the man she had seen near St.Mark’s church.His lean, sinewy frame was decidedly tot¬tery as he came to the counter. His blueeyes were bloodshot, and his manner clum¬sily shy."I want to put some ads in papers.” theman mumbled. Maggie smiled disarmingly,seeing that he thought himself too drunk totalk to a lady. “Are any of the gents ini*I got money to pay.” His confidence camethick with the breath of whiskey. Maggiewas used to the smell, and the man wasn’ta fresh sort.”\k'hai sort of an advertisement!*” sheasked, believing he had some drunken idea,or thought this agency would get him work.“I want to put a classified ad in newspa¬pers everywhere to advertise a steeple-jackcorrespondence course,” the man answered.Maggie was amused at the silly ideas peopleget when they’re drunk. Other people, notdrunk, had come into the office with strangethings to advertise. One man had an elixirof youth: and a poet had wished to adver¬tise his pioetry as superior to that of RobertW, Service: and many people had weirdinventions they wished to market.“There’s good money in steeple-jacking,”the man mumbled, tottering toward Maggieas though drawn to her. He tried to standstraight and act dignified, “I got instructionswritten r'ut telling how to go about it, ropefixing, and all that. I got money.”Maggie was surprised when he drew outa huge roll of bills. “Us steeple-jacks dragin the dough, lady. I got more in the bank,too. I ain’t no slouch. I’m a steady guy.I thought I’d advertise this course.”“How did you hear of our agency?”Maggie asked.The man was embarrassed. “Well, lady,I came up in the elevator after you, and I sort of thought where you worked would be allright. I had this idea a long time.”Maggie decided the man had a foolishidea because he was drunk and wanted totalk to her. She’d take his money, andaddress, and see that he got his money backif the boss thought there was nothing forhim to advertise. She liked the outdoorsquality of the man, and saw that he was asimple sort.You give me what you wish, and I’llsee that the ads go into the various papers.Come in again in about two weeks, and letme know if you get any responses. Yououghtn’t drink so much if you are going tostart a correspondence school. It’s funnywhat does sell, but I don’t like taking yourmoney when you’ve been drinking.”1 he man fumblingly handed her $50,Love SoTl^ Elder OlsonJ think as yet no luminous flowerBlooms Without an earthy core:No tree had risen to high fruit.Hud It nowhere to set its root:Aught never grew in wave or airWithout some simple earth somewhere.Fhen, O mysterious tree! disdainNot so this ground where grief has lain:wince the heart's-earth may be at mostNo more than any other dust,Let it not then be any less.But in this land where nothing isThrust all your fiery roots and grow.Though pierced with these I shall not knowAny harm if but your freeGlittering boughs have root in me.saying, “If you say so lady, I won’t drinkbefore I come up next time.” Then he de¬parted, Maggie prepared an ad, curiousabout the fellow, and liking the feel of windand swagger he had brought into the office.Giving copies of the ad to the rate clerk sheforgot about the matter. Within a few daysbusiness had brisked up and Maggie wasbusy. She forgot the man, but was curiousabout flowers and packages of candy whicharrived frequently for her. Nights she wasbeing gay, for she had a regular fellow whotook her to movies and dances, but she knewhe didn't send her these presents. Hecouldn’t afford so many.It was two months before the man cameinto the office again. He was better dressedand sober this time. His hands were clean,he was shaved, and not so red-faced. Evenso, he was awkwardly conscious of his handsand Maggie saw him looking at her mani¬cured nails. He informed her that he hadsold 47 courses of his steeple-jack course at$20 each."Wouldn’t that surprise you?” Maggiesaid encouragingly. “People buy everything . by ROBERT McALMONby correspondence, don’t they? They can’tbuy nerve though, and a steeple-jack musthave that. I thought your ad would scarethem.”“I want to put in a hundred dollars worthof ads this time,” the man said, gazingsheepishly at Maggie. She took the money,and he stood fumbling his hat. Maggiesmiled, not knowing how to put the man athis ease. She liked him. “Lady.” he stut¬tered, “I ain’t much for knowing how totalk to women folk, but I’d like to do some¬thing for your writing that swell ad for me,and all that.”“That’s all right. That’s part of mywork, and I get a commission for placingthe ads,” Maggie said quickly. She under¬stood and didn’t want to string this poorfellow along. She wouldn’t know how totalk to him, and he thought somethingmight come of their knowing each other.“But I’d like to have you go to the theatreor some swell place, if you wanted,” theman finally dared. He was red with panickyshyness. “I ain’t meaning nothing out ofthe way, lady, but your saying that to meabout not drinking made me think maybeyou and me would understand each other.”Maggie blushed and laughed. “Thatwould be awfully nice, if I could,” she lied,“but the man I am engaged to doesn’t liketo have me go out with other men.” Mag¬gie was not engaged, and declared she did notintend to marry for years, if ever. Shewanted to know what things were about be¬fore she settled down, and she wouldn’t playwith this poor fellow.The man got very red, and fumbled hishat. Reluctantly he turned away. Maggiewasn’t sure she heard rightly what he saidbeyond the first sentence. “All right, ma’am.I hope your man’s a good fellow.” At thedoor, still hesitating before he bolted, hemumbled, possibly, “It ain’t no use puttingthat ad in the paper then.”He was gone at once. Maggie wonderedif his course had sold. He was simple enoughto spend money just to see a girl he’d takena fancy to. Possibly though he merely meanthe didn’t want to bother about the course.Maggie felt sorry. She was sure he wouldgo out and get drunk: and she was sure itwas he who had sent flowers and candy toher.It was a busy day, so after typing outthe ads and giving them to the rate clerk,Maggie forgot the man again. Going homethat night she regretted not having gone todinner with him. She understood how hefelt about her and thought possibly she feltdrawn to him too. It wouldn’t have donefor her to fall for a man of his sort though,except that probably he did make bettermoney than the man she was apt to marry.That night Maggie felt cross, and overthe phone refused to go to the movies withher steady fellow. She felt confused, think¬ing that if the steeple-jack had been as at¬tracted by her as he seemed, that there shouldhave been something between them. Shehadn’t bothered to feel so interested or sorryabout other men, in the past, but for a longtime after she wondered if she and the steeple¬jack might not meet again.Page Seven COMMENTCOMMENTA Literary and Critical Quarterly92, Faculty ExchangeUNIVERSITY OF CHICAGOEditor*VERONICA RYANRICKER VAN METRE. Jr.AtsociafotDAY ALAN PERRYCHARLES MERRIFIELDCHARLES TYROLER. IIBusiness ManagerJOHN G. NEUKOMPEARL MORSON, SecretaryFaculty AdvisorsEDITH FOSTER FLINTROBERT MORSS LOVEHStudent PublisherCHARLES NEWTON. Jr.No responsibility is assumed by the University of Chicagofor any statements appearing in COMMENT, or for anycontracts entered into by COMMENT.Publisher's AddressLLOYD HOLLISTER INC.1232-36 Central AvenueWilmette, III.Individual Copies Fifteen CentsOne Year's Subscription fifty CentsRaison d'Etre? . . .This being the last issue of Comment inthe present academic year under the controlof the incumbent editors, a few words bythem as to the justification for the existenceof Comment or any other undergraduateliterary magazine of whatever sort on thiscampus seem appropriate. A discussion ofthis problem is particularly pointed forComment, for we have attempted to copewith it in an unprecedented manner whichhas brought upon us considerable criticism.A strictly campus magazine, confining itscontributors to students, is the ideal of Uni¬versity publications, yet for reasons to beexplained later, such a procedure has neverbeen artistically satisfactory for any lengthof time. A literary magazine of this sortcan maintain high standards only when it issupported by a group of talented campuswriters who can and will turn out enoughcreditable material to fill its pages. Suchwas the old Circle when its contributors in¬cluded Ben Hecht, Elizabeth Roberts, andMeyer Levin, all of them undergraduates atthe time. But their presence on the campuswas necessarily brief, and when they left, theCircle became just another magazine, anactivity affair with politics at the healm.One has only to look to the experience ofComment, of the later Circle, and of that ofactivity-magazines in other institutions, tobe aware that a strictly campus magazinewithout a nucleus of writers such as theearly Circle had, must necessarily fail artis¬tically. Comment set up a standard of ex¬cellence which the editors thought attainableby enough students to fill three quarterlyissues with their production: yet the markwas too high, and in every issue outsidewriters had to be resorted to. It was onlyby so doing that the editors could attemptto maintain the standard they had set forComment. The most recent Circle vanishedfrom the campus after one or two issues, due to a lack of adequate contributions and sup¬port. And such magazines as Northwest¬ern's MS—examples of publications per¬petuated as campus activities and supportedby the students as such—are notoriously in¬ferior; politics and favoritism dictate thechoice of editors, material, and policies tosuch an extent that a truly artistic result isusually impossible.A strictly campus magazine of high liter¬ary standards, then, seems to be a thing ofthe past at Chicago. Even though ourDepartment of English is reputed to be oneof the best in the country, the genteel tradi¬tion that fosters the arts is submerged by thepre-eminence of our scientific departments.Chicago is renowned the world over for itsschools of science, and consequently thesuperior students who are drawn here by thatreputation seem to be predominantly of thescientific temper of mind. As a rule thesestudents are our best undergraduate minds,and they have not yet discovered that scienceand art are not incompatible. When they do—as DeKruif. Maeterlinck. Beebe, and oth¬ers, have done—the time will be ripe for aliterary renaissance along the Midway.Lastly, a magazine such as Comment ispossible here, though its presence on campusis hard to justify. By selecting the best ofthe student work, and relying for the rest onoutside contributors, a magazine of someartistic pretensions can be produced. But.our critics demand, if Comment does not rep¬resent the campus, what right has it to callthe campus its home.^ None, we are forcedto reply, unless it be that only by such aprogram as Comment has followed can somefew embers of a campus literary tradition bekept alive against the day when a superiorand willing group of writers again congre¬gates here, or when a fresh wind of inspira¬tion may emanate from the laboratories, andfan them into a blaze.Qramercy . . .Whatever success Comment has attained isdue in great measure to those friends of themagazine who have assisted the editors invarious ways, and to whom we wish to ex¬press sincere thanks and appreciation fortheir aid.Among the members of the faculty, Mrs.Flint has given generously of her time inreading manuscript, and her excellent crit¬ical advice has been found invaluable: Mr.Lovett’s pointed criticism and suggestionshave been most encouraging: and Mr. Scott,Dean of Publications, has been a helpful andpatient friend of the magazine even in itsdarkest hours.To the student members of the staff, theeditors feel an indebtedness—particularly toCharles Newton, student publisher, and toDay Perry—two gentlemen and two scholars.Thanks are also due to all the authorswho have submitted manuscripts, eventhough they were not found available forpublication.This brings us to the last two peoplewhom we feel merit an editorial gramercy:New York Jim, the campus salesman ofComment, and the Cobb Hall janitor withthe flowing moustache, who lets us into ouroffice when we have no key. Our Contributors . . .SEAN O’SHEA, the whimsical IrUh-American poet (Thin Slices, privately print¬ed) , leader of the Fifty-Seventh Street Move¬ment. and one-time student at the Universityof Chicago, turns to prose in “How to BeUnhappy.” Ironical, witty, and delight¬fully reminiscent of the lighter spirit of theI 8th Century, his verse includes that famousstanza beginning “In this an age of lechery,’’which circulated widely last year as an anon¬ymous production. Since the authorship ofthe piece was disclosed publishers have beenbidding for Thin Slices, and it is expectedto appear publicly next year.Early this Spring ARTHUR SHUM-WAY left his job with the Chicago Heraldand Examiner to return to his native Florida.Both his contributions to Comment (“AGentleman from the Old South” in VolumeI, Number 2, and “Farewell Miami” in thisissue) are results of this hegira. His char¬acters derive from a social stratum untouchedby the Faulkners and Caldwells: the poor,deluded half-gentlemen, half-“crackers,”whom the collapse of the Florida boom andthe depression have left wavering betweentwo social and economic worlds. Shumwayhas also written for Clay, The Midland,Pagany, and other non-commercial maga¬zines. and he has published a novel.The identity of E. and F. RICHARDS(“Thy Rod and Thy Staff”), despite dili¬gent research on the part of the editors, re¬mains a mystery. The locale of their storysuggests that their residence is somewhere inthe rural sections of the United States; be¬yond this vague and feeble inference, theeditors know nothing about them. Themanuscript seems to have found its way tothe editorial desk under its own locomotion.ROBERT McALMON (“Steeple-Jack”)is co-editor with William Carlos Williamsof Contact, and has contributed to numerousperiodicals both here and abroad. A storyof his was included in O’Brien’s Best Ameri¬can Short Stories of 1929. I his is his firstappearance in Comment.CYRIL JOHN CLARKE’S formal edu¬cation consists of one brief year at the Uni¬versity of Chicago some time back. Withthis excellent foundation he has been ableto gain some money and more prestige byhis contributions to such high grade maga¬zines as The American Mercury, The Mid¬land, Comment, and others. “Bittersweetproves that his talents are not confined tothe ironical essay (see “Lo. the Poor Spec¬tator” in Comment, Volume 1, Number 2).He is now writing a novel at the suggestionof Alfred Knopf.GUY CARDEN (“Than All theWorthies Did”) is in his first year at theUniversity of Chicago, holds a Prize Scholar¬ship, and qualified for the College certifi¬cate in English in his freshman entrance ex¬amination without having had any formalinstruction in the University. Those whoare in doubt as to the meaning of ThanAll the Worthies Did” may be enlightenedby reading John Donne’s poem. “The Un¬dertaking,” which includes the lines: AndI have done a better thing. Than all theworthies did.’’To Contributors . . .All manuscripts will be returned to authorsduring the hours of 12:30-1:30 every daynext week in Comment office—room 209.Cobb Hall.COMMENT Page EightFarewell Miami . . .(Continued from Page Four)looked like paraffin. Her voice was quickand husky. “You’d better go, Joe,” she said."Somebody take him to a doctor. Please,Joe, go right away. Oh, Joe, I’m so sorry!’’"Get him out of my house!” Donscreamed. “I’ll kill the son-of-a-bitch!”“Here,” one of the fellows said. “Comeon.’’ He took me by the arm and led meout. When the air hit me I felt woozy andmy legs began to go. I must have passedout on the porch.I didn’t really wake up until next morn¬ing sometime in my hotel with the worstheadache I ever had and a sick stomach. AsI began to get my senses I noticed that myleft hand was bandaged. So was the backof my head. There was a lump there ofadhesive tape or something that when Itouched it shot a cold spasm into mystomach.I lay there all day. Once I had the bell¬boy in to pull down the shades and give mea bromo and some black coffee and once thephone rang and some ass who said he wasTed somebody explained he had brought mehome and had had the doctor look at meand it was nothing serious but he wantedto know how 1 was. I said 1 was afraid I’dlive and he said he was glad. He didn’tknow what to say next so I said it: Ithanked him and called him “pal” and saidI’d see him later.T hat afternoon a note came from DaleLatshaw. "Dear Joe,” it said. “I can’t tellyou how sorry 1 am. I called your hoteltwice this morning and they said you wereall right and not badly hurt, but 1 haven’tbeen able to do a thing all day for thinkingabout you. Don is so ashamed he can’t evenlook at me. He stayed in bed all morningand didn’t even go to work. He’s out inthe backyard now lying in the sun and won’tspeak. He was awfully drunk last night,Joe. I never saw him like that before. To¬day he won’t even talk to me. but I knowit all was about me and that I'm to blame.I never should have had him ask you over,but I so wanted to see you. I only do hopeyou’ll forgive what happened last night. Andlet me hear from you, Joe. 1 must hearfrom you. I’ll come to the hotel if it’s allright. Call me as soon as you can. Dale.”I read that note several times and thoughtabout it from every angle before I wrotean answer. This is what I wrote: “DearDale—I’m all right. Just a little bump onthe head with a perfume bottle and a cuton the hand. That’d never kill anybody.I’ve forgotten about it already. I’m sorry ithad to happen in your house and only wishI could square it with you so your guestswould lay off. I’m going down to the Keysin a day or two for a little fishing. Be good.My best wishes—Joe.”Of course there was a lot more I wantedto say. My best wishes for what, for in¬stance. And that I hoped everything wouldcome out all right with the baby, as muchall right, that is, as it could, everything con¬sidered. I wanted to add: “Tell Don it’s allright,” and almost had the words downwhen I stopped myself.So in a couple of days I went fishing andfrom Key West went on over to Havana forthe rest of the season. The expense cut mytropical holiday short, but that was all rightwith me, I took the boat direct to NewYork from Havana and avoided Miami al¬together. And I don’t think I'm going backthere next Winter, either. Bittersweet . . .(Continued from Page Five)“You’re getting tight,” he said. “You'llbe drunk.”“Well, isn’t that all right? I’m celebrat¬ing. I'm celebrating in honor of your onetrue love.”“You’re trying to make me feel like aheel.”“Oh no, it isn’t that.”“Why don’t you drop it then, about mytrue love?”I can t help it. I can’t help talking aboutit.”He ordered the drinks and the bartenderbrought them. The young man picked uphis highball.“Well,” he said, “what are you going todrink to?”She lifted the whiskey and looked at itagainst the light.“To anything that lasts. And to some¬thing that didn't last.”She drank the whiskey quickly and thendrank a little of the ginger ale the bartenderhad brought for a chaser. She lit a cigarette.“You haven’t said about me yet,” shesaid. “I used to be very exciting to you.What happened to that?”He put his glass down and lit a cigarette.“I don’t know.”“You were in love with me though. Lastsummer when we used to go away for weekends together you were in love with me. Youfound me very satisfying too, didn’t you?”He stared at the burning end of his cigarette.The Demand—for good "homey" foodseems always fo exceedthe supply. However,we're doing our bit toequalize the matter byenlarging our main floorspace to serve twice asmany University people.We invite your inspec¬tion any time.THEGreenShutterTea Shop5650 Kenwood Ave."It's Different" “Didn’t you?’’ she repeated. "Didn’t youfind me very satisfying?”“Oh, cut it out.”“No,” she said. “I want to know.Wasn’t I very satisfactory to you?”“All right then. You were very satisfac¬tory. Is that what you want? Perhapsyou'd like a reference?”“It’s nice to know that you’re all right,”she said. “It wouldn't be very nice to thinkthere was something the matter with youand that nobody would want you.”She smiled into the mirror. She sat theresmiling at herself in the mirror, a bright,mirthless smile, bright as the blade of anewly sharpened knife.“Just friends, lovers no more,” she said.“That’s how it is with us isn’t it?” Shewas still smiling that bright, cheerless smile.He looked at her and then away. "Hav¬ing once been your lover how can I now beyour friend?”“I know.” She was not smiling anymore."It wasn’t just that you fell in love withher. It was something else, too, wasn't it?”“I don’t know.”“You do though. You just don’t wantto say. It’s all right, you can say it. Iwant to hear you say it.”He was watching one of the bartenderspacking ice around the beer tap in the middleof the bar.“I suppose it was because it was onlywhen I was with you that I felt anything,”he said. “It was always outside of me.”“I know. I always knew but I tried notto think about it. I just took what I couldget and tried not to think about the rest.When I did think about it I kept tellingmyself that about man’s love being a thingapart. But I knew.”“It just wasn’t good enough.”“It was pretty sweet though,” she said.“Even if it was bittersweet.”“Yes but it didn’t mean anything. Itwas never real. It was just a part of allthis. Speaks and whoopee. We never didanything but this sort of thing. We nevercould do anything but this. This was allthere was for us.”“This is all there is,” she said. “Thereisn’t anything else.”“There is though.”“I never find anything else.”“That’s just it,” he said. ‘You’ve got soused to this that you can’t see anything else.”She sat silent for a minute and then said,“Yes, that’s quite true. I tried to pretendthat it wasn’t true. I tried to think thatbecause I loved you it wasn’t true but Iknew it was. Something’s gone out of methat can’t be put back. Perhaps it was neverin me.”“It probably was once.”“Perhaps. But it’s gone now.”“It might not be,” he said uncomfortably.“Oh yes, it’s gone all right. Womenaren’t like men. We haven’t a man’sstamina. We burn out.”“I know,” he said.“I loved you but I had nothing to giveyou. It’s just the way I am. I can’t help it.”“Nobody can help anything,” he said.“Let’s not talk about it anymore. I hadto talk about it. I had to hear you talkabout it but now let’s not talk about itanymore.”“All right. And I’m sorry.”“Oh no,” she said quickly. “For God’ssake don’t be sorry!”She sat for a moment looking into thedarkness of her eyes in the mirror and thensuddenly she smiled that sharp, bright smilethat was only on her lips.“Let’s have another drink,” she said.“Something warm. Let’s have a Tom andJerry. I want something to keep me warm.”Page Nine COMMENTThan All the Worthies Did(Continued from Page One)he would return, because he had some verseshe would like me to look over.I do not know whether this threat de¬cided my going to Palermo or not, but Iwas off before he had time to corner meagain.3*During the next two years I was carefulto see him in the distance. I remember himonce in Nice watching the bathers. At theraces walking with one of Joris’s grand¬children. Several times at the theatre: atMalvern with Madame Hunter-Brilivik sgroup, though she was not in evidence, hav¬ing gone, evidently, into her periodicalseclusion. But at last I met him in theone place where he could not be avoidedon shipboard.When I came into the bar I saw him andhe saw me. He put down his glass andmoved toward me. He looked in a confid¬ing mood.‘You are going to the States?’ I asked.‘I am going to Arizona.’‘What?’‘To Arizona. What is Arizona? Is it aprovince or a town?’I leaned towards him. ‘Let me give yousome advice: don’t tell anyone else you aregoing to Arizona.’‘Why?’‘Because there isn’t any such place. It’sa joke, like snipes.’He looked at me with incredible andshocking terror.‘There isn’t any such place! Oh myGod!'He became very nervous. He was whiteand his hands fluttered over the table. Hekept crying to God. I thought he wasabout to weep.‘What shall I do, what shall I do.’ hemoaned.I felt rather sick—he was so taken a-back.I could do nothing but apologize. Heimmediately calmed himself.He said, smiling weakly, ‘You gave merather a turn, you know. Rather a turn.You’re telling the truth this time, aren'tyou?’ He got up, still smiling, and wentout.I had thought he was drunk, or insane,but now I did not know what to think, forI felt ashamed of myself.I tried in all ways I could to make amends,and while he was affable and talkative, hepreserved a manner of reproach that nearlydrove me frantic. On the last night I methim on deck. He was leaning against therail, smoking, his hair blown about by thewind, his hands extraordinarily white,‘It is a long trip,’ I said, attempting toindicate that it was for me, who was underutmost pressure to return, but not for him,to whom this was merely a pleasantly tediousvoyage to an unknown and probably de¬lightful land. I did not dare mention theword Arizona.‘Yes,’ he said, ‘quite long.’ He turnedto me impulsively and started to speak, butstopped. Then he turned back, looking overthe water.‘What is it?’ I asked.‘Nothing. Really, nothing.’I could not press him. So we stood to¬gether, silently. It was not the pleasantsilence that one has with a companion: it was a nervous exciting silence; it was likea high C held so long that one’s nervesseemed stretched to that pitch unbearably.At last he turned, speaking with evidenteffort. ‘Tell me. how far is Arizona fromthe coast?'‘I should say two thousand miles. I reallydon’t know.’‘Quite far.’‘It is really beautiful in an exotic andformidable way.’Yes. I dare say.’‘Perhaps you will see a mirage, or a cow¬boy.’Perhaps.' He threw his cigarette away,‘Excuse me. please. 1 have some packingto attend to. Good night.’ He started tomove away. 1 caught him by the arm.‘Carpenter,’ 1 said, don’t run away. 1want to give you my address—1 want youlo stop with me—.’No. I don’t think I can—1 am goingon, immediately.’When you come back?’‘Thank you—really I must go below.1 il look you up in the directory.’ He pulledaway.4«Hitherto he had never entered my mindexcept when 1 saw him, but now he hauntedmy days and crept into my nights.1 tried to remember all 1 knew of him, Itried to piece everything together, to makea whole, and my picture was after a fashionJames Kenniston s picture, but the episodeson shipboard did not fit in, unless they werea piece of fantastic and incredible dramatiza¬tion. Yet. 1 could not doubt his sincerity;it seemed the clear unself-conscious sincerityof a child. But at last I could only givemyself rest (for I felt that in some wayI had trifled with a private and dear thing)by assuming that it was a monstrous pieceof fabrication, arising from some peculiarneurotic condition. Nevertheless he walkedmy dreams in all shapes from Christ to thethird little bear.A month or so later, when I returnedhome about two, I found him waiting forLLOYDHOLLISTERInc.PrintersandPublishers1232-36CENTRALAVENUEWILMETTEILLINOISPhoneSHEL5687 me. He was half asleep in a chair beforethe fire, a glass in his hand. He did nothear me. I could see part of his face; therewere two great creases down the sides of hismouth. He seemed thinner and quite hag¬gard.‘Good evening,’ I said.He rose unsteadily to his feet, ‘I hope.‘he said, ‘I do not . . . ’ he searched for theword. ‘ . . . impose.'‘Of course not. Anything—‘Thank you. I am leaving tomorrow.I promised. I think, to call on you beforeI left.'‘I hoped you would stay for some time.—Was your trip enjoyable?''I cannot stay. I am called back. Cleverb(X)k of Kenniston’s.' He pointed to Euphuesin Epicenia.Brittle,' I said, ‘very brittle. Too trueto be wholly true.’What do you mean?’Devilishly true—he shows you thingsyou never saw. but he shows you nothingthat you can say is false. 1 hat is where heIS wrong. If I could say one thing is false.I should know he had the whole truth,’‘I don’t understand. How late it is. Imust go. I wanted to stop in. I said Iwould, I think.’Do sit down,’ I said. What are yourimpressions of America Deserta?’He was silent awhile, turning the pagesof Kenniston’s book and looking in the fire.Do you know,’ he said, ‘who Kennistonmeant when he said someone was "moreserene than Shakespeare on an atticshelf’’?’‘Kenniston was more sincere in hisalliteration than in his compliment, I be¬lieve.’‘I do not know him so well. Is it notstrange that we know so few people well.I think,’ he laughed, ‘1 really think I knowyou better than anyone else alive.’’ Then,’ I said, ‘you must tell me whatyou came to tell me.’He looked up startled. What?’ Hetwirled his glass around. He said, still look¬ing at It, ‘But I have. Just now.’He got up and put the glass and book onthe table. ‘Clever bcx)k.’ he said. Weshook hands. ‘Good night,’ he said. Iwalked with him to the door.‘Remember me to Madame Hunter-Brilivik,’ I said.'Didn’t you know?’‘What?’‘She died last Tuesday.’I was taken a-back. ‘I am surprised.’‘No, it was to be expected. She had agreat soul, a great creative soul. I assureyou,’ He looked at me as if he hoped Iwould acknowledge it.‘I did not know she had an especial gift.’‘She had. She created with life.Wherever she was she made life into a dif¬ferent thing,’‘I was not sensitive to it, I am afraid.‘That is not surprising. She did notknow it either. When she was dying Ithought that she would make death into adifferent thing—.’ He stopped short.His hands swept towards his scared face.I looked at him, and I felt a wild com¬prehension roaring within me like a flame.I could not believe it, but it was true. Itmade the whole truth.COMMENT Page TenBooks on theWORLD CRISISrecommended by the Editoriel Committee for the JointBoerd of Publither* end Boobeller*IN THE NEW JUNE LISTINFLATION by Rose and WoodwardClear and impartial. What it is andhow it works $1.50THE MODERN CORPORATION ANDPRIVATE PROPERTY by Berle and MeansA lawyer and an economist assertthat 200 corporations dominateAmerican industry $3.75A PRIMER OF MONEY by Rose andWoodwardWhat we all need to know aboutmoney $2.00AMERICA FACES THE FUTURE—Edited by Beard"The best thought of the best mindson how we may most wisely shape ourfuture" $3.00A NEW DEAL by Stuart ChaseThe hope offered by collectivism .$2.00LOOKING FORWARD by Franklin D.RooseveltThe President discusses vital prob¬lems $2.50THE REVOLT OF THE MASSES by JoseO. Y. GauetA criticism of modern social trendsby the philosopher of the Spanishrepublic $2.75THE ABC OF WAR DEBTS by Frank H.SImondsAs simple a presentation as is pos¬sible $1.00Buy one or more this week. You'll enjoyand profit by them.WOODWORTH'SBOOK STORE1311 East 57th St. Dor. 4800 Thy Rod and Thy Staff . . .(Contimiad from Page Six)Thiel followed Gertrude into the roomeveryone was silent.He knew the wash basin would be out¬side the backdoor, and finding it so, hepoured out water and washed his arms andface. The comb by the basin lacked somany teeth that he only smoothed his hairwith his hands and went back into the din¬ing room. Lawrence was already eating,slowly, his eyes on the table, and Thielwaited until Gertrude came into the roomand pointed to a chair, before he sat. Thegirl was speechless with excitement. He atewell of the thick salt bacon and the boiledpotatoes. Cornbread was stacked in brokenpieces in the center of the table, and abouteverything there were clouds of flies. Thepreserved apples and their syrup had snaredmany. Nothing was said. Lawrence spokeonce—he said to his wife: I’ve got to go upto watch the road machines in the morning.Old man Berry will be on the afternoonshift.Later and after dark as Ralph sat on theporch edge smoking and Gertrude sat againin the rocker, the old man came out. Hehesitated before he said: I'll be up the roadtomorrow morning. Where the tractorsare. It’s about half-mile. Gertrude, showhim where he is to sleep.And Ralph slept in a room alone, butthere was no bed. He slept on a cot. Morn¬ing noises, the animals in the barn, and thesound of milk pails, and the kitchen noiseswoke him. He dressed quickly and wentinto the kitchen, saying good morning toMrs. Lawrence. She was the only one tobe seen. She said, when he came in fromwashing his face: there’s cornbread and cof¬fee in the other room. Pa has gone up theroad. He wants you to go up as soon asyou’re through eating. Gertrude entered ashe was finishing and they both spoke atonce. Ralph stood up. He wiped his mouthwith his wrist and, rolling a cigarette, heleft the house. The morning was clear andvery bright and cool. From the road thatcurved above and away from the farm hecould see more of the valley than he hadseen at any time the day before. It was allfamiliar, the new-planted fields, the cowsgrazing slowly on the hillsides, the slashin the timber on the hill across the flats wherelogs had been hauled down the autumn be¬fore. On his father’s farm it had alwaysbeen like this.The road climbed slowly higher, finallyturning the hill’s shoulder far out over thevalley which now lay below it. After herounded the turn he could see ahead the rowof tractors and road machines Lawrence waskeeping watch over. Ralph did not seeLawrence until he had come up to the ma¬chines and then he saw him lying flat onhis stomach, on the loose-laid boards roof¬ing the night watchman’s mattress on theground below. The old man was readinghis Bible, his lips working over the wordshe read: thy rod and thy staff they comfortme. The spectacles he wore made his deadblack eyes gleam as he looked up. Thielgave greeting first and in return Lawrencemade a sound that was not a word. Theold man carefully marked his place with histhumb-nail and turned to rest on his hipand elbow, facing Thiel where he sat onthe tread of the nearest tractor, and bothmen were silent.Did you have breakfast?Yes, I just had it. He did not knowwhat else to say. Lawrence finally said:they laid you off in the coal fields, did they?Thiel said: I only worked six days a(Please turn to Page Tivelve) THIS SUAAMER..REFRESHYOURSELFANDDINEat thePLAZA CAFEAND BARBERGHOFF and BUDWEISERon Draught—Stein lOcAny Kind of BoHled Boor on lc«Sandwiches iOcNoon Lunch . .30cDinner 40cOPEN TILL ONE A. M.1464-66 East 57th StreetPage Eleven COMMENTA new and morecomplete stock ofdrugs and sundnesBreakfast Lunch CKnnarT17 Our ServiceSandwiches and Special¬ties at Al Hours . .1321 East 57th StreetWe Deliver Phone H. P. 0331The Friends of IndiaPresentKing Shudraka'sFamousHinduDrama"THE LIHLECLAYCART"atInternational HouseTheatreJuly 7, 8, 28 and 29CO month tl^sc last twolooked down over the valley. ,His cows werejust visible against the shadowy frees.Thiel wanted the other to s^ak first ,b^tthe silence became too long. ‘ At last he saiduncertainly: I thought—iriay^ yo^ folkswould understahd—about • Doric and me.That we had a fine time—when she lived—and. we loved each other. I always wantedto be good to her. yLawrence turned back to stare at theyounger man and his face set. ,, His voicewas deep and slow when, he spoke.We didn't know anything about Dorisafter she left. Except what she wrote toher cousin, in town. We never heard from'her.Thiel said with an eager movement for¬ward: but she wanted to write to you andher ma. only she eouldn't seem to begin it.He became uncertain again in saying outwhat he wanted to: she left so sudden when—because of what happened and she didn tknow how to start writing. She thoughtyou felt the same about her leaving home.Well. He did no more than breath outthe word. What’s happened is done now.He became silent again, trying to recall thegirl as she was when she left home, and lateras she lived with this boy. He said : shewent to work in a restaurant in Tinkerafter she left us. Is that where you firstknew her? Almost two years ain’t it?We were married two years this comingfall, in September.The old man stared quietly at Ralph fora moment. He turned back to his Bible,shifting to his first position and seemed tobegin reading again. Thiel relaxed. Hefingered the dark stubble on his jaw. Law-rence only stared at the page before him, hewas not reading it. Finally glancing up hesaid: Doris was a good girl—be lookedout on the hills and through them — sheneeded to be treated good. He seemed re¬lieved that he said it, and at last : go downand tell Ma to fix a place for you, whenshe's got time. His voice seemed to soundafter he spoke. He looked down again intothe vaHey,Thiel jumped down from the tractor andstood for a moment waiting for somethingto say. But it couldn't be said. The oldman did not look at him, but stared downover the warming valley at the hills beyond,and Ralph moved silently away among thetractors and staked shovels and walked backdown the road. It was warm, and he wasdamp when he reached the house.Mrs. Lawrence looked up as he camearound to the kitchen stoop, where she Satwith a pan of potatoes in her lap. She sawsome answer in his manner. When he said:can I do something? She said: you can fillthose buckets there, down at the spring.And she watched him as he picked up thebuckets.The spring’s down there by the creek,she added, pointing.Ralph turned and followed the paththrough the barnyard and down through therank grass growing along the stream. Nearthe bank of the flow a group of ancientelms with their pale new leaves grew abouta wooden keg that was sunk in the marshyground. The water in it was bright andcold. He knelt down to drink from hishands. The water looked green because ofthe moss on the staves, but when the waterwas in the buckets it did not look green.Finally, with the buckets in his hands, heturned back thoughtfully to the house. IS/ ’t ^ K V,-.-£-57# St,Frqm z s p. M.Club BreaWattiiSpecial IjincheoniDe Line DinnersFor Luncheon^THESANDWICH SHOP1320 £ 57th St.Open Until 2 A. M.OfferingsStudent LuncheonsSpecial Steak DinnersOdd-Time SnacksMaid-Rite FeaturesPure Filtered Water that youappreciate.A superior sort of personal tervicethat you'll enjoy.An informal, yef refined atmos¬phere especially adapted' to ourUniversity clientele.Delivery service frpm the Sand¬wich Shop from 6.p. m. to midnite.A Ping Pong Parlor at 13241/257th, where enthufiartf ,m a y in-)e at a very nominal fee*Page TwelveCOMMENTA Literary and Critical QuarterlyVOLUME I — NUMBER 2 SPRING QUARTER (I) PRICE FIFTEEN CENTSTHE SUN QONE DOWN . . by FITZROY DAVISHIS body lay there in the taintedgrass. And the furnace in the skyscreamed behind the dead trees,reaching upwards in its scarletagony. And 1 remembered him at thestarting of his youth, leaping into the air,his body flashing with life and the joy ofhis youngness. In the mud of the quagmirewhere the full grass grew complacently, thepoint of his bayonet lay still quivering, withflashes of breath running up and down theblade from the fire of the orange heavens.Where his neck hung limp over a sunkenbranch, the insects of the marsh were crawl¬ing already to darken the tide of his youththat had been stifled in a moment. And Iremembered his neck stretching up in thestraight pride of its carriage as his headlooked over the lesser heads of his compan¬ions. And my heart ached and I trembledat the lips and I wanted to lose my sorrowin the thick grass flourishing there where thepoint of his bayonet had gone down intothe heavy mud. In my agony I let my headfall back and looked up into the wounds ofthe sky, where the blood of the sunset waspouring out and again my head collapsed, forall the muscles in me everywhere were limpfrom looking at his body. He lay therecrumpled in his uniform in the green grasstainted with his blood. And the reek ofhis blood had brought the vermin out ofthe swamp, out of the black mud under therich grass, to crawl up and feast upon theflesh that had been so bouyant in life.This was sunset time, long after the battle,for he had fallen early in the day. I hadnot known, I had come upon him as Iwandered through this forsaken swamp look¬ing for a short way back. And there hadbeen a place in the grass where it wastrampled down so that I had thought therewas a log fallen, and I had hoisted my gunand moved forwards more eagerly, wonder¬ing, and watching the hollow in the surfaceof the waving grass. For there was a frailtired breeze just sighing along the top ofthe grasses, and perhaps it even touched thesurface of his face where it lay staring upinto the burning clouds that were lashingthemselves across the sky. And I remem¬bered how keenly his grey eyes had alwaysstared out of his face, confronting your owneyes, and defying and greeting, as now theystill challenged the blood in the sky to matchhis own blood, that was soaked deep in thecloth of his uniform. He had been and hewas gone. This life had been brilliant witha flash and an upward streaming of orangeand red colors to catch the sun, to make theeye admire and think how splendid he was—he who lay damp in the mud of this swamp,with the shadows of the coming twilightcrawling over his bright face, and the insectscrawling over the wound in his shoulder.And I remembered him in the summer ofhis life, playing on the beach—so far back. so many years away, yet only the year be¬fore last—and I could see him in my mind,standing looking off to sea, with his shockof tangled blond hair flickering against thelight of the sun. Someone had thrown aball through the air, and up his body flashed,meeting the challenge with arms thrustinginto the air, the whole body become anarrow, all rhythm, with the sun laying themoulded light on his back. He had everheld his head in the way that met friendshipforwardly and waited for love, but thatlove never came and that friendship wentaway, and so he had come to fall down thisday in a marsh, where I found him. AndI sobbed. The cry that tore me and rushedup the sky in orange flames behind the blackfingers of those charred trees was a cry thatmight blaze all over the world and—likethis sky—be common to all men, weepingfor the youth fallen down, for the youththat had been so lofty in its stride, easy andflowing with the grace of its body. Thiswas my cry, for he had been my friend andI had loved the turn and toss of that blondhair and the curls that fell over his foreheadwhere the wind blew it as he rode his horseso swiftly across the meadow, across themeadow glowing with flowers and with therich green of its grass and the waters of itsbrook.Out of my limp fingers my bayonet hadfallen into the mud and the slow water wascreeping up over it, but all the fatigue of thelong day, with the dust in my nostrils andthe blood trickling from the small woundson my legs, had flowed out of my limbs andinto the sick water gliding over him, as thethis Issue' " iTHE SUN GONE DOWNFitzroy DavisSASSOONIANALAST DATE June Tamara RaffLOl THE POOR SPECTATORCyril John ClarkeGENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SOUTHArfhur ShumwaySONNET Margaret StoneMAN AND WIFE Robert DodsonCLOAK FOR A MAN WHOHAS NO HEED OF WINTERKay BoyleEDITORIAL COMMENT grass and the water rose in a monstrous con¬spiracy to gather in his body. I had ceasedto feel that I had a body, legs like thoseinert in the mud, legs that still could carryme from this place to the next, and a headthat turned, and looked, and saw the skyscreaming in the pain of its sunset, in itsdying after this day of battle.I had loved his lips sliding into the easysmile of his heart, that opened its pleasant¬ness to so many but guarded itself from love.We had all loved him, we other young, forhe had been the first flower of our growth;had we been natives on an island coming tomeet strange visitors from across the greywaters, we, the young men, would have ledhim down in our midst to the shore of thesea, and we would have shown him, openingour lesser numbers to let his glory shineradiant, his face with its franker beauty andhis body with its flowing rhythm.On his hand there was a ring of silvercurling like the carefree hair that had blownso buoyantly in the hot sun of those summerdays on the beach. But the dank water ofthe swamp kept lulling over the creases ofhis trouseis, draining in and out of the topsof his boots. The battle had been over inthe middle of the afternoon, and as I hadbeen plunging in my fatigue over the stubblyfields and the burnt grass, and through thesoggy mud, I had been thinking how soon Iwould see him again, and would see himsmile through the creases at the corners ofhis mouth, but now I see him with hismouth hanging open. There is no bloodupon his face, and the vermin have notcrawled upon his eyes. They have not de¬filed his face, yet I had thought in my ignor¬ance that no one would strike him down,for all people enshrine the scarce beauty ofthe world. He, the strong youth and thewarm sunlight, was dead while we, the ugly,live. We, the stubby and the lank, the long-nosed and the fat-cheeked, we live and eatour bowls of food and we mourn for thepassing of the one who kept us less unhappybecause he still remembered how to sing.I knelt my cracked knees down into themuddy water, crushing the leaning grass athis side, and brought my weary head downclose to his splendid face, but no tears came,for this was no time to weep, no time toclutch his spent body and hug its uselessweight, calling and sobbing. This was atime to feel my mouth becoming a bitter lineand eyes sagging into caverns of depth thatwould go back and back, year after year.I would always remember this late after¬noon, with the purple creeping out of thehill horizon, dragging down the brightpavilion of the sky.A solitary bird had alighted on one ofthe blackened branches of the desolate tree at(Please turn to Page Twetve)American Red Cross Hospital^ No, tl98-99 Lancaster Gate, W. 2Dear Roberto.Vd timed my death in t^tion to the minute-—{The Nation with my deathly verses in it)-—The day told off—15—(the month July) —The picture planned—-O Threshold of the darhlAnd then, the quivering songster failed to dieBecause the bloody bullet missed its mark.Here / am; they would send me back—Kind M. O. at Base; Sassoon's morale grown slack;Swallowed all his proud high thoughts and acquiesced.O Gate of Lancaster, O Blightyland the Blessed ....No visitors allowedSince friends arrived in crowd ....Jabber—Gesture—Jabber—Jester—Nerves went fut and failedAfter the first afternoon whenMarsh Moon Street Meiklejohn ArdoursandendurantSitwell itis prevailed.Caused complications and set my brain a-hop,Sleeplessexasperuicide, O Jesu make it stop!But yesterday afternoon my reasoning Rivers ranSolemnly in. With peace in the pooh of hisSpectacled eyes and a wisely omnipotent gnn;And I fished in that steady grey stream andDecided that I, After all am no longerThe worm that refuses to die. But,A gallant and glorious lyrical soldier;Bolder and bolder, as he gets older;Shouting, 'Back to the Fronf ....For a scrimmaging Stunt ....(I wt^ the weather wouldn't keep on getting mlder.) Oh yes, he's doing very well and sleeps from two till fourAnd there was jolty Thingumbob a-knocking at the door—But matron says she musn't, not however loud she knocks{Though she's bags of golden daisies and some raspberriesin a box),Be admitted, To the wild and wobbly-wittedSoldier-poet with a plaster on his crown ....God. My God, I’m so excited; I've just had a letterFrom Stable who's commanding the Twenty-Fifth Battalion,And my company, he tells me, doing better and better.Pinched six Saxons after lunch, And baggedMachine guns by the bunch—But I wasn’t there—O blast, it isn't fair—Because they’ll all be wondering whyCaptain Sassons wasn't standing byWhen they came marching home.But I don’t care; / made them love me althoughThey didn't want to do it, and I've sent them aGlorious gramophone and God send you back to meOver the green eviscerating seu—And I'mIII and cffraid to go back to them because tho^Five-nines are so damned awful.When you think of them all bursting and you’reLying on your bed, with the books you loved andLonged for on your table; and your head, AllCrammed with village verses about daffodils and geese, O Jesu make it cmm ....SiegfriedIN 1929 Robert Graves' "Goodbye to AllThat" was published in England, Al¬most immediately it was suppressed bythe English government and all availablecopies w’ere destroyed. The obvious cause ofthis confiscation was a poem-letter writtenby Siegfried Sassoon to Robert Graves, whichwas one of the highlights of the volume.The above poem-letter came to Commentby devious channels, reputed to be a pieceof Sassoon's work.Even one unversed in Sassooniana is im¬mediately aware of the imputed connectionbetween the poem published above and theone responsible for the censorship of Graves'bock; the salutation "EX’ar Roberto" is initself adequate grounds for believing thepoem-letter was addressed to Robert Graves,And certain facts in Sassoon’s Wat experi¬ence would indicate that the British Govern¬ment would not be favorably inclined to¬wards a poem of this sort coming from Sas¬soon.1916 saw Sassoon, literary dillitante, "foxhunting man" and country gentleman, at theFront* It was not long before his sensitive,poetic nature rebelled against the horrors ofthe trenches. Several years later, when un¬der ordinary circumstances the bitternessw‘ould have subsided, be remarked to a life¬long friend: "Let no one ever from hence¬forth say a word in any way countenancingwar. It is dangerous even to speak of how-here and there the individual may gain somehardship of soul by it. For w’ar is hell andthose w*ho institute it arc criminals."But despite this ever-increasing hatred ofwar, he remained in active combat, until, in1918, he was severely wounded and sent toEngland to convalesce. As he regained hishealth the storm of revolt that be had in¬hibited to a great extent during his years atthe Front burst forth in a torrential surgeof invective against the Gods of War. Histreatment of the Militarv Cross, which hehad received for bravery under fire, indicatesCOMMEHT the intensity of his passion- He says: "Iwanted something to smash and trample on,and in a paroxysm of exasperation I per¬formed the time-honored gesture of shakingmy clenched fists at the sky. Feeling nobetter for that, I ripped the M, C. ribbonoff my tunic and threw it into the mouth ofthe Mersey. Weighted w'ith significancethough this action w^as. it would have feltmore conclusive had the ribbon been heavier.At it w*as, the poor little thing fell w^eaklyonto the w-ater and fioated away as thoughaw’are of its own futilty."Yet even this gesture, deemed blasphem¬ous at the time, was not enough. He mustremedy the situation. He must find someway of bringing bis convictions before aw'ar-mad w’orld. Days and nights he pon¬dered: finally he chose self-sacrifice. The fol¬lowing proclamation was submitted to hissuperior officer."I am making this statement as an act ofwillful defiance of military authority, be¬cause I bcliew that the War is being deliber¬ately ptolonged by those who have the pow’erto end it. I am a soldier, convinced that Iam acting on behalf of soldiers. I believethat this War. upon which I entered as awar of defense and liberation, has now be¬come a war of aggression and conquest. 1believe that the purposes for w’hich I and myfellow officers entered upon this War shouldhave been so clearly stated as to have madeit impossible to have changed them, and that,had this been done, the objects which actu¬ated us would now be obtainable by negotia¬tion. I have seen and endured the sufferingsof the troops, and I can no longer be a partyto prolong these sufferings for ends which Ibelieve to be evil and unjust. I am not pro¬testing against the conduct of the War. butagainst the poltkal errors and insincerities forV hich fighting men are now being sacrificed.On behalf of those who are suffering now1 make this protest against the deceptionwhich is being pfacticed on them: also I be¬ lieve that 1 may help to destroy the callousedcomplacency with which the majority ofthose at home regard the continuance ofagonies which they do not share, and whichthey have not sufficient imagination to real¬ize. S. Sassoon."’Satisfied, he calmly expected death beforethe firing squad; the death of a maftyr tohis beliefs. But this was not to be. In amilitary trial he was adjudged to be suffer¬ing from shell-shock and was consigned toa war-hospital for recovery. It was thenthat he wrote his poem-letter to RobertGraves. There are many versions of histrial and probably the most unreliable isSassoon's. He says that convinced of thefutility of his mission he deserted his causein favor of life. Political intrigue, in allprobability, played an important part in thecase.Sassoon's Mtti«ness towards war has neverceased. In his proclamation he is obviouslyrationalizing when he claims no objection to"The conduct of the War." War is bisnemesis. Twelve years later he looks backupon his mental stale and smiles; but he hasreally never recovered. "The incubus of waris on him so that his days arc shot withanguish and his nights with horror." RobertNichols described him recently as he appearedwhile informally discussing the War:"He speaks slowly, enunciating the wordsas if they pained him. in a voice that hassomething of the troubled thickness apparentin the voices of those who emerge from adeep grief. As he speaks, his large lunds,roughened by trench toil and by riding*w'ander aimlessly until some emotion gnf®him when the knuckles harden and hedutches at his knees or at the edge of thetable. And all the while he will be breath¬ing hard like a man who has swum a greatdistance."A distance? Yes, an infinite one. Thedistance from idealist to realist, spanned onlyby the War. Ctmiei Tyrntee, tlPag®by JUNE TAMARA RAFFlast dateThe car sped crazily through the foggynight, catching up little currents ofwarm moist air through the openwindows; air that was soft againstTerry’s right cheek and the right side ofher bare throat. She was conscious ofthe air and of the darkness and of theright side of Jim’s head. Beautiful head.Not massive and leonine like Ralph’s.Trim and narrow and well brushed. Shewanted to place her fingers around the softbrown wave that began high up on Jim’stemple and slid down into smoothness be¬hind his ear. It had been decent of Ralphto insist that she keep the date. Was itproper etiquette, she wondered, to get one¬self engaged on a Friday and go out dancingwith someone else on a Saturday? Ralphhad said it was. Ralph had said she couldn’tdisappoint Jim when she’d had the date fora week and had never been out with himbefore. He had said one more date couldn’tmatter much. It couldn’t, Terry thought.It was only an interlude, a between-the-actsextravaganza; something that helped makeall the yesterdays of dances and excitementsomehow more beautiful. Tomorrow shewould forget about it. She would tell every¬body that she was going to marry Ralph.There would be shopping and luncheons andthen, suddenly, she would be married. Ralphwas the nicest man she had ever known, thekindest, the most considerate. Her motherwould be delighted.But just for tonight she wouldn’t thinkof him. Her last date, she had told herselfas she dressed that evening, would be herbest; a night of complete and unthinkinghappiness that would be a fitting exit forthe girl she was and would have nothing atall to do with the woman she was going tobe. She leaned her head against the back ofthe seat to enjoy more keenly the sense ofthe world whirling past in the darkness. Shebegan to sing softly to herself. "I neverkissed a man before ...” Jim’s resonantbaritone took it up. “Oh. isn’t that a shame. . . ” She wondered why her voic»’ soundedso much better when she had been drinking.She wasn’t afraid to sing loud now, andclear. And if her voice cracked it didn’tmatter. Nothing mattered. The worldwhirred beautifully and Terry sang fasterto keep up with it . . . faster and faster untilthe words were all jumbled together and shehad to stop because it was so funny and shewas laughing so hard.Jim wasn’t laughing. He was watchingblue lightning that tore open the sky far outover the lake. Even highballs, an uncount¬able number of highballs, didn’t affect hiscoolness, his watchfulness. Terry enviedhim for just a moment. But the air and thenight and Terry herself were too soft anddiffused for envy. She was happy.The Car sped on. Terry didn’t know howfar they had driven. She was lost in a deli¬cious timelessness and spacelessness, likedrowning and having waves of happinessroll rhythmically over her body. When thecar stopped the rhythm ceased. She sat upand pulled the collar of her wrap about hershoulders, running her fingers lightly overthe cool silver cloth.The door of the car opened and Jim wasstanding there ready to help her out. Steppingfrom the running board to the street was anadventure. She swayed a little. “Wait aminute, Jim.” she said, "I’m slightly dizzy.”She began to talk to herself, hoping that thesound of her voice would steady her."Thcreso,” she said, "you have to stand up very straight and you have to walk veryslowly.” She smiled up into Jim’s greyeyes. "I’m all right now,” she said. "Withjust one arm to hang on to, I can go any¬where.” The arm was there/firm and tang-able. She held on tight. The sidewalk wasamazingly hard and resistant. She didn’tremember ever walking on so hard a side¬walk.The lights in the broad doorway made herblink. "Where are we?" she whispered toJim. Not caring much. Just wanting toknow."The Bclvidere,” he answered. "I toldHelen and Pete we’d stop in before we wenthome.”Vincent QuinnTerry concentrated very hard upon walk¬ing across the lobby. What was the deskclerk thinking? She felt that it ought tomatter. And the elevator boy, looking so faraway and sleepy. She talked quite loud inthe elevator about how late it must be get¬ting and how they could only stay for aminute.They couldn’t hear any noise fromHelen’s apartment but a faint light crept outhrough the crack under the door. Jim rappedightly, and Pete, looking tousled and friend-y in his shirt sleeves and twisted white tie,et them in. Helen, stretched out on theouch, lifted a lazy arm in greeting. "Hello,jeople. Throw your wraps down some-vhere, won’t you? I’m too sleepy to playlostess.”Terry went into the bathroom. Habitdirected her fingers into her little silver bag,fumbling for her lipstick. Her face in themirror didn’t look like her face at all, theeyes were so hazy and dark. There weresmudges under her eyes and she rubbed atthem with her handkerchief but theywouldn’t come off. She patted some powderon over them. The wind had blown herdark hair into many little waves runningin all directions. It look nice. Soft. Sheadjusted a hairpin.Before the long mirror on the door shepaused to arrange the rosy folds of her dress.She became absorbed in trying to make a little piece of the filmy material stay in aplace it didn’t want to.Jim’s voice at the door startled her. "Areyou all right?” he was saying. She feltsuddenly a great tenderness for him. Hesounded so concerned. "Coming right out,”she answered.Another couple was sitting in the largechair in the corner. Terry hadn’t noticedthem when she came in. She didn’t pay muchattention to them now. Two tall highballs,deep amber under the lamplight except forthe white rings around the ice cubes. Onefor her and one for Jim. Like the rest ofthe evening. Oh well, one more couldn’tkill her. She drank it standing. The lovelysoft feeling began to envelop her again.Everything was fuzzy.She went over to the window and pressedher forehead and the palms of her handsagainst the cool pane. Then she opened itfurther and sat on the window sill, leaningout to look down into the steep blackness.The trees far below shone ghostly yellowin the lamplight, and on the roof of a one-story building a puddle of rain water laygolden and burning under the light from awindow. Terry held on tight to the sill.She mustn’t fall or the lovely golden still¬ness would be shattered. She could feel Jimcoming across the room to stand beside her,could feel that he was going to place his armabout her shoulder, but she didn’t turn tohim. "He's going to make me come in,” shethought. "He’s going to tell me I’ll catchcold or fall out.” She was surprised when,instead, he sat down on the sill facing herand placed his hand over hers. Ralph wouldhave taken better care of her than that, shethought, but she was glad that Jim didn’t.Just tonight it was nice not being taken careof. having someone want to do just thethings she wanted to do.Inside the room were Helen and Pete andthe other couple. Terry preferred not tothink of them. She preferred to stare downinto the darkness with only Jim nearby, Jimwho wouldn’t say anything but would knowhow she was feeling; would think her sillyperhaps, but would know because he wouldfeel the same way if there were no onearound. Suddenly Jim reached up and drewdown the window so that it rested on theirlaps and shut them out into a little worldwhere they were the only things awake. Hisfingers played lightly with hers until shecaught and held them. Then hand in handthey sat, high above the roofs of the littletwo-story houses, swinging their legs insidethe room, their bodies tilted perilously awayfrom the window."You mustn’t fall,” Terry whispered toJim. She couldn’t talk aloud with thewhole city sleeping. He grinned at her andleaned farther out over nothingness. "Jim!”She clutched at his arm. "Jim, if you fallI’ll never speak to you,” she threatened.He Stared down the steep side of the build¬ing. "Probably not,” he decided. He didn’tseem very concerned."It might be rather nice, falling down,”Terry mused. The air was cool on her bareshoulders. She would like all of her to bein the air."Terry, sit still,” Jim commanded. Heheld her arm. That was nice, his not want¬ing her to fall, his ceasing to be indifferentjust for a moment. Ralph wouldn’t wanther to fall either, but that was different be¬cause he loved her.It was funny how Ralph seemed to fadeCPlease turn to Page Nine)Page Three COMMENTLO! THE POOR SPECTATOR by CYRIL JOHN CLARKEThe chief weakness of the AmericanSpectator as a journal of contempor¬ary thought is implied in its name.That name was well chosen indeed.The spectator is to be defined, I pre¬sume, as one who looks upon but doesnot engage in a spectacle. And that is pre¬cisely the attitude of the American Spectatortoward the current scene. It looks on at thespectacle of life but does not engage in it.Yet even in this, its avowed purpose, it failsof success. It is not even a very good spec¬tator. Its view is not quite comprehensive,it does not see the spectacle clear and whole.There is a certain obliqueness in its vision.It bends its glance only upon those specialaspects of the scene that will furnish gristfor its own little mill. It has removed itselffrom all the concerns of living and as aconsequence it lacks gusto. It lacks guts.Escape, that old refuge of arty malcontents,seems to be its dominating motive. Thereis about it a sort of pathetic air of determineddilletantism that is. and probably forever,outmoded. It lies deep in dust.For if we must admit that the nameAmerican Spectator was well chosen we mustalso at the same time admit that the attitudethat name represents was very badly chosen.Spectatorship as an intellectual attitude isdefinitely dated. The explosive forces of lifehave toppled into dust the ivory towers thatwere such popular dwelling places toward theclose of the last century. There are now notowers of ivory in which a man may immurehimself above the mean, ignoble and irre¬sistible torrent of human ambition. We haveEmpire State buildings but no ivory towers.There is no escape from the implacable forcesof modern society. You cannot get awayfrom life. Life is everywhere now. in all theplaces where God used to be. Neither on theearth nor in the air above nor in the watersbeneath can you escape it. Even that last andseemingly not impossible heaven, the heavenof the ironists, has been proven a mirage.The only way you can escape life is byaccepting it, by plunging into the white hotcenter of it and letting it burn you away.In that way you may escape life but youcannot escape by simply ignoring it. For al¬though you may ignore life, life will notignore you and it will be revenged upon youfor your temerarious insolence. It will letyou starve.But the American Spectator, resolutelydisregarding all this, has withdrawn into aminaret of pasteboard and there occupies itselfwith the concoction of caviar sandwiches andpetit fours with which to regale a world thathungers for meat and bread. Now petit foursand caviar sandwiches are very nice in theirway but they constitute a poor meal for ahealthy appetite and especially when the in¬gredients that go to their making are asstale and flavorless as those frequently usedby the chefs under discussion here.One glance at some of the names that adornthe editorial board of the paper will serveto explain whence arises this aura of ana¬chronism that lingers in the air about it.Regardless of who the other editors of thepaper might be the mere presence amongthem of Branch Cabell would be enough toinsure us against any presentation of currentproblems in its pages. Mr. Cabell is ourmost famous ivory tower tenant. For manyyears he inhabited the penthouse of an ivorytower in a land called Poictesme. The hurly-burly of life in this Republic was a stinkin his aesthetic nostrils and he would have nothing to do with it. He knew a fairerland where he could occupy himself solelywith a contemplation of the shape of beautyand there he betook himself. As he expressedit when he was about to take ship for hisnever-never land, he wanted to write per¬fectly of beautiful happenings.” Whether ornot he succeeded in that enterprise is besidethe point here. What interests us here so faras Mr. Cabell’s work is concerned is not thatwork itself but rather the spirit out of whichit was born. It seems pertinent, however, topoint out the flaw in the Cabellian theoryof art. Though it creates beauty art is notcreated of beauty. Like man himself and allhis works art is made of common clay. Ithas nothing at all to do with aestheticswhich belong properly to the field of philoso¬phy. Moreover, a thing of beauty if workedover and reworked will dwindle at last intomere attenuated prettiness. But for Mr.Cabell art and aesthetics were synonymousand since he could find nothing with whichto appease his aesthetic hunger in the worldaround him—a world in which so manymomentous and cataclysmic things were hap¬pening!—he ran away to Poictesme and therefor many years he walked and talked withbeauty and counted the world well lost.But After these many moons had waxedand waned something happened in Poictesme.Perhaps the depression penetrated into therose and ivory land or perhaps the shape ofbeauty began at last to grow haggard andwithered. It may even be that beauty died.Or, again, perhaps beauty laughed at Mr.Cabell and derided him for an adolescentschoolboy and took unto herself an earthierand more virile boy friend. At all eventsand for whatever reason, Mr. Cabellboarded up the windows of his ivory tower,turned the lock in its door and returned tous in the nether world announcing that hewas forever finished with Poictesme. In hisrenunciation he even went so far as to changehis name so that there might be nothing leftto remind him of the man that he had beenor of the world in which he had dwelt solong. Beauty must have been an exigentmistress indeed to bring a man to such a pass.But all his efforts have been vain. The spotswill not rub off, Cabell remains Cabell. Thewind still blows from the direction of Poic¬tesme and its blowing fills him with a greatnostalgia for the old land, the old love. Theeffects of that nostalgia are writ large uponthe pages of the American Spectator. Mr.Cabell is caught between the upper and nethermillstones. He cannot go back to Poictesmebut neither can he adapt himself to the vol¬canic world to which he has returned. Thuslife is being revenged upon Mr. Cabell. Heis lost in time and space. And so he goes oncovering paper with pretty little verbal de¬signs. And we are asked to accept this lostsoul, this voice crying in the wilderness asan oracle! Come, come, my masters, whatthe hell?But if the shadow of Cabell looms largeand dark upon the pages of the AmericanSpectator it is still not large enough or darkenough to blot out the greater shadow ofGeorge Jean Nathan, the Little Corporal ofthe editorial guard whose fine Italian handis everywhere evident in the paper’s proceed¬ings. And if the quality of preciosity thatinheres in the publication is to be ascribedmainly to the influence of Mr. Cabell, theflat, stale flavor of it must be attributed toMr. Nathan. All too often the petit foursthat Mr. Nathan offers us today are but thecupcakes of yesterday with a little new frost¬ ing laid on. The fact that those cupcakeswere very delectable when they were freshdoesn’t help to make them palatable now.Mr. Nathan has been reading George JeanNathan too much I’m afraid. The Nathandissertations on the female of the species werevery pertinent and amusing back in the daysof the old Smart Set magazine but those samearticles reprinted today are reaJly pretty dulland old hat. The American Spectator. I amconvinced, would benefit immeasurably if Mr.Nathan would destroy his own books andhis files of the Smart Set.Even in his own special field, the theatre.Mr. Nathan has gone off pretty sadly in hislatter days. Time was when the name GeorgeJean Nathan attached to the review of a playstood as a guarantee of quality. Seeing thatname you felt sure that the review wouldbe complete, accurate, unbiased and full ofa great vitality of expression. He wasby all odds the most penetrating andpercipient dramatic critic in this country,perhaps in any country. And he still couldbe if he would because even with all thathe has lost, and that is a great deal certainly,he still knows more, I suspect, about thetheatre and the drama than any baker’s dozenof reviewers now in practice. For what Mr.Nathan has lost is not knowledge of thetheatre but sight of the theatre. Between Mr.Nathan as dramatic critic and the theatre asa field for his observation and criticism theregrew up the mythical figure of George JeanNathan, the bad boy of criticism. It is to aconsideration of that figure that Mr. Nathanhas addressed himself almost exclusively inrecent years. He does not attend the sametheatre that his readers attend, the theatre ofShakespeare and rag operas, of Aristophanesand medicine shows. The theatre Mr. Nathangoes to is a very special one, a theatre inwhich the play is always the same and inwhich Mr. Nathan is at once playwright,actor, audience and critic. As he himself sowell expresses it in another magazine towhich he contributes, it is the "Theatre ofGeorge Jean Nathan” with which he is con¬cerned. The trouble with Mr. Nathan is notthat he is a poseur but that he has forgottento be a poseur. The pose has absorbed theman and Mr. Nathan emerges as theNarcissus of the critical faculty.He has always been very disdainful of hisfellow citizens. Not disdainful in the highand godlike manner of Cabell because afterall Mr. Nathan has spent a good deal of histime walking down Broadway, a thorough¬fare where ivory towers do not abound; butnevertheless he has always been completelyout of sympathy with the other membersof his specie and has endeavored always toset himself apart from them. This was nat¬ural enough, of course, since the spirit thatinhabits his carcass is purely satirical and notat all ironic. Yet, despite all his efforts todissociate himself from -his fellows he hasnot managed to evade the native heritage.The national murrains have touch him withtheir dread hands and have left their marksupon him. He is more American than heknows. Recently he told us of his effortsto prevent a young man of his acquaintancefrom embarking on a career as a play te-viewer. What could be more indigenouslyAmerican? Our inextinguishable belief thatthe grass is always greener in the other fel¬low’s yard is one of our salient nationalcharacteristics. If a young man setting outto make his way in the world were to consult(Please turn to Page Tioelee)COMMENT Page FourQENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SOUTHby ARTHUR SHUMWAYI.Nelson REDFERN Ict the JacksonEvening Courier drop and stretchedhis full six feet in the porch swing.The mosquitoes were bad and heno longer could read the print. Headlightshad begun to cut through the growing duskin the front yard. A reddish moon, three-quarters full, was coming up through themoss of the live oaks.Resentfully, Nelson put his feet down,got up and went into the house. His motherwas sitting in the living room reading amagazine.“Where to tonight, son?” she asked.He shrugged. “Just downtown.”His mother looked beyond the top of hermagazine into the empty fireplace. “I thoughtmaybe you might be going to stay homeone night,” she said.Nelson went closer to her. Under the read¬ing lamp her hair looked grayer than usual,her face thinner. He moved behind her andtook her shoulders in his big hands.“I don’t know,” he said, “There’s noth¬ing to do here nights but go over town. Idon’t like sitting around reading and yougo to bed so early anyway. See, mom? Allthe boys from school arc home now andthe only way I can see them is to go overtown.”“I wish you could have stayed at theuniversity,” his mother said, still lookinginto the fireplace.“Why bring that up?” Nelson asked,leaning against the bookcase and lightinga cigaret. “It isn’t any disgrace to get shippedany more. All you get out of school anywayis a chance to mix with people and learnhow to get along in any kind of company.That and contacts. And I made good contactsin two years.”“What good have they done you so far?You can’t seem to find anything to do.”Nelson looked at his watch. “Oh, I haven’teven got started yet. No use of my sweatingin some store or office here just as a clerkwhen I know the people I do. You watch.Something’s bound to turn up some time.Not here, though. What can a man do in alittle old Florida town? Well—almost eight.I’ll be in early,”He kissed the back of her neck and wentupstairs. He turned on the big light in hisroom and took off his shirt and undershirt.Patting the fine red hair on his chest, helooked into the mirror. A man looked keenstripped to the waist.Sitting on the bed, he let his whiteknickers slide to the floor. They clinked. Nel¬son picked them up, smiling, and took ahandful of coins and a dollar bill from theside pocket. He put the money under hispillow, stripped, and got under the shower.Five months of lazying around hadn’t hurthim much. Still play football if he wanted.Maybe up north on one of the big pro teams.This was an idea to play with as he rubbeddown with the coarse towel.He powdered his face and gave his templesa few last strokes with the brush. In themirror he studied his face from various angles.It was a strong, honest-looking face, a hand¬some face, topped by curly red-brown hair,cut crisply short. The jaw was firm, themouth straight, the nose evenly cut, the eyesalive and proud. The eyebrows were in aclass of their own, curly and heavy—^a man’seyebrows!That face would photograph well from the left. It had a stern, impressive look. Notthat it wasn’t pretty good from the rightand full front. Hollywood would be theplace. Johnny Mack Brown from Alabamawas all set out there. Nelson wished he hadan aunt or someone out in California whocould give him board and lodging while hegot a start. Or if he had just five hundreddollars. That wasn’t much. It wouldn’t evenpitch a good party over at Palm Beach. Dur¬ing the boom it would have been just cigaretmoney. His father certainly should have lefthim five hundred dollars.He put on his last clean linen suit,stuffed a blue-edged linen handkerchief intothe breast pocket, buttoned the top buttonand maneuvered before the mirror. With theright pull he might get a job wearing clothesfor money. But how get such a pull?He took the money from under the pillowand slipped it into his pocket, quietly. Thenhe turned out the light and walked softlydown the carpeted stairs.“Nelson?” his mother called.“Yes?”“Wasn’t there some money left from thegrocery?”‘Just a little.”“How much?”“Just some change.”“Wasn’t there a dollar?”“Yeah, just one.”“Well, I’d better have the dollar. Youcan take the change. I know you’ll want somepin-money, but I’ll need the dollar, buddy.”Nelson came back into the hall. “What’sjust a dollar?” he asked, pained.Sonnet by Margaret StoneBeside what shores and underneath whatmoonThe wind and waves make music in yourears.Finding you quiet, empty of all fears,I know not. But the winds which impor¬tuneMy heart tonight, here where their force hasstrewnFrilled tulip-petals on dark earth, have tearsAnd terror in their voices. Who that hearsBut prays that quiet death will find himsoonfSo do / pray, who nevet knew that peace.Nor, speaking of this pain, was understood:So hope to find, when this unrest shall cease,This sentient flesh be numb against thewood.Freedom to win the joy I never knew—Being dissolved, to be at one with you.“It’s a lot more than it used to be and Iwish you could realize it.”Nelson tossed the dollar into her lap.“Anybody would think we were about totake in boarders,” he said.His mother looked up at him quickly.“Well,” he said, shrugging. His mother’smouth disturbed him. He was not surewhether her lips were about to quiver or tosmile.He started out. “Goodbye,” he said.“Goodbye,” his mother called. “You wiltbe in early, won’t you? You need sleep so.” He smiled graciously. “Sure,” he said.On the porch he breathed the heavy nightair deeply and relished the sweet and solemnodor of night-blooming jasmine. The moonwas well up over the roof of the First Bap¬tist church.At the gate Nelson pulled the handkerchiefa little higher from his pocket, gave his trou¬sers a hitch and eased his coat up tocover his shirt collar in the back. Then h6started briskly down Jackson avenue, ratherproud as always, of having come out of sucha large and handsome yard, such a big oldhouse. It was one of the only three housesin town w'ith white columns on the porchand the yard had the best and biggest oaks,the healthiest looking bamboo patches, themost jasmine, oleanders and poinsettias inJackson. And he. Nelson, had the best look¬ing clothes, or at least the most talent forwearing clothes. Only one thing he missedacutely—an automobile. It was a mark ofcaste that could not be ignored. The best hecould do was pretend that automobiles werecommon and a bother and that he and hismother preferred to hire one with a driverwhenever they needed it.At the public library corner he turnedinto Duval street, and walked on down toFogle’s Drug Store. Hal Gore, FindlayHampton and Gus Merrill were on the benchin front.“Hey, boy,” greeted Hal, “you’re late.”“What occupies the mighty mind of Jack-son avenue tonight?” asked Gus.“Tie the bull outside,” said Nelson. “Howyou, Findlay? Gus?”“Sick in bed,” said Findlay.“Where’s all the politicians tonight?” Nel¬son asked,“Out after it,” said Hal.“Well, I hope 'em luck. What arc wegoin’ to do, sit around and hold down thecorner or has somebody got an idea?”“Listen to him,” said Findlay. “Plentyof ideas, big boy. Cash is the question.”“Think if I had any money I’d be sittin’here on my tail with such trash as you?”said Gus. “Say, if I had five bucks I wouldn’tknow if any of you were alive.”“Boy, I feel sorry for you,” said Nelson.“Yeah, you damn idle rich. Anytime youwere ever broke! How do you do it anyway?”Nelson pushed his shirt collar farther downin back and eased the coat higher. Hepretended to yawn. “Aha,” he said, sagely,“aha.”“There goes Mary,” Gus said suddenly.“Hey, sugar.”Mary, a plump little brunette, waved asshe stepped into her mother’s coupe.“Howdy,” she replied.“How’s this,” demanded Hal, “you rush-in’ Mary now?”“Not exactly,” said Gus, “but she is kindof a weakness.”“I got to take her out again,” Findlaysaid. “That shape of her’s ain't hard to take.”“That’s what they say,” said Hal.“What do you know about it?” Nelson3slccd«“Aha,” mocked Hal. “Aha.”“Yeah?”“I wish I had a dollar for every time.”“Listen,” said Nelson, "why don’t yousometime and make it an even once?”Bug Ye well drove up in a red roadster thatbelonged to his older brother. Hen.“Here’s the party,” said Gus. “Our pal,our pal.”(Ptecue turn to Page Six)Page Five COMMENTQentleman of the Old South(Continued from Page Five)They clambered onto the running boardsand began rocking the car.“Hey, can it!” Bug said.“Let’s go places, boy,’’ said Findlay, open¬ing the door and getting in.“Where’ll we go though,’’ Bug protested.“There’s nothin’ doin’ anywhere.’“Sure, there is,’’ said Hal, “there’s a danceover at Green Lake.’’“I’m pretty flat,’’ Bug said.“Who isn’t?’’ Gus demanded.“Well, I’m just tellin’ you, if anythinghappens to this car you birds have got tokick in.’’They were all in place now in the seatand on the fenders.“Open up the rumble seat,’’ Gus insisted.“I’m not goin’ to have you hangin’ all overand bustin’ this can to pieces.’’“How about refreshments?” Hal asked.“Nels has got bucks,” Gus suggested.“Sure,” Nelson said.“On our way then,” said Hal.They drove down Duval street past thetracks and into Fourth avenue. Even the nig¬ger bottoms looked enchanted under the bigmoon now hanging near enough, it seemed,to touch. They stopped in front of the fillingstation, poolroom and speakeasy run by HipWilson, a mulatto. Nelson went in. Hipsmiled all over his face.“Can you put a couple of quarts on thecuff"?” Nelson asked.Hip’s smile faded.“Y’ owe me now,” he objected. “Ah goty’ down for three dollars.”“Oh, hell. I’ll pay you. You’ve knownme a long time, haven’t you. Hip?”“Oh, yassuh, we old friends all right.”But Hip looked worried.“Just two quarts,” Nelson said.“Ah reckon if you left your watch againit would be all right, Mistah Redfern.”“Take it. And gimme the aged. That otherstuff would eat out your teeth. You oughtto have to drink it yourself.”“Ah drink it sometimes.”“Anytime! You don’t drink anything butgood gin and you know it.”Nelson took the two quarts in a newspaperand marched out whistling.“How much you get?” Bug demanded.“This is a bunch of bad thirsty men withhair on their chests.”“Couple of the aged.”“Swell.”By the time they reached the Green Lakepavilion the second bottle was lying shat¬tered on the roadside and their voices wereloud in song.Hal had fifty cents. He, Nelson and Bug,who had thirty cents, bought dance ticketsand doled them out. Then they separatedand began a hunt for girls.Nelson was ripe for anything, dead ripe.He bumped into a fat little man in a seer¬sucker suit and caromed off into a tall, red-haired woman who was chewing gum andlooking wistfully out onto the floor. Beforehe knew it she had him out there dancing.The music quiet, he left the red-head andweaved through the crowd. He bumped intoa stocky little countryman. The man turnedon him. “Where do you think you’re goin’?”he demanded.Nelson had hurt his arm. “What the hell’sit to you?” he retorted.The countryman suddenly became sur¬rounded with interested friends. He lookedNelson over carefully and said, “Come onoutside, sheik.”Nelson followed him out, the friends be¬ hind him. They went over beside a bigsedan and the countryman took off his neck¬tie and collar. “Now let’s see you bump intoa man,” he invited.Nelson glared at him. He had senseenough, however, to realize that he had on aclean suit and wanted to keep it clean andwhite. “What’s idea?” he said thickly, begin¬ning to stagger. “What’s this? Fight?“What you think it is?”“Oh, I thought it was fight.”One of the friends laughed.“Who’s fightin’?”“Go ahead. George, crown him,” one ofthe friends said.“Crown who?” Nelson asked vaguely.“Slap him down, George,” said anotherfriend.“Say, listen,” Nelson asked, “are youfightin’ or is he or who is anyway? Nelsonwhirled around toward the friend and fell,managing to land carefully so as not to sp>oilhis suit. He giggled and looked up foolishlyat George. “Who did that?” he demanded.George picked up his tie and collar. Awhell,” he said, “no use to pick on him. Lis¬ten, fella, don’t go around bumping intopeople, or you’ll get your block knocked off.”“I don’t bump into people,” Nelson said,from the ground.“You did me.”“Jeez, that’s a shame.”George had turned to go, his friends stillurging him to take a sock at the sheik. Assoon as they were gone. Nelson got up andsighed. He walked out toward the pier tocool off.When he started back he heard the soundof a scuffle and saw a girl in white strugglingto get out of a parked car. “Stop it. Letme go!” she was saying.Nelson walked toward the car. The girlhad managed to get out and a man was com¬ing after her. Nelson was tired of inactivitynow and felt a little ashamed of the Georgebusiness anyway. So he ran up to the man.“Can it,” he said.The man pushed him. Nelson swung,but the man blocked and clinched. Nelsonpounded his ribs and belly and when he gotloose gave him two straight jabs in the face.The fellow sagged, backed away and stoodby the car.A crowd had gathered. Out of it steppeda bouncer. He was big, dark and officious.“Cut this out,” he ordered. “Get out ofhere. Beat it!” The crowd began to backaway.“What’s the idea of fighting out here?Where do you think you are? In a poolparlor? You can’t do that kind of stuffaround here, see. Don’t think you can,either. This is a respectable dance hall andit’s rough-housers like you th*‘ give it areputation. Now beat it ant a’t comeback,” he told Nelson who was the closerto him.Nelson was looking at the girl. She waspretty. She had unbobbed auburn hairdrawn away from her face and fastened be¬hind her head in a lady-like manner that hewas not accustomed to. She was lookingat him.“I didn’t start anything,” he said, “Ijust ”Listen, fella, the bouncer said, comingcloser, “I said beat it. Did you hear me ordidn’t you?”The girl spoke. “He didn’t start it,” shesaid. “He did.” She pointed at the otherman who was holding a handkerchief to hismouth. “It was his fault.”“That’s right,” Nelson said. “This birdgot fresh.”The bouncer regarded Nelson angrily, thenturned to the girl. “Well, it don’t matter. We can’t have any rough-house here. Thisis a respectable place. It’s stuff like this thatgives it a reputation. You better get awayfrom in front here or everybody’ll be out.”“All right,” said Nelson. He picked upthe girl’s purse and handed it to her.“You watch yourself,” said the bouncer,“I’ll run you in next time.”Nelson turned to the girl. “Dance?” heasked.“All right.”The girl was soft and smelled tantalizing-ly sweet. She danced so well that Nelsonwas conscious only of his effort to remainsober and avoid bumping into other couples.After three times around the floor Nelsonfinally spoke. “Pretty warm,” he said.The girl laughed. "It’s hot.”“That’s what I said.”“You said it was warm.”“Well, isn’t it?”“It’s hot.”“That’s what I said.”They danced around the floor again.“That buzzard a friend of yours?”She shook her head. “I thought he was.”The music stopped and Nelson wiped hisface with the linen handkerchief. The girllooked cool despite the heat. Her eyes weregreen. She had a tiny mole below her lefteye. Close about her throat she wore astring of jade green beads.“It sure is hot.” Nelson said.“And how,” said the girl.Nelson was very unsteady.“Want to sit down?” the girl asked.“Why should I want to sit down?”“You act kind of rocky.”The music began again, a blues tune.“Let’s dance,” Nelson said. “Nothing todo but dance. I could dance with you allnight. You’re wonderful. Anybody evertell you you’re wonderful?”“Oh, of course.”“Wonderful.”“You don’t even know my name.”“That don’t make a particle of difference.You’re wonderful and I say so, see.”“What’s your name?”“Wonderful.”“No, that’s mine.”“Redfern.”“Redfern what?”“Redfern, that’s what. Nelson. NelsonRedfern of the old U. of F., the old fightin’gator, the old alma mater. How’s that?That’s terrible, isn’t it? I’m a Dclt, a loyalDelt. Wonderful.”“Isn’t it?”“What?”“Wonderful.”“Boy, howdy, it’s wonderful.”“I think you’re drunk.”“I don’t think so; 1 know so. What’iyour name?”“Ruth.”“Hello, Ruth. Pleased to meet you, Ruth.I’m Nelson, the old fightin’ gator.”“So I hear.”“Where you from, Ruth?”“Lakeland. You’re from the university?”“ ‘Way from it. They told me, ‘Redfern,this is the last time’ and I said, 'I hope totell you.’ I got ’em told.”“What do you do now?”“Aha. Aha. Wonderful.”“Do you live in Tampa?”“Jackson. Millions of strawberries, big,red, ripe strawberries. I’m a strawberry.“Do you grow strawberries?”“No, I eat ’em. Wonderful.”“Don’t be ridic. What do you do inJackson besides eat strawberries?”“Drink ’em. I mean—oh, shut up, R^J-fern! Hurray for Ruth!”(Please turn to Page Ten)Page SixCOMMENTMAN AND WIFE ♦ . . . . by ROBERT DODSONThe light-housckecping apartment hadthree rooms. In the front room thewindows had no curtains; but frayedgreen blinds, pulled down as far asthey could go, kept people from look¬ing in and let in enough light. A largebrass bed sprawled across one end, onlya faded mattress covering its springs. Thebedclothes and pillows were piled ontotwo bloated leather rocking-chairs andtrailed onto the bare floor. A greasy elec¬tric fan stood on a kitchen chair at theend of the bed. Against one wall a librarytable held old newspapers and magazines,knotted skeins of vivid orange and bluecr<xhet silk, buttons, anivory handled razorwith a rusty blade, twotoothbrushes with dampbristles, several letterswritten with a lead pencilon lined paper, and adirty green silk chemise.There was linoleumon the dining room floor,but water that must haveleaked from the ice-boxagainst one wall made itcurl up in the corners.Two closets with opend«ors revealed severalflowered silk dresses andmen's dark-blue sergesuits hanging fromhooks. A round diningtable with no cloth andtwo straight backed chairsstood in the center of theroom. Close by under thewindow there was a day-bed, carelessly made upand covered with somedark material shiny withgrease.The back room wasthe kitchen. A largewoman clad only in apink kimono and felthouse-slippers stood overthe stove. Yellow gasflames curled around askillet of pork chops. Oc¬casionally she proddedthem with a table fork,and whenever an explo¬sion sent the boilinggrease into the air, shestepped back, her slippersgrating in the coffeegrounds and sugar on thefloor. Once she didn’tstep back, and a speck ofhot grease got in her eye. She was busyrubbing the eye with the back of her hand,so she didn’t see him when he opened thedoor and came into the dining room.She didn’t know that she was not aloneuntil she heard a chair scrape as he pulled itup to the table. Then she turned aroundquickly and said, "Oh, Ed! You scared me.You always like to sneak in and scare me."He sat down at the table and opened anewspaper. After awhile he started tochuckle, and she must have seen the news-paper jiggling and known that he waslaughing, because she turned back to thestove and told the pork chops that she didn’tthink it was very funny. She told themabout the other times that he had scared her,about the time in Tulsa when they werefirst married, and again in El Dorado when she had fainted, and she asked them if theythought it was funny."You shouldn't scare me like that, Ed,”she said. She was lifting a fat pork chopfrom the skillet to a platter on top of thestove. Grease dripped on the stove, and theflames curling up from under the skillet setit ablaze. "It makes me nervous. That andyou drinking so much.” She opened theoven, and using the skirt of her kimono asa dish cloth, removed a pan of biscuits andset it on the table. Then she moved theplatter of pork chops from the stove to thetable and pulled up a chair for herself. Roll¬ing back the sleeves of the kimono from herfat red arms, she flopped a piece of meat ontoher plate and broke a biscuit off from theothers in the tin."Do you want some tomatoes?” sheasked. He was still reading and did notanswer."Ed!” she wailed, "Come on and eat be¬fore everything gets cold.” He laid aside thenewspaper and reached for a fork that wasn’tbeside his plate."Haven’t you got any forks?” he asked.She tried to answer but couldn’t until shehad swallowed a large mouthful of pork andbiscuit."There,” she said, and indicated the forkin the pork chop platter with a greasy, short-shanked thumb.For awhile the only sounds came from thesilver and their mouths opening and closing.Once she reached back over her head for thetomatoes that were on top of the ice-box and her kimono came open, revealing her largesoft breasts. She pulled it together, and be¬gan to peel the tomato."Pass your plate,” she said. He lookedup for a moment, and then shook his head."Don’t want any.” She cut the tomato inhalf and sprinkled it generously with saltand pepper."Busy today?” she asked. He wiped thegrease from his chin with the back of hishand."Not very,” he said, "A few games ofstud and coon-can with Dude Mintcr, butno money. They ain't any money in thisdamn town. If somethin’ don’t happenpretty soon. I’m goin’back over to Tulsa.Got any dessert?”She was still eating thetomatoes. She had pouredsome grease off the porkchops over them and cutup some green onions.Then she mixed them alltogether and sprinkled onmore pepper and salt."There’s a little sugarsyrup in that glass on thestove if you’ll get up andget it,” she said, "I’m tootired.”He got up and wentover to the stove. "By thelooks of this house, yousure ought’a be tired,”he said. He lifted up sev¬eral glasses and held themto the light. "Whichone?” he asked."Oh, Ed, the littleone,” she said, "the oneyou’re holding in yourhand.’He sat down at thetable, broke a biscuit inhalf, and spread butter onthe doughy inside. Thenhe poured the syrup overboth halves. She had fin¬ished the tomatoes andwas watching him."Well, Ed, I mightwant a little bit of thesyrup,” she said. "Youdon’t have to be a hogabout it, you know.”He stopped pouringthe syrup and handed herthe glass. "Here,” he saidand then, "Why don’tyou try cleaning this placeup once in awhile?”She ignored his ques¬tion until she had soaked her biscuit withsyrup; then she said, "It wouldn’t do anygood if I did. A place like this. It wouldn’tlook like anything.”"You might try it once,” he said.Then she flared up. "You make me sickand tired.” she said. "I do the best I can.I’m not as young as I used to be, and Ihaven’t been the same since I was sick. Ishould think you’d try and have a little con¬sideration for somebody besides yourself. No.All you care about is hanging around thatFlorence Chamblis’ house sopping up homebrew. Dude Minter told me you cat there,too. I suppose my cooking’s not goodenough for you. I suppose the next thingI know you’ll be staying over there all night.If you haven’t already.” Her shapeless lipswere beginning to jerk and lift at the cornersas if she were smiling, but large tears were(Please turn to Page Twelve)CLOAK FOR A MAN WHO HAS NO HEED FOR WINTERfor L. V.hy Kay BoyleHow often docs it happento see men walk into a place where the snow has settledwith flowers fresh in their cheeks and their arms sproutingsown thick with golden-rod and buttercup their fleshtheir eyes phlox-blue, how often do you set eye on themdancing an avalanche with their skiis off, bringinga bouquet of hair on the chest to lay in homageon the remains of trees that pined away that winter?nor is it a light burden they carry to the high places;a great thirst, a wild hunger, and the iron of anger moltenenough withinto brand the hide of a glaciera feast of hot-hearted flowers that do not bloomelsewhere but in their climate.Thou hast a thaw for winter sure as sun;and two blue beams of eyesight lashed to oneto jam the breaking waters towards the spring.Thou hast a burning hand that will not takegauntlet nor muff but, bare, defies the coldand smites the flanks of drifts that, flake by flake,spume off their crust and running streams unfold.There was no way of knowing if it were noon in this placeunless such men, travelling fast, came into the clearingand stood their skiis upright, like the staff of a shepherd in the snow.The wind changed for the better, as a woman’s mind may alterthe thaw carved the abysses out with thunderthe great trunks of the snow splintered offstruck by the colour and ease of any man’s arrival,felled as so much kindling on the flame.But frozen waters may sometime clap thy mouth,arrows of ice instead slung in the quiver.Eyes drained bleak as marble of the southwill rattle like white dice in the river.If cold strike thee bitter, stave it offwith the uneven texture of this cloth.Page Seven COMMENTCOMMENTA Literary and Critical Quarterly92, Faculty ExchangeUNIVERSITY OF CHICAGOEditorsVERONICA RYANRICKER VAN METRE. Jr.Assistant EditorsDAY ALAN PERRYCHARLES TYROLER. IIBusiness ManagerJOHN G. NEUKOMPEARL MORSON, SecretaryFaculty AdvisorsEDITH FOSTER FLINTROBERT MORSS LOVEHStudent PublisherCHARLES NEWTON. Jr.No responsibility is assumed by the University of Chicagofor any statements appearing in COMMENT, or for anycontracts entered into by COMMENT.Publisher's AddressLLOYD HOLLISTER INC.1232-36 Central AvenueWilmette, III.Individual Copies Fifteen CentsOne Year's Subscription Fifty CentsBali Ho!...Having in the past contented themselveswith vague encouragement of youthful am¬bitions, having herctofor spoken to us atconvocations about going out into the greatworld and carrying on the noble traditionsof a great culture, the generation respon¬sible, at least immediately so, for the depress¬ion has begun to turn more honest attentionto us. Pointing to nation wide unemploy¬ment, unpaid taxes, and the collapse of thecredit system (to mention but a few evilsof the day), the harassed participants in thechaotic scene are anxious to know what tvethink about it all. What are we going todo about it?Our answers are marked by varying de¬grees of impractibility, theory, apathy, andnonsense. Springing from the comparativedetachment of student life, our reactions tothe problems that beset the world outsideour doors are manifold — and few. Wedistinguish between the two major types ofreaction, those of passivity and activity; andwe should like to make a plea for a third.The reaction of activity is probably thebest known; certainly it is the most widelycommended. Some of us clench our fists andresolve to fight our way through; some ofus go to meetings and talk about Marx andcapitalism; some of us take pen in ink-stainedfingers and write about the duties of theyouth of the land. Such reactions are markedmore by a determination to do somethingthan by any definite idea of what is to bedone. But the factors which initiate theseactions and keep them alive are the same inall cases of the response of activity: the vari¬ous beliefs that it is a new order, to comefrom a new generation, which will in someway enable the world to sit up and take itseggnogg.A great many of us are passive. That is,we are either apathetic because we are toostupid, or cynical because we like to thinkwe are too intelligent. In any event, we arecontent merely to read the newspapers andcount the number of banks that are closing; we are content to watch hunger paradeswithout worrying about the just distributionof the necessities of life; we are quite satisfiedto wait for a solution magically to appear.We hope it will come tomorrow, of course;but we do nothing about it nevertheless. Forwhat, say these passivists, can we do?Some of us, however, are neither activenor passive in the true sense. Some of usare so thoroughly fed up with the wholecomplicated problem, so completely disgustedwith the whole rotten mess, that we havepassed from activity through passivity to astage of rebellion against this whole processof cultural costiveness which is calledprogress. It is a rebellion that will find noexpression in forthright action; rather is ita turning away from all manifestations ofaction to the realization that we have a dutyto ourselves.We are participants in a form of collec¬tive insanity with which we have no inter¬ests: surely we did not create the economicconditions, the cultural standards, the socialorder which has slipped on the ice ofprogress. We are, perforce, unwilling par¬ticipants in this collective insanity. Why,then, attempt to justify it or change it? Whytry to squeeze our lives into it merely be¬cause it exists?From activity through passivity to disgustgo those of us who want to be ourselves.We have been betrayed. Our father’s godshave turned against them, and now they areturning against us too, though they werenone of our creating. It was not we whoevolved a culture which smugly reversed anyand all rational systems of values, which putwealth before peace of mind, power beforehappiness, ostentation before genuine self-respect, luxury for a few before a modestwell-being for the many. Such antithesesof reason, of Christianity, of plain commonsense, have been foisted upon us. and nowtheir results are foisted upon us too. Yea,we have been betrayed, and our betrayersexpect us to swallow the bitter pill, gird ourloins, and clean up with enthusiasm the messthey made. With an inexplicable logic theyexhort us to lay aside their own banners ofgreed and avarice long enough to remedy thesituation, so that we can take them up againand prolong this dog-eat-dog affair, so thatten years hence we can hilariously rejoice ina new Prosperity and a new Depression.But a few of us will not be taken in again.A few of us believe the old values wrong andour values right. Wealth and acquisitionand complexity and automobiles are not thesole ends and symbols of civilization. Re¬garded as they have been they clog the system,poison the organism, and effect a slow andinevitable death. There is little hope thatthe present depression will chasten the world,will bring about a new evaluation of endsand interests; human nature changes little ifat all. The sordid struggle v.'ill go on.But meanwhile, we few have a duty to our¬selves: since we cannot hope to change theworld we live in, we must do our best todepart therefrom. Hence Bali, Tahiti,Yucatan: we must seek our isles of theblest. Such an attitude is not defeat; itis rebellion.Drought. . .Comment began its career last quarter asa result of the belief of the editors that theUniversity of Chicago, a great educationalinstitution and a so-called hotbed of literarytalent, definitely needed a magazine devotedto publication of the literary and critical ef¬forts of the student body. It was to repre¬sent the University, as the Universityrepresents the best in thought and artisticappreciation in the middle west. It was to bring to a boil the simmering talent withwhich the campus was flooded. It was tobe the means of focusing attention uponyoung college writers. It was, in a word,to reflect campus thought.There is nothing to reflect. That, in afew more words, is our honest opinion, nowthat six months of gathering material haverevealed an amazing paucity of worthwhilemanuscripts. Sirupy stories, anaemic essays,and saccharine sonnets have outnumbered ina disheartening degree those manuscriptswhich showed literary ability. In our firstissue we presented the work of establishedwriters in order that Comment might ade¬quately claim the attention of its readers.That we arc forced also in this issue to pro¬cure material from outside sources perhapsdefinitely proves that the University hasnothing to offer in the line of student liter¬ary talent.Comment is willing to accept partialresponsibility for the situation which leadsto these observations. Perhaps there arcsources for material which we have over¬looked. We have, however, utilized everyavailable means to bring our needs beforethe student body. Perhaps some campuswriters prefer not to have us publish theirmanuscripts. We feel that the magazine it¬self opposes such opinion—w'e arc not an¬other “arty” magazine. In any event, thefact remains that this campus is not floodedwith literary talent: it is a literary desert.Tone . . .Comment, it seems, has a “tone.”Avowedly impersonal editorially, it hasemerged with a personality. And further¬more, it is articulate; it has a “voice.” “Youhave given your magazine a voice,” wrote asympathetic critic, “and evidently a veryeloquent and competent one. A voice iswhat most of the non-commercial magazineslack. Clay could use one: Midland's is tooquiet and infrequently heard to suit me;Pagany has none: Story achieves an unfor¬tunate dullness through the printing eachissue of a mere sequence of short stories, un¬relieved even by a fragment of verse.” Un¬fortunately, the editors of Comment arestill confused as to their part in the matter.A “tone” or “voice” presupposes a formu¬lated point of view, a definite consciousnessof a particular taste in literature, prc-con-ceived criteria of judgment and selection, butthe editors had none of these. They werenot determined to be surrealistes, sectional-ists, humanists, or nationalists, to cite onlya few current critical and philosophical at¬titudes to which they might have sub¬scribed. Realizing the impossibility offormulating any absolute criterion of literaryquality, they waived the enunciation ofrelative criteria. For in the last analysis, acritical attitude cannot be impersonal andobjective: it is always tempered by individ¬uality. A critical judgment of what shallor shall not be published in a magazine is amatter of personal taste, of the collectivetaste of an editorial board.In the opinion of the editors, the contentof the first Comment represented the bestof the material submitted to them. That thisbest should be concerned chiefly with defeatis a highly interesting commentary on theviewpoint of contemporary youth, but it hasnothing to do with the editorial tone orpolicy of Comment. And if the best ofthe contributors, whose talent and intellec¬tual integrity the editors respect, continue towrite about defeat, then that problem willcontinue to be discussed in the pages ofComment.COMMENT Page EightLast Date . ..(Continued from Page Three)away and be not quite real this evening.Loving him as she did it was strange thatthere was no place for him in this dark coolworld of Jim’s and hers. She stared hardat Jim trying to sec him as she had whenthey first met, charming and attractive butsomething quite outside of her. It was dif¬ferent now. They seemed to merge in thesleeping darkness so that now he was a moreimportant part of herself than Ralph.Somewhere below a bird was sending upits shrill, insistent notes. A pale blue streakwas sketched like smoke long across the sky.They drew closer together, wordlessly asthough waiting. The bird notes came upclear and strong, over and over and overagain. Terry wondered why the other birdswere not singing. This one sounded so im¬patient, so demanding.A tug at the window on the inside causedher to clutch at the sill to steady herself.She blinked at Pete standing there so sud¬denly. “What the devil are you two doingout there?” he demanded. “Swell guestsyou are, coming up to see us and then spend¬ing the whole night communing withnature.”“Sorry.” Jim’s head was bent over, light¬ing a cigarette, and his apology was terse andmuffled. Terry slid off the sill and stoodwith one hand resting against the wall be¬cause she was reeling slightly. She smiledat Pete.“We’re not very good guests,” she ad¬mitted, “but we’ve had a lovely time.”“What do you mean ‘had’?” Helen want¬ed to know. “The night’s not over yet.”The air in the room was warm, and stalewith the odor of cigarettes. Terry wantedto get out—at once. Jim was watching her.“Nope,” he said, “Terry’s got to get homebefore her family wakes up.” She thankedhim wordlessly and knew that he under¬stood.“One more drink.” Pete insisted. “Stirrupcup or something. Speed the parting guests.”He was already on his way to the tiny kitch¬en. Ferry looked at Jim. He shrugged, setdown her things, and followed Pete into thekitchen.Terry sat down on the couch. “Tired?”Helen asked.“Not exactly. Kind of dizzy. I reallyshouldn’t drink any more.”“One more won’t hurt you. You cango home and sleep it off.”Then Pete was there with the glasses.Terry drank hers absently. The room waswhirling. Remotely, she could hear Pete’sdeep voice and Helen’s high nervous laugh.She looked up when she felt her wrap beingslipped over her shoulders. "Come on,Terry,” Jim was whispering. "Let’s get outof here.”She rose unsteadily and walked towardsthe door, dimly aware that Jim was sayinggoodnight. Out in the corridor he slippedhis arm about her waist for support.The air outside felt moist and fresh. Afew stars still gleamed faintly, but the lightblue streak had already climbed half-wayacross the sky. In the car, Jim put his armabout her and drew her head down to hisshoulder. It was nice. Peaceful and nice.As they rode along in silence Terry couldfeel enveloping them the same sense of near¬ness that they had known for those beauti¬ful brief moments up at Helen’s.Terry didn’t know how far they weredriving. She didn’t care. She wasn’t sleepynow but she didn’t sit up. Even when thecar slid to a quiet stop she didn’t sit up; just turned her head so she could see wherethey were. Jim had driven over to the endof the drive and before them the lakestretched in endless grey nothingness. Therewas no other world. The drive behind them,the occasional rush of sound as a car passed,were curiously unreal because of their hardreality. Something within Terry told herthat she should sit up, should begin talkinglightly to break the spell. But she didn’twant to. Jim’s cheek was resting againsther head, his lips playing softly with herhair. “Beautiful hair,” he whispered. “Let itdown, Terry.”One part of Terry, strangely aware anddetached, told her that she shouldn’t. Butit was a small part, a weak part, and her fin¬gers were already fumbling with the hair¬pins, loosening her hair until it dropped likedark mist about her throat and shoulders.Jim’s fingers were on her cheek, turning herface slowly towards him. “He’s going tokiss me,” Terry thought. And she wasfrightened. He mustn’t kiss her when hedidn’t love her. And Ralph .A soft breath of air came through thewindow, swirled about them, seeming toblow them closer together. The long darkbeauty of the night seemed to Terry to cul¬minate in their kiss.It didn’t matter any more that Jim didn’tlove her. It was enough that they wereyoung and happy and alone together in thewide darkness. Not even Ralph mattered.His love was something that belonged toyesterday and tomorrow, and this night washers alone. Tomorrow she would forget.She would love Ralph again as she had lovedyou appreciate thefinest foods, truly homecooked? Of course youdo. Quality never hadany competition. If youenjoy such "homey"dishes as chicken pot-pieand butter cakes you'lllike—THEGreenShutterTea Shop5650 Kenwood Ave."It's Different" him yesterday, and tonight would be only astory that she had lived. She would makeit a beautiful story, she thought. Her armcrept up about Jim’s shoulder. She drewhis lips down to hers again.At last, not knowing why, she drew away.There on the horizon glowed the sun, burn¬ing and solid, not yet melted into the dif¬fused light of day. Terry stared at it.Dazedly she brushed her hair back from herforehead and leaned out of the car windowfeeling somehow as though she had justgot up and was not yet fully awake. Thelake, too, had wakened into a mesh of glit¬tering lines. Even the air was different,cooler and more alive.Terry shivered a little. “It’s tomorrow,”she thought, and the words in her mindsounded hard as stone. She was sober now,and it was all over. There was nothing ofthe night that she could keep safe and secretwith this clear brightness flooding lake andsky and even the darkest corners of her mind.Her head ached dully. She sat huddled inher corner of the car trying desperately hardnot to think, but her mind was possessed ofa relentless activity and precision. She’dacted like a fool. She should feel cheap anddishonest. If Ralph knew—. But thephrases fell meaningless before a deep andquiet conviction that she was not sorry. Shecouldn’t forget the night as she had plannedto do. And still the memory of it did notafford her any remorse as she felt it should.It was very difficult to understand.Half afraid she turned to look at Jim. Hisface in the morning light was pale and rathertired, and he was watching her with a curioushalf-smile. Terry liked the little lines thatdrew up the corners of his mouth and theway his eyes narrowed against the glare ofthe sun. She smiled back at him. Miracul¬ously, the thing had happened again. To¬gether they were a part of the morning asthey had been of the night.Of course Jim didn’t love her. She hadknown that all along, only it hadn’t seemedto matter before. She wasn’t sure that itmattered now. There was only one thingthat she was certain did matter. Ralph.Thinking of him she felt a strange pity,strange because she had thought him a partof herself and now he was a friend she hadonce known who was going to be unhappy.She couldn’t understand it, but she knew,without having to think of it at all, that shecould never marry Ralph. It frightened her.There had always been Ralph. And lifehad looked so sweet and ordered and safefor them. She felt bewildered and lost. Shewanted to throw herself down upon the sandand let the sun seep through her until shefelt its strength and cleanliness. She wanted,very suddenly, to cry. She leaned her headback and closed her eyes to shut out the sun¬light, feeling tired and desolately lonely.It was going to be difficult to explain toRalph. There was no explanation. Noteven that she was in love with some one else. . . she wasn’t even sure it was that. Onlyshe couldn’t marry Ralph. It would be likeshutting the door quickly on a part of her¬self as though she were afraid to see it. Ralphwouldn’t be able to understand that. Hewould say that they had known each otherso long. He would say they liked the samebooks, the same pictures. Maybe, thoughtTerry, she wouldn’t try to explain. Maybethis feeling of hers now was just a mood.No, she knew that wasn’t true. But maybeno one could have everything and it wasworth giving up something to have Ralph’slove.Jim’s hand reached out and closed overhers. She would tell Ralph. She wouldsay she was sorry but she didn’t love him.It was as simple as all that.Page Nine COMMENTQendeman of the Old South(Continued from Page Six)“Shh!”"Aha.”They rounded the floor again. The musicstopped, but an encore began."What are you, anyway, you wonderfulman. You a bootlegger?”"No. Gentleman. Gentleman of leisure.Gentleman of the Old Souse. You knowwhat I mean — the Old South. Oh, it'sposilutely wonderful.”They smashed into an inoffensive couple."Pardon us,” Nelson said, bowingelaborately. "Pardon us. Just a couplegentlemen the Old Souse. Wonderful.”Ruth took his arm."That bouncer is coming this way.”"Let me at him.”She pulled him through the gate, out acrossthe porch and down the steps. The bouncerstood across the floor glaring after them."Let’s rest,” Ruth suggested."Wonderful.”They went out on the pier and sat down.Nelson had a tendency to fall into the waterand Ruth had to prop him up. He put hisarms around her. Shortly he kissed her. Hisleft arm around her waist, he let his handcrawl down her side until it met one of hers.Her small fingers tightened on it and drew itaway from her body. "Now!” she said."The dirty buzzard,” he growled."Who?”"That buzzard. You come with him?”"Him and my cousin. He’s here, too, butI don’t know where he is.”"You’re goin’ home with your cousinthen?”"Sure.”Nelson's hand slid down to her lap. Heran his forefinger down her thigh, towardher knee. Idly, he tried to snap one of hergarters."Here, here,” she said with a nervouslaugh."Wonderful.”Nelson’s hand became bolder.Suddenly Ruth pushed him away. Hecould feel her arms trembling. "Don’t, pleasedon’t,” she said."Aw, listen, why can’t you be a goodsport, Ruth. Wonderful old Ruth. Givethe boy-friend a little break, baby.”She did not answer.He continued in a wheedling tone:"Aw, come on, Ruth, it won’t hurt you.There won’t anything happen. Listen, Iknow my stuff, baby. I love you. don’t I?I love you more than anything.”He looked at her closely."What’s the matter? You crying? Why,what’s the matter, Ruth? Listen, honey,don’t cry. I’m your boy-friend, ain’t I? Ilove you, don’t I?”"Don’t—please don’t.”"Aw—Ruth. Don’t be like that. Hey,where you goin’? Don’t go, baby. Sit hereand talk, why don’t you? I'll be good.”"You’re all alike,” she sobbed, turning herhead away."Aw, listen, don’t say that.”"You’re just like him. I thought youwere going to be nice.”"Gee, Ruth. I’m awful sorry. Honest.I just thought maybe you and me under¬stood each other and—I don’t know. See?I thought maybe you wouldn’t feel that waytowards me. I didn’t know.”She began to cry again."Oh, sugar, now listen, don’t cry likethat.” His own eyes began to dim. "Listen,you’ll have me cryin’ too, baby. I’m sorry,honey. Honest, I am. See—so many girlsdo nowdays a fellow doesn't know. I didn’t know. I kind of thought you liked me.”“I do—I did, but I thought you weredifferent.”"Well, I’ll be different then. I'll be dif¬ferent for you, sugar. Honest. I'd do any¬thing for you, sugar, I mean it. I knew itthe minute I saw you. I’m crazy about you."Do you expect me to believe that?”"Please do, baby. Honest, I m crazyabout you. I could be crazy about you allShe looked at him uncertainly, wiping hereyes with a tiny handkerchief.He took her hand quickly. "I mean it,baby.”"All right,” she said quietly."Kiss me, honey, will you? I won’t getfresh, I promise you.”She let him kiss her. He drew her againsthis shoulder and ran his hand over her hair.“Do you love me, sugar? he asked."I only just met you, she said. Listen,I ve got to go now. They re playing Home,Sweet Home.’ ”She got up."You aren’t goin’ to forget me. are you?he asked.“No,” she said. "Goodbye.” She ran to¬ward the pavilion.He walked dizzily up toward where thecar was parked. On the way he stumbledover the root of a big oak and fell flat. Whenhe got up he felt a burning pain in his rightknee. Somehow, he found the car, andclimbed in.He woke up suddenly. Hal was tuggingat his legs."Get out, you big hyena. You want allthe room?”"Huh?” Nelson asked."We’re goin’ home. Where the hell youbeen?”"Me? Oh, I been around.”"You look like you have. Well—moveover!”They all climbed in and started home.Nelson kept falling asleep. They rode onthrough a long cypress swamp which layon either side of the road. The moon madea Dore picture of the thin trees, with theirweird drapery of moss. The breeze fromthe speed of the car revived Nelson. He puthis arm over the back of the seat half onFindlay’s shoulders."I met a wonderful girl,” he said."So did I. How’d you come out?”"Don’t say that.”"Why not?”"She ain’t that kind of a girl.”"That’s what they all say.”"She ain’t. She’s wonderful. You canlaugh all you damn please. She’s goin’ tomarry me.”"What on?”"I got dough. Plenty of dough. Mydaddy left me plenty that I can get when Ineed it,” he lied."Then don’t be a sap and spend it on adame, ’ advised Gus. "Boy, I can’t pictureyou gettin’ married.”"You just haven’t seen this girl.”"Let him alone,” Gus said. "He’ll sleepit off and come to.”"Aw, go to hell,” said Nelson.When he woke again it was in front ofhis house."Don’t go gettin’ married or anything,”Cius said.Nelson walked up the curved sidewalk,dizzily. Finally he dragged himself upstairsand threw himself on the bed. It keptwhirling with him until he had to pop openhis eyes to keep from falling.2.In the morning Nelson still felt sick. HUhead was pounding and his stomach was queasy. What liquor! He went to thebathroom and tried to vomit again, butcouldn’t. His eyes hurt in the morning light.He sat on the tub and turned on the coldwater. Then he managed to get undressedand rolled in.Gradually, he began to take more noticeof things, among others the fact that hisknee was torn and his knuckles were skinnedand one thumb was badly swollen.After a half-hearted rub-down with a bigtowel he dressed in clean underwear and gotinto his last clean pair of white trousers. Theclean shirt, too, was his last good one. Hewent downstairs. In the hall he heard hismother’s voice and that of Jenny, the nigger,coming from the kitchen. The smell ofbaking nauseated him. Turning, he tip toedout the front door and started for town.He still had ten cents for coffee. He lookedat his wrist for the time and then remem¬bered Hip Wilson and began to reconstructthe events of the night. That girl had beena honey!As he passed the library he saw by theclock that it was eleven-thirty. He went in¬to Baggett’s poolroom and smokeshop andsat down on the big leather davenport op¬posite the cigar case to wait for someone tocome along and kid him about the night be¬fore. No one did. None of his crowd wasthere.He got a cup of coffee at the lunch-count¬er. "Leave it black.” he advised. "Boy. Ineed it.”"Out again?” yawned Joe. the hasher."Boy, howdy!”Joe wasn't interested, though. He wenton scrubbing the sink. Nelson sippedthe coffee, borrowed a dime from Art. thenigger porter, to play a game of pool, thenthought better of the idea and got a ten-centpackage of Luckies.He walked once around the business sec¬tion without seeing anyone who mattered.Then he drifted over to Button’s Toggery.He remembered vaguely that Larry Eubanksplanned to leave for Atlanta. Larry hadone of the few jobs in town that looked goodto Nelson. He sold clothing and thereforedressed well and got his own clothing at adiscount. He was downtown all day andhad lots of fun because the place was an un¬official club for the boys.Larry, a chubby young man, was wash¬ing the front window with a squeegee."Hey, Larry,” Nelson greeted."Howdy.”"How’s it?”"Should have been with me last night,Larry.”"Whereabouts?”"Green Lake.”"Dance?”"Big one. Talk about whoopee. I gotcorned up and got into about ten fights. Lookat my knuckles and that thumb.”"Yeah,” Larry said, squinting through thecigaret smoke. He went over to the curband dumped the bucket of dirty water.Nelson followed him inside the store."Yeah,” he continued, "with some mightytough hombres. And what I mean, thosebabies were hard. But, listen—did I meetsome swell sugar!”"Yeah?”"And how. I mean she surely was keen,”Nelson chuckled. "You know what? Iasked her to marry me.”"What’d she say?”"What would you expect her to say?.Yes. of course.”"Must be crazy. White girl?”"Wisecracker, huh?”(Please turn to Page Eleven)Page TenCOMMENTTHESE BOOKS DESERVETO BE READ MORETHAN ONCEYou Will Wantto Own ThemPowyt: PHILOSOPHY OF SOLITUDE $1.50(A real tonic for tho world-jaded)Bennett: MUCH LOVED BOOKS $2.00(Now in the Black & Gold edition; a bookno student or lover of books should miss)Jane Austen: COMPLETE NOVELS $1.00(This new title in the Modern LibraryGiants is a good dollar's worth)Gilkey: PERSPECTIVES $1.00(A little book of religious thinking done inthe Dean's inimitable terse style)WHAT PLATO SAIDBy Paul Shorey". . . his enthusiasm and excitement in re¬creating Plato are as refreshing as a long,cool draught of clear spring water."—NowYork Evening Post. $5.00PUBLIC POLICY PAMPHLETSEdited by Harry D. GideonseBrief, to-the-point, authoritative. (I) Bal¬ancing the Budget; (2) The Economics ofTechnocracy; (3) Unemployment Insurance;(4) War Debts; (5) Deflation and CapitalLevy. Sat of 5, $1.00; each, 25 cent*Sav« anough this month to buy atlaast one of these worth-while booksat theU.ofC. Book Store5802 ELLIS AVE. CHICAGOTHIS QUARTER-The Harvard again offersChicago students exceptionalaccommodations priced tomeet present student bud¬gets—Single Rooms $3.50 per weekDouble Rooms $6.00 per weekSuites $30.00 per monthWe suggest that you call imme¬diately, investigate the Harvardofferings and make a selectionbefore the choicest rooms arerented.HARVARD HOTELMr*. N. F. O'Rourke, Mgr.5714-20 Blackstone Ave.5 Minutes to Campus12 Minutes to the LoopI. C., Bus and Surface Lines, 2 Slocks Qentleman of the Old South(Continued from Page Ten)“What’s her name?”Nelson paused. His face became vacant.Then he began to smile.“Hell’s fire,” he said, “I never did findout. I'll know where to find her though.”Larry took a duster and started to brusboff boxes.“How often do you have to do all this?”Nelson asked."All what?”"Washin’ the windows and dustin’ andeverything. Haven't you got a nigger hereor is old Button too tight?”“He'd squeeze a penny till the Indiansweat.”“That’s tough. I was kind of thinkin’I’d hit him for your job. You’re leavin’,aren’t you?”Larry laughed scornfully.“What do you want with a job?”“Oh, I don’t know. I was just thinkin’it would be fun to work for a while andsee what it felt like. I don't really haveto.”“Then don’t.”Nelson shrugged. “Not much danger,” hesaid. “You don’t suppose I would, do you?”He walked over and looked at a rack ofsuits. “What do you get for these double-breasted white linens?” he asked. “Theyaren’t so bad.”“Twenty-two fifty with two pants.”“That ain’t bad.”“That’s good. They cost almost thatmuch.”“Lemme see one. I wrecked my last goodlinen last night.” Nelson slipped into a sizeforty.“Looks all right,” said Larry.“Not bad. How much did you say?”“I told you twenty-two fifty with twopants.”“Oh, yeah.”Nelson studied the suit from several angles.Then he went over and picked a tie off thetwo-dollar rack.“How’s the credit?” he asked.Larry looked through the books. “Youowe sixty-two-seventy,” he said. “On ac¬count with your mother.”“All right. Put this on, too. Can I getit tonight?”“I’ll send it over to the house.”“Well—no, I guess maybe not. Nevermind. I’ll be in for it.”“Okay.”“Well, I’ll be seein’ you,” and Nelsonwandered out.He went on up to the drug store. It wasnoon.A1 Parks came in. “Hey, Red,” he said.“What you doin’?”“Nothin’.”“Listen, come on over to Tampa withme? I got the car. I got to get some stufffor my mother and we might as well makea time of it.”“When you cornin’ back?”“When she closes and not until.”“I don't know. I haven’t got any doughon me and I’m overdrawn and mom’s outof town.”“Forget the money. I can let you takesome.”“Aw, I hate to sponge off of you.”“Come on/”"Well—all right. Listen, will you stopby Button's? I want to put on a new suitI just got.”They got into Al's coupe.“Boy, you should have been with me lastnight.” Nelson began. For Dinner-^THEMAID-RITEGRILL1309 E. 57th St.Open From 7 A. M. to 8 P. M.Club BreakfastsSpecial LuncheonsDe Luxe DinnersFor Luncheon yTHEMAID-RITESANDWICH SHOP1320 E. 57th St.Open Until 2 A. M.Student LuncheonsSpecial Steak DinnersOdd-Time SnacksMaid'Rite FeaturesPure Filtered Water that youappreciate.A superior sort of personal servicethat you'll enjoy.An informal, yet refined atmos¬phere especially adapted to ourUniversity clientele.Delivery service from the Sand¬wich Shop from 6 p. m. to midnite.A Ping Pong Parlor at 13241/2 E.57th, where enthusiasts may in¬dulge at a very nominal fee.Page Eleven COMMENTThe Sun Qone Down ...(Continued from Page One)the edge of the burnt copse, and was movingalong the branch, trying this perch andanother one, flapping its wings a little andpecking at its breast. Presently it grew rest¬less and flew away and the purple crept upfurther into the sky, and still I knelt there,looking into the transparent lake of hisstaring eyes.The mud had covered half my bayonetblade as I knelt there, unable to move, feelingmy whole body to be more lifeless than his,for he had lost the power of being, but Ihad lost the green grass and the sweet water.While the sunset kept drifting down the skyto its tryst with the trees, I pulled my handdown across my eyes and down over my face,but no tears spread upon my cheeks and thehand fell nervelessly back to my side, and theache in the back of my neck seemed about tosplit my head in two parts, for I had walkedand fought all this day. And now I suffered.I heard the stretcher-bearers coming and Iknew that they saw me and would find him,would bury him among the others, the many,many bodies that had fallen down, and hiscross would be indistinguishable from theothers, and only the tainted grass growinghere in the marsh would remember how hehad lain here from the time of his dyingthrough the hours of the afternoon. Thestretcher-bearers would hasten to transfer himto the cot and they would not remember howhe had looked as he lay there. But I hadcome first and I had seen the sunken placein the waving green surface of the grasses andI had let my bayonet fall into the mud besidehis , . .Nights when I would lie awake and stare3 MINUTESFROM CAMPUSto^*0oppcrjbnterB^1449 E. 57th StreetWHEREYou can get a better meal—A meal that satisfiesBECAUSEWe use the best of foodCook it properly andServe it neatlyWHY NOT COME AND TRY?Many others haveand are still coming.BREAKFAST 20c and upLUNCHEON 35cDINNER 50c and 75cSPECIAL DINNER 40c{Except Sundays)OPEN PROM 6:30 A. M. UNTIL 10 P. M. at the stars and stare through their distantbrilliance into the memory of his eyes staringup at the sky which must have been bluewhen he had fallen, but had become like theblood of his wounds when I had found himlying there. Sprawled out in his wet uniformhe was, with the muddy water soaking thetrousers and the bloody water seeping intothe shoulders, where the insects were crawlingover his limp neck, crawling over his handas it lay upon his chest and over the singlesilver ring. And I smiled to him as I rosewearily and stretched my aching body andlet my head fall limp onto my chest again;I smiled upon him, lying in the grass taintedwith his blood. And the trees of the copsewere black from the fire of the battle, andthe sky was purple now, and I turned mydead face towards the evening star, and Iwalked on back, back to the others . . .The Most Talked-of Playof the Past Decade—EUGENE O’NEILL'SThe EMPEROR JONESThursday (April 6)—8:30Friday (April 7)—8:30Saturday (April 8)—2:30INTERNATIONALHOUSE THEATREAlio concert of Negro muiicand Negro Art ExhibitThe Editors Believe . ..That the international House 1 heater Leaguehas the right idea for a truly internationaltheater. From the Passing of the Kwongswith an all foreign-born Chinese cast theyachieved an interesting contrast in next pro¬ducing the ever-fresh Lady of the Cameliasand succeeded in recreating the rare charm ofFrench life of the eighteen fifties. Now theyhave gathered together a company composedentirely of Negroes—including some impor¬tant African royalty—and are hard at workon Eugene O’Neill’s play of the psychologyof fear, Emperor Jones, which they will offerto the public this week.Rumors are about that there are more playsof international interest to come.Man and Wife ...{Continued from Page Setfen)beginning to spill out of her red puffy eyes.She lifted the skirt of her kimono and dabbedat her face.“Yeah," he said sarcastically, "I guessthat’s right.” Then he got up and took hishat off the ice-box. “I'm going,” he said, andslammed the door after him.“Ed,” she cried, and ran to the door.Halfway down the hall he paused. “Ed,leave me a little money. I’ve got to buysome groceries.” He turned and walkedslowly back. She was standing with herhands on her wide hips. Her flabby figurefilled the doorway. He reached slowly intohis pocket and pulled out a silver dollar. Herhand was outstretched, open.“Is that enough?” he asked.“The presser'll probably bring your suitback today,” she said. Her hand was stillopen.He pulled another dollar out of his pocketand tossed it beside the first in her palm. Sheput both coins on the table, and he startedon down the hall.“You might bring me a bottle or so ofthat beer,” she called to him as he starteddown the stairs.COMMENT Lo! the Poor Spectator ...(Continued from Page Four)a member of each of the various professionsand crafts in order to determine where thefairest rewards lay he would find himselfhard put to decide bow to occupy himselfbecause in every case he would be told: “MyGod, whatever you do, keep out of thisracket.” In joining this advisory council Mr.Nathan aligns himself with his colleagues,the barber, the mechanic, the saxophoneplayer, the lawyer, the chiropractor and othersuch artisans. Moreover, the name of thisdistinguished publication has been borrowedfrom England. Another old American cus¬tom. It appears then that Mr. Nathan likeMr. Cabell has had but little success ineffecting an escape from the cross currentsand whirlpools of life in the Republic.Escape! The world begins to afflict me witha severe prcKtalgic pain.Of the other editors. Messrs, Dreiser,Boyd, and O’Neill, little need be said sincethe work of their hands is scarcely discerni¬ble in the paper. It is to be regretted perhapsthat Mr. O’Neill is not more active in thebusiness since he alone of all the men con¬cerned seems to have suffered no perceptiblediminution of vitality. But Mr. O’Neillprobably prefers to stick to his own last.Rather than to expend his time and energyin an effort to breathe the breath of life intothe American Spectator he devotes that timeand energy to the theatre, an institution thatstands in almost as dire need of respiratoryassistance as does the Spectator itself. Perhapsit is better for him and for us that he doesstick to his own last. And certainly thetheatre is better deserving of his eleemosynaryservice.LLOYDHOLLISTERInc.PrintersandPublishers«1232-36CENTRALAVENUEWILMETTEILLINOISPhoneSHEL.5687COMMENTA Literary and Critical QuarterlyVOLUME I — NUMBER I WINTER QUARTER PRICE HFTEEN CENTSTHREE LITTLE MEN ■Sole: THREE LITTLE MEN is appearing simultaneously in London in Mr. T. S. Eliot’s CRITERION.“I’m very brave generally,’’ hewent on in a low voice: “onlytoday 1 happen to have a head¬ache.’’(Through thf. Looking Glass!1.He was a small man, and he used to playtennis in white clothes in the sun, and his wristswere beautiful, tijtht and small, near his smartracquet. He would play all over the court, gath¬ering bits of the clay like red pepper on thesoles of his shoes, and his teeth would set downsharply in his lip, hard and sure, like the teethof a little beast. ^Tien a match was done hewould come off into the grass and sit down well,sit rross-legg<*d w ithout spotting his white clothesand without losing his balance, and the perspira¬tion would come off his hrow clean and clearand lie still in his fresh handkerchief.After a game he kept his sleeves rolled backon his elhows and sat cooling himself and drink¬ing spruce-beer out of a bottle. His skin wasthin and with a black hair drawn out of eachpore of his forearms. And I would sit and watchhim and think that his food and his drink mustrot in his belly, for he had liver trouble, andthe spots of it were little islands that set outon his face and sailed slowly over his forehead.I'his little man was my father, and all thetime 1 knew that he might be beautiful if some¬one could base taken him to heart. But he wastoo eager for love. One day a woman whoplayed on the court with him sat beside him onthe grass and asked him to take the pins outof her hair. She was an ugly woman, but hisfingers were suddenly stricken, and I knew therewas no sunlight ever so beautiful to him as thatsight of her hair falling down. It was hair tooyellow and dark at the roots, hut somethingflowed under the dust of his face in a coldstream of delight.I had a small room to myself when I wasa child, and he would come into it, and witha little bouquet of lettuce-leaf on the tip of hisnail he would stick his finger through the barsof the bird’s cage. He would stand this way fora long time behind me, and I could hear hisbreath in his nose and the tick of the bird s feetacross the tin floor. If I turned around my fatherwould move his feet, and he would turn hishead away out of the sun as if he feared thatI should see him too clearly. He would alwaystell me that his head pained him, and he wouldturn it away from us so that we never saw intohis eyes.Once he had come into my room while Iwas out of it, and when I came back there wasone of the fish flapped out of the bowl and lyingon the mat with its skull broken in as if undera heel. I could see the bruises in the carpetwhere my father had walked back and forth inthe room, and I knew that some agitation hadbeen so great in him that he had not seen whatwas under his feet. I lifted the fish, and underit, clinging to the soft, short hair of the rug,there was a little bed of dead scales like anarmour of death. Then it was that I saw that myfather had been writing at my desk. The penstill stood in the ink-well, and on the corner ofthe desk was a pile of paper bits torn neatlyacross and across. This was what my father hadbeen writing, and the bit of paper which lay ontop and covered the others said Dearest Mary. It rang like a great bell in my ears. Thatmy father had been writing this, and to some¬one, and below on the other bits he had written“how much less than nothing my life . . Iread these words and felt that each one of themfell to the bottom of my heart and lay heavythere.When he came in he stood with his handsclasped together at his back, looking at theprints hanging on the wall. They were Easternprints, one with six white mice caressing theirown tails. He walked about in the room exam¬ining the prints, and his fingers trembled at hisback, and 1 thought he wanted to turn and saysomething to me, but he went at last to the cageand stood by it, chirping through his teeth tothe bird. And I came up behind him like alittle cat, and I stood on the balls of my feetwith my silent anger tearing at him. I thought,oh, how pale are the flowers of your desire, mylittle father, how delicate is your need, likethe soft hunger of a dove! I remembered thatin any country he knew where the Jack-in-the-Pulpits came thickest and that his fine feetnever broke the stalks of them wherever hewalked. 1 remembered the Black Forest andthat his fingers knew the secret place to breakthe stems so that the flowers would bloom againnext year. And I thought that I would place himon my strong wrist, like a falcon, and hood hissmall bowed head with my fingers so that heneed not see the world.'I’his issue:THREE LimE MENKay BoyleFILM COMMENTAlfred V. FrankensteinTHE BUZZARDSLawrence LeeTHE LAST SIXTY MINUTESMargaret HaanelSTOOL-PIGEONLouis RiendeauSMASHUPDay Alan PerrySONNETCountee CullenVIOLENCE: Critical or Physical ?Edward Price BellA DEFENSE OF EXCESSRicker Van Metre, Jr.Straight from THE HORSE'S MOUTHEditorial CommentFAREWELLCRITIQUE Elder OlsonWilliam Allen Quinlan by KAY BOYLEII.for A. C,We would sit and talk about literature to¬gether, and I would remember these words, andI would think how badly I had spoken. It wasof no matter to me how he had spoken, but fromthe words of my own mouth I wanted to beknown. When I walked home I was angry, andI knew I had wanted to say to him that it isbetter to know what is fresh out of the instinctsand out of the emotions than out of what thememory can hold on to. And the next day Iwould go back, and I would be using the samewords to him.I would see him being grateful for interrup¬tions with a small way of fluttering his hands.When it would be tea-time the sight of the cupscoming in would make him cry out: “Ah, here’steal Here we are! Here’s tea!” He would putaside his pen and his pencil and his plain paperand unfold his legs. He would uncurve himselfover the tea-table. If I had taken him in myhands and broken him up and scattered himover the logs, he would have made a sweet smellin the room. But it would have been hard tomake him snap in the fingers.He told me he had written a story about agirl, and he read all this story aloud to me inhis soft, sad way. He was a young man beingin love with a girl. I rolled my tongue in mymouth seeking the flavour of it. Wouldn’t hegive me a taste I’d never had before on mytongue. Wouldn’t he build up a great fire of loveand let me crawl to it and open my stiff handsat the blaze.He read softly and sadly of her absence, oh,pretty, pretty girl with the Chinese blue eyes!(I tried to find her among the tea-cups. I fol¬lowed his voice carefully on tip-toe all aroundthe room. But her absence was anybody’s ab¬sence.) When he had done, he put the storyaway, and I knew he did not wish me to speakof it, so near was it to his heart. He didn’twant me to say whether it was good or whetherit was bad. And because he had come to measking for courage, I was humble, with wordsfar between in my mouth. He poured me outanother cup of tea in his sorrow, and he said:“I gave her a great many things, nice things,and she never answered my letters . . .” Andthen we looked at each other suddenly in terroras though a dead body had fallen down betweenus. We talked quickly of other things, but themotioning of our hands on our cups and ourbodies sitting quiet as if in ease by the fire wereunderstood in our shy eyes.I came out into the street, and every nightcoming out into the street like this was a be¬ginning for me. I would walk on from light tolight with my strong steps, and I would wonderif it could be that 1 wis jealous of this poorgirl. And another night there would be anotherbirth in me, and words would fly like batsagainst my heart, and I would say aloud as Iwent along: “Eyes progress towards me andwithdraw in paroxysmal insult, attuning them¬selves to the belief that it is the drought of mylids which estranges them. It is not so. I knowthat what stands within me, staring through rawholes into the crackle of faces has made a necro¬mantic sign to them from which they ebb, leav¬ing me neaped but whole, adjacent to their sea.”I would come into the house and see thetelephone near the door in this lonely place,{Please turn to Page Two)and I would think that perhaps I would go overand call him and say to him:“I can make you a Jacob’s coat, little fel¬low. I can give you a coat of agony to coveryour bones. And a shirt of fire I can give youto warm your heart until it burns a black paththrough your body.” Yes, yes, these things Icould give you, but I am too tired. I have cometo you asking for them.III.for G. M.He was a priest, and he wore a cross abouthis neck, under his shirt. When he opened hisshirt I saw' how brown and sweet was the fleshbetween his breasts.He was a priest of the flesh, and he said thatreligion was an evil and a destruction of allthat is profound, life-giving and sustaining.There was one place walking through the woodswhere the trees grew up as fine and strong asarches of stone, and he walked there swinginghis voice under them like a thurible. This istrue of the bone-dry, of the fossil religions whichhave survived, and it is true of the religionswhich bloom in glamour and emotion. He saidthis with his voice singing to me of other thingsentirely as we went on over the little horns ofthe moss.He had never read a book. He carried booksunder his arm and opened them without anyreverence at all, which was a good thing, andbefore he had come half way down the page his mind would be off and away. But he knew thatreligion was a bait to divert men from theirown intensity and purpose. He knew it is anexplanation for weary minds of why they havefailed. He knew that it is a shifting of courageand pride from man to an idea of man.But he had a reverence for art. and he tookart out of the flesh and made a grotesque of it.He told me of someone who was writing a bookon art, an artist who had written him he couldnot finish it now because he was in Siberiawhere he could find no reference books onaesthetics. Aesthetics, I said, are the soul of aman coming up again and again out of a hardground in the cold, always coming up, like anew plant, with no sun but his own sap to warmhim. But he would not believe this, or anythinglike it, because his mind could understand this,and he wanted something, as dull people do, thathis mind could not easily understand. He wouldtell me never to be angry, and never to love,and he would say that I must quiet this ferocityin me because it was a spendthrift's way withstrength and that strength must be conserve'd totwist it into perfect works of art. He would notlisten to me when 1 said that perfect form wasa carcass and that art was only an empty vesselin which to pour the torrent of a man's belief.But if vou give out everything in belie!. hewould say, what have you left to go home andwrite with? That is the tragedy no little mancan face, I said. No little man can go homeand look in the glass and bear to see some facethat is not his own face before him. The role of disciple demands too much. Too much be¬lief. Easier, easier by far to pass in the streetthe man who is apart from the others, pass witha sly look, a sneer, and go home hugging toone’s bitter heart the unspent salute, the hoardedsalutation to give it to one’s own reflection inthe mirror!One day we were riding back under the rain,and his stirrup broke but his body, in spite ofthe pace, never shifted in the saddle. It was agreat man riding beside me with the leatherslapping free on his side, on the wet skin ofhis horse. We were riding hard over the hills,and the wind twirled under his nose like a greatmoustache. And then our horses came close,one to the other, as if drawn by our emotion,and when our knees came together he slippedsideways from the touch of my leg as if it hadreleased a torrent in his body.My beast was frightened by this, and it leaptaway, and when I could look back over nivshoulder I saw him slipped down into the mudupon the little round marks that his fleeing horsehad left behind him. I wanted to turn back then,and be gentle with him, but my horse went onwith the bit in his teeth, and the rain was thickas silk about me, and I cried out as 1 rode:we are as beautiful as lightscoming out of the darkness to smash eachotherwide with recognitionthe breath of God is that which ('001(411down from heavenand giveth life unto the worldFILM COMMENT ■ . . M ALFRED V. FRANKENSTEINThe Road to Life, the second picture shownon the International House series, is a some¬what puzzling production. It is easy enough tosay “Soviet propaganda film,” and let it go atthat, but the picture opens up a train of thoughtthat has slightly comic fringes. Communist crit¬icism of Hollywood pictures stresses the factthat the heroes and heroines of American filmsare Park Avenue millionaires with yachts andairplanes and Palm Beach mansions at theircommand, who need never concern themselveswith the problems of economic subsistence, andfor whom the inter-relations of the socialstructure do not exist. The communist will pointto this fact and call it capitalist propaganda,dream-stuff with which to mislead the masses.Perhaps it is, but to practically all of us itdoes not appear as such. It is just a conventionof plot construction, so far as most of us areconcerned, and we let it go at that.To us who live in a capitalistic world thebiggest and most obvious feature of The Roadto Life is the tremendous social idealism the pic¬ture shows us, the enormous pioneer energy it de¬picts in operation. Yet it seems conceivable thatthis social idealism and pioneer energy couldbe taken for granted by a Russian audience asone of the underlying assumptions of theirworld. It seems possible that to an audiencethoroughly indoctrinated with the Russian com¬munist ideology. The Road to Life would appealnot as the drama of the social reconstruction ofa bunch of muddy little thieves, but as a melo¬drama concerned with the adventures of theselittle thieves during the process of their recon¬struction. Just as the whole point and meaning,in communist eyes, of a Hollyw'ood film, wouldhe missed because tacitly assumed by a capital¬istic audience, so the point and lesson of thiscommunist film, as seen by capitalist societv,could be overlooked by the audience for whichit was primarily intended because it deals inthe axioms of their thought.All of this is academic, but not unamusing.Looked at as a plain melodrama, as one of thewild boys himself might look at it, it is ratherordinary stuff. One sees a group of wild chil¬dren rounded up from the abandoned cellars ofa Russian city and taken out to a confiscatedchurch in the wilderness, where, under the lead¬ership of a social worker, they build a com¬munity and lav a railroad and fight a most eviland wicked villian who is scotched and drivenout only after he has killed one of the mostlovable of the boys, a Mongolian-looking chapnamed Mustapha. From the point of view of the social idealisminherent in the picture, whether assum(*d or not.The Road to Life is a kind of modern miracleplay. It is definitely a religious work, and bearsa most striking and curious and interesting re¬semblance to Richard Wagner's Parsifal. Theboys, living in their monastery, devoting alltheir energy and thought to the common pro¬ject of the railroad, are the knights of the grail.The thief who has stocked an abandoned houseThe BuzzardsBy Lawrence LeeAlways there are these shadows in the skiesOf birds that spiral slowly on great wings.The downward heads, the patient, watchful eyesHover above the earth's swift living things.Wherever life goes on, with pride or dreadWatching the summers burn along the ground.Follow the black wings circling overheadWhich circled so since any life made sound.Death does not move with wrath in this highshade;But makes its symbol in the flawless skyFor man to see arul know himselj afraid.) et as a flaw to measure splendor by.from this dark shadow beauty shines forth clear.By this black promise living is made dear.nearby with wine, women and song, and wholures the boy builders into his precincts fromtime to time is Klingsor. And the death ofMustapha at the hands of the thief is definite¬ly related to the Christian motif of atonement,which runs through Wagner's libretto.Merely as a movie The Road to Life is arather gorgeous human thing. It gave me thesame warm thrill of sentiment that I had in myadolescent years when 1 read a book about anexperiment of exactly the same sort that hadheen carried on in no more communistic acommunity than Chicago. The pictur(? makes onefeel that Russia is a muddy place full of woodenshacks, a kind of gigantic railroad vard. andthat its people, inspired by their dynamic com-munrst faith, are laying the foundations of ahopeful society down under the mud in the solidearth. The first film shown in the InternationalHouse s<*ries was Rene (flair’s comedy. Le Mil¬lion. Rene (dair produces good pictures, where¬fore he has been taken up by intellectuals withwhiskers on their minds, who have treated hiswork with the usual tintinnabulation of poly¬syllables and the customary maddening quota¬tions in the Greek alphabet. Le Million, to mvway of thinking, is primarily a verv good farcethat moves as fast as lightning, as all goodfarces should. But it also is an entirelv succes-ful experiment in a new type of musical comedy—musical comedy adapt('d to the swift move¬ment and kaleidoscopic shift of scenes possibleon the film and out of the question on thestage. The chorus of grocerymen and wine-d(*alers and washerwomen trooping up and downthe stairs of their creditor's lodging-hou.se andchasing him over the roofs of Paris in B flatmajor. 1/1 time, points to a new and highlyamusing kind of artificial fantasy, which de¬mands Rene Clair’s taste and r«*straint for itsfull effectiveness.Goona-Goona, Andre Roosevelt’s picture tak¬en on the island of Bali, is not a movie at all.It is a seri<*s of very beautiful still pictures ofphysical types, native architecture and Balineselandscape, and the fact that objects move inthese pictures does not in the least make a mo¬tion picture of the production, Roosevelt’s at¬tempt to integrate his isolat«*<l snap-shots on theskeleton of a very ordinary triangle story doesnot come off at all. As a photograph album thepicture is beyond criticism. As an anthrapo-logical record it is about as good as a BurtonHolmes lecture. As a consistent work of artit simply does not exist.As consolation for having missed Maedchenin Uniform I went to the Cinema to see The LastMile. This picture seemed to me remarkablefor only one thing, Preston Foster’s character¬ization of Killer Mears, a haunting and some¬what terrifying embodiment of the coolness thatcomes with hysteria and desperation of a sortthat cracks human sanity into bits. Foster is mag¬nificent in that part of the film where, as leaderof a jail-break in the death house of a peniten¬tiary. he slow ly and relentlessly kills one guardafter another, knowing perfectly well that hecan gain nothing by it, that the law outsidefights with massed force, with machine gunsand bombs, with dungeons and vaults and theelectric chair. It is all melodrama, of course,but if Mei Lan Fang had played the scenein Chinese ....COMMENT Page Twoby MARGARET HAANELTHE LAST SIXTY MINUTES •Peter regarded her with irritated indifference.“One thing about Hemingway,” she was saying,“is he never uses a complex sentence. That’sone of the reasons why ...”It didn’t matter. It simply didn’t matter.“Oh, Lord, shut up, child!” he cried, wantingto jump out the window', run from the room,anything, anything to get away. Had he said thataloud? He looked at her again. Evidently not.She was still talking.“Yes.” he said. She sat down. He lookedaround the room. “Go home,” he wanted toshout. Why didn't they have sense enough toleave? Didn’t they know this wasn’t living? Thisstuff they were learning wouldn’t get them any¬where. There wasn’t anywhere to get. The thingto do was to marry, have babies, work, forgetall about thinking, about aim, ambition, any¬thing but just doing, now, what there was tobe done.“Class dismissed,” he said abruptly. Hecouldn’t endure it a minute longer. In anotherinstant he would be on his feet screaming,screaming ....A girl in the second row remained seated,staring at him, as the class filed out. She didn’tseem to be seeing him, just staring at, through,and beyond him. His irritation vanished sud-denlv. “Ah, what is it?” he thought. “Come andtell me what you’re thinking.” She was a pensivegirl, silent. He liked her, Mary Davis . . . depthin her eyes. He had a quick vision of his ownface, heavy-browed, heavy-lidded, its sullenmouth and set jaw. Of course she wouldn’tspeak to him. Nobody wanted to talk to thatforbidding face. A face that was a lie, becausereally he was just afraid, too anxious to please,too fearful of being snubbed; and his jaw wasset because his chin was weak utdess he pulledit forward. As if it mattertnl, he thought wear-iU.Miss Davis was leaving the room. If onlyshe had come and told him what she was think¬ing, he would have understood, could havehelped her. He stacked his books and going overto the closet, put on his overcoat and hat.it was a beautiful afternoon. Beautiful, Thewoman on the corner with her slender anklesand white scarf was beautiful. The word atonce exhilarated and calmed him. Beautiful.He would have liked to walk over to the Mid¬way but he had a four-thirty class and it wasfour now. The warm sun on his shoulders andlashes, the breeze, the mad chattering of spar¬rows, the people whose eyes were all different,whose lips as they passed him, were all alike,he hated to leave. Wasn’t there one of themwho might . . ridiculous. Ridiculous. And any¬way. it didn’t matter.He boarded a street car. It was crowded,stuffy, odorous. He did not feel human. All ofthem sitting there blank-faced; all their mindswlu'eling as his was wheeling, about nothing.It wasn’t possible that they thought there wasany point in what they were doing. It wasn’t pos¬sible that they really wanted to live, to go on,to exist, to think; above all, to think. Life mighthe bearable if the wheels ever stopped grind¬ing. Above the rumble of the street-car he heardthe painful noise of his own mind working. Ifit would only be quiet he would get out andwalk away from everything, just feeling thesun, the air, the gentle regard of passersby,•he intermittent beauty of their bodies—forthose were things he felt, physically, as a touchat his throat, or a swift shiver down his spine,or a rush of (*cstacy to his eyes. But he had abrain, and it went on grinding; so that he hadto give it something to fill it, or the wheelswould rub together, and that was a noise hecould not stand. Like stripping gears, like afingernail along the blackboard, that sound ofthe parts of his brain rubbing against eachother as they turned. . .Worse even than that sound was the agoniz¬ing contemplation of himself, the painful an¬ticipation of what other people would think ofhim, why they looked at him so, or smiled, orsaid what they said. Therefore books, and music,and university courses, anything to keep that mind turned outward, away from himself. “Ishould marry,” he thought, “and have children,and spend my life thinking of them.” But whowould marry him? And he hated children, poorkids. They would all be as crazy as his grand¬father—or as himself.“Fifty-ninth,” called the conductor. Peterswung off the step into the street.For he would be crazy some day, he thoughtwith a kind of perfunctory horror, waiting forthe line of automobiles to pass. An old manraving in a small room somewhere. But where?No parents, no wife, no relatives that he hadseen, except at Christmas-time, for years.The warm afternoon flooded over him again,smoothing the lines about his mouth. He re¬moved his hat and felt the light wind ruffle hishair, brush his ears. Ah, God, such a day! Itmade the whole disgusting picture of the cheese-and-maggots earth, the crawling, inconsequen¬tial I iff*, somehow worth while. After all, whatwas life but a stagnating, conscious death, ex¬cept for moments like this when a miracle ofsun and clear air transformed ugly animals intohuman beings with potential beauty, and under¬standing, and even kindliness?The university was a charcoal drawing, itssharp outlines, its soft shadows, breath-taking.Sanctuary. Haven. Refuge. The words hurri^through his mind. This arch here. All of lifewas worth this single moment of passing fromsunlight into shadow, over the gray stones, un¬der the delicate lift of wall, and reaching forthe iron handle of the carved door.In the cool hall he saw the professor hurry¬ing toward the entrance. “Ah, M’sieur Heller,”he said, his speech heavy with French accent,“my wife is ill.” Peter brought his face swiftlyto an expression of sympathy. “I must take herdowntown and cannot stay for the class. Willyou write on the blackboard that we will notmeet today?”“Certainly,” said Peter, thinking that now hewould have time to correct the papers of hisfifth hour class. “I’m very sorry about yourwife. I hope it’s nothing—” “Oh, no. No. It will be all right, I am sure.Thank you very much.” The little man turnedand rushed away.“Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything,”thought Peter. “Perhaps he was angry.” Ridic¬ulous. Ridiculous. And yet he felt the bloodpounding in his head, and wanted to laugh, ortell someone . . . what? That the professorhad hurried away, and he was afraid?But worst of all, he thought when he hadwritten the notice on the board and was walkingeast along the Midway, was that it did not mat¬ter to him whether M. Guidet’s wife was ill, orwhether she died. His wife might die, and theprofessor would be heartbroken. But the veryweight of his grief would make it bearable,make it necessary for him to work, to do, torelieve himself somehow; gave him somethingto work for. Death, heartbreak . . . those werenoble calamities, and on top of great griefpoured great comfort. Far more important thatthis man, passing him here, had in his eyessomething of bewilderment, and that he, Peter,if he had known what to say to him, could notask to share his trouble. That never, though helived forever, would he be able to get out ofhimself and help this man who passed, or any¬one, because the wheels roared too loud andthe blood punished him with embarrassment.There was nothing strong enough to lift himfrom this petty, this mean, this dirty struggle;this ugly, selfish sensitiveness. Life stretchedahead of him along the Midway filled with use¬less days and terminating in a useless ending—a small room, and a crazy old man, whosewheels spun helplessly in the space of his mind,unconnected, untouched by anything his bodyperceived. Untouched! Peter was astounded.He had never thought of that. Insanity wouldbe freedom—insanity would be the end of this—insanity would be wheels that did not rub—.The man who had passed him looked back.“Queer guy,” he reflected, and stared. “Mum¬bling to himself. Wonder . . .” Suddenly hestarted running toward him. Peter was standingin the center of the walk, shouting, shouting.Page Three COMMENTSTOOL-PIGEON .... . by LOUIS RIENDEAUHv ptandiiip on liip tor? Stanlrv rouKi srrthr hiilirtin board brtwmi ibr brad? of tbr inrngronprd aronnd it. Slowly hr rrad tbr lvj»r-writlrn notirr: “On a»»d afirr tbi? dair allhourly rair? will br rrrbiml l(t prr rrnt. fur-ihrr rrvi?ion? in tbr working ?rbrrlulr will brannounrrrl in rarb drpartnirnt.” \ roirr ?aid,“Jrrf. anotbrr r\it. ,lrr» . . Somrbodv rur?rrfbar?bh in roli?b.Stanlry t\irnrti and joinrd tbr linr brtorrtbr tiinr-rlork. noticing nirr'banically that tbrnumber of card? in tbr rack wa? dwindling davbv day. Hr rracbrrl lor a card: “Stanley Klar-kow?ki 105o7." puncbrrl it and ?tartrtf for tbrItH’krr room. Tbrrr br plai'rrl hi? nrw?paprr-wrapjMHl lunch package in hi? bvkrr and ?tartrtfpulling off hi? ?birl. Om'r in hi? overall? br?tarr<l at hi? irflrr'tion in tbr mirror on hi?Uw’krr door: pair blur rvr?. a long no?r. andclean ?bavrn cbrrk? lookr^l back at bmi. Hrknew br didn't bw'k Itkr a factorr hand; morelike a wbilr-collar man. evriylnwly told him.quirt and ?rriou? like. Hr ?at down on tbriMmcb to pa?? tbr bvr minute? belorr tbr wbiatirwould blow, but br ?oon ro?r and went up?ta»r?.Hr mi??r\l tbr I'antrr and bc'r^rplax that u?r\lto bll tbr bw'krt r»H>m.Hr walkr^f dowrr tbr ai?lr bordrrrxl withrow« of macbmr? unt\l br came abrra?t of awhite ,'olr markr\f with a large black ?r%n\.Ht? mav'hior wa? dirr\'tl> IxMorr tb\? }w>lr, andbr b\j?rr»f bim?clt makmg rnmi^r adjuatmmt?and wipmg awar miagmar> oil ?jw't?. br likrvito keep br? maebrnr neat and clean.1'br rmpt> maebrnr? annind brm wtur di?-turbrng. br trr<^^ to keep frv>m c\'untrng them.It wa?n't n<\>r??arA . br knew exam'll' bowman^ tbrrr were. Kach of them bnnigbt a facearwi a name to bi? mrnd Hr ?tarrvi rdh at br?own maebrnr. then K-s'k-rxi up a? tbr tormranappr\'a»'br?i“Strll v^r! them wa?hrr?. Stanlrr“>rp. but ril br tbrxMrgb rn an bv'ur ‘K I g»^{ta prrerwork ]|v>b tor 'o« wbmx ou'rr tbrivigb."“I'bank? ril «^pee»i rt up “Tbr «bnll bla<4 of tbr whr?4lr was fv'llewf?-;almo?4 imn^rsbatrl' bx tbr gathrrrng whrnr oltbr ma^'brnr? OlimbiTyc on br? S.'anlr?rrat'brxi for a wa?brr. p^a^'e^'. it rn tbr sbv. andkrs'krsi tbr <^w rteb that staitry^ tbr purv'b .Var.cingrbxtbmvalb dewnwar^b. Imprn'rptibh hi?TrN''X'rmrT>t> mri'grd mte tbr pattriT of tbr nutobrnr. )rt't barht bang r rgbt barst. bang frft bandHr? thought? Wr|>; trnrrr with tbr maebrnr 1;ain't . nt"' r?«r . te trx and tb.ni,of an? . . thing rlar , . V® ith a■rrk br tore him«rlt from tbr pattern Hr drtmminrd te think eirarb : it hr eoiildr.’; eio.-kit. w hx hr eoukifi'i that > all.Hr had to fa^'r it ?oone: or iater: onr morfeiit. and br eoiiidn't makr thing? ge ris;ivurldn't. Marx wa? pinehrng rx'e':-x emt a^ r.was. and anothe: ent woi.jd br mireh ftu;fbrx wouldn’t dr it tr him fifreer vear? eounredto: «omrthrng. didn’t the? Hr d rvprarr it tetbrmt. that’? all; tell them hr eouidr’: take anofbe- cut; evplain w-h.x. Thr\'d understand.Stonr y'omipar.x wa? a real firm, not nr s»ax'e-driver? likr somr placesHr laughed gnmh. Hr knew hf d. newr drthat, a gi;x Mrs; couldn’t—no; a gro irkr him,,anowax Fbrt hi had. tr dr somethjng ar.x -thing Fbrt he'd hr damned r* hr knew vh«;Hf returned, hn affentror tr th/ "cv ot washer?mex'rng beneath hi? hand?^ her thi las; o' thf washe-^ 'orned. thr prirhewidr him. hr sropner. thf machirxf and. walkerdown fh< anslr to thf ro-emar >■ riesk Thr ♦nre-nxar looked up“Oh. x-eah t-o?i " ' thu^tx-h hundreo ^ oi; know ihf ran The\ ri over a: thrr-mHc- "Sfanlex round, thr trruS. anr. vhect/v; i; trho mm-hine Hr w»*. glad hi trar. roeceworki' Kf worked, likr hel. mi.vtv h/'d niacf f. littiroYtra Hr changer ho*;*^ and '4la-t»*r ounchmgfhr holts Hr could, gr likn h/*!, to/, /-.-er if hrdidr't )/vxk likr K facto”' hanr h/ va^ t rtamrp/xor irxar or a nun.'h O'esv. that ? w-t \ hr ha/1r,’tN»^n Hr .ihoved flxr it.O a rmteh iuche* and lost track of everything but the endlessstream of boll?.\ guttural grunt brought him back to real¬ity. Vineent wa? bending beside him, apparentlyabst'rbexi in looking for a ilrill.dx Jflkr, Pr-^“Vl hat the bell \a trxin* Jo do. Stanlrx. haxe‘eir cut the rate' For (.Ibnst*? sakr, ?iow down."Stanlex rtshfetiexi. then ri>dded agreesnentami automatK'allx slowed up. Hr dkln't likeVincent with all hr? talk of laNm and Nis-xe?arwi that kind of st'^ff. he susnevied him ofSeine an 1 W W , or Ivxishrx .k. It angered himthat N mom: should talk tc him like that. wa.sr!'tbe here hfteer xear? and the best puTK'h-pres?mar in tbe place .lus: a xear ago Vincentwt'xuldr.'* haxe dareni to trll h;m. fiow to work,but TN-'W things were differmt The nosvn whistlecut snort hi? thoughts '® earih he r.xsf. streiv-hexi.and orned thr crewd hurrxing toward? thecKvi.k? usual, bf wa.ked a littif atter huniekilxg«ting hi? lunch fr^im hi? locker, the stenchot sweat that h.ieo. the locket r.v*m kind olgot Kim. He ate hi? lunch seated at hi? besKihHr wasr.’t xerx hungrx—^nexer wa.< late]? Thfshop wa? cure; except tor the s.'xunc of xoice?.men use*”, to ta.king cx'er the noise of machine?taiked tt»at wax ai. the time Ril*' of corx-ersar*OT. dnftex" to him . **(.>;)es? it ? ttif t.read line fo:me pretrx soon and the gi.x ?axs if 1 don'tge; thr morxex kt»C'X'f the ~es: a monotone“epeatfvi. "1 t'lnk 1 go hx rrx’er nr monex’or to feYv: k'.'b nr evia. 1 go bx rixTtn'errx s.vtr. "^xra^}en sL.xf-er. and '•.rse, 7.'»ssin£ the crun.*-piexd ■^main> o* t.r- ;un.''r, asioe During the’’e^C ec hi? no.'ir Ooir he walked airrdessixth“ougt the st'or.Vi her the w t.istie Mew anc the maci.ine? re¬turned t/ ;irf. Staniex sighec w itt ’•elie^ andrdiingexc: mt/ t,> w /irk Vi /iH. w a? the i»es;cure he knew* •’o- ler-hx ing rh/>ugnj?. i; a mar,couic vo-k a. flax and ge home dead tiredesT~x nigh; hf v .lupdr.’t hax'e n figrc againstih/uighN 1; va.- ike tha’ nn.*f he “eY'aiied. I>u;ther them wa- rii.“n*x t> vo-k anr. enoiurJ.m/inr' s/ a mai /Inti’: have u vo—x al; metimeHe trier te ahs/i-t inntsfl* ii tii- work, hu*he ti’er nhx-sicaitx he 'nunc i; more anrnx/ire /iiftrruf* f/ keen t*a.v ttia: si.'keiiint i/iea.that ken; nrestsing in*/ hi- r/iiis."‘i/iusnes> Hecu’ser himsel* vr going mt/ thf si/i.rk -/ionx’este’fiex . i* he ha/lr’’ he w nuidi ; hex'f seei1 /irx and W anr i’ he ham ' s.-ei then luv'oiH/tr ; hrvT- te hjrJc thi- Mniniatuu tr tum— stool-pigeon. He spat his contempt for thethougnt. But if he, Stanley, should .... ByJesus, he’d never do that. Just damn fools, Tonyand Joe—but then he couldn’t blame them much.They bad kids, too, and got even less thanhe did.All through the long afternoon he foughtagainst his thoughts, a wearying, unequalstruggle. He lost track of time; nothing existedfor him beyond his machine and his problem,only his machine was even and constant; histhoughts were a tumbled confusion. He scarcelyheard the whistle at four o’clock. He only knewthat he was terribly tired, and somehow afraid. , . afraid with panic-stricken terror that lefthim exhausted and weak.2.Going home that night Stanley felt himselfnear exhaustion; even the swaying, jolting streetcar seemed intent on wearing down hi.? resist¬ance. It was a relief to swing off the hot cardown the dusky street, past the frame house?looking just alike in the darkness. Of course,his was a little different from the rest, but hedisliked being sentimental about such things.He turned into the familiar walk and ran upthe creaking wooden steps. The hallway wa.-*dark and smelled of fry ing food. Hanging hiscciat and hat on the old-fashioned mirrored rack,he called aloud. “Hello everybody.” He madesure that hi? voice wa? as cheerful a? usual.The children’s voices answered from theparlor: his wife’s sounded from the kitchen. Thekid? were plaving on the faded red carpet; hepatted each head and walked out to the kitchen.Slarx wa? bending over the stove, her faceflushed from the heat and her hair lookmgsiring) and unkempt. .Mechanically he ki-xsedher red neck,.“Hard dav. Stanley?”“Not ?<* bad. I’m read) to eat. though."“In a minute. The kid? of been kinda wild,and thex ma/ie me late.”“S’all right ... no rush.” In the bedroombe changed to hi? ho use-slip per? and pulled offhi? tie. Returning to the kitchen he sat downuntil the meal wa? readx.Through It he listened quietlx to the chil¬dren ? chatter of their Sisters at school and theirlessons, breaking in onlx to warn them to watchiheir table manners. Hi? kid? weren't going toeat like Bxxhunk? from the Old Gountrx if heCYxuld help It.\fler supper he went into the parlor withthe rxening paper. He’d got so be hardlx missedhi? cigarette? anx more. Hitching hi? rockerclose to the stoxe he slowlv read tbe foreignnew?; It kind of gaxe him something to talkabout on tbe rare occasion? when one of thetKxsse? stopped to talk to him. Fmishmg. be ?atstaring out through the shabbx lace curtain?Marx kept the children quiet and hurried thrrr.off to bed earlx. Returning she sat seTn irc.glancing occasionallx at her hust^and He lookedpale and w om in the harsh light thrown bx thesingle bulb aboxe hi? head, she fell a: onceproud and afraid. She gathered her courageand spt*ke solTlx.“\rxthmg wrong. Star. 1 ex“ knother cut . . . ten per cent.". "Thex were silent.“Star.lex . d'x a suppose ibex nr.igh:“1 dor': know 1 hope not."“Rut xou alwax? said how . . . fair Si onet on'jrarx wa? . . and x ou're a xrlerar andall . s/' thex won't lax x c»u c*fi. w ill thex^nd a? long a- rhex don't do tha: .eah. 1 suppose we'll gel bx. Rut if^v. thex w/m’t. I m rust a linJe tired. 1 guessThex sa: silent until Marx kissed him andmurmured good right Stanlex watched herleave the ro/rm. be sa: then a long time, unnundful of the growing cold.Though, tire next dax wa? hi? /»fi-d8x. Starle- w H- up and tinkering w ith the stoxr at su■ tij 'r. ti Pafft 7 Cls/ a/ t s. "SMASHUP by DAY ALAN PERRY♦Bart sat in a worn leather chair inside theoffice of the hospital, staring through thescreened window at the dusky sky. From wherehe was seated, he could see the wide front steps ofof the hospital sprawling to the sidewalk, andthe cracked sidewalk cutting through the smoothgreen lawn to the curb where an iron postreared an animal face, a huge ring piercing itsnose. Across the deserted street an attendantslowly raked the driveway of a gasoline station.Overhead, the shadowy blue of an evening skylay softly spattered by the motionless leaves ofthe trees encircling the lawn. The silence fairlyhummed, the air was so still that the crunchingof the rake on the gravel sounded close athand, and in the damp darkness under the porchoutside and just to the right of the window ofthe office, a cricket chirped twice and then re¬mained quiet.It was the silence that made him nervous,thought Bart—the heavy drowsiness that hungover the street, the warm dry air that didn’teven stir the white curtains hanging limply be¬side the window. The blue smoke from his cigar¬ette arose in a stiff line, lay in hazy streaksacross the sill. He crushed the cigarette on thesill and watched the twisted lump smoulder. Hetook another cigarette from his pocket, lightedit and inhaled deeply. The smoke burned histhroat and hurt his lungs, and he quickly pressedthe second cigarette on the sill beside the first.Then he leaned back in the slippery leatherchair, lay with his face to the window, gazingat the darkening street.He twisted his body restlessly and ran hisfingers back and forth on the arm of the chair.It was hard to keep still; his (lesh itched, hismouth was dry, and his eyes smarted from thesmoke of the cigarettes. He waved his handacross the window, watched the smoke swirland gradually disappear. He drew the curtainback from the window, tucking it behind hischair.He was aware suddenly of a sharp, steadyclipping sound. Turning his head, he saw thelittle man behind the desk across from himseatf^d with his legs crossed, his head bent down,cutting his finger nails with a shiny pair ofsci.ssors. Bart watched him as he held up hishand and examined it critically before he re¬sumed his snipping of the other fingers. Fin¬ishing, and pocketing the little scissors, the littleman clapped his hands together and beamed atBart, his rounded grey eyes affable and pleas¬ant. Bart turned his head and start'd out of thewindow. There was a click as the lamp on thedesk was lighted and a warm orange lightflooded the room, reflected dully by the screenacross the window and causing the world out¬side suddenly to grow' dark. An automobileflashed past in the street, its headlights shiningbrightly, its motor roaring.Bart turned his head again as he heard foot¬steps in the hall outside the office, and thenthe superintendent of the hospital rustled intothe room, her starched white uniform reflectingthe light from the yellow lamp on the desk. Shewas about fifty years old; her nose was .sharpand long, her eyes small and blue and set deepbehind the bridge of her nose. Her mouth was athin line. Looking casually at Bart, she spokecrisply to the man behind the desk.“Have you the patient’s address?” .she de¬manded.The a.ssistant behind the desk smiled mildly,reached for a pencil and squinted at Bart, whotold him Howard’s address.“And his parent’s name?” The superintend¬ent’s voice was hard and nasal. The little assist¬ant, still smiling mildly, poised his pencil abovethe paper and scratched down the informationas Bart spoke it slowly.Another car strummed past on the street.The office was getting hotter; it was crowdedand stuffy, and his shirt was clinging to hisdamp back; his face felt drawn, the skin tight,the way it felt when as a little boy he had walkedthrough early morning mists, feeling invisiblecobwebs stretching across his face. The super¬intendent switched on an electric fan squattingon the desk, and it began buzzing in a shortradius, ruffling papers on the desk and stirringweakly a small flag that stood in a metal holderused as a paperweight. ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦“And his religion?”The question hit Bart like a blow. His chestand stomach chilled, his throat tightened.“Religion?” he repeated dazedly. “Is it thatbad?”He knew that he sounded frightened, thathis voice quavered. The superintendent shruggedher shoulders. The assistant tapped the pencilon the desk top and looked at the superintend¬ent. His profile was wrinkled and rounded.“It’s a hospital regulation,” he explainedhelpfully.“Regulation?” repeated Bart. Pictures keptsliding in and out of his mind, pictures of death¬beds and operating rooms. . . .“Merely a matter of formality,” continuedthe man behind the desk, poising his pencilagain.Bart opened his mouth to answer, and thenclosed it. What was Howard’s religion, any¬how'? He hesitated. He couldn’t very well tellthe starched superintendent and the little assist¬ant about the times he and Howard had dis¬cussed religion and things like that, in the cozycomfort of his den at home, in the soft darkevenings on fishing trips, amid the clatter ofdishes in restaurants. Nor could he tell themhow silly, how absurd a question like thatsounded to him. And so—“Put him down as a Protestant,” said Bartwearily. What difference did it make? Hewished he could see something funny in thatanswer, as Howard surely would. Instead, hefrowned and rubbed his hand nervously againsthis cheek.“But what denomination?” asked the super¬intendent.“What difference does it make?” said Bart.The superintendent pulled back a strand ofgrey hair and tucked it over her ear under herpeaked white cap.“There are all kinds of Protestants,” shesaid. “Now, if he is a Presbyterian, we wouldn’twant to get him a Baptist minister. You oughtto—”Bart bounded out of his chair.“What difference does it make?” he demandedfiercely. “Is that going to help him? Is thatgoing to—? If he dies—he’s gone . . . Whatdifference does it make?”Sonnet By CouNTEE Cullen/ /enow now how a man whose blood is hotAnd rich, still undiminished of desire.Thinking, too soon, ‘T he world is dust and mire”Must feel who takes to wife four walls, a cot,A hempen rope and cowl, saying, ‘‘Til notTo anything, save God and Heaven s fire.Permit a thought; and / will never tireOf Christ, and in Him all shall be forgot.”He, too, as it were Torquemada s rack.Writhes piteously on that unyielding bed.Crying, '‘"Take Heaven all, but give me backThose words and sighs without which I am dead;W hich thinking on are lances, and / reel.”Letting you go, I know how he would feel.He was suddenly struck with the dead silencein the office as he stopped, the superintendentgazing at him coldly, the assistant staring, mildlyamazed. The fan buzzed. A door upstairsslammed, the sound echoing through the hall.From somewhere came a dull boom like that ofa firecracker.Bart glared at the others, then somethingin him snapped, and he felt silly and foolishand had a depressing feeling that he wantedto cry. Slowly l:e sank back into the chair.“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know whathis religion is.”The superintendent said: “Humpf!” Shescratched something on a pad of paper in herhand, using the man’s pencil, tore off the topsheet and handed it across the desk with a few' ♦words of instruction, and tlien swished out ofthe room, her apron stretching crisp and stiffdown to her black shoes. The assistant leanedback in his chair, placed his hands behind hishead, and slowly rocked back and forth, therockers squeaking and groaning alternately witheach movement, the light from the lamp playingup and down on his wilted collar and wrinkledvest.“How did it happen?” he asked.Bart rubbed his hand across the thin crustof blood above his eye.“We just crashed,” he said.“Go in the ditch?”“Yes. Rolled over. Landed upside down.”“Going fast?” The voice was gentle, prodding.“No.”“Car wrecked, I suppose?”“I guess so. I didn’t have much time tolook.”The assistant tipped down the shade of thelamp, and his face was left in shadow. “Well,”he said brightly, “this kind of spoils your vaca¬tion, doesn’t it?”Bart didn’t answer.“Hot tonight,” continued the little man, re¬suming his rocking. “But it ought to be a fineday for the Fourth tomorrow. There’s going tobe a great celebration in the Fair grounds.”Two more automobiles flashed by in thestreet, their headlights illuminating the limpleaves of the trees. A firecracker flashed andboomed in the lighted driveway of the gasolinestation across the street, where the hum of musiccame from a radio.“Haven’t you a zone of quiet along thisstreet?” asked Bart.“There’s a sign. Nobody pays any attentionto it.”The fan purred, wheeling its flat face fromone angle to another, a strip of ribbon flutter¬ing from the center of its frame. A warm breezeoccasionally whiffed across Bart’s hot face,passing swiftly over him to the desk, where itrustled the papers and bent the thin hair ofthe assistant.Out in the hall there was the sound of heavyfootsteps coming down the stair, and then ashuffling across the floor. A stout man dressedin a crinkly light suit and carrying a batteredblack bag stopped in the doorway.“Hello, doctor,” said the man behind thedesk.The doctor nodded in response, set his bagon the floor, glanced at Bart, crossed the roomand seated himself in a wicker chair that rat¬tled as he settled down in it. Taking a whitehandkerchief from his pocket, he wiped hissoft face, removing his glasses that attachedthemselves to his ear by a long black ribbon.“Well,” said Bart, “how is he?”“Oh,” said the doctor, drawing out the word.“I don’t know. . . ”“Is he pretty bad?” said Bart.“Well,” said the doctor, pursing his lips,“I’d say that—”“Is he going to die?” said Bart.“No, no!” The doctor impatiently flicked histrousers with the handkerchief. “I think he’llpull through.”“What’s wrong?” asked Bart. “What’sbroken?”“Two ribs. One is puncturing his lungs.He has to fight for every breath.”“Oh.” A cold shiver passed along Bart’sback and across his face. “Is it— serious?”The doctor replaced his glasses. “He’s inrather bad shape. An air pocket is formingunder the skin from the air that’s escapingfrom the lungs. Complications might set in.Pneumonia. And his pulse is high. Very high.Dangerously high.”“Then you don’t really—?”“No. We won’t be able to tell until morn¬ing. Maybe later than that. And there might beinternal injuries. He complains of a pain in thegroin. . . How did it happen?”Bart looked away, gesturing helplessly. “Idon’t know. We crashed—rolled over. I re-(PI ease turn to Page Six)Page Five COMMENTSmashup . . .{Continued from Page Five)member seeing the front wheel spinning aroundwhen we crawled out.”The doctor again removed his glasses andswung them back and forth like a pendulum onthe ribbon. The assistant’s rocking chair re¬sumed its squeaking. Bart watched a fly in thedark window as it buzzed aimlessly against thescreen. A firecracker flashed and boomed in thestreet.“Could I see him?” asked Bart.The doctor nodded. “For a few minutes. Hemight be sleeping, so you had better not talk.”Bart arose from his chair, passed the deskas the assistant swung his chair around to facethe doctor and said, “Well, doctor, where areyou spending the Fourth?” He heard the rattleof the wicker chair and the doctor's gruff voicein reply as he mounted the bare wooden stepsin the hall. He paused on the landing at thehead of the stairway, dark and gloomy, withthe white doors on either side of the floor stand¬ing partiallv open, and a yellow light slicingthrough the slit of the door on his left. He tip¬toed forward, the floor creaking beneath hisweight, and cautiously extended an arm to pushthe door open. As it swung away, he saw firstof all the dim light on the bleak wall, then theiron bars at the front of the rigid bed, then therumpled sheet covering the outline of the body,and finally Howard’s head, black against thewhite pillow, his face turned toward the openwindow on the other side of the room. Theheavv odor of medicine and antiseptic presseddown over the room, mingling with the smellof old wood and the sharp ammonia odor ofcleaning powder. On the fragile stand besidethe bed. the only furniture in the room excepta stiff high-backed chair in the corner near thewindow, bottles of medicine and puffs of cottonand two or three glittering glass instrumentswere crowded together,Bart stepped to the foot of the bed andlooked at his injured friend. Howard lay on hisside, the sheet outlining his body, one armcurved toward his chest. His eyes were closed.He was breathing slowly and heavily, beginningeach breath with a gurgle that changed to achoked wheezing and broke off suddenly witha gasp like that of a swimmer breaking throughthe water after a deep dive. His lips trembled.Then he was silent for a long time—Bartleaned over the bed, frightened—before thestruggle for air again began. His cheeks weresunken and pale, a dark scratch etched from hisear to his nose. All at once, standing there, Bartfelt sick and tired. He swayed, and caught onto the post of the bed to steady himself. Hisknees shook as he backed slowly out of theroom and closed the door.Downstairs, he passed by the office withoutlooking in. walked through the door and outonto the porch of the hospital. He turned rightwhen he reached the sidewalk and walked to¬ward the glow of lights that marked the busi¬ness section of the small town. Once he lookedup through the sagging leaves of the trees thatlined the walk and saw a star; and then hejumped as a firecracker exploded in the dark¬ness near him. and a child giggled.There was a holiday throng downtown.Lighted stores, passing people, the honking ofhorns and the smell of exhaust smoke rushedupon him and swdrled about him crazily. Hepassed a grocery store. A clerk inside, reachinginto the window, peered through the dusty glassat him. Bart brushed his hand across his face,wondered if his forehead was still bleeding; tak¬ing out a handkerchief, he moistened the tipof it on his tongue and wiped it across the skinabove his eve.“Bart!”'It was a girl's voice. He felt dizzy as heturned his head quickly. Two girls dressed inwhite, clean and cool, their faces rouged, theirhair soft and shiny, stood beside him. He wasconscious of his own appearance; his shirt wasripped and covered with dirt and grass stains,liis face streaked with dried blood.“Hello. Peg,” he said.“Is he bad?” asked Peg. “Louise and 1heard about the ”“That man from the garage saw your car,”broke in Louise. “He says it’s all wrecked,” “Oh,” said Bart.“Is he bad?” repeater! Peg.“Pretty bad,”“What’s wrong?”“Two ribs broken.”“My brother had a broken rib once, saidLouise. “He was playing fullback, and—”“One is puncturing his lungs.” said Bart.“Poor Howard!” said Louise.“He can hardly breathe.” said Bart.Peg looked disturbed. “It's all my lault.she said. “If I hadn't asked you to—“No. it isn't.'’ said Bart impatiently. Some¬one bumpt'd into him, “If it s anybody’s fault,it's mine,” he said firmly.The hot street swarmed with people. Thegassy air stifled him. He glanced down the street.A huge picture of Greta Garbo was plasteredon a board in front of the Opera House.“On the night of the dance.' mustx! Louise.“It spoils vour vacation, doesn t it ? ' askedPeg.Bart ignored Peg. glared at Louise, “W bydon’t vou go with someone else?” he asked.“You know everybody in this town.”“\\eil.'' said Louise, “when we heard aboutyour accident—'’“That is— if vou don't care." hastily addedPeg.“No. No.”Louise fus.'ied with a shoulder strap andsmoothed her dress,“Tell Howard that we—" she began.“Sure,” said Bart, nervously. “Thanks."He turned away from them and walked downthe street. Three boys in white shirts stood onthe next corner watching one of their groupas he touched a match to the wick of a longred firecracker, and then laughed as he tossedit over the tops of the parked cars standingby the curb into the street, where it exploded.Bart bent over a fountain that stood nearby andopened his lips over the thin stream ofwater that spouted up weakly. The water waswarm. As he straightened up. his head swamdizzily, and he bdt hungry and sick in hisstomach.He kept on walking, brushing [)ast groupsof talking people. In one dimly lighted storea crowd of men was gathered aroutid a radio,their foreheads gleaming with prespiration. Hestood in the doorway, the heavy smell of beerlolling out of the store, and heard the roar ofan immense crowd come from the loudsjieakerand above the roar the tensely shrill voice of theannouncer, like the blast of a cornet above therumble of drums.“The champion comes in! ..." The roar in¬creased to a mighty howl, the hysterical shriekof the announcer lost for a moment in the din.“Listen! . . . Crowd! . . . What a greeting!”Bart moved on a few doors down the street,stopping in front of a dingy restaurant hurrowenlin the basement of a stone building. He leanedagainst the iron rail sejiarating the sidewalkfrom the drop down to the screen door. Therewas another radio in the basement and the sameannouncer was shrilling above the same roar,but Bart was only dimly aware of the noiseas he stared fixedly across the street at the whitefront of the Opera House and the red and silverportrait of Garbo. As a little child. In* had ex¬perienced terrifying nightmares of being lostin suffocating swirls of long curtains that closedin upon him, choking him, causing him to beatfrenziedly against the billowing softness, seek¬ing an opening that never could be found. Hehad that same sensation now as he leanedagainst the rail and stared at the street,strangely detached from him somehow. . .“. . , Big fellow, all right! . . . Look . . .shoulders!”The voice of the announcer surged up fromthe cramped basement with the smell of fryinghamburger and strong coffee. Looking into theshop through the smeared window he .saw a lineof customers at the counter, their mouths openand their hands waving in argument. Then abovethe roar and the announcer a gong clanged,and the men turned and faced the radio.The smell of hamburger made him moresick. Pushing himself away from the rail, hewandered on down the street until the crowdwas more scattered and the store windows were less brilliant. He stopped at a corner beyondwhich there was only the dark street; a trafficlight flashed crimson just as a steaming oldopen car drew' up noisily to a stop. Bart lookedat the crumpled front fender, and suddenly sawagain the grey pavement rushing toward him ashe and Howard drove in his car, saw again theclump of trees, and the other automobile back¬ing out of the side road hidden behind them,felt again his maddening turn on the wheel, hissickening fright when he felt the first jolt—andthen that confused picture of the bumping andthe scraping and the crash as the machine rolledover. -And again the picture of the front wheelspinning uselessly as the car lay upside down,battered and crumpled. Like a turtle on its back,wiggling its legs frantically. . . .Around the corner, a sim)oth stone buildingjutted out from a flat row of dark buildings.The words Tourist's Servi<-e and Comfort Sta¬tion were letten*d in gold on the clean gla.ssof the door. Bart walke<l down the cool cementsteps to the men's washroom, its tile walls flash¬ing white, the nickel pipes glittering. I.ookingin the mirror above the row of rounded wash-stands, he saw that his hair was twisted andmatted, that his face was smeared with dirt:and he turned on the faucet, and filled one ofthe bowls to overflowing. He plungiHl his facedeep into the <’«)ld water, then pump**d somesoap out of the glass ball container and waslu*dhis face and arms.As he was drying his hands, a man enter*^!the washroom, stood in front of the mirrorstraightening his tie. He was fat and perspiring.“Could I u.'ie your comb?" ask<*d Bart.The fat man reache<l in his hip pocket andpulled out a stubby black comb and hamh'ti itto Bart, who ran it through his hair, tears com¬ing to his eyes as the teeth caught in the snarls.The fat man removed his coat, hung it on ahook on the wall, and rolled up his sleev<*s.“I was in a smashup just a couple of hoursago." said Bart. surpris(‘d at himself for speak¬ing.The fat man looked at him for the first time.“\A here?” he asked.“Out of town a little wav." said Bart.The fat man held down the handle of afaucet and gazed into the bow l as water splashedinto it.“We turned over." said Bart.I he fat man looked up. “Aon <lon't lookhurt bad.” he said.“M\ fri»‘nd the fellow who was with me -is in the hospital."“Hurt bad?”“1 W(» ribs broken. One is punct“Was he driving?”“I was.”“Oh.” The fat man puff»‘d and snorted as hemas.saged his face with his hands atnl splashedwater from the bowl onto his face, some dropsdribbling down on his shirt.Bart laid the comb on the edge of the stand.The fat man finish**d with his washing, scrapedthe rough paper towel over his face, his damphair plastered on his forehead.“Listening to the fight?” he said.“Fight?”The fat mat> reacheci lor his coat atul swungit into his arm.eah. Just starling."“Oh,” said Bart, “l hanks for the comb. "“Gotta get back.” said the fat man. “Thechamp's gonna beat up that other guy.” he<‘alh‘d over his shoulder, and then disappear»*dbehind the swinging door.Bart follow(*d him slowlv up the steps tothe street, where he stoo<l for a moment watch¬ing a small boy light a tiny firecracker. Hegrinned a, Bart when it flickered and poppedat Bart's feet. Bart smiled.He tunuHl right, avoiding the crowdedstreet, and walked through rows of trees behindwhich shadowy houses lav in smooth darklawns. He took long firm strides; the calvesof his legs gratlually began to ache. He keptturning left at corners, keeping away from thecenter of the town and the lights and people,circling the center of town over and over again,seeing only a few people as they crossed cor¬ners under high hanging lights. Once an inquisi-{Please turn to Page I^ine)COMMENT Page SixVIOLENCE—Critical or Physical 1 by EDWARD PRICE BELLIt has been said of Premier Ramsay Mac¬Donald of England that his fineness of character“burrs in his very voice.” And so it does. Hisintentions have been so good, his views in manylarge ways have been so sound, he has been sohonestly devoted to the general welfare of theworld, that he not only has won the trust of hisown nation but has become the most persuasivediplomatic influence in the world.Ramsay MacDonald’s life, in my opinion,should be a stimulating and guiding force tous all, and to the rising generation particularly.Fidelity to himself always has been the mostnotable fact about him. He has been a loyalservant of his own emotions and convictions.He has obeyed those emotions and convictionswhen they set his feet in pleasant paths; he hasobeyed them when they ordered him into hard¬ship and personal peril: he has not hesitatedor whined when they said to him. “Ramsay,for you the wilderness!”How can one but thank God for such a man?What has he been through all the years ofhis pitilessly laborious life (he started workas a child and is now 66) ?He has been a critic. He has mixed withpeople, studied people, studied facts and prin¬ciples, searched his own heart, tested his ownmind, and then spoken and written what hethought. His criticism has been both destructiveand constructive; nobody can hit more shatter¬ing blows than he; nobody can build with moreprecision and patience than he; I believe that noother man in the world has his command of thelanguage of conciliation and healing.(ireat critics—they are what we want. Wewant them in every department of human ac¬tivity. (ireat critics encourage little critics, breedcriticism, stir the popular conscience and in¬tellect, conjure the mass<‘s out of their character¬istic and unfortunate inarticulation. A healthysocial organism without vigorous and fearlesscritics is inconceivable. A democracy withoutsuch critics is a sorry illusion on its way tohumiliation and disaster. Let our fresh carriersof America's burdens look to it!(ireat critics are persons to whom everydecent man of any intelligence will lift his hat.Great critics are essentially great artists, mono¬theists. their sole moral and intellectual godthe god of truth. To piont'crs in the bush onemight C(tmpar«‘ these sturdy r«‘searchers into theabstract: with (“<pial singlernimledness andtenacity the one and the other hew their waytoward the light, their labor a universal benef¬icence.('.harlatans in critical attire? Oh, yes; manyof them. .\nd fools? Not a doubt of it. And paid propagandists? True. But it were betterthat we should have all these than that we shouldhave no critics at all. The charlatan we shallfind out. The fool we shall find out. The paidpropagandist will stand nude before us in duetime. And meanwhile there will have been psy¬chological movement, there will have been somemanner of mental life. It is less sorrowful, lessdeadly, to be a critical charlatan or fool or paidpropagandist than to be dumb.Speak up, you young women and youngmen! Write! Let us see the color of your souls!Be charlatans or fools or paid propagandistsif you must, but be something! And, let me tellyou, it is much sweeter in the end to have beenlike Ramsay MacDonald than like the most bril¬liant charlatan or the most picturesque foolor the most powerful paid propagandist whoever lived. Another thing: what you really are,in the stillness of the final listening, will “burrin youi very voice”!You are needed in this country; that is whyone writes. We have few, if any, great critics;at least, if we have here and there a great critic,those remarkable personalities are strangely andculpably silent. With what result? With theresult that our most important affairs, our pub¬lic affairs, have gone pretty well to the dogs.F'anatical frenzy, ignorance, avarice, cynicallevity, separately and in union, have committedunforgivable crimes against our astoundinglyforbearing people.Particulars? I need not detain you withthem; they stare you in the face in your dailyPress.Be come great critics, and you will save yourday and generation from similar infamies andcalamities. The field is broad, as broad as hu¬man life. It compasses political economy, andpolitical economy compasses, in a sense, every¬thing of moment to men, women, and children,everything pertaining to our bodies, everythingpertaining to our spiritual destinies. Nothingwhatever of value is possible to us except as theproduct of a critical acumen which saw and toldand made practically telling—the truth.It will be said to you, 1 know, “You cannotdo it.” ^ ou will be advised to be jocular ratherthan serious. You will be urged to affect bril¬liance or controversiality for their own sakes.The counsel is false. Jokes are not a food;at best they are only a condiment. Brillianceand controversial ity have virtue, have worth, onlyin the proportion in which they implement senti¬ments and arguments useful to mankind. It isnot only futile, it is impertinent, to be eitherbrilliant or controversial out of vanity; and tobe either out of sordidness is a swindle. We have a lot of such swindles!Artificiality, in some respects, is perhaps themost loathsome incubus of our age. It marksour politics, our social usages, our businessmethods, our journalism, our literature, ourart: by hook or crook we must break its spellor we never can be great. Critics of the firstorder, of course, are natural haters of artificial¬ity: would that we had a host of them to tearthe unlovely and evil thing to shreds!Great criticism, some will assure you, canbe of small benefit because the so-called publicmind is a myth; there is no public appreciation;there is no educable public faculty. Ill-starredwould be our world if that were true. But it isnot true. It is a saying which stands truth onits head. In days long gone, the babes knewmore about fundamental reality than did the wiseand prudent; they know more still. All theyrequire is their chance. Great criticism will givethem their chance, for it will point out what istrue, and the babes, as immemorially, will knowthe truth when they see it or hear it.We want not only great criticism but unspar¬ing criticism. Moderation is a great quality; itmade the Athenians immortal. But sometimesmoderation of utterance becomes ill-fitting. Wehave reached such a stage in this historic Re¬public, now—say what you will—a badly tar¬nished symbol of the highest human hopes ofpurity and wisdom in government. We havebeen betrayed. We want great critics who willtake the field panoplied and purposed to fight.This, to my thinking, is as certain as to¬morrow’s dawn: Only critical expression verg¬ing on violence can avert ultimate physical vio¬lence. Already signs and examples of the latterare by no means absent, even the patriotic andstolid farmer tending to experiment with thedangerous weapon of “direct action.” Harshwords, rhetorical violence, may not seem over-pleasant; but what shall we say of physicalviolence?Our people, traditionally, are great loversof peace; they have made tremendous contribu¬tions to peace. They were peace-lovers andpeace-fortifiers when they effectuated the Mon¬roe Doctrine, when they saved this continentfrom sectionalism, when they supported theBriand-Kellogg Pact, when they threw their im¬mense weight into the international scales fordrastic disarmament and scrupulous legality. Weare natively, almost passionately, peaceful; butwe have employed force in the past, and weshall employ it, if necessary, in the future. Onlygreat, effective, triumphant criticism, in myjudgment, can sweep away the wrongs whichhave been heaped upon us, and negate the im¬pulses of revolution.A DEFENSE OF EXCESS ■ by RICKER VAN METRE, Jr."Pereat mundus, fiat philosophia, fiat phil-osophus, fiam. ...”\ outh is rudely awakened when it realizt'sthe relativity of its absolutes. Suddenly what itconsidered final and conclusive becomes shiftingand relative; no longer is there room for theperfect, rational structure of philosophy inwhich the youthful mind, yearning towards pre¬cision but barren of experience, once believed.^ outh is confronted with facts, facts that donot fit its intellectualized systems: and thesefacts are the destruction of finalities and absol¬utes. Then there must be a capitulation to thelimitations of knowledge, an attempt to system-matize the variables of experience, and the resultmay be anything: defeat, pessimism, a narrowempiricism: anything. But these days, with thebattle cry still sounding in the not too distantpast, the result may verv likely he the embrac¬ing of humanism, an abject recognition of man’sinescapable bumanity, his inner necessity tocompromise.But youth is still young, and humanism istoo prosaic a creed to hold its fancy long. Stillstunned by his rude awakening, still afraid toventure far beyond the newly found limits of in¬ disputable, empirical knowledge, the neophytehumanist uinvillingly admits his smallness, hisbonds of humanity, but chafes at the drahnessof the doctrine.At this point he is most vulnerable to thethrusts of an Aldous Huxley. Huxley presentsthe essential humanist viewpoint, but presentsit with a new, an exciting, glamour. His style isbrittle and clever; his ideas are dramatic. Heslays the social idols repugnant to youth witha cold and caustic wit. He is cruel and unspar¬ing to his enemies; and youth is cruel and un¬sparing. His erudition is colorful and sophis¬ticated. And for the disgruntled idealist, theneophyte humanist, he strikes a paradoxicalcompromise which, at first glance, is satisfying.He makes of humanism a creed compatible withthe violence, the drama, the idealism, of youth.And in so doing, he errs on several scores.1.“Life yvorship” is yvhat he offers, and it ismerely Mr. Aldous Huxley’s variety of human¬ism. the schism lies, chiefly, in the substitutionof intensity for the orthodox humanist’s ref¬lating principle of discipline. This innovationhas been duly noted and almost as duly ignored by Professor Irving Babbitt, the leader, so tospeak, of the reactionary right wing of human¬ism. “The pursuit of poise,” he says, “has tendedto give way to that of uniqueness, spontaneity,and above all, intensity.” But Mr. Huxley’s tam¬pering with the approved center of humanismshould not be dismissed too lightly. It repre¬sents an attempt—and I hope to point out, anot very successful attempt—to correct a sig¬nificant and glaring fault of orthodox human¬ism. The restraint, the compromise, that the reg¬ulating principle of humanism (i. e., discipline)demands, makes only for a stagnant mediocrityin practice. When one’s creed in theory is “Noth¬ing too much” one ends invariably by doing“Everything too little.” It is this inevitable medi¬ocrity that Mr. Huxley attacks; and w'e mustgrant that his assault, at least, is effective.The moderation of the right wing humanistsirks Mr. Huxley. “For the Aristotelian adorersof the mean (how aptly named in our ambig¬uous language!) the last word in human yvisdomis to do everything by halves, to live in a per¬petual state of compromise. The congenitallymediocre adorers of the mean exist to give stab-tPlease turn to Page Nine)Page Seven COMMENTCOMMENTA Literary and Critical Quarterly92, Faculty ExchangeUNIVERSITY OF CHICAGOEditorsVERONICA RYANRICKER VAN METRE, Jr.Assistant EditorDAY ALAN PERRYAssociate EditorsWILLIAM ALLEN QUINLANCHARLES TYROLERFaculty AdvisorsEDITH FOSTER FLINTROBERT MORSS LOVEHPublisher's AddressEVANSTON NEWS-INDEX. EVANSTONeIndividual Copies Fifteen CentsOne Year's Subscription Fifty CentsSTRAIQHT FROMTHE HORSE’S MOUTH♦Qenesis of a Name . . .Our name, we thought, would be the leastof our worries. It would come to us, a suddeninspiration, in the small hours of the night, orover a stein of beer. Or, if inspiration should belacking (we thought), it would be an easy mat¬ter to thumb the pages of Roget’s Thesaurus.or an anthology of poetry, and select a namewhimsical, intellectual, artistic, or cryptic, justas the spirit should move us. But by the middleof September the matter had become acute.Now' our first name, which we liked verymuch, and w'hich was a feminized version ofthe famous Hound and Horn, we could notkeep, because, in the first place, we were sureDean Scott, Charles Newton, and the postal au¬thorities would disapprove, and because it was,in spite of the change in sex, too suggestive ofa not too subtle plagiarism. It (or she?) plainlywould not do. What, then? We racked ourbrains, and by the middle of September thematter, as we have said, had become acute. Manynames suggested themselves; but all were tooinappropriate, or too cryptic, or too vulnerableto be the thrusts of ill-wishing punsters, to be ofuse. For instance, we thought of Flux, for wefeel with Heraclitus the transience of allthings; but passing the Lux factory in SouthChicago one day, we decided that the mere addi¬tion of a letter could never eradicate the im¬pression of impassioned cleanliness that thesight suggested. We poured over our Eliot, andfound in Ash Wednesday:Because I do not hope to know againThe infirm glory of the positive hour.and we wanted very much to call ourselvesThe Positive Hour, because, we thought, thiswould be our positive hour, and never again per¬haps should we know the infirm glory thereof.But one friend told us it was too high-brow, an¬other that it reminded him of Elinor Glyn; andeveryone assured us it would be sure to be mis¬construed one way or another. We thought ofMaverick because it suggested the free andindependent course w’e hope to follow; but look¬ing it up in an unabridged Webster’s we de¬cided it would be too much of a strain on theliteral mind. In blackest despair we appealedto Mr. Chandler, for we, too, are fond of the18th century. Very generouslv he lent us abibliography of 18th century periodicals. Eu¬reka, we thought; we are saved! But to our dis¬may we discovered that the 18th century wasless original in titles than in subject matter (arevelation that we did not forget), for the onlyinteresting title in the book was The Snotty Hose Gazette and though we are not the leastaverse to strong and pungent adjectives, wecould not quite stomach that.Being by this time in no mood for furtherresearch we decided to take the next suggestionthat came our way. Clothes, we argued, do notmake the pirate, nor do titles the magazine; itis the content that counts. And so, when someonesuggested Commentator, we were only toowilling to agree. But the matter was not yetat an end. Hardly an hour later a slip of thefingers on the typewriter keys made a Com¬mentary out of a Commentator, to the per¬manent confusion of the syntax of an other¬wise excellent sentence; but we were too wearyto start it over again. And then, the next day,faced by some two thousands of envelopes to beself-addressed, we decided that Commentarywas too long anyhow; and, to be brief, wecalled our magazine Comment.R. V. M.Pedigree . . .Comment is not. ot course, the first literarymagazine of the University; within the under¬graduate lifetime of many students now on cam¬pus, The Circle enjoyed a perilous and brief ex¬istence in an attempt to revive the vigorous ex¬pression that characterized the earlier Circle.That Comment is presented to the campus as aresult of the often mentioned need for a repre¬sentation of student thought is commonly under¬stood; that Comment is attempting to preservea literary tradition of the University is not, per¬haps, as well known.For Comment has a pedigree. No less thanthree times in the history of the University haveliterary publications, following in general thoseprinciples now guiding the staff of Comment.appeared and flourished. The first of these mag¬azines was the Chicago Literary Monthly, a com¬pact booklet which developed into a forty pagemagazine, and which appeared once a month forfive years—from 1902 to 1907. It devoted itspages largely to stories, poems, occasional criti¬cisms, and alumni news. From 1907 to 1914there is a gap in the dusty files in the stacks ofHarper library, and then in February. 191 1, theChicago Literary Monthly was revived, with theeditorial note that it was needed. This time itsold for fifteen cents, as compared with thetwenty-five cent price of the first Monthly; itretained the same compact magazine form, andlasted for three years, until the spring of 1917.In the following year an offshoot of the Monthlyappeared—The Chicagoan, more frivolous thanits predecessor, but expressing the thought thatlay behind the publication of both: “We intendto become a leader in formation of public opin¬ion; to give space to thoughts and plans of for¬warding work on campus; to provide a mediumfor the fullest expression of college thought."With the demise of The Chicagoan, in 1918there passed the first era in student literarv ac¬tivity in the University.Four years later came The Circle, “A Mag¬azine of the Arts.” Of striking appearance, andfeaturing the work of internationally known au¬thors, it gave itself full freedom in substance,publishing articles about the stage, about books,about world problems, and devoting severalpages each issue to art work and caricature. TheCircle struck out boldly in its first issue, admit¬ting defiantly that it was to be a literarv maga¬zine and a serious one. “Our aim may be statedin a sentence,” reads the opening sentence inthe first editorial. “It is to represent the Univer¬sity of Chicago, as the University of Chicagorepresents the best in thought and artistic ap¬preciation in the middle west . . . We bar noth¬ing that is good.” From that December, 1922,issue, to the last issue in spring, 192ii, TheCircle did represent the University of Chicago,and barred nothing that was good . . ,Mention must also he made of Forge, a re¬cent campus publication, which was issuedalongside The Circle in 1924, for, althoughForge was a magazine of poetry and poetry criti¬cism, it was also an expression of student talent.Forge began as a monthly, and continued assuch until February, 192.S, when it was changedto a quarterly and so remained until its finalnumber in the spring of 1929. Thus Comment has an interesting and honor¬able background. Physically different from itspredecessors, and facing different problems, itrealizes from its genealogy that the significanceof a literary magazine lies in that opening edi¬torial in The Circle. The task of Comment isnot only that of the present; it must rememberthe past.1). P.Criticus . . .We observe with disapproval the “negative”editorial policy of Northwestern University’sMS. The ^itor writes: “. . . two by four philo¬sophical and political arguments, and juvenilepuerilities anent the modern university, modernsociety, the modern what have you, are decided¬ly unacceptable.” We can only say that we arevery sorry Northwestern is afflicted with somuch “juvenility and puerility”; we suggestthat their quest after so called “infant pr^i-gies” might have something to do with the case..And after looking over the first issue of thisyear’s MS., we are not at all convinced that theyshould not have included fiction and poetry inthe list of what is “decidedly unacceptable," andrefrained from publishing a magazine at all.On the contrary, we believe that youth is farmore competent to deal with abstract intellectualproblems than to write good fiction. Oeativewriting depends largely on experience and ma¬ture judgments, and youth is ipso facte lackingin both, .\ldous Huxley points out, in his in¬troduction to Radiguet's The Devil in theFlesh, that youth has often been precociousin poetry, which is introspecti\e and personal,and in music and mathematics, which are ab¬stract, but very seldom in the writing of fiction,which is as much a product of experience as ottalent. Radiguet was one of the few who exhibit¬ed precocity in this latter field; while in music,poetry, and mathematics there is a long and im¬posing list. Mozart, Beethoven, Galton, Chatter-ton, Keats. Rimbaud: these are only a few.True, if our philosophical and political argu¬ments are “two by four” they are better left un¬said. The necessity for vigorous and healthycriticism, however, remains; and, as EdwardPrice Bell has pointed out elsewhere in this i.s-sue. it is a duty of youth to criticize. The worldis not right, and we know it; let us, then, exertour prerogative while we have the chance.R. V. M.The Contributors . . .EDWARD PRICE BELL (“Violence: Crit¬ical or Physical?”! was twenty years Dean ofForeign Correspondents of The Chicago DailyHews. His work in behalf of world peace haswon the praise of Hoover, MacDonald, Coolidge,Briand, and others, and brought for him theactive support of world figures in statesmanship,journali.sm, and education, for the Nobel PeaceAward for 1929. Through his efforts MacDon¬ald visited America in 1929, and he was in¬strumental in the successful negotiation of theLondon Naval Pact. He has now retirwl to Mis¬sissippi, where he contributes to various his¬torical and political periodicals.LOUIS RIENDEAU (“Stool-Pigeon”) is astudent at the University of Chicago.LAWRENCE LEE (“The Buzzards”) holdsan instructorship in French at the University ofVirginia, and is publishing a volume of poetry{Summer Goes On) with Scribner’s in thespring.KAY BOYLE (“Three Little Men”) lives inV illefranche, France. Her published works iti-clude Plagued by the Hightingales, Year BeforeLast, and numerous short stories in Story, TheCriterion, Vanity Fair, and other periodicals.The Rest Cure was included in O’Brien’s BestAmerican Short Stories of 1931.MARGARET IIAANEL (“The Last SixtyMinutes”) has been a student at the Universityof Chicago.COUNTEE CULLEN (“.Sonnet”), the wellknow'n Negro poet, is the author of Color. TheBallad of the Brown Girl, and Copper Sun.His first novel was published last year.ELDER OLSON (“Farewell”) is a contribu¬tor to Poetry and Vanity Fair.COMMENT Page EightSmashup . . ,(Continued from Page Six)live pup startled him by appearing noiselesslyat his side and sniffing his ankles, and when hepatted the small dog it trotted companionahlyalong with him for three blocks until suddenlyit was swallowed up in the darkness within aclump of trees.He didn’t know it was the hospital until hesaw the wide steps and the rambling frontporch, pale in the faint glow from the lighton the corner. On the side of the building, setbeneath the peaked roof, a rectangle of yellowlight showed that the wall lamp was still burn¬ing in Howard’s stuffy little room. Steppingslowly to the tree that stood beside the porchand stretched its branches upward and out tothe window, he threw himself on the cool grassand lay on his back staring up at the light andthe sharp roof and the black sky beyond, spat¬tered with stars. The grass was damp; he ranhis hand across it, feeling its tickling coolness.He lay in that position for what seemed a longtime; stray winds began to touch lightly hisforehead. A bright star quivered behind thegabled roof; the leaves in the tree rustled. . .When at last he got up, brushed himself, andwandered down the main street once more, theclerk in the grocery store was sweeping the floorbehind darkened windows, the sidewalks werealmost empty, and the row of cars along thecurb had dwindled to two or three. But in thestore that smelled of beer, some men still clust¬ered about the radio.“THERE it goes! . . Left hook— AND an¬other! ... It looks like—OOF! TTiat was a hardone that staggered the—”The serious intent faces around the radiolighted up, one little man clenching his fists,striking blows at an imaginary foe, followingthe descriptions of the punches as described bythe hoarse announcer. A stout man wearing anapron stood behind the bar that ran the lengthof the store, and slowly wiped thick glass steins,breathing on them first, and then squinting atthem absently as he held them up to the light.Two firet'rackers flashed and crashed some¬where down the street, the noise sounding loudin the cavern-like emptiness; another was tossedfrom a passing car, exploding in the middleof the pavement, the blue smoke curling uparound the dim street lamps and disappearingm the darkness above. Bart leaned against therail in front of the basement restaurant andlooked across the street where the lights of theOpera house suddenly flashed off. A man cameout of the glass door, unfastened the wire net¬ting covering the poster, replaced Greta Garbowith Norma Shearer, then pinned the nettingacross Shearer and went back inside with Garbodragging on the ground behind him.Bart turned his head as music blared fromthe loud speaker downstairs, and watched themen as they straggled up the narrow steps tothe sidewalk, talking, arguing about the fight.“Makes thirty bucks I dropped. . . Shouldn’t’a’ led with his right. . . Fixed, like all of ’em. . .Just what 1 says to him, just what—”Bart descended the steps to the restaurant. Itwas thick with smoke and the smell of grease andcigarettes. He ordered a hamburger sandwich anda cup of coffee. The red-faced proprietor, talkingwith the last customer about the fight, wavinga fork with his left hand, pressed the red meatinto the frying pan behind the counter and pat¬ted it with a spoon while it sizzled and sputtered.He made the sandwich, set in on a grey plateand placed it in front of Bart. The meat wassalty and hot, the bread dry, the coffee bitter.Bart left the sandwich half eaten, swallowed alittle of the strong coffee, and then put downhis fifteen cents and left. The red-faced manwas still shouting and waving the fork; he didn’tsee Bart leave.Upstairs he again leaned against the rail.His head spun, his stomach was heavy. Heplaced his arm across his throbbing forehead,lie thought of Howard. Of the two girls, cleanend cool. Of the rocking assistant and therustling superintendent. Of the bursting fire¬crackers. Of the doctor, slowly swinging hisglasses from tlie black ribbon. Of the wheeelon his car, spinning and spinning. Of the heavysmell of medicine in Howard’s room. . .Something froze inside of him, and he wasI l ightened. He grasped the rail with one hand,iooked up and dowm the street. It seemed gloomyand dead. He moved toward the left, started trotting, and suddenly burst into a wild running.As he raced past the grocery store the clerk,locking up, stared after him in amazement.He kept on running. His breath burned hislungs, his face was wet and cold. A sharp painstabbed his side. He stopped, gasping, besidethe tree underneath Howard’s window.Bent over, one hand pressed to his side, theother clutching the rough bark of the tree, helifted his eyes to the light cut in the flat shadowyside of the building. He gazed stupefied, for amoment, then felt a sweeping sensation of ter¬ror; and he clenched his right hand until thebark crumbled between his fingers.The light was out in Howard’s room. . . .Slowly he straightened up, his hands fallingto his side. He took a deep breath. Turning hisback to the hospital, he walked slowly downthe sidewalk lined with tall dark trees.COMMENTinvites contributions from youngwriters. Essays, stories, poetryand critical articles are desired.Address All Manuscriptsto92, Faculty ExchangeUNIVERSITY OF CHICAGODo You Know About theAMBER PIE TEA SHOP846 East 63rd StreetWe Serv3 the Most Appetizing, Delicious, and GenerousLuncheon for the Particular Business Personfor 3 5ALSOExcellent Dinners in Quaint and Homelike SurroundingsFor 50 CentsCHICKEN DINNER SUNDAYS 75 CENTSIRENE EMERYpupil ofMARTHA GRAHAMannounces classes Inthe fundamentals ofmovement and themodern dance Individ¬ual and group work at1127 North DearbornStreet. Delaware 9039. A Defense of Excess...(Continued from Page Seven)ility to a world which might be easily upset bythe violent antics of the excessive. Filled withdivine madness, the excessive lay furiouslyabout them; the great Leviathan of mediocre hu¬manity presents its vast, its almost immovablyponderous bottom; the boot rebounds. Some¬times, when the kicks have been more than usu¬ally violent and well directed, the monster stirsa little. These are the changes which it has beenfashionable, for the last hundred years or so,to describe as progress.”The world has been moved, then; progresshas been achieved, only by men who have livedexcessively. To couple moderation with prog¬ress, restraint with achievement, or balancedpersonality with genius, is to deal in paradoxi¬cal terms. If Napoleon had been moderate; ifhe had restrained that most important aspectof his “self”—his ambition—so as to effect inhimself a well-balanced, ordered, and decorouspersonality; if his motto had been “Nothingtoo much” instead of “I can conquer theworld!”, there would have been no conquest ofall Europe, no vast French Empire, no Na¬poleonic Code, no spread of democratic consti¬tutions to the farthermost corners of the Con¬tinent. And perhaps, from certain legitimatepoints of view, it would have been just as well.But that is not the question here. The point is,obviously, that moderation, restraint, decorum,make, not for great achievement and “progress,”but for the stagnation and stability of mediocrity.But Mr. Huxley refuses also to approve ofthe too excessive life. “The world has beenmoved, I repeat, by those who have lived ex¬cessively. But this excessive life has been toooften, from the point of view of the individualhuman being, a maimed, imperfect life. Livingexcessively only in one direction, the world moverhas been reduced from the rank of a completehuman being to that of an incarnate function.How sterile, how terrifyingly inadequate as hu¬man existences, were the lives, for example ofNewton and Napoleon!” An individual is nevernaturally consistent. His personality is a com¬posite of many “selves,” each manifesting adifferent phase of his humanity. There are asmany selves in one personality as there are psy¬chological states of consciousness. To chooseone facet of his personality, one self of his manyselves, and to live it in excess to the exclusionof all the others, is the crime (to Mr. Huxley)of those who live excessively. From this pointof view, then, Napoleon erred because he sub¬ordinated all his other selves to his ambitiousself. His life may have been “maimed and im¬perfect,” may have been “sterile” and “terri¬fyingly inadequate as a human existence”; but hemoved the world. Pascal lived excessively in therealm of the spiritual. He hated his body; heloathed everything we call “human” save whatlittle there is in humanity of the spiritual. And,although most of us consider Pascal to be al¬most a saint and pronounce his Pensees to be agreat philosophical and theological document,in limiting his living to his spiritual self, ac¬cording to Mr. Huxley’s creed of life worship,Pascal was immoral. Immoral, because he“sinned” against “Life,” because he refused torealize all his human potentialities; in short, be¬cause he deliberately murdered most of hisselves for the sake of his spiritual self.No, Mr. Huxley insists, excessive living willnot do, even though the world has been movedonly by those who have lived excessively. Somesort of compromise is necessary: a compromisethat neither involves moderation nor entailsmediocrity. And here we begin to have qualmsabout Mr. Huxley. At one moment—when speak¬ing of orthodox humanism—he abhors com¬promise; at the next he as much as admits itsnecessity. But we must not permit ourselves toaccuse him of inconsistency; indeed, if we did,he would in all probability be flattered. Forhas he not insisted, time and again, that one ofthe prime and most noble characteristics ofhuman nature is its inconsistency; and that thelife worshipper, always following the fact, is de¬termined to be consistently inconsistent?It all depends, it seems, on what we considerthe extremes between which we are to com¬promise. For the Aristotelean and orthodoxhumanist, the extremes seem to be the vague andall too flexible terms “Too much” and “Toolittle.” For Mr. Huxley’s life worshippers, how'-(Please turn to Page Eleven)Page Nine COMMENTStool'Pigeon . . .(Continued from Page Four)o’clock; fifteen years of early rising had madelate sleeping difficult for him, despite all Mary’spleas that he rest on these days. The kids werethrough breakfast and off to school before herealized it. Restlessly he roamed through thefive rooms. In the kitchen he sat at the oil-clothcovered table and drummed on its red and whitesquares, then went to the window and staredunseeingly into the yard.Walking back through the narrow hall intothe parlor, he adjusted the fire, then rearrangedthe decorations on the mantel of the imitationfireplace; the photographs of Mary and the chil¬dren, the gayly colored sea-shell sent by arelative who had visited Florida, the Kewpiedoll from Riverview and the bronze medallionpresented to the veterans by Stone Company onits fiftieth anniversary.He retraced his steps into the kitchen, silent¬ly watched Mary washing his work-shirt, thenwalked back to the parlor, where he rearrangedthe furniture. Picking up the paper he searchedfor something he hadn’t read; soon he gave upand tossed the paper aside. He was grateful toMary for leaving him alone. She was a goodscout—understood him, Mary did. He’d madeno mistake in marrying her despite his friends’predictions that this core-room girl would keephim from rising above the post of a factoryhand.Well, he still was a machinist, but he didn’tregret anything. If he could only hold on untilthings picked up, why he’d soon make a go ofit. He pulled out his watch, impatient for thereturn of the kids from school. Time wouldpass a little faster while they were home. Sur¬prised to find it only eleven o’clock, he resumedhis restless pacing through the house. He un¬derstood why pensioned veterans always re¬turned to work.Somehow twelve o’clock came, then twelve-fifteen, but the children didn’t return. Vaguelysurprised that Mary made no preparations fordinner, he questioned her.“Hadn’t you better get some lunch ready?”“Why sure, Stanley ... I forgot you, Iguess.”“Oh, I’m not so hungrv, hut how about thekids?”“Oh . . . well, you see . . . they won’t hehome for lunch today.” Mary stared at herhands.“Why not?”“Well ... I thought . . . Oh, 1 don’tsuppose you’ll like it, but seeing how thingsare . . . thought it’d be wise . . .”“What’re ya driving at?” Set lines made hismouth grim.“W ell, they’re giving lunches at school . . .some fund or something . . . and I thought it’dsave a little . . . and he a change for the kids,too—they like it , . . honest, they do.”1 see . . .Mary was crying now, her pudgy figuretrembling. Stanley walked into his bedroom anddropped heavily to the edge of the bed. Hiskids . . . getting fed by . . . charity . . .his kids. His hands trembled, and he clenchedthem fiercely. Couldn’t even support his family. . . couldn’t even give his kids enough to eat.Mary’s sobs frightened him; they made himwant to cry. He closed the door softly, thenthrew himself awkwardly across the bed. Theroom was dark in the half-light that penetratedthe window that looked out on the back steps.I.Going to work the next morning was torture;he felt empty and weak inside. Once busy onhis machine he was soothed by its noise andvibration—they seemed to shut things out. Heworked mechanically, glancing occasionally athis foreman and, more frequently, at Tony andJoe. It seemed as though the clock on the wallwere advancing in half-hour jumps. He foughtto secure control of himself, hut when eleven-thirty came he was still shaky. He forced him- A Farewell By Elder OlsonNoiv tvith the fall of summer and the frostYou too be lost.You too be slain, disbanded, pierced, forgot.Image forever uncaught:Go forth forever from the strung wires of themind.Music that misled the blind:Disperse from the vision the gold mists of yourhair.Your shadow that the moon set there:Yes, from the breast, from the brain.From every veinOf the poor ignorant and credulous heart.Wild mystery.Depart:You ghost, voice, dream, you nameless, hauntno moreThe heart's window and door.This bough of bone, these crimson nerves nomoreShall bear on the strange stemThe imaginary flower.Nor shall the tree bear again;Its leaves shall fall, its burnished fruit shallstain:Only the moon of madness ripens them.Ghost, music, floiver, word.You .shall be no more heardOr seen, and no more fe.ired:For the tree of the body is splintered andbrought low.The house of the heart is .shaken.The instrument of the mind is broken at a blow:Out of a love heavier than sleep I waken:And you perish so.CritiqueBy William Allen (^)iim.anIf you lack a lucid theme with trainOf thought behind it.Steer your pen away from proseAnd ridicule.Dress your drooling all in staggered lines.And forthwith bind itUp with pretty little rhymes. Don't, please—Like any fool—Lay your crudeness bare; take refuge inThe stauncher backingOf confusion. Let them read, and frown.And raise a cry.Loud and long, of hidden meanings, rich.ind surely smackingFull of genius. Imagery, my friend.Will get you by.Rhyme and meter lerul a magic hazeWhere thought is lacking.Writing fools, if they would .stay in print.Must versify.self to switch off the machine and start downthe aisle, feeling his legs tremble beneath him.The foreman looked up at Stanley standingmotionless beside his desk.“1 want to talk to you. Boss.” He found ithard to talk through his dry lips; he hopedthe foreman didn’t notice the quiver in hisvoice.“O.K., Stanley, what’s on your mind?” J’heforeman’s tone was impatient.“W^ell . . .” Stanley looked around wildly.“I • • • I got some . . . information . . .for you.”“\eah?” The foreman’s eyes narrowed.“Yeah . . . information. Onlv before 1talk ...”“You want something in return?”“Yes . . . that’s it.”“Well, we ain’t payin’ . . . informers—”Stanley knew he had intended another word—“but if it’s for the welfare of the company we’llbe grateful, of course. What is it?”Stanley bent over, lowering his voice to an unsteady whisper For five minutes they talked,breaking off whenever anyone approached. Inthe end the foreman nodded dismissal, and Stan¬ley returned to his machine. After a brief at¬tempt to work he got up and went to the wash¬room. He stayed there until the noon whistleblew, then went out and walked through theshops—far from his own department. He didn’twant to meet any of his friends.5.At one-thirty Stanley joined the foreman;they walked to the manager’s office in awkwardsilence. Stanley felt the eyes of his fellow work¬ers following him down the aisle.Sitting beside the manager’s desk surroundedby the foreman, the company detective, and theassistant manager, Stanley felt trapped. Hestared at his shoes, crumpled his oil-spatteredgloves between his hands, and answered thedetective's questions in a low voice. He longedto escape from their rasping questions andcurious eyes.It seemed years • before the manager said,“That’s enough, Klarkowski, we’ll see thatyou’re not laid off.” Outside he felt he mustexplain himself—make somt'one understand hisaction.“You know. Boss. 1 ... 1 hate to do this. . . Christ, how 1 hate it . . . but 1 gotta . . .1 gotta.”“Yeah. 1 understand.” The Foreman’s tonewas cold; he had been a common hand himselfonce.Stanley hurried on. “If it wasn't for myfamily it’d be different . . . but I have to earnsomething ... I can't let the kids go . . .”The foreman sniib*d wearily. He plac«*<l aconsoling hand on Stanley's shoulder, “^eah. Iunderstand . . . you ain't a regular . . . stool-pigeon ... 1 know how it is.”“No . . . No ... I ain't . . .” Therewas no use. K\en the ioreman couldn’t under¬stand. am! as be passed before the battery oteyes staring from the rows of benches Stanleyknew that they . . . they’d never understand.Back at his machine he work«*d desperately,pausing only to wipe his blurred eyes with hissleeve. It was damned hot today; a guy sweat**da lot. Why didn't that damned dick come andget it over with. He couldn't stand waiting muchlonger.At last he saw the detective appr»)achingfrom the office. Stanley's stomach was tiftl upin knots; his hands trend)led as they slid boltsbeneath the punch. He heard a curt voice.“C'mon, boys; get your stuff. I wanna talk toyou birds.” Stanley wouldn’t, couldn’t look up.yet he saw Tony and Joe climb off their stools,gather their belongings ami follow the detectivedown the aisle. He felt everyone was lookingat him. His face was hot, and his hands wereclumsy. Crouched over his machine, he foughtoff the rising nausea that surged up within him.Now he waited for them to return; they’dha\e to pass him on the way out. He prayedfor the whistle to blow; prayed betwt'en theblows of his machine. He tried to count thebolts; one every five seconds, twelve a minute.He lost count, and returned to watching thehands of the clock crawl slowly on.A low stir, inaudible to anyone not attunedto the noise of the machines, caused him to lookdown the aisle. They were coming now, Tonyand Joe and the detective. They drew near,and he forced himself to stare straight ahead athis machine. He imagined he could hear theirfootsteps above the whine of the machines; aheavy, even tread. They passed, and he turnedslightly and watched their backs recede downthe aisle until a pile of boxes blocked his view.He knew the route. Down past the railroadtracks, past the general office and through theshipping room. Now they’d be leaving the build¬ing and crossing into the foundry. Through tliedeafening clamor of the foundry, out the sidedoor and down the paved walk to the employ¬ment office. Now they’d be sitting on that benchwaiting for their “Final.”Stanley shuddered. Did he only imagine thateyes were staring at him; eyes full of hatredand scorn? The machine missed a beat, pickedit up, and continued its measured pounding.COMMENT Page TenA Defense of Excess . .(Continued from Page Nine)ever, they are more iJcfinite. At one extreme isthe humanist compromise that involves modera¬tion and results in mediocrity, at the other theexcessive living in one direction that is, for thelife worshipper, immoral. In other words, Mr.Huxley’s is a sort of double compromise, be¬tween the humanist’s compromise and its archenemy: excess.The mediation is embodied in Mr. Huxley’sdoctrine of balanced excess. “The life wor¬shipper’s aim is to achieve a vital equilibrium,not by drawing in his diversities, not by moder¬ating his exuberances (for Exuberance, in thewords of Blake, is Beauty), but by giving themrein one against the other.” Let us live eachof our selves, each of our diversities, to excess,and the equilibrium will come about by a sortof tension, just as the head of a drum is stretchedtaut and attuned and perfectly balanced by anequalized tension outward on all its sides. “Thelife worshipper . . . aspires to balance excessof self-consciousness and intelligence by an ex¬cess of intuition, of instinctive and visceral liv¬ing; to remedy the ill-effects of too much con¬templation by those of too much action, toomuch solitude by too much sociability, too muchenjoyment by too much asceticism. He will byturns be excessively passionate and excessivelychaste. . . . He will at times be a positivist andat times a mystic: derisively skeptical and fullof faith. In a word, he will accept each of hisselvt*s. as it appears in his consciousness, as hismomentarily true self. He will accept, he willlive the life of each, excessively.” (1 wonder atthis point, parenthetically, how he ever got thisfar in the exposition of his doctrines, if his in-telle<‘tual and literary selves were continuallycapitulating to the other selves impingeing onhis consciousness. For concentration—the verysoul of clear thought and lucid j)rose—is pre-ciselv the conscious effort to exclude one's otherselves, as they appear in one's consciousness,for the sake of the task at hand.)Now. before we can intelligently appraise theworth of this doctrine of iritensity, of balancedexcess, we must decide what our criterion ofjudgment may be. Is the important thing in lifeaccomplishment: artistic, religious, intellectual,financial, or political achievement: or is lifeto be lived as fully as possible for its own sake?Mr. Huxlev, theoretically, takes the latter view.Borrowing from the biologists, he aflirms thatthe onlv purpose or end of life is more life.An oyster exists only to beget more oysters; andlikewise, humanity’s only function is to copulatewith gusto and produce more humanity. Hencethe life worshipper’s only end is more life—not“more life” solely in the sense of more fertilereproduction of the species (for surely the lifeworshipper is compelled to rr'sort to contracep¬tion to get is full ration of concupiscence intothe balance without disturbing, with too manydependents, the free play of his other activi¬ties), but “more life” also in the sense of morevariety, more intensity. It is the “full life,”rather than “more life” in the biological sense,that interests the life worshipper. But if this isMr. Huxley's real opinion on the matter, I wouldsay that he does not practice what he preaches.Neither does Bernard Shaw; neither do mostpreachers. Let us look then to his actions forguidance.Mr. Huxley is, in real life, a man of accom¬plishment, Still young, and with the handicapof ill health and occasional blindness, he has tobis credit no less than seventeen volumes offiction, essays, poetry and plays. We must de¬duce from that quantity he is a hard worker;from the occasional quality and the fact that hegives his work to the world that he has literaryambitions, d’rue, he may regard his writingmerely as a means of existence; but if so, whydoes he always stress the intellectual, for whichthere is a small public, rather than the popular?He would make more money in less time, bycatering like Edgar Wallace to the populartaste, and consequently have more leisure forliving excessively in other directions. And again,he has a “message,” he strives to improve theworld; which argues that at heart he is a manof achievement, an incipient “world mover.”And from what I know of his way of life.he is(•redominantly what one would call an “intellec¬tual.” Actually, he lives excessively only in tuoof his selves—his intellectual and artistic selves. And why? Because he is as anxious as anyoneto accomplish, to achieve success in his chosenfield, Mr. Huxley, despite his theories, I amconvinced must he ranged with those who, inpractice, favor accomplishment as a criterion.And we in America are all too likely to agreewith him. Success, achievement, accomplishment,are our gods. Be is so; only, it is too bad that thehighest seat in our hierarchy should be occupiedby the sprawling, bloated carcass of Mammon.If we follow the facts, then (and Mr. Huxleyinsists that we must do so), achievement is ourcriterion. Let us grant that balanced excess issympathetic to Mr. Huxley’s avowed end of“more life” or the “full life.” But is it con¬ducive to achievement? I doubt it. The worldmovers have been so concerned with the exces¬sive task of moving the world that they have hadlittle time or inclination to live excessively inother ways. They have had but one goal inmind, and all their energies have been lent tothat one side of their personalities that wouldbring them nearer to that goal. Their otherselves—which Mr. Huxley insists should begiven free and equal expression—have beensublimated to the one dominating self. The manwho follows the life worshipper’s creed, who isat one moment self-conscious and intelligent,and the next instinctive and intuitive; who isnow contemplative, now active; now revellingin pleasure, now ascetic; now passionate, nowchaste; who, in short, without more than acursory glance at the task in hand, accepts eachof his selves, as it appears in his consciousness,as his momentarily true self; such a man may beintensely interesting, gloriously happy in hisdiversity, but he is too devoid of a unifying pur¬pose, too lacking in concentration, too avid tofollow each passing impulse, to achieve a greatFor great achievement, for moving the world,we must pay the price. And the price is thesacrifice of balance, of normality, of diversity,which living excessively only in one of ourselves entails. Friedrich Nietzsche maintains, inAscetic Ideals, that asceticism is necessary to in¬tellectual achievement. And what is asceticismbut an intense, concentrated life in one direc¬tion, a renunciation of all but one of our selves?“What, then,” he says, “does the ascetic idealmean in a philosopher? This is my answer—itwill have been guessed long ago: when he seesthis ideal the philosopher smiles because he seestherein an optimum of the conditions of thehighest and boldest intellectuality; he does notthereby deny ‘existence’,” (I add, that Mr. Hux¬ley would say that he did) “he rather aflirmsthereby his existence and only his existence. . . .”And again he says, with reference to all creatorsand not only to philosophers: “We know whatare the three great catch-words of the asceticideal: poverty, humility, chastity”; (and howMr. Huxley loathes these latter two!) ‘‘and nowjust look closely at the life of all fruitful in¬ventive spirits—you will always find again andagain these three qualities up to a certain ex¬tent. Not for a minute, as is self-evident, asthough, perchance, they were part of their vir¬tues—what has this type of man to do with vir¬tues?—but as the most essential and naturalconditions of their best existence, their finestfruitfulness.” Immanuel Kant lived excessivelyin his intellectual self. He renounced the worldand retired to Koenigsberg (and what a livingdeath it was from the point of view of the lifeworshipper!); but at this price of renunciationand asceticism he became the legitimate fatherof modern philosophy. Jesus Christ sacrificedthe vanities and pleasures of this world, evenhis life, for his God. And whether we approveof Christianity or not (Mr. Huxley, for one, doesnot), we must admit it has been one of thegreatest influences and powers in the westernworld. Newton, Napoleon, Pascal; the greatmen of every field; almost all of them havelived excessively in one of their selves, havemade the sacrifice, and achieved.Mr. Huxley maintains that life worshippershave mostly been artists. But an artist, to begreat, must live his art, nurture it constantly,keep it with him always. Life is too short tocultivate intensely more than the most fruitfulselves of our diversity. Gustav Aschenbach, inThomas Mann’s Death in Venice—perhaps oneof the greatest studies of the literary artist inmodern literature—achieved his position as thegreatest writer of his native land only through(Please turn to Page Twelve) ^OOKSChristmas SuggestionsBUYING HAPPINESSBy EDGAR J. GOODSPEEDFourteen delightful essays reflecting theamusing side of "Foreign Lecturers," "TheUses of Adversity," "l^y Lady Poverty,""The Art of Being Outshone," "The Ageof Salesmanship," "Ivlartyrs All!" and otherthings. 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A Defense of Excess . .{Continued from page eleven)a long and arduous process of sublimating allhis energies and potentialities to one great end:literary perfection. When Aschenbach was hov¬ering on the verge of exhaustion from the over¬work and continual denial of all but his artisticself that eventually brought about the moral andintellectual catastrophe that ended his life,Mann says of him: “What balked him were thescruples of aversion, which took the form of afastidious insatiability. Even as a young manthis insatiability had meant to him the very na¬ture, the fullest essence, of talent; and for thatreason he had restrained and chilled his emo¬tions, since he was aware that they inclined tocontent themselves with a happy approximate,a state of semi-completion.” And George Mooretells us that wherever or whenever one mightsee Walter Pater, be it on the High Street atOxford or over the caviar at a dinner party, onenever saw his lips cease almost imperceptibly tomove, murmuring and testing the long, cadencedsentences so characteristic of his prose, neversaw the distant, distracted expression leave hiseyes, as if, behind them, his mind constantlyturned and examined new material for his crit¬icism, new phases of his aesthetic.“The world has been moved, I repeat, onlyby those who have lived excessively.” True, Mr.Huxley; perhaps unfortunately so, but true nev¬ertheless. And if we do not wish to be mediocre,we must live excessively too. We must exert allour energies towards one end; we must be one¬sided, lop-sided, personalities, like Kant, orJesus, or Aschenbach, or Pascal; it is tragic, butit is the price we must pay for achievement. Butif we have no such exalted ambition, if we canbe content to jog merrily along with the crowd,then by all means let us make the best of ourfate; let us join the ranks of the humanists, orgenuflect to Mr. Huxley (with his life worshipand balanced excess! as the Apostle of the NewMediocrity of Intensity.Note: Material on Huxley's doctrines is takenfrom DO WHAT YOU WILL, especially fromhis essay on Pascal in that volume. BlackstoneHallA Modern Residence forCollege WomenComplete Hotel ServiceDouble and SingleRooms•The Tea Room Is Opento the Public5748 BLACKSTONEPLAZA 3313VERNA P. WERNERDirectorNOW IS THE TIME • • •to select your home for next quarter. 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