The Andrean1963

Last year the editors proudly announced thatthey had turned out the longest Andre an ever.This year the same editors, having seized powerfor a second term in a history-making coup d'etat,proudly announce that they are turning out theAndrean with the most separate entries in history.The editors feel that this is a fact to be well proudof, for in reading pleasure, as with pleasures as-sociated with the fairer sex, "variety is the spiceof life." There is more variety packed within thenarrow confines of this magazine than you wouldfind in a county junk heap, where this magazinewill probably reside two weeks from now.

Our thanks especially to Mr. Baum, for becom-ing irate at the proper moments.

—The Editors

The AndreanEditors

ROGER A. WALKE GEORGE W. SHUSTER

Editorial BoardCHRIS BEAL KIRK VARNEDOEHAROLD GORDY STAN HUDSONJAY KERR DON MEREDITHBRENT McCAGHREN HARRY PARKERASHMEAD PRINGLE JACK POPE

DAVE McWETHY

Faculty Advisor, MR. CHESTER A. BAUM

Typists: JESSE GAITHER, JERRY SODERBERG,STEVE MUNROE, DREW HODGES, POTTER HERNDON

Table of Contents

Bacardi Cocktails .................................................. George Shuster ...................... 2The Falcon ................................................................ Lee John Carr ...................... 2Chiaroscuro .............................................................. Kirk Varnedoe ...................... 3Voodoo .................................................................... Cleland Hutton ...................... 10Stream of Consciousness ...................................... George Shuster ...................... 10Allegory .................................................................... Roger Walke ........................ 11Life Without .......................................................... Angus Davis .......................... 11Impression ................................................................ Kirk Varnedoe ...................... 12Excerpt from "Cycling" ........................................ Steve Munroe ........................ 12Begin the Begun ...................................................... George P. Cole .................... 12Carrion .................................................................... Richard Buckaloo ................ 12Judas Cried .............................................................. Don Meredith ........................ 12"Revival" ................................................................ Roger Walke ........................ 13Poems I and II ...................................................... George Shuster ...................... 13To Eternity .............................................................. Curt Snyder ............................ 13Enteuthen Exelaunei .............................................. Chris Beal .............................. 14The Pine .................................................................. Dan Smith .............................. 15My Love .................................................................. Steve Rutter .......................... 15Pea ............................................................................ George Shuster ...................... 15The Sword .............................................................. Cleland Hutton ...................... 15Her Lake .................................................................. George Shuster ...................... 16Sir de Valerance and the Maiden ........................ Jon Smith .............................. 17If Caesar Hadn't Gone to the Forum .................. Dennis Blair .......................... 18Unless ...................................................................... Steve Rutter .......................... 19Summer Rain ............................................................ Al Crichton ............................ 20Poems A and B ...................................................... George Shuster ...................... 20Definitions ................................................................ John Gibbs ............................ 20Grandeur .................................................................. John Schoonover .................. 20Essay on Sin ............................................................ George Shuster ...................... 21Blues .......................................................................... Ashmead Pringle .................. 22The Peddlers .......................................................... George Shuster .................... 22The Ladder .............................................................. George P. Cole ...................... 22Lure of the Swamp ................................................ Steve Mills ............................ 23Let Us Sing Praises Unto the Lord .................... Steve Ockenden ...................... 23Limbo ........................................................................ George P. Cole ...................... 24Spiral ........................................................................ George P. Cole ...................... 24

The Andrean is published once during the school year bythe students of St. Andrew's School, Middletown, Delaware.

BACARDI COCKTAILS

While I was reading Life magazine, my eyesstumbled most fortunately on an advertisement forBacardi Cocktails. Perhaps you have already seenit yourself and have felt yourself the strange andpowerful emotions that seized me on that occasion.But perhaps you have not, in which case you willnot long live in ignorance of the heavenly blissthat I felt, however indescribable it may be.

Approximately seven-eighths of the large glossypage was filled with a stirring picture of threepersonages in semi-darkness. But the shadowssurprisingly seemed to accentuate, rather than ob-scure, the faces of these three personages as theystood in chiaroscuro reminiscent of a Rembrandtmasterpiece. All three of the figures stood in pro-file, to the left a bartender in his red jacket withhis hand on the bar, loosely, as he looked downat his two customers, a young man and a woman,but particularly the woman. These last two wereseated at the bar to the right of the page, the manin the foreground, but the woman leaning furtherover the bar so as to be clearly seen.

The lipstick of this young lady, for she wasundeniably young, was a full light pink and pro-vided an admirable contrast to the deeper, redder,pink of one of the drinks resting on the bar.Her hair was at the same time both brown anddarker than the surrounding shadows and wasswept-combed so as to fall just over the outsidecorner of one eye and from there down and thenup, in resilient curls. But these self-same eyes,the left of which was overswept with her hair,were her most interesting and most pleasant fea-tures. As they gazed up with all their brownnessin anticipation to the bartender and by their veryintentness caused her pink lips to fall slightlyapart, almost as if in readiness to speak, I fairlyexpected her to be the first to break the heavysilence hanging over the trio like the silent sha-dows that surround them.

But it was not to be. Rather it was the youngman who first crudely broke the silence. For atthe bottom of the page, in the remaining eighthof it, I read: "HE: Why do they call them Ba-cardi Cocktails?" I next expected the bartenderto say something in way of reply somewhat in thevein usually expected of bartenders and this timeI was not to be surprised. "BARTENDER: Be-cause they have to be made with Bacardi Rum."Attached to the otherwise commonplace word"Rum" I discovered an asterisk and so followed itsbidding to the bottom of the page, where I foundthe words "Actual court ruling." And this in turn

led me to speculate as to whose court ruling, but,alas, finding no asterisk attached to the word"court" I was obliged in spite of myself to go nofurther. So I returned once again to the dialogueand found that it was once again HE who spoke."Why do they have to be made with BacardiRum?" Since this question had also occurred tome in that split particle of time between my dere-liction of speculating about "court" and my returnto the dialogue itself, I searched eagerly onwardfor the answer, discovering happily that at lastthat young lady, whose lips had, so many momentshence, appeared to me even then so tremulous tothe point of speech, had at last come to mix hermelodious tones to the air to which she had hith-erto preferred only her cigarette's wispy spirals ofsmoke. "So they can call them Bacardi Cocktails,silly!" I was quite amazed at this witty injunc-ture, which seemed to show that the young lady'sbrain functioned quite as well as her beautifullooks, and searched eagerly further in hopes ofhearing even more from her sweet lips, only todiscover that the play's chorus, played by a dubi-ous individual named "WE", had now entered togive the show's finale. "You can use Bacardi tomake drinks with other names, too. From Alex-anders to Zombies. Bacardi makes them taste bet-ter. To get through the alphabet, better buy bothbottles — Light and Dark." Seeing that two smallbottles, looking almost like exclamation points(light and dark), now met my gaze, I knew atonce the interlude was over, yet I could not helpremarking to myself, as I heaved a sigh of resig-nation, that the playwright had cleverly connectedthe players in this scene of lights and darks withtheir words. And so reflecting, I closed the maga-zine, and with new inspiration proceeded to facethe cares of this world.

—George Whitcomb Shuster, '63

THE FALCONAs night was falling, the falcon appeared,Its wings were wary and worn with flight.Homeward bound, the hunter soared,Clutched in its talons a tattered form.Above the streams, speeding to join,The rivers which flowed to the free open sea.Over the mountains, mist-covered now,As the sun began slowly to sink in the west.Down to the pointed pines he flew,Returning victorious, the victor alighted.Home from the hunt, hungry and tired,Fine was the feast fortune provided.

—Lee John Carr, '63

REX — the head of BeaulieuCHRIS — Rex's brother-in-lawJOHN — a colored servant

SCENE I

CHIAROSCUROA play in one act, four scenes

CHARACTERSUNCLE SAVVY — an old colored manDOCTORATTENDANT

SCENE: A plantation named Beaulieu. {pro-nounced Bew-lee) in Mississippi. Scene 7 occurson the very -front of the stage, which will serveas the porch of the house. Downstage is the liv-ing room, as yet unlighted. On the porch are twolarge chairs, with a round table between. Thelight centers on these two chairs. As the curtainrises, Rex, a good-looking man in his late twentiesor early thirties, is seated in the left-hand chair.He is dressed in a white suit, and he is light-ing a long, thin cigar. John {a negro) enters fromthe left, walks to the table carrying a trashcan,and begins to empty the ashtrays on the table.John is dressed shabbily, but not in rags. Rexivatches him silently, then talks to him as hecleans it off.

REX: John, you and I get along all right. Youtell me what's wrong with your folk 'round heah.Ain't I treatin' 'em fair? Why, I always thoughtI was real good to y'all.

JOHN: Yassuh, Mr. Rex. What make youthink sumpin's wrong, Mr. Rex?

REX: Jus' things don' seem natural these days.All the shanty people holdin' big prayer meetin'sovah theah, singin' and screamin' sometimes lateat night. Lots of them drifted off lately ,too.What's they so upset 'bout?

JOHN: I flat couldn't tell you, Mr. Rex.Strange things been happenin' round heah. Someof the old fields ain't growin'. Mules been dyin'—• babies, too. People gettin' sick. It's bad times,Mr. Rex. It's unnatural. Things just general get-tin' worse — crop this yeah worse dan befoh youcame, Mr. Rex. When you came, you put oleBeaulieu back in shape, Mr. Rex. Now she lookslike she's slippin' down 'gin. I don't know. Juststrange. . .

REX: Why, with all the fine, good earth 'roundheah, y'all shouldn't have no problems. Y'all beenusin' them fertilizers like I told you?

JOHN: Yassuh, Mr. Rex, we. . .REX: I put this place back on top with my

knowledge of the, land. I turned Beaulieu fromunfertile, starched land into the greenest, mostproductive plantation in the state of Mississippi.Now ain't that the truth, John? You was heah.

JOHN: Yassuh, Mr. Rex, I. . .

REX: But I can't be out in them fields all day,can't be keepin' tab on all them wuhkers myself.I'd kill myself tryin' to do that, now wouldn't I?

JOHN: Das right, Mr. Rex, you. . .

REX: So that's why I put Chris through farmin'school. When he gets back, he'll straighten outthese damn fields. He's gone and had the besteducation I could pay fo', and he'll straighten 'emout. We gonna be tops 'gin, John. When I walkinto Vicksburg, it's gone be just like befoh. Wegonna. . .

JOHN: Mr. Rex! Looka yonder. Here comeMr. Chris now!

Enter Chris from right. He is younger thanRex, in his early twenties or late teens. He isclean-cut, dressed in a sport shirt and slacks. Hecarries a large suitcase. Chris and Rex greet eachother warmly. Actors may ad-lib here, generalgreetings.

REX: John, take Mr. Chris' bags to his roomand fetch us a couple of drinks up here quick like.(Rex sits down again)

Exit John right, carrying suitcase.REX: Sit down, sit down and tell me 'bout

how you been doin'. {Chris takes other chair)You all full o' learnin' now? Got yo'self an edu-cation now, eh? {Chris smiles weakly) Bet youjust full of education. Packing a big dee - ploma—you got to show me that some time. Boy, thing'sbeen great 'round heah this yeah. You sho shouldo' been heah The greatest place in the world, I al-ways said. Glad you're back, I bet. Course youare, Why I can see you now when you. . .

CHRIS: {He has been bearing Rex's speechpatiently, as if familiar with this verbosity.) Arethose fields any better, Rex? The ones that weren'tgrowin' ?

REX: Well, no, they're still bein' ornery 'boutpushin" up sprouts, but that don't matter none.You can fix all that, can't ya? 'Course you can.You're a sci-en-tif-ic agri-cul-tu-rist, now, ain'tyou? Haw! Haw! Haw! {Chris smiles feebly)They told you how to fix up them fields, didn'tthey, eh? You gonna go out there tomorrow andthings gone start sproutin' like old times. Why,you. . .

CHRIS: It isn't quite that simple, Rex. Yousee. . .

REX: Not that simple? Well, of course it'lltake a bit, but soon. . .

CHRIS: (asserting his voice) You see, I don'tknow how to help them fields.

REX: But all them courses. You musta. . .

CHRIS: None of the research I did on thissoil proved anything. According to everything Ilearned, Beaulieu ought to be producin' as well asany land in the world. There's nothin' wrong withthe soil here, Rex. Nothin' at all.

REX: Tha's what I always said. You go offto a big college foh a yeah just to come back heahand tell me somethin' I already know? Why, thisearth 'round heah is good, rich earth. I made itthat way. Why, by my direction, this place hasbeen turned into the envy of every other planterin the state of Mississippi. And now you comeback heah sportin' a big dee-ploma jus' to tell memy land's good land. I knew that. What I wantaknow is what the hell's the matter, what's goin'on, why crops ain't growin'. . .CHRIS: Well, . . .

REX: And don't you go criticizin' my farmin'.You may be the big scientist, but by damn, it wasme and my work put this place back on top, andyou ain't tellin' me my ways are wrong.

CHRIS: (patiently) No, there is nothingwrong with your crop methods.

REX: Damn right there ain't. Now you tellme what // the matter.

CHRIS: I got an idea that the trouble 'roundhere isn't in the land, but in the people workingit. They're a lot of colored people around Beau-lieu, right?

REX: (reflectively) Yeh, niggers always prettygood workers — cheap, too.

CHRIS: Well, colored people are a mightysuperstitious bunch, right?

REX: Haw! Scared of their own damn sha-dows, them darkies.

CHRIS: You been havin some trouble with'em, haven't you?

REX: (snapping out of his reflective mood,leaning forward suddenly) So what?

CHRIS: Colored people don't ever work for aspooked place.

REX: Spooked? You beginnin' to sound likeone of 'em you'self. What you drivin' at?

CHRIS: I say this place isn't producin' becausethe colored people won't work. They won't workbecause they think this place is jinxed.

REX: Jinxed? Haw! (Pause) Maybe you'reright. Dem darkies been actin' kinda weird lately.Could be why them fields ain't sproutin. But whywould Beaulieu be jinxed? Ain't no ghosts or evilspirits 'round here, haw, haw!

CHRIS: Well, the darkies think it's jinxed andI'll tell you why—one of 'em told me. Beforeyou got here, Rex, my sister was married to theman who started this place. He was. . .

REX: Yeh, God knows I heard 'bout him. BigLes, Big Les all the damn time. I heah 'bout BigLes all the damn time, till its comin' out o' myears. But whats he got to do with this ?

CHRIS: The colored boy I talked to said thatthe people in shanty town are still spooked aboutLes' murderer never gettin' caught. They lovedthat man, and when no one ever found out whokilled him, they. . .

REX: Didn't they ever get the guy who did it?I always thought he got his long time ago. Depolice never caught him?

CHRIS: Time they found Les, he was too fargone to say any thing.

REX: But, the police. They got ways of findin'out, fingerprints and all. Why didn't they get theguy?

CHRIS: There was a big election in Vicks-burg comin' up. Mayor runnin' for re-electiondidn't want no big play on crime in the city, sohe quieted things down real nice, only a fewnight-beat cops and the people who read the obit-uary column ever knew about it. A real smoothjob.

REX: Outrageous, damned outrageous! Why,is the crook still in office? Why, I'll write thegovernor, and. . .

CHRIS: Take it easy.

REX: Why didn't you or yoh sister do some-thin'. Why didn't you complain? Or hire anagency? Didn't y'all. . .

CHRIS: You ever thought about the troubleswe had when that man died, Rex? You ever stopto think we were too busy tryin' to straighten outthis place to do anything else? Gina and I had tosell furniture to pay help, and a lot of the darkiesleft. We couldn't think about anything, night orday, but Beaulieu and Beaulieu's bills, and Beau-

lieu's taxes, and Beaulieu's crop, and God knowswhat else. We didn't have time to run off toVicksburg and stick our noses in every out-houseon Cat-Fish Row. We just had to let it pass. Butnow, somethin's got to be done. I tell you, Rex,unless them colored people are happy, you aren'tever gonna get anything done here. Somethin'sgot to quiet them down.

REX: Well, don't look at me. What the hellyou expect me to do? I wasn't here when thedamn thing happened. I don't know nothin' aboutit. What you think / can do?

CHRIS: I don't know, Rex, maybe. . .

REX: Damn, it's been years, years since thatthing. How in the hell can you expect anyone,even me, to find out anything? I mean, I savedthis place once, but this is ridiculous.

(Chris shrugs his shoulders. Rex stares at thefloor, puffs meditatively on his cigar, knocks anash on the floor, leans back in the chair.)

REX: Well, we gonna try. If that's what'shurtin' Beaulieu, we gonna stop it — quick. Now,who was up to Vicksburg with the old man ? Any-body that's still around here?

CHRIS: Hmmmm. Lemme see, I guess theremight be one or two left. There were a lot ofshanty people up there with him, but they mighthave all left. John'd know. I don't think he wasthere, but he might know who was.

(Rex picks up a bell from the table, rings ittwice. John comes through a door in the backliving room wall, through the darkened livingroom into the light.)

JOHN: (coming through the darkness*) Corn-in' right now, mistuh Rex. Comin' right now.(As John comes into the light he is wearing thesame clothes he had on, but has also put on awhite butler's coat. He carries a small round traywith two large tumblers, a sprig of mint on thetop of each) Heah you is, Mr. Rex, Mr. Chris.(sets drinks down)

REX: John, who was up to Vicksburg withMr. Les when he got killed? You remember?

JOHN: Lemme see, Mr. Rex, hmmm. Dey wasgoing up deh to ... mmmm. . . seem like Jimmywas wid 'em, and Buddy, and old Uncle Savvy,'cause Mr. Les Was gone see 'bout his eyes. . .Who else. . . mmmm.

REX: Is any of 'em still here, John?

JOHN: Yassuh, Mr. Rex, Uncle Savvy stillaround. Why you askin', Mr. Rex?

REX: Go get him and bring 'im 'round here.I wanna talk to 'im.

JOHN: Yassuh, Mr. Rex. (John goes backthrough darkness, exits through door)

(Rex rises, takes a long slug from his drink,gives a loud expression of pleasure)

REX: (Ahhhhh!) We gonna fix things up,we gonna fix 'em up by damn. Beaulieu's gonnagrow again. We gonna get the s.o.b. and givehim what he deserves. We gonna be the best. Yougo upstairs and git you bag unpacked, Chris.I'm gonna see if that sister of yours is up yet.

(Exit Rex through door on right of livingroom. Chris watches Rex leave, sits a second,then gets up, exits left. Light fades on twochairs.)

SCENE II

The chairs and the table have been removed.The light rises further backstage, in the livingroom. In the center of the room is a fireplace,in front of which is a sofa, facing toivards theaudience. In front of the sofa is a coffee table.On the left of the fireplace, in the back wall, isa door to the kitchen. On the right wall is a bar,and a door leading to the bedroom. Two or threechairs may be placed around the walls.

Rex comes out of the bedroom door, then turnsand stands in doorway. Main light is on the mid-dle living room, around the sofa area. Rex facesinto the bedroom, talks to onstage.

REX: You just lie back and relax, darlin'. Iwasn't too rough with you, was I? Aaah, you'rebeautiful, darlin'. You just rest up awhile. Don'tgo way now. Haw! (Rex closes door, smiles ina self-contented manner, straightens his coat as iflooking into a mirror, strides to the middle of theroom. He takes a cigar out of a box on the tablein front of the sofa, lights it from table lighter.Just then John enters from kitchen door)

Enter John and Uncle Savvy. (Uncle Savvywears dark glasses; he is shabbily dressed inpatched pants too large for him, and an old, tornshirt which hangs on his thin frame like ashroud. He is stooped, and walks haltingly. Johnleads him to the sofa, sits him down. He thengoes to what was the porch in Scene I, and mo-tions for Rex to join him. Rex walks over.)

JOHN: Uncle Savvy real old, Mr. Rex, got totreat him gentle. If anybody gone tell you 'boutMr. Les, it's Uncle Savvy. He's old, but hishead's still good. He remembers way back. Ithink maybe it be better if I talk to him, Mr.Rex. He know my voice, not yours. You jus' tellme what you wants to know, and I'll ask him.

REX: {glances back at Uncle Savvy, sittinginert on the sofa) Jus' ask him what he knows'bout Les and that night. He was with Les thatnight, wasn't he?

JOHN: Yassuh, Mr. Rex, he was de only onewhat was wid 'im. Now, he was blind den, too,so I cain't say how much he can tell you, Mr.Rex.

REX: Well, let's find out.(Rex and John return to sofa.. John stands on

left, Rex on right, with Uncle S. in center)

JOHN: (in a coaxing tone) Uncle Savvy,you was wid Mr. Les in Vicksburg, wasn't you?

UNCLE SAVVY: (his voice is very rough,very broken, and not very strong) Yeh, John, wewas up to de town to see 'bout dese eyes. Mr.Les was sorry 'bout dese eyes. He was gwinta getme some new eyes. He was sorry about what hedone. Gwinta make me see 'gin. Gwinta get neweyes in Vicksburg.

(Rex motions John over to their former posi-tion upstage)

REX: What's he mean 'bout what Les did?What about his eyes?

JOHN: Nothin', nothin', Mr. Rex. It don'tmake no difference now, any way, Mr. Rex.

REX: What happened, John. What 'bout Mr.Les? I wanta know, John.

JOHN: Nosuh, Mr. Rex, don't make me tellya, Mr. Rex. It don't make no difference now,Mr. Rex.

Rex: Tell me, goddammit!

JOHN: Nosuh, Mr. Rex, I can't tell you dat.(Rex grabs him by the shin, shakes him) (Plea-suh, Mr. Rex.

REX: Now you tell me what the hell hap-pened or you and yoh family can pack up andleave. (Shakes him again) Tell me!

JOHN: You don't want to hear it, Mr. Rex.Honest, Mr. Rex, you don't want to. . .

REX: Tell me, niggah!

JOHN: It was Mr. Les put out Uncle Savvy'seyes (looks down at floor)

REX: Why?JOHN: Nosuh, Mr. Rex, don't make me. . .REX: Speak! (slaps him)

JOHN: Please, Mr. Rex. . .REX: (slaps him across face the other way)

Talk! Why did Les do it?JOHN: Mr. Rex, he caught Uncle Savvy doing

somethin' wrong. Long time ago, when UncleS'awy just a young buck. Doing somethin' dread-ful wrong.

REX: What?

JOHN: Oh, Mr. Rex, I can't.REX: You want to pull out right now?

JOHN: He found Uncle Savvy and Miss Re-gina together in de barn. He threw de fertilizerin Uncle Savvy's face. Don't hurt Uncle Savvy,Mr. Rex. He was a buck den. He done sufferedfoh dat day foh yeahs. Pleasuh, Mr .Rex, don'tget mad. You made me say it, Mr. Rex. I didn'twant to tell you, Mr. Rex.

REX: (dropping John) Haw! Old Ginarollin' with the young black buck eh. Haw! Iaint surprised! Back when that fella was a buck.Haw! She's older than I thought. Haw! Rollin'with the black boys. Haw! Fiery young bitch, shewas. Haw! Now you see, John, I ain't angry. Ireally don't give much of a damn 'bout thatwoman or what she done. But one thing, John,from now on you tell me what I want to know,and when I want to know somethin', you tell mereal quick.

JOHN: (composing himself again) Yassuh,Mr. Rex.

REX: Now you go in there and let's find outwhat our old buck knows.

(John precedes Rex back into the living room,Rex follows)

REX: (to himself, as he turns to follow John)Old Gina takin' a tumble with the young blackbuck. Haw!

(They resume their positions aroundd the sofa.Uncle Savvy hears the footsteps returning, looksat John)

UNCLE S.: John?JOHN: Yes, Uncle Savvy?UNCLE S.: He was sorry 'bout dat, John. He

said he knew dat woman wasn't no good. He wassorry 'bout dese eyes. He tole me in Vicksburgdey could fix dese eyes. Den somebody killedhim, John. He knew dat woman made me. He

was sorry. He was gone make me see agin. Seeagin, John. Why did they kill 'im?

JOHN: Uncle Savvy, does you remember datnight? Does you know anythin' ''bout Mr. Lesdyin ?

UNCLE S.: God, I remembahs it so well, soclear. We was walkin' down da street pretty late.Mr. Les was talkin' and dey wasn't much elsegoin' on around. I remember dem voices. Deycalled Mr. Les to one side, den dey was somescufflin'. Den dey talked to each uddah foh awhile, den de footsteps ran off. I wouldn't nevahfohgit dem voices, doh. If d'd ever heah demvoices, I'd know 'em. . . I know dat. . .

REX: {bursting out impatiently) Well, whatthe hell good's it to do us that he knows the damnvoices. I mean we can't go bring every. . .

UNCLE S.: (excitedly) John, who's dat?Who's dat talkin' ? Das one of 'em, John, das oneof de voices.

JOHN: No, Uncle Savvy, das Mr. Rex. Herun de place now and. . .

UNCLE S. Das one of em, John, I know datvoice.

REX: What's he sayin!? What's he sayin'?

JOHN: Nothin', Mr. Rex, nothin', he just. . .

UNCLE S.: I know dat voice! Watch out,John, das one of em what killed Mr. Les. I knowdat. I wouldn't nevah fohgit dat voice.

REX: What are you sayin', old man?

UNCLE S.: You de one. You de one whatlaughed. You was deh, you killed Mr. Les.

JOHN: Don't pay him no mind, Mr. Rex,he. . .

REX: What you say, niggah? You try in' totell me / killed Les? Why, you goddam. . .

JOHN: He don't know, Mr. Rex, he don'tknow. He couldn't remember. He jus' made amistake.

UNCLE S.: Das why de fields is bad, das whythings is wrong. De killer right heah. Das whatwrong.

REX: Ahah! . . . Hah! Now I see what'scomin' off heah. You been told to say that, ain'tyou, niggah?

UNCLE S.: Ain't nobody tole me, I knows. . .JOHN: Please, Mr. Rex. Jus' a mistake.REX: Chris paid you, didn't he? Paid you to

set the niggers round heah 'ginst me, didn't he?Comes back heah cocky, all full of learning; a

diploma 7 bought him, and now he's trying to takeovah. Damned ungrateful son-of-a-bitch. That'sthe truth, isn't it, niggah? Chris paid you, didn'the? (advancing on Uncle S.) Didn't he?

UNCLE S.: You killed him. Get away fromme. You killed Mr. Les!

REX: Shut up, niggah. I don't take that offno blind stupid niggah. (hits Uncle S. in stom-ach. Uncle S. doubles over, ]ohn looks on in ter-ror) Get dat niggah out of heah! Get him out!(Rex storms over to bar, starts mixing drink furi-ously, John picks up Uncle S., half-drags, half-carries him offstage, through kitchen door)

Enter Chris. John re-enters behind him. Johnstops Chris upstage left.

JOHN: Don't go in dere, Mr. Chris. He'sawful upset.

CHRIS: What's the matter with him?

JOHN: Oh, Mr. Chris. Uncle Savvy try totell Mr. Rex dat he done kill Mr. Les. He sayhe remembah Mr. Rex's voice.

CHRIS: (turning to go in) That's ridiculous.I'll. . .

JOHN: Mr. Chris! (John grabs his shoulder)Mr. Chris, he's blamin' you.

CHRIS: For what?

JOHN: He say you done paid Uncle Savvy tosay bad things 'bout him so you could take overBeaulieu. He's powahful mad, Mr. Chris.

CHRIS: That's really absurd. Has he beendrinkin', John?

JOHN: No, mo dan de usual, I don' think.Don't cross him, Mr. Chris. He's mighty mad.

CHRIS: Yeh (turns, goes into living room.Rex hears footsteps, turns to face Chris.)

(Exit John, left.)REX: Well, if it ain't Mr. Scientist. If you

ain't the most ungrateful, deceivin' s.o.b. I evahseen! An you thought you could fool me. Payin'a blind nigger and try and fool me. Haw! Whyyou. . .

CHRIS: Rex, why don't you cool off. Letme. . .

REX: You can't tell me nothin'. I know it all.Oh, how I know it. I build this place, I makeit big again. I send you through college, and youcome back here with your big dee-ploma andthink you can take this place away from me. Youcan't tell me nothin', and you can't fool meneither. By god, if you ain't the lowest scumwhat evah. .

CHRIS: What the hell have I done?

REX: Don't play cute with me, Chris. Youknow damn well you paid that niggah to comeheah and spread lies. You the one what startedthis business 'bout the niggahs anyway. Now Iknow why. Boy, do I know. You thought. . .Why, I knew that niggah couldn't o' known any-thing. Why didn't he speak up when the murderhappened? Huh? You tell me, Chris, why don'the if he knows so damn much?

CHRIS: I don't know, Rex, but. . .

REX: Hell, you don't know. You know aswell as I do that niggah don't know nothin' andyou paid him to say all that crap. Didn't you?Weren't you. . .

CHRIS: (Screaming) Listen to me a minute!

REX: Why . . . {slugs down a large swallowof his drink, listens AS though ready to explode)

CHRIS: Why would I want this damn place?Why wanna break my back tryin' to keep itgoin? Why would I want to take over when Igot the perfect set-up right now? What makesyou think I paid that old man? Prove it, justgive me some proof? Stop ramblin' on andprove somethin!

REX: Don't play smart. You done it.

CHRIS: God! (throws hands up in -frustra-tion)

Exit Chris (strides off left)

(John sticks his head through the kitchen door,watches Chris leave. Rex sees him)

REX: C'mere, John

JOHN: Yassuh Mr. Rex (steps into room oneor two steps, cautiously, afraid)

REX: (looking at floor) What do you know'bout the murder? Where did it happen? Howwas he killed? Or do you know?

JOHN: I heard talk 'bout it, Mr. Rex. Saiddey found Mr. Les lying in de gutter downon Cat-Fish Row, spittin' red into de rain water.Time dey found him, he was stranglin' on hisown blood. He was cut up real mean — in destomach, I think. He died 'foh he could saynothin 'bout how or who. It was a terrible thing,Mr. Rex. Das what I heard.

(Rex says nothing for a moment, stares atthe floor. John waits, looks at him, then startsthrough the kitchen door. Rex calls him back)

REX: John, I'm finishin' up a letter heah.Come and pick it up in a while. I'm sendin' a

little money home and I want it to get therequick. Get it mailed today.

JOHN: Yassuh, Mr. Rex.

Exit John (through kitchen door)

(Rex remains staring at the floor. Light onliving room dims, spotlight on Rex, sitting on sofastaring at floor. After a moment, Rex looks up,staring into space)

REX: It was me. By God, it was me. Thatold man that night. That big, fat old man bel-lowin' 'bout how much he won at poker . All Iwanted was that money — we didn't mean to killthe old loudbag. We was jus' gone cut him upa little. God that was Les. (Looks at the flooragain for a moment, then looks back up) Ain'tnobody gonna find out though. Ain't nobodygone find out. Ain't nobody gonna believe noblind ole niggah. I'm alright. Ain't nobody gonnaknow. Everythin's gonna be allllright. (Rex sealsletter on table, walks over to bar, grabs bottle,exits right.)

Enter ]ohn (John sticks head through kitchendoor, watches Rex exit with expression of horror,then creeps over by table, into spotlight.)

JOHN: He done it. He put on de big show,but he did do it. I been, I been waitin' on akiller. Killed Mr. Les! Oh, my, what I'm gonnado? (Sees letter on table, picks it up, examinesit) Oh, God! Oh, no, dis can't be. All dis time!(stares at letter) Oh, great Lawd! Oh, no, no,no, no.

VOICE FROM OFFSTAGE: John! John!Come quick! It's Uncle Savvy. Hurry.

(John drops letter on table, slowly walks offthrough kitchen door, half-laughing, half-crying.)

JOHN: Oh, no. All dis time. Dat baby. Oh,God. Dat address! Ohhh!

(Light dies on living room)

SCENE III

Scene: Living room. Light rises as Rex entersfrom bedroom, slightly drunk. He turns to shoutinto bedroom.

REX: Haw, bitch! Stop yoh goddam crying',bitch! Go see yoh black buck. Go find him inthe barn. Haw! Go roll with the old black man.Stop yoh wailin'. I shoulda beat you worse. Yougot off easy, bitch. Go cry on that ole niggah'sshoulder. Haw! (slams door, goes to table, dropsbottle he is carrying) John! (pause) John!

Kitchen door opens, John enters. He is obvi-ously drunk, and he has been crying. He sobs outhis words.

REX: What's the matter with you, John? Youbeen hittin' that corn liquor again?

JOHN: Haw! You know somethin', Mr. Rex.You know. . . . Uncle Savvy's dead! He's deadand you killed him. You killed him! (Rex isstruck. He stares at ]obn who stumbles aroundroom) Jus' like you killed Mr. Les! (Rex is com-pletely stunned) I heard it, I heard every sinfulmurderin' word of it. You think ole John don'tknow, but John knows plenty. You killed 'emboth. (Rex comes out of his daze. His old arro-gance returns, and he lunges for ]ohn)

REX: Why, you . . .

JOHN: Sit down! (John grabs his shirt andthrows him backward on the sofa. Rex realizes hisbluff is over, and he is scared of the powerfulnegro). You gone and killed the best white manI ever known, and den you hit dat old man lastnight and killed him too!

I hate you foh dat, and you know what I'mgone do? You know what ole John gone do?He gonna tell you what he knows. He gone tellyou lots you don't even know.

Big Les caught Uncle Savvy and dat woman,shoh he caught 'em. But he didn't catch dem intime. 'Foh long dat woman was carryin' dat buck'sblack baby inside her. She was carryin' UncleSavvy's baby! When de time come, Mr. Les letdat baby be born. He told all de hands dat datbaby died, and he had a funeral an' all, but Iknew. John knew deah wasn't nothin' in dat pinebox dey planted. Mr. Les gave me dat baby datnight and told me to take it somewhere and getrid of it. Haw! Does you know where I tookdat boy? I took him to a poor white familywhat didn't have no kids. I took him down deroad. (Grabs letter off table) See dat address.Dat's where I took him! Haw! (Throws letter atRex. Rex's face is an incredulous blank. He iscompletely stunned).

Dat's where I took him, dese are de people Igave him to, and,you dat baby. Haw! You're datbaby! So you know what? You ain't riothin' buta niggah! You a black niggah! Dat man youkilled last night was yoh father, and dat woman

you went to bed with was yoh mother. Thinkat over, Mr. Big Man. You done killed yohfather and married yoh mother and you ain'tnothin' but a black niggah like me. How's datmake you feel, huh?

Now you come down off dat high horse, causeyou ain't no more dan dat little black bastard chileI carried down de road dat night. Little bastardwho done killed his own father and shacked upwid his mother. Haw! You go 'way from heah.You go work in de fields and live in de shanties,and you be sho and say "yassuh" real nice. Andyou better keep movin, cause I'm gone tell every-body — all de blacks and all de whites — 'roundheah what you is, and what you done. I'm goneget out dere right now to where dey fixin' to burydat ole man — to where dey fixin to bury yourfather, boy, and I'm gone tell dem everything.You go tell yoh mother, boy. Haw! You crawlin dat bed again and you tell her who you areand what you done. And den you move quick,boy, 'cause dem shanty people gone be plenty mad.Dey gone come after you. You better run, niggah,run, Haw! Think about, niggah! Run away andhide and think about it. Haw! (John stumblesout through kitchen door. From of stage there is alyric chant:) Killed yoh father, married yohmother, nigerrrrrrr.

(Rex is shattered. His body is slumped inert inthe chair, and he is sobbing convulsively, liestands up slowly, stumbles of right sobbing, as

bts dim.)

SCENE IV

Scene: The front porch again. The same setupas in Scene I, with two chairs and table. Chrissits in chair on left, dressed in white suit. Fromright, Rex is led on, bandage around his head,clothes torn and dirty. Doctor leads him in, sitshim in chair on right. Chris rises to talk to doc-tor. They made no attempt to prevent Rex fromhearing what they say.

DOCTOR: He'll never see again, I'm afraid.He knocked his head in that fall so bad that hecan't see no more. Y'all oughta put somethin''round that pool when it's not full; that's a nastyfall —• wouldn't want it happenin' again. Well,there's nothin' I can do with him. One of thembig clinics up east, maybe, but I shoh can't.

CHRIS: Thank you, doctor. Appreciate yohcomin' out.

DOCTOR: Yeh, too bad. Young still. Neversee the rest of his life. Shame. . . (Doctor exitsright, shaking head.)

(Chris looks down at Rex's inert figure inchair.)

CHRIS: Rex. . .REX: (mumbles recognition)CHRIS: Rex, I'm gonna send you away. You

can't stay heah no more. They got nice placesup state. They'll take care of you, Rex. They'reyour own people, Rex — colored people. Don'tworry 'bout the bill, Rex. By next year this place'llbe back on top, growin' like ole times. We'll beon top, Beaulieu'll be the best. I'll pay yoh billwithout dentin' my wallet, so don't you worry.You get well and get out of there, Rex. But onething — don't you never come back to Beauieuagain. You know who yoh people are now; staywith 'em. Don't come back here again, Rex. (Mo-tions to offstage right. Colored attendant dressed

ATTENDANT: Come on, buddy.(Rex is led off stage right. Light on stage

changes to spotlight on Chris. Light slowly jadesas Chris lights up long, thin cigar.)

FINIS

VOODOOAmid the beat of bamboo drums,Crescendo stamps of foot,The flames of hell did skyward leapThrough void as black as soot.

The witch doctor, his arms outstretched,His rattle shaking free,With doll in hand, a trembling hand,He beckoned to the tree.

A cringing hunch of mortal flesh;His eyes transfixed with fear;A sweating man, a shaking man,Whose bonds held death so near.

By now the pounding savage beatWas leaping to its height,As writhing forms howled forthEcstatic shrieks throughout the night.

A blinding flash, a putrid stench,The awful bolt struck home.A smoldering mass in mangled form,The Devil takes his own.

—C. P. Hutton, '65

STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS

Although many people would have it other-wise the stream of consciousness is not like ariver

it does NOT go downhillit goes uphill toward a thoughtit does NOT widen in its bedit narrows in

i would like to give a demonstration of thisbut unfortunately

that is almost impossiblesince we are traveling downhill on this page

man's reading habits are ironic . . .d

ow

nhi11

but then man is ironic himselfhe trots along on one plain for a while and then...

dow

nhi11

and now he is on a new lower plane; trot, trot,trot

dow

nh

i11

and now, my friends, we are approaching the lasthill

ac1iff

—George W. Shuster, '63

10

ALLEGORYA fly on the floor onceHappened on a deadComrade,and

, being a well-propagandizedfly

and proud of his race,but also (divested of his DONOTDISTURB sign)

He at once set about the taskOf transferring the (honored) corpseTo the area designated

forsuch unfortunatesas might be (non) conformist enough

to dieBut althoughable to

leaptallbuildingsatasinglejumpwhoooshh

And with the fabled (proportional)Strength Of A Thousand MenHe was

unfortunatelyBereft of anyArms

and subsequently could only worryhis comrade's cadaver

(nonot cadaver—rather, brown study)

about the floorbut he went nowhereso

He decidedat length

to THINK THINK THINKabout it

and sohe did

walking back and forthlike a man in amaternity-ward waiting-room

Untilat lastSOMEONE

walked pastand disturbedthe fly

and he leftAnd quite soon

being only an insectafter all

he forgot—Roger Walke, '63

LIFE WITHOUTThe heat hung as deep as hell and as thick as

stone. It leapt and screamed and howled andstabbed and yet slugged as terrible wraiths, bloatedby decaying flesh, blunder the paths of mindlesspain.

A lone bird, tiny in a vast dead world of heatedrock, broke the hellish silence with garbled strainsof sound spat from its yellow beak, insane andignorant in the silent fire.

The sun scorched a glazed and burning sky.With its cruel fists it beat upon a dying rat. Ananimal dying in mad despair, hopeless, lost inhating, grinding heat. A parched and raspingthroaty like an an army, killing life and lovingdeath, had thrust a thousand daggers in its bar-ren mantle and dust ,not blood, had come surgingforth in a torrent of flame.

Wild, free spirits clashed in wrenching painand with the glqaming scythes of death cut andknifed the bloody, bluish flesh encased in thethrobbing skull of this rat.

A pit, a hole with no bottom, lay mute in this

desert furious with heat. Like the sun aboutwhich the universe revolves this hole commandedthe empty sands. It lay with no purpose but thatof life.

This rat crawled, its claws groping and itseyes the red of darkness with no reason but tosuffer more quickly. It drew near the bottomlesspit and without knowing plunged in final desper-ation over its brink.

It fell fast in the darkness beneath the earth.Cool air rushed over the rat's tortured body. Theheat was gone. The spirits ceased their eternalbattle. Cold streams ran swiftly, ending the fire.

The darkness stopped. Light came. The ratlanded softly in lush, green grass. The air wasmoist, the pasture damp. Birds twittered andsquirrels scampered gleefully up tall oak trees.Peace was thick and deep.

The rat, its red eyes bulging, stretching, trem-bling on its four weak legs, fell, dead, in the lush,green grass.

—Angus Davis, '66

11

IMPRESSION

The garage looked like one of those old pain-ings whose colors have darkened almost intoobscurity with age. The only light, and the lightwas the first thing that caught the eye in thatgloomy place, was a bare bulb glaring from theend of raggedly insulated wire attached to theceiling, way up in the high, dense darkness. Ashort chain dangled from the bulb, attached toa long piece of red cord which was unravellingat the bottom end. The cord pointed directlydownward to a table on which lay a collection ofdirty silver tubes, glaring at the rest of the roomfrom their favored position under the bulb. Thetubes were used and crumpled, and the pile ofthem gave off broken reflections. The reflectionsformed an odd pattern on a large, red, rustedgas can beside the tubes. The rest of the tablewas cluttered with a jumbled assortment of grease-covered tools and assorted useless, dirty, piles ofscrews, bolts, and rusted washers.

The table itself had absorbed the grease of itsslovenly occupants and the top glistened withpools of oil, surrounded by darker, deeper stainswhere the oil and grease had soaked into the grainof roughly formed wood. As Don's eyes adjustedto the darkness, he could begin to see the area ofthe room outside the small circle of harsh light.

The walls were soiled bricks, almost black,patched with accasional haphazerd slaps of con-crete. Around the room, the wall was coveredwith used, mostly treadless, tires, of varying sizes,hung on iron pegs slammed into the crumblingbrick. He couldn't see where the wall met thedamp, uneven floor; the juncture was covered bycountless articles leaning tiredly against the wall.In the corner, an old outboard engine, stripped ofits cover, leaned its fact into the wall as thoughcrying, and pointed back at Don with the brokenstump of its handle. The myriad paint cans thatlined the floor were drenched each in their ownlife blood. But the colors had long ago turneddull, and in the fringes of the light, they resem-bled a funeral procession of various grey shades.

Done looked at the bulb again, and a largebug slammed into and set it slightly in motion.Don began to feel his throat constricted by themusty, oppressively thick air and the druggingodor of spilled gasoline. He grabbed the battered,tarnished brass dorrknob, gave a yank to free thewarped plywood door from its cracked moulding'sgrasp, and left quickly.

—Kirk Varnedoe, '63

EXCERPT FROM "CYCLING". . . For the final lap of the circuit the patched

asphalt surface of the road was replaced by oneof concrete which detracted decidedly from therurality of the scene. Concrete surfaced roadshave a way of making themselves conspicuous tocyclists. They seem to defy the topography andaudaciously blaze their way through the compla-cent surroundings. Hills are non-existent on aconcrete way; the white strip seems to force theland, with a certain degree of arrogance, into apeaceful compliance. The humble asphalt road,on the other hand, seems dominated by the land.It is cruelly twisted and bent in every directionwithout mercy by the same terrain so submissiveto the concrete. Thus as one pedals along on aconcrete road he soon succumbs to its overpower-ing influence. It is impossible for one to lingeron such a road, or to pedal aimlessly, contemplat-ing the scenery, as on an asphalt one, for concretesurfaces are conducive only to efficiency. The per-fect straightness of such a road — or its mathe-matically precise curves — make it impossible forone to consider anything but the attainment ofone's goal. . .

—Stephen Munroe, '64

BEGIN THE BEGUNGrief like a summer'sAfternoon swept hisCheeks with soft rain.

—George P. Cole, '65

CARRIONHe just hung there. Like wallpaper.I shook the pillar, pleading with Him to awake.His head swayed to and fro.His bowels oozed out of His open side.I barfed.I wept.He just hung there.

—Richard Buckaloo, '63

JUDAS CRIEDThe old man came to mesaying

like whats that soundson

why thats Jesus hes come againwith seven Reindeer and a sled

this time he wants to be sure.—D. G. Meredith, '63

12

"REVIVAL"Waving his long black-clothed armsover his headso that the (slightly)frayed cuffs show

but He works so hard forThe Faith

And the great black coatFlapslike some Vulture (the mites swarmingthrough his down)'sWings,The small alive mouth openand urging,his voice fervent and tearedlike it is when you're gladit's happened the thingthat you've wanted so longand not like a child wantsbut fearfullyor elselike when somethingfervently unwanted has happenedand you want to take it bravelyand not cryand not like a child,The cheeks two shadowed valleysas at sunset and you're above itsomehowunder angular eyes glitteringlike a flashlight in a cavemouth

—Roger Walke, '63

POEM: IAnd over the reddening yearsThrough our dark-blue washable ink tearsWe saw birds without wingsTrying in vain to fly: And my soul sings.Oh yes, see how it singsFrom GoodLike the red of a sliced earthworm's blood.See how it singsBeautifully about ugly things.

POEM: IIWomen are like birds,Even like birds without wings,Even like birds yet unborn.They are the same.All plumes and feathers,Colors, what colors, and singing.

—George W. Shuster, '63

TO ETERNITYThe sun stares down at the bare white face

and chest as the young boy, leaning back againstthe cockpit seat, right hand resting easily on thetiller, soaks up all the celestial brightness andexplores the aesthetic picture of the day. Thesloop's radio emits a low-toned, swaying tunewhose slow rhythm seems to be in perfect timewith the softly pitching blue waters, the pinkishwhite clouds moving gently across the otherwisepure sky ,and the bright green shore quietly slip-ping astern. The boat dips and rises as the breezefills the sail, lets up for just enough time to causea little slack, then fills the canvas out again tostrain against the mast and push the bow downinto another dark swell. The blue erupts intowhite foam on either side of the sleek bow andsometimes, as the sloop heels far to the port, hun-dreds of tiny drops splash to the face, cooling thewarm skin in a refreshing mist. The water makesan immense stage for vibrating sun beams, someof which form huge armies to turn the blue towhite in the distance. A few rays stray onto theship and glint on the white paint of the forwardcabin and the dark mellow wood of the handrails. The sun catches and amplifies the alreadybrilliant red, white, and blue stripes of theballoon-like spinaker, which collapses a little nearthe top as the wind slacks, then fills out again tobecome an almost perfect semicircle pullingagainst its lines. It strains to meet another simi-larly marked balloon which appears just abovethe western horizzon then slinks back down tothe other side of the world.

The tempo of the music shifts downward to aneven softer, more flowing tune, the seas becomea little calmer and roll a little more gently, theship picks up more running speed. To starboarda yacht lies at anchor, floating lazily at its moor-ing in the middle of the great bay. No one stirsaboard her, and she too quietly slips astern untilher form is black against the brightness of thesun's reflection on the waters. Then the eye andthought shift from the retreating yacht to thetrail of white foam streaming from the stern ofthe sloop. The swirls of white meet the calmblue and the intercourse creates a ruffled pathmade up of countless concentric circles of a lighterblue. A strong gust of wind jerks the sail and thebow digs deep into a long rolling swell. Ahead —the same music and the same bay stretch on foran eternity from here.

—Curt Snyder, '64

13

ENTEUTHEN EXELAUNEI

Unless you are the sort of person who isbothered by abstruse titles, you may pass on tothe next paragraph. For you others, this is anextremely erudite quotation from Xenophon, byway of Vincent Sheean, that has nothing to dowith the story except that it doubtlessly bears astrong similarity to the thought which brought thegrin to Mr. Cameron's eye as he meted out thelesson Chance had decreed I should learn. Lit-erally translated, it means, "and the followingday they walked on".

Actually, I was not alone in my misery, When,one Saturday last spring, our form, being rich andgluttonous, had an exclusive and mouth wateringpicnic featuring convincingly steak-like steaks andchocolate eclairs. After the meal, my roomate andI returning to our habitation overlooking thekitchen, noticed that a number of eclairs, un-doubtedly of the barrel or truckload or whateverit is that eclairs come in, and therefore, by allfunction of logic, the property of our form,remained in the kitchen. Suspecting foul play, welater ascertained, from a friend, that a large plate-ful of eclairs had been sitting in a corner of thekitchen after the end of the meal. Though thisseemed to be a rather smaller cache than that wehad glimpsed (we readily assumed that certainparties connected with the kitchen had made offwith their share of the loot), we determined todo what we could to rectify the situation. Therewere far too few for the entire form to share in,but it seemed, by natural law, more just for a por-tion of the true owners to consume them than for"others" to do so.

Divining the course we had determined upon,our friend revealed to us that he had, with ad-mirable presence of mind, unfastened the screen ofthe window beside the kitchen ice machine whilerefilling a water pitcher at dinner. We all know,from a familiarity with the nocturnal state ofthe school in general and the goodies departmentin particular born of experience, that this partic-ular window was one of those left ajar at night.

About an hour and a half after lights thatnight, we sauntered, (you see we were quite pastthe stage of stealing from the room) out into thenight and approached our private portal. Pryingopen the window with my trusty church-key, the

poor man's jimmy, I pushed open the screen witha practiced stealth. Scrambling noiselessly ontothe sill, I extended my arm to a nearby shelf tosteady myself and neatly knocked two metal waterpitchers onto the floor. Somewhat less than em-boldened by the unmelodious reverberations ofthe foolish things, I promptly withdrew my handand toppled into the ice machine. After a fewminutes I regained sufficient composure to identifythe menacing rumble-rumble-ca-chinng-clatter-clatter that was assailing my ears as nothing morethreatening than the cycle of my old friend the icemachine. Shortly thereafter, my roommate returnedto the window and expressed in a low voice hisprofound admiration for the dexterity with whichI had accomplished my entrance. When he triedto climb in, however, he found his bad knee,which he had hurt playing basketball, would notallow him to make it.

So he limped across the driveway, cursing spas-modically at the gravel, to the door nearest thedining room while I unlocked the door from thekitchen to the dining room. My roommate en-tered and just as we had reached the food cabi-nets, he suggested I return and lock the door. Iindicated in a curt phrase that I saw no reasonWhy I should bother with it, and we set about ourtask. Almost immediately, we heard the nightwatchman pull up in his pickup truck and comeover to the windows next to the food cabinetsand refrigerators. I ducked under a counter andmy roommate scuttled with surprising agility overto a closet in the back of the kitchen and dove in.The malicious yellow beam of "Midnight's" flash-light lunged through the windows and searchedthe room. Finally, "Midnight" passed on. Assoon as we were sure that he was not cominginto the kitchen from the dining room, we re-turned to our task confident that he would notreturn until he had completed his circuit of theschool building. In a few moments our effortswere rewarded but then Fortune deserted us.

There came voices from the dining room andthen the awful sound of the far door, the one wehad left unlocked, being pushed open. Swift asthe proverbial wink, I slipped the plate of eclairsonto the lower shelf of a counter and hurled my-self into the closet — it was a cookie-and-spicecloset — full of cookies and spices — and we hud-

14

died in there listening to the sounds of a thor-ough search and waiting for "Midnight" to comestomping into our cubbyhole with pistols drawn.The visit, however, had not been directed at us,but had been an inspection of the kitchen. Inlooking through the window the night watchmanhad noticed that the kitchen was not very neat(we had picked up the pitchers) and had brought'Uncle' George Broadbent in with him to con-firm his appraisal of the place.

They soon left, but we kept hearing them talkin the building and then we thought we heardsomething outside on the far side of the kitchenand feared that the night watchman, suspectingsomething was still prowling around. After somefive minutes of cruelly oppressive silence, we ven-tured out of our hiding place. Hardly had weemerged, when we heard the ominous jingle ofMidnight's keys as he opened the back door andonce more we plunged into the womb-like havenof our cookie closet. The hungry beam searchedabout and then lit upon our door as the watch-man approached. Click —- the door swung open— silence — from my position — sitting right bythe doorway, all I could see was a pair of veryintrusive boots. At last, I could stand it nolonger, I cast my eyes up at my enemy — and verysuddenly it struck me that he was even moreafraid of finding someone than we were of beingfound. Unfortunately, he would not submit toour pleas or threats but took our names down' andwe felt bound to turn ourselves in.

And so it is that I found myself before thatsolemn tribunal and was made to march off myrepentance.

—Chris Beal, '65

MY LOVEIn striving to compare my love with thingsI saw a fire and hoped it was the keyFor when I'm cold its warmth does shelter meAnd same, thy love does glow and my heart ringsEven more, this imagery is TrueFor if I closer edge to gain more heat from you,A slap or scratch appears upon my startled faceAnd I lose all hope to ever touch thy Spanish

Lace.Now note that Lucifer is the sameHe lets you from a distance feel his flameBut if too close your searching hands they cameHis smold'ring eyes spewed forth and scarred thee

muchThou must be as coy as the feline sexAnd catch both needs off guard.Then will thee prove the manly wordThat females are of the weaker sex.

—Steve Rutter, '64

PEALife's but a peaIn the decadent podWhich falls eventuallyOnto the fecal sodAnd talking rootSends up its shootOnly to be trampled downBy the first stray dog around.

THE PINEBowed by wind and waves pounding,it stands like a mighty granite wall;in confusion and wondrous confounding,it denies the elements all.

Grotesque form, wrinkled and dry.displays an ambition undeniably high,an ambition to reach unto the Kingdom of

God

and stretch its roots to the earth's richest core.Poor are the days of the Red Sea Pine,with ego untarnished by wind and brine,with roots reaching down, entwined in stone,with boughs beating wind with mighty groan.

—Dan Smith, '65

THE SWORDFull has my life been of fortunes and battles;Of screams and wails of wounded menWho when they felt the piercing blade,Clutched for mercy, choking last secondsIn a babbling gibberish of pleas for reprieve.Many a mead hall has been graced by my presence.Amid turmoil of frolic and licentious joysThe cool steel has rung to the vibrant tonesOf a swelling, reeling, warrior chorus,And shattered as clay the timber benchesIn some feat of superhuman brawn.Now I lie as any mortal heap of ironErased of every tint of once burnished steel;For as a warrior is slain, so dies his sword.

—Cleland Hutton, '65

15

HER LAKE

The body of water near her house was for themost part very shallow and most people in thevicinity were inclined to call it a deep swamp, butshe, living closer to it than any of the others andfeeling almost possessive about it, staunchly re-fused to term it anything but a shallow lake,because she simply abhorred swamps.

Although she never took up actual arms in itsbehalf, she was overly quick to resent any debase-ment of "her lake" and engaged in defending itbelligerently—with words alone, of course—against the misguided terminology employed byall those ignorant people who described it realis-tically just as they actually saw it.

When winter came, and with it the ice, peopleused to complain about all the marsh weeds thatshot up from the ice and hindered their skatingand Mrs. Austein would remind them: "Well, no-body asked you to come skating here. If you don'tlike it, you can leave." But nobody ever did whowas the least bit interested in skating and knewteh country thereabouts; the river hadn't frozenover since the cold spell of '88. That left themone choice only; even with its weeds it had amonopoly on the whole county's skating, if onlyby default.

Then in summer when the rank odor of thestill, tepid water diffused through the surroundingsummer air and passers-by held their noses or ex-claimed, "Phew!", or both, Mrs. Austen wouldsay, "Nobody invited you. (You, as if you were aninferior sort.) And I'm sure nobody will care inthe slightest if you leave," and they always did,with haste.

That is, all except the small boys who made upthe countryside's league of budding young herp-tologists. They could be counted upon to be downat the lake every afternoon as long as it wasn'training, and then only because they knew that theywould find nothing even if they did come. Ifthere had been only the remotest chances of suc-cess in the rain, they would have been there, butthey had long since found out that if the animalswere around in the rain they sure didn't show it.But every sunny afternoon they would arrive withtheir faded blue overalls, bare feet, and homemadenest.

Mrs. Austen had decided long ago that sheliked these boys: they absolutely worshipped herlake. To them it was Nature's great fecund store-

house, where life abounded in such temptingforms as frogs, leeches, dragonfly larvae, turtlesand, best of all, an occasional water snake. To besure they stole from the lake with no thought ofreturning and she knew that whatever they caughtalmost invariably ended up by dying in some pailon some back port, but that didn't matter. Theyloved the lake so she loved them.

She had long since given up suggesting to theseyoung zoologists that they leave. At first she hadalways gotten a pang of joy wherever they madetheir invariable hesitant refusals, because she knewthat showed how much they wanted to stay. Butafter awhile she had seen the pointlessness of itand stopped. It was enough to see their joy as theystalked their prey. She would watch from her win-dow as she mended clothes for her grandchildrenin Cincinnati. Besides she had no wish to get asoricine reputation in their eyes.

One day the boys had brought her two copu-lating frogs and asked her what they were doing.She had not gotten shocked or angry. She had notdenounced them for their naughtiness. She hadnot even blinked an eye. She had lied to them.She had told them that they were playing cowboysand Indians, but the boys had not believed her.Their spokesman, the biggest one, had said,"That's not true. Anybody knows that frogs can'tthink." And they had gone away disappointed.It took two years before they trusted her again.

Now she was watching them out of her window.She watched them for awhile, but they caughtnothing. She was disappointed for them andlooked away, not really away, but not at them. Shelooked at her whole lake until their three figuresdiffused into nothingness and were hidden by thesun's bright glare off the water. She looked at thegeneral lines of the lake and discovered that ithad none. The water was so shallow and thesurrounding land so low that she could not tellwhere one became the other. She knew that theymust fuse somewhere but she could not see thatfusion. Only the effulgent reflection of the sunoff the water—there wasn't any from the land—could possibly serve to help her, but that madematters worse instead of better by blinding herwith its brightness and making everything seemlike it was water and then she sat back and clearedher head and went to sleep.

—George Shuster, '63

16

SIR de VALERANCE AND THE MAIDEN

From out the lonely hills he rides,Upon a snow white snake.For twenty years he's dwelt alone,A wife he's come to take.

Who is this strange unfearing rogue,All clad in nought but white ?White hat, white vest, white pants, white

boots;White snake; Who is this knight?

His name is Sir de Valerance,His face tells of his strife:For twenty years he's seen no soul,He hungers for a wife.

For twenty year the hellish hillsHave bound this man to stay.His demon God hath loosed him now,His soul is free to stray.

He's come upon a fair young lass.More beautiful is sheThan all the birds in all the world,The flowers, or the trees.

"Oh maiden fair, be not afraid,My charger doth not bite.And purity is all that's meantIn wearing of the white.

I fear my heart aches for thee;I need you by my side.Without you, I must live in Hell,Pray, come and be my bride."

"Sir knight, you know not what you ask,I cannot be your mate.Alas, my love for William Stone,In truth, 'tis far too great."

Sir Val doth plead upon his knee,And as he speaks, she viewsA shining light above his head,A crown of many hues.

Her legs are weak; her heart is struck;Her mind's beneath a spell,As if some god had changed her will,For now she loves him well.

"Oh handsome knight ,forgive my haste!Please, leave me not, I pray.My heart hath spake, I love thee well,I'll go with you this day."

"Oh foolish bitch, you love me not,Your heart doth falsely tell.I'll leave you now, return to God,And you shall go to Hell."

"Bold knight, I swear I love thee true!""You wench; You love me not!As I ride gaily through the hills,Your soul in Hell shall rot!"

He straightway spurs his charger off,Ful speed flies to the hills.The maiden kneeleth to the ground,And tears she freely spills.

Now she hath ta'en a pistol out,And aimed it at his head,And she hath closed here eyes and fired,And she hath shot him dead.

A puff of smoke, the snake is gone,His master still remains.He riseth slowly to the clouds,And sun-light from him rains.

"Oh mistress fair," the god-man speaks,"I now believe in you.You would not let me leave you here,Your love for me is true.

Fair maid, though you have killed me now,Our love can surely live,If you will only, by your will,Your pistol to me give."

Now she hath giv'n the gun to him,And with a sigh of dread,He slowly lifts it, aims it well,And shoots her through the head.

Then, swooping down, he bears her off,And carries her up high.Now evermore, both ride uponA white snake in the sky.

—Jon Smith, '65

17

IF CAESAR HADN'T GONE TO THE FORUM

The first rays of the dawn touched the tips ofthe Apennines far to the east of Rome, graduallyilluminated the fields lying in a checkerboard pat-tern around the city, and finally bathed the palacesof the lofty Palatine in their rosy glow. JuliusCaesar, first consul, opened one eye, yawned, andscratched his stomach. Years as a general hadinstilled in him the habit of rising at dawn, and,try as he might, he could not break the habit now.Next to him a large mound of disarrayed silksheets marked the spot where his wife Calpurnialay; from the rest of the house there was nosound. Caesar yawned once more, rolled over onhis other side and closed his eye. Seconds laterboth eyes jerked open and he sat up with a start."Marcus! Tullius!" he bellowed, "come here,dammit. MARCUS!!! TULLIUS!!!" The criesreverbrated through the peaceful house, sendingback echoes. A few minutes later two boysstumbled into the room, wiping the remnants ofsleep from their eyes.

"Sir? You called?"

"You're damn right I did," Caesar thundered(during his Anglo-Saxon campaign, Caesar hadgained an alarming fluency in four letter words)."Didn't I tell you to wake me at dawn? Todayis the fourth day before the Ides of March, andI have to meet Labienus at eight o'clock for histriumphal entry. If I hadn't waked up myself,we would have been late."

A sleepy voice came from beneath the sheetsnext to Caesar, "Please keep your voice down,Julius; you'll wake little Caius." The covers rus-tled once more and were silent.

"Yes, dear." Caesar spoke in a soothing voice.Then his tone changed. "The next time you twopull a stunt like this, it'll be the galleys for youboth. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's tardi-ness. Why, I remember once in Gaul, there wasa • •• But never mind that. Get me my togaand bring in breakfast."

By the time he had finished breakfast, Calpur-nia was ready. She never ate breakfast, said thatground wheat was fattening. They made their waythrough the house to the front entry, where thegold-plated chariot was waiting, and soon theywere clattering down Rome's streets. "Beautifulday," remarked Calpurnia, looking up at the deepblue Roman sky.

"Sure is," replied her husband, "just right for atriumphal entry."

The chariot took the next corner on one wheel,and Calpurnia shot a frightened look at thedriver as she grabbed for Caesar's arm. "Julius,do you have to get these ex-cavalry officers todrive your chariots?" she pleaded, "You knowhow chariot-sick I get." But Caesar did not hearher. His face was flushed, his toga flapping 'be-hind him, and his thoughts were of the hundredsof similar chariot rides he had made into battleswith the barbarians.

They turned on to the Via Magna, the mainstreet of Rome. Even at this early hour it wascrowded with all sorts of people: merchants,hurrying to get their business done before theunbearing midday heat set in, the common peopleon their way to their menial tasks, and rabble, farin the majority, who had spent the night on thesidewalks, and were now milling around, waitingfor the parade. When they caught sight of Caesar,an enthusiastic shout went up. He waved tothem, and threw out a few denarii, an actionwhich set off as many brawls as there were coins.Suddenly an old man in a white beard ran outto the chariot, looked up at Caesar with wild eyes,and cried in a high quavering voice, "Beware theIdes of March!" Immediately two burly body-guards jumped out of the chariot trailing Cae-sar's, grabbed the old man, and began to carryhim bodily back to the crowd. Caesar, howevermotioned them back.

"What was that you said?" he asked.

"Beware the Ides of March!" came the reply,and despite intense and even desperate interroga-tion by Caesar, no more would the old man say.With a hand that was visibly shaking, Caesarmotioned the man away.

"C-C-C-Cowards die m-m-m-many times beforetheir d-d-d-deaths;" he gasped in a tremblingvoice, "t-t-t-the valiant d-d-d-die but o-o-o-once."Then he fainted.

Calpurnia, level-headed as ever, cried in a voiceloud enough for all to hear, "Oh, it's that epi-lepsy again! I told him to take those herbs thismorning, but you know how stubborn a Caesaris." Then she ordered the driver to turn backand sent a messenger on to tell Labienus thatCaesar would not be able to make the parade.

When Caesar regained consciousness, he grad-ually realized that he was in his bedroom. He tooka large drink from the wineskin he always keptby his bed, then walked a little unsteadily into the

18

antrum and completely submerged his head in thepool there for a good minute and a half. Cal-purnia found him there, his head dripping wet."Julius, dry your head. You'll catch a cold likethat. You're going to kill yourself one of thesedays."

"Did you hear what he said, Calpurnia?" Cae-sar said, "He said, 'Beware the Ides of March!' "

"Of course I heard what he said," answeredCalpurnia. "I didn't have much choice. But youdon't believe that crackpot, do you?"

"I don't know," Caesar answered thoughtfully,"I remember once in Gaul there was a man, andhe —"

"I don't care what you remember," cut in hiswife, "right now, you are going to meet Labienus.The parade is half over, but you can catch someof it. It will make a good impression on therabble."

So Caesar joined the parade, riding next to thevictorious general Labienus. He seemed a bit wor-ried, but everyone knew that he had suffered anattack of epilepsy that morning, so no one thoughtanything was wrong. For the next three days,the first consul was not seen in public much. Theofficial story was that he was working on thespeech that he was to give in the Senate on theIdes.

But on the Ides of March, Rome was startledto see Caesar's trusted First Legion march up tohis palace, and form a cordon around it. The fewvisitors whom Caesar saw that day found Caesarin his bed with a sword beside him and a daggerat his waist. Otherwise Rome went on as normal.Caesar's good friend Brutus delivered Caesar'sspeech in the Senate, and everyone agreed that hehad delivered it better than Caesar ever couldhave. One man went around saying that he hadseen a statue of Caesar spouting blood, but hewas obviously drunk, so no one took him seriously.

No one knows exactly how it happened, as itwas hushed up pretty well, but according to thebest-informed sources, it happened like this: Byabout seven o'clock that evening, Caesar, whohadn't stirred from his bed all day, found thathe could no longer ignore one of the basic proc-esses of life. He called in ten select soldiers, andthey formed a rin'g around him as he marched tothe bathroom. On the white tile floor, the whitebar of soap that someone had carelessly dropped

was not very easily seen. Caesar stepped on it,and accidently fell on the dagger he was carrying.He died two hours later, despite the best medicalcare in Rome.

It was a splendid funeral, with all the pompand ceremony Rome could muster. Mark Anthonydelivered a brilliant funeral oration, and Cassius,another of Caesar's trusted lieutenants, wrote hisepitaph.

(translated from the original)

Here lies Caesar,A great man was he:Ivory soap not only floats,It's awful hard to see.

—Dennis Blair, '65

UNLESS

Swan-like the flowing quinquareme does pierce theocean's blue

And leaves a frothy angry mark to show that it'sbeen through.

No wind to heave the fluid deep, a glassy topinstead,

That splits to let the galley pass — forging straightahead.

The slender blades of cedar-wood, a dozen scoreand some

Dip in, then out with time-like beat as if con-trolled by one.

The ivory decks are polished bright, the ropes arestrong and bold,

Yet what's that ugly stench I smell from deepwithin the hold?

It is the sweat of screaming slaves, who live inshackled homes,

With filthy stagnant bread as food and lashes fortheir moans.

In battle these beasts have no escape, their criesdie deep within,

And caged they crouch in helpless fear, below thebloody din.

They spy a ship with gilded prow, aiming fortheir hull,

Too late to turn, it cleaves the oak, arms, legs,and skull.

A blood bath is the world, O Zeus! Though whitesurrounds the sides,

And men will kill to be the king, unless thyselfpresides.

—Steve Rutter, '64

19

SUMMER RAIN

Dusk, and it is humid outside. The air sticksto you when you walk along and seems to buildup on you 'til you even feel heavier. It is a littlehard to breathe deeply, and sweat beads up quicklyall over you ,and when you pass a street light,your arms are studded with the tiniest of rhine-stones. Your pants, just a bit too baggy, stick toyour legs a little, and the shuffling of your feeton the gravel is muffled, the air is so thick. Thereis sweat over your upper lip and you wipe it away,

Serturbed because you do it every two minuteske clockwork. You don't want to kneel down

because if you did, you might be stuck there,squating, your thigh and calf stuck together withsweat. And every once in a long while, the hotwind — almost dead of fever — gasps feebly inyour face and makes you want to sit and drinksomething cold in some place cool. The heavy airweighs on you and you have to sit down. Some-times a cricket chirps, but he doesn't really meanit. Heat lightning flashes quiet as cotton; you

turn your head to look, but it is gone before youreyes get there. It is gone, but it has jabbed somemore moisture down onto you. You sit down,wipe that damned sweat off your lip again. Andthen it happens.

A drop of rain cuts through the heavy air, slapsyou playfully on the back of the neck and runsdown your spin. Caught unawares, you jump alittle. It cuts through the sweat on your back andleaves a tiny trail of freshness. Then another fallson your arm, washing away some rhinestones andsmoothing down your hair. Another falls, andanother, slapping you awake, tickling down yourback and chest. More lightning, then the greatsnap and crack of thunder. And the rain cutsthrough the early night, chopping away the hu-midity. There is new wind, fresh, and like ayoung imp it whips your collar against yourcheek. There is rain, now wind; the nightawakens.

—Al Crichton, '63

POEM: AThe agony of the brain, a purpled tomb,Frustrated by the moss and rain,But oh how they call, in the dry hay fields,For cloud bursts and fall.They told me I was younger than beautiful liliesYearly grown in the pond,And of course I could not say them no,Though my tomb had a name on itAnd a hundred years.They inculcated me with lessons of the rain,In the cracks of the moss;They made my mind believe it was not yet dead,A hundred years.My bony fingers reached out of the cracksWaving to a girl passing in the rain.

DEFINITIONSDeafnessThe sound of a raindrop on a windowpane as itfights its way through the particles of dirt to thewindow sill below.

FascinationA small boy watching two drops of rain racedown the windowpane.

DisappointmentA small boy feels the first drops of rain and runsinto the house hoping to see the raindrops strug-gle down the dirty window, but finds that some-one had washed the windows that morning.

—John' Gibbs, '65

POEM: BDirections inscribed on fixed metal casingsHarboring inside the Unborn Sex and dividingRevealing its contents in all splendor and sexAnd believing them one and the sameWe all jumped into the frozen icy riverAnd chilled ourselves immenselyBut laughed and shriveled and laughedAs we shriveled and became encased.

—George W. Shuster, '63

GRANDEURTemples of the modern age,Great bins of worshiped capital,High columns ornated roman,Great doors revolving in and out,Skyward ceilings, highways of counters,Massive vaults, tellers automaton,And me —Clutching a five dollar bill. . .

—John R. Schoonover, '63

20

"I Could Not Help It, Yet It Was My Fault"—Mr. R. A. Moss, for discussion

This statement is ridiculous. From a logicalviewpoint only, it is pathetic. From a practicalviewpoint, it is impossible. From a theologicalviewpoint, God is a sadist.

The God who created me did not put me onthe earth as a sadistic joke, as a person who can-not help sinning because of the way he is made,yet takes all the blame. That is because the Godwho made me did not also create an Abstractioncalled Absolute Sin. This fact makes it possiblefor me to sin in a Relative sense, which is a muchbetter way to do it. I can now strive up the lad-der of Relative Sin, getting better at times, butnever falling back into the horrid pit of AbsoluteSin.

The God who made Bertrand Russell was for-tunately also not a sadist. As Mr. Russell himselfsays: "Perhaps at this point, the reader will ex-pect a definition of sin. This, however, offers nodifficulty: sin is what is disliked by those whocontrol education." In other words, there is noAbsolute Sin. In fact, sin is just an idea that theeducators conjure up out of their list of chief dis-likes. Sin changes from age to age, from cultureto culture, just as skin does or language does. AsAdmiral Burke pointed out to the school just theother night in his platitudinous oration, we areeven now opposed to a culture whose definition ofsin is radically different from our own.

The same idea of Relative Sin is employed byD. H. Lawrence in his famous monograph onpornography and obscenity. He reminds us ofthe obvious fact that obscenity is completely rela-tive.

. . . the word "obscene": nobody knowswhat it means. . . What is obscene to Tomis not obscene to Lucy or Joe, and really, themeaning of the word has to wait for themajorities to decide it. If a play shocks tenpeople in an audience, and doesn't shock theremaining five hundred, then it is obscene toten and innocuous to five hundred; hence,the play is not obscene, by majority. ButHamlet shocked all the Cromwellian Puritans, and shocks nobody today, and some ofAristophanes shocks everybody today, anddidn't galvanize the later Greeks at all, ap-parently. . .

Therefore, what D. H. Lawrence writes is notnecessarily pornography on one man's say so. Tothousands of others it may be true art.

Now over-pious Christians who do not thinktwice are quick to leap with claws out-stretchedon any and all who accept the doctrine of Rela-tive Sin in favor of the old stand-by imaginaryAbsolute Sin. "Where are your morals?" theyscream. "Suppose everybody thought the way youdid? Everything would be anarchy!" But even ifthere would be anarchy (which there wouldn't),correct anarchy is better than perverted order.What the Absolutists fail to see is 1) the greatfallacy, the unresolvable paradox in their argu-ment which perverts even the idea of God and2) that the Relativist has a moral code, one thatis, in fact, many times superior to their own, beingbuilt on a true premise: that sin is relative.

Is truth then also relative? Absolutely not. Itis on this one point that Relativists are beingmisinterpreted. Truth is black and white, withno gray between. But there is no need to pervertthe doctrine by claiming that sin also is blackand white, mainly because it isn't.

But are you still not advocating sin indirectlyby saying that a man cannot be guilty of sin?Not at all. That is completely missing the point.Sin is governed by the majority — what is bestfor it. If a man sins before the majority, thenhe has obviously sinned before the majority. It isthe role of man to seek out his own ideas of sinso that he may constructively add to the majorityopinion. It is not his duty to be led blindly downthe preverted paths of Absolutism.

One last thought — almost a contradiction ex-cept that it has already been explained — the onlysin is the unwillingness to accept truth. Failureto accept the existence of God is thus a sin. "Youshall love the Lord your God." The second greatcommandment does not come under this category— its neglect is the greatest of the majority-determined sins. But the failure to recognize theRelative nature of sin does. Absolutists are sin-ners and their God is a sadist. The God I wor-ship is constructive, not destructive a priori. I am,in short, not a schizophrenic combination of thetwo extremes of complete guilt and complete in-nocence, but a normal man moving up and downthe relative ladder, sometimes guilty and some-times not. And luckily my Judge is not a sadist.

—George Shuster, '63

21

BLUES

"Just like every other damn room in everyother damn prep school in the country," Joemuttered bitterly under his breath, while he sethis bags down in the middle of the floor. Hehated to have to return to this room at the endof every vacation. It always seemed to acquire astrange emptiness, as if no one had lived in itfor years. Yet he knew he'd been here only twoweeks ago. He hadn't even left; it was just adream, he'd been' here all the time. But he stillfelt uneasy. He was in the wrong room, thiswasn't his room. Everything was too clean, tooneat, too bare. He felt like he was in one ofthose stories in which the hero boards the driftingship, and finds it crewless, but with everythingin orderly readiness. Bunks made, the messtableset for supper, and so forth. It was an inhumanfeeling. But it was his room, and he shiveredfrom its seeming coldness. "Well," he said tohimself, mentally trying to change the subject,"This is probably the cleanest it'll be all term."Suddenly, the fatigue of the tiresome trip backovertook him, and he lay down, sighing, on hisbed. "It's great to be back," he commented sar-castically to the ceiling. Surprisingly, he foundthat he couldn't sleep. His body was tired, all-right, but his mind was bored and restless. Heopened his eyes and stared back defiantly at thegrotesque tribal masks which leered at him withunblinking wideeyedness from the Mexican travelposter over the foot of his bed. Uncomfortableunder their fiendish eyes, he turned to the otherposters on the walls. Denmark. The kings of thelast thousand years paraded around the border ofthe poster. France. The serenity of a peacefulport, complete with white hotels, beaches to match,and fishing boats stuck securely to the placid waterof the harbor. He glanced for the millionth timeat the assortment of sport car pictures huddledaround the posters. He knew the performance

specifications of every one of the cars. "Fatchance," he told himself in answer to the thoughtof ever owning one of them. He put it out ofhis mind by counting the sixteen college pennantswhich were displayed all over the walls in theapproved prep school fashion. Navy, Duke,Brown, Rutgers, Cornell. . . . Cornell. . . . Hewodered if he should've applied to Cornell. "Todamn late now," he consoled himself. He turnedover onto his stomach, and examined his dresser.Functional. Utilitarian. Multiple rectangularmouths, open, empty, gaping. Their emptinesswas sad, almost tragic, he reflected. He'd had topack in a hurry, he remembered, and had left thedrawers in this cruel state of extension. Twodesks, tops marred only by occasional knifewounds and rows of books of all races and creeds.Two beds, made up stiffly, the U.S. Army blanketsat attention. "That won't last long," he laughed.He never bothered to make up his bed. After all,he had to sleep in it every night anyway, so whybother? Bored with the unimaginative furniture,Joe had just started to reflect on the tire treadpattern of the inlaid wood floor, when the doorexploded inward, followed by a grinning JuggerLewis. "Jugger" from "Jug," for his former ro-tundness "You ol' bastard!," Jugger yelled glee-fully, "Did you slay 'em over vacation?"

"You're damn right," Joe yelled back, as heseemed to gain new life. "Just wait'll I tell ya!"

"Well come on, then," answered Jug, "Let'sgo in my room and you can tell me the whole juicystory while I unpack."

"Gotcha yourself a deal," Joe said, leaping fromhis bed, which emitted a creaking sigh of relief.Jugger and Joe walked out, slamming the door,and leaving Joe's bags cowering in the middle ofthe floor.

—Frank Pringle, 63

THE PEDDLERSAnd so around go the failures in societyPeddling failures to the crowdAnd singing, "Here! Here! I am a spastic selling

failures!Come and buy! Come and buy!"And in surges the crowd and buys one,And then, trampling it underfoot,Roars out that it has succeeded.

—George W. Shuster, '63

THE LADDERThe loft wasReached only by the ladderOn the west wall.Two lovers tumbledIn the straw while theFarmer climbed the ladder.God watched.The ladder fell

—George P. Cole, '65

22

LURE OF THE SWAMPThe mud-crusted jeep, long since past the re-

tirement age, chugged over the old, beaten-downroad, which was muddy and slick from the previ-ous rain, until it gave a tired whee2e and stoppedat one of the many clearings of Tupelo swamp,known as one of the finest deer hunting swampsin upper-state South Carolina. When I pulledmyself out of old Jenny, as the jeep was fondlycalled, I could see the darkies, bustling all around,under the commands of several campers, settingup as best they could the site of the night's camp-out.

Soon, the mad scurrying came to an end as thequietness of night fell upon the camp. The smellof cornbread and the singing of the darkies madethe camp holy in its own way. Over in the biggesttent the men, each with his bottle and money, hadset the midnight oils burning for the traditionalpoker game. Newt and his brother Ank Boykin,each a character in his own way, were bothjust as ardent hunters as they were card playersand had challenged Caleb Whitaker, a tall manwith rough beard and a hard-set jaw, and BuddyBeard, a loud-mouthed card-shark, to an eveningof five-card stud.

They had hardly begun when Suzzette, a fineglossy black labrador, who was chained to a treenearby the tent, seemed anxious for some excite-ment and was hardly ready for sleep. With afiery tug she broke her chain and went boundinginto the tent, turning the card table money overbourbon on to the ground and knocking Ankfrom his chair into a puddle of spilled whiskey.

"Good Gawd all mighty, what the hell's thematter with that damned dawg?" he angrily ex-claimed while throwing an overturned glass at thehound, who had by now taken the hint and fled,terrified at Ank's anger.

Within an hour, the tumult had ceased andeveryone had dispersed to his own tent to get agood rest for the approaching morning hunt.

Just at the moment when everyone had barelygone to sleep, a stray cur howled in' defiance tothe full November moon. In a second the wholepack of deer hounds in the camp raised havoc,tearing at their cages, howling at the top of theirlungs, nipping at each other in vain attempts tochase the cur. The darkies were whooping andhollering in order to quiet the dogs, but onlyExhaustion herself was able to put the camp backto sleep.

When the first rays of dawn came down onthe camp, the loud voice of Buddy, calling forone last cup of coffee, echoed throughout theswamp. Spaniard, a likeable old nigger of goodnature, who knew Tupelo swamp like the back ofhis hand, was preparing the pack.

The next thing I knew, we were trudging ourown path through the swamp in search of suitablestands for the hunt. Within fifteen minutes, eachof us was on his separate stand.

The frostiness of the early morning air mixedwith suspense of waiting for the game made myblood tingle. Suddenly, I heard Spaniard's chill-ing cry as he set the eager pack out. I lost trackof the yelping and howling of the hounds for along while. Then I heard them once again, theirvoices growing louder each second as they ap-proached my stand. My heart stopped beating;my ears were pounding. All I could think of wasthat the hounds had something and they werecoming my way. Louder and louder, closer andcloser came the pursuing pack. Then, withoutwarning came a crashing sound in the bushes tomy left. I wheeled around to see a fourteen-pointbuck, his coat grey with age, come boundingthrough the underbrush. So intent was he on los-ing the pack and so scared for his life was he,that in his wild-eyed frenzy and dodging eager-ness, he failed to see me raise my gun, and Idoubt that he even felt the impact of my twoshots as he lay dead on the leaves before me, hislife blood pouring out from his lifeless corpse.

—Steve Mills, '65

LET US SINGPRAISES UNTO THE LORD

Monday night we had just finished dinner andwere standing around the head of the stairs whenthe familiar cry of "Awright, you guys, go tochapel," rang along the corridors. We grudginglyentered the chapel and immediately noticed some-thing strange. The commemoratory plaques onthe walls had been changed—they were now dedi-cated to Bach, Chopin, Tschaikovsky, and Satchmo.The altar was graced with a bright new orangefrontal, which was covered with alternating pic-tures of a cross and an organ. A fine border ofhalf-notes ran around the edge of this decoration.Overhead, on the ceiling, a scroll had been hungwhich read, "Let us sing praises unto the Lordour God — loudly." A few non-commital mur-murs were heard from the people who beheld thissight. "Looks like we're getting congregationalagain, tonight," a boy muttered.

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A soft prelude was played. The acolyte lit thecandles and bowed reverently. The monitors tookattendance. Finally, Mr. Mar, in his layman'srobes, appeared, followed by Mr. Reklaw, in achoir gown, Beethoven sweatshirt, and mortar-board hat, carrying a baton and a strange littleelectric circuit-breaker, which he placed reverentlyon the altar. Mr. Mar spoke. "Boys, tonight wewill stress one of our weak points as devout Chris-tians— our singing." The congregation stirred."I will now ask Mr. Reklaw to take over andhelp you as a whole with some of your weak-nesses. Mr. Reklaw. . . " A round of applausefollowed, during which our musical directorbowed politely.

"Well now, boys, I have chosen some hymnsand canticles that seem to have given you sometrouble lately," said Mr. Reklaw. "Hymn num-ber 642 is one of the worst. I'm sure that thisis a familiar canticle to you all — 'Let Us SingPraises Unto The Lord Our God.' Well, we havedecided that this is extremely important to usChristians, so we will use it as our main hymnfrom now on. Sing away!" Thus followed theworst rendition of a canticle that I have everheard. Everyone, it seemed, was trying to harmo-nize, and in doing so, fell way behind.

"Stop!" screamed Mr. Reklaw. "For the loveof Bach (at this, he crossed himself), this is not'Lag along with Larry,' this is 'Swing along withSweetwater." Now you, Smith, you missed thathalf-note. Let's do it again." Well, after six at-tempts, we made it, but poor Smith was thrownout of chapel for missing that half-note again."And don't ever come back if you can't do anybetter," shouted the irate Mr. Reklaw. "Go joinsome other religion. We don't want you, youblasphemer!" To Mr. Reklaw, this was not justany note, this was the Note Supreme. And thoseformattas, Mama Mia! After our canticle, we pro-ceeded through the hymn book, and people werethrown out of the House of Music right and left.Fortunately, I stayed in, as I had enough moneyto buy an indulgence (a copy of 'Time Out' byDave Brubeck.)

Finally, after we had gone through all thehymns, memorized the canticles, and set thePsaltery to music (% time), we stopped. Mr.

Reklaw took his strange little circuit-breaker fromthe altar, and said, "Well boys, as a reward forworshipping so devoutly for the past hour anda half, we'll have a friendly game of musicalpews. All boys who don't get a seat will receivea consolation prize. Jay, will you begin?" Theorganist played a lively little melody, and we alldanced happily around our pews like the mice inthe Pied Piper. Suddenly, Mr. Reklaw hit theswitch, and the organ went off with a moaningsigh. Bedlaw broke loose. There was a madscramble for the pews, and some of us made itto our seats. The choir had the hardest time ofall in the gowns. Soon, however, all the seatswere occupied. Those who had not gained a pewstood around gasping and fidgeting nervously.Mr. Reklaw stood for a moment, looking at thisscene. Finally, he spoke in a solemn tone —"Well, I'm sorry, boys, but those of you whodidn't make it to their seats don't seem to showa proper amount of enthusiasm for Christianity.You're excommunicated!" And with this, heclosed his hymn 'book.

—Steve Ockenden, '64

LIMBOThe sick manLived.The well manDied.The wall slithered acrossThe countryside

—George P. Cole, '65

SPIRALBy and by Salla reachedTiegra.It was the dry season andTears would not come for theAshes of her loved one whoLay beneathTiegra'sSoil.By and by Salla leftTiegra.

—George P. Cole, '65

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