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THE WESLEYAN 

Ad Astra per Aspera 

WESLEYAN COLLEGE 

MACON. GEORGIA 

Volume XXXVI 

DECEMBER 

193 1 


STAFF 

Editor-in-Chief Dixie Jones 

Business Manager .... Frances Eleazer 
Senior Associate Editor . Kathryn Silknitter 

Junior Associate Editor Ida Young 

Senior Literary Editor . . . Frances Zachery 

Junior Literary Editor .... Betty Hunt 

Sophomore Literary Editor . . Martha Oattis 

Freshman Literary Editor . . Lucy Fulghum 

Artist Carolyn Lawton 

Associate Business Manager . Charmian Stuart 
Advertising Manager .... Louise Pittman 
Associate Advertising Manager . Sara Hammock 

Alumnae Editor Helen Flanders 

Exchange Editor Frances Justi 

Feature Editor Hazel Austin 

Circulation Manager . . Marguerite Rhodes 


The Wesleyan is Published Monthly by the Stu- 
dents at Wesleyan College. Subscription 
Price, One Dollar a Semester. Single 
Copy, Thirty-five Cents. 

Entered as second-class matter at 
the post office at Macon , Georgia 


Prize Two 


T h e Wesleyan- 


Among the Contributors 


The Christmas season has come, and The Wesleyan staff wishes 
all its readers a merry time as they travel to their homes with this 
little sprig of mistletoe for a token. And as you scan our little rhymes 
and stories, sitting perhaps by an open fire in the presence of your 
dearest friends, may these pages add the last touch of cheer. 

Miss Carolyn Lawton, who has joined the staff as artist, is 
responsible for the added decoration of the cover and the illustrations 
of some of the stories. Miss Lawton was cartoonist for The Watch- 
tower last year, and her talent for drawing is well known to most 
of our readers. 


Another new member of the staff whom we welcome at this time 
is Miss Lucy hulghum, freshman literary editor, who has contributed 
a sonnet for the mistletoe number. 


Without the aid of Miss Frances Eleazer, who came to our 
rescue upon the resignation of Miss Kathryn Lynch as business 
manager, we could hardly have continued publication. We welcome 
Miss Eleazer as executive of the business affairs of the magazine. 


^ Of the contributors not on the staff we would mention Miss 
Roberta Cason, whose poetry we have carried before. This time 
wee cr her story, Out of the Dark, which is based upon an his- 
torical event of colonial setting. In Lavender Miss Harriet Camp- 
ell and Miss Modena McPherson offer us some of their delightful 

{ r Ct ! Y \ Hai,c >' in the Bookshelf gives us a review of 

Corley a The Fifth Son of the Shoe Maker in a style that is akin to 
tha of the author himself. Miss Tsoo Yi Zia in the essay, In 
Defense of Chma, affords us some idea of what the native of China 
experiences from the reports of the Japanese invasion of Manchuria. 


The Wesleyan 


Page Three 



oMystic plants 
Ever green and whites 
Clinging parasites , 

Kjller of ^Balder, 

‘■fihe Qod of the summer 
yet bringer of cheer 
our Christian year. 
<Jndulgei of youth 
‘Disdainful of ruth, 

© tender greeru 
(Mistletoes 


Page Four 


The Wesleyan 


Christmas 


The wagons from out dim cold woods 
lime brought Christmas to me. 

Swiftly it came with the pungent smell 
Of a soft bruised cedar tree, 

A window and a holly wreath, 

Red berries, satin bow; 

A tall green candle lighted there 
Gleaming 'cross the snow. 

Perhaps, inside a little child 
IV ill scurry off to bed, 

A stocking hung at the mantlepiece. 

The soft coals glowing red. 

The tangled mass of bamboo vines, 

T he sprigs of mistletoe. 

The wagons move on through the dusk — 
Creaking as they go. 

And the wagons from out dim cold woods 
Have brought Christmas to me; 

They've left it with the pungent smell 
Of a soft bruised cedar tree. 


The Wesleyan 


Page Five 


Christmas Sacrifice 


By Ida Young 



v . . .... * 


r OU do it, 
(illy; I 
just can't. 
Please, you 
do it ’cause 
yo 

biggest 1 


can't neither. 

You do it. 

You don’t love her 
like I do.” 

Two great tears 
welled up in the eyes of the older boy, 
and he wiped at them furtively with his 
sleeve. The younger child, called Puggy, 
stood looking at the ground. Out of the 
comer of his eye he looked up at his 
brother, and his set lips began to quiv- 
er pitiably. 

“I’ve wrung a heap of chicken necks, 
Puggy, but I can’t go this’n. This old 
chicken’s been with us most as long as I 
can remember.” 

“Naw, and it aint right to 
neither,” broke in Puggy. 
wouldn't want us to do it if 
here — even if it is Christmas.” 

“Puggy, we got to do it. Mr. Jack 
and Miss Kate got to have a Christmas 
present, and Speckle is the only thing 
we got of our very own. Why, they 
helped to get Mama sent off so she could 
get well, and they even found us this 
place to stay while she wasn’t here.” 

Puggy shook his short curls back from 
bis face. The toe of his heavy shoe 
twisted restlessly in the dirt, and he 
pulled at his blouse. 

“Well, I aint going to kill her, and I 
don’t care neither. Wish Mama was 
here anyhow,” he said as the tears 
trembled on his lashes, and he wrinkled 
his nose to make them fall. 

Billy seemed to grow taller as he put 
bis arm around his brother’s shoulders. 
“Now, Puggy, don't you cry. We’ll just 






take Speckle along 
in a box and let 
Lou kill her after 
we leave 
her.” 

Puggy sat 
down in the 
dirt cross- 
legged with 
the old domi- 
necker hen in his 
arms. Silently he 
brushed down the 


kill her, 
“Mama 
she was 


hen’s feathers while Billy went after a 
box to put her in. Carefully he lifted 
her into the shoebox and punched holes 
around the sides of it. 

“Puggy, be sure and punch holes 
enough so she can breathe. I’m going 
in the house to get some bread crumbs 
for her, and I’ll ask Miss 'Liza if we can 
go out to Miss Kate’s. I’ll be back in a 
few minutes.” 

Billy gained permission to go, and the 
children started out to the edge of the 
small town where Jack and Kate Strong 
lived on a farm. Plodding along silent- 
ly, the children at last came to the home 
of their friends. They turned into the 
lane that led up by the side of the house. 
Puggy looked up at Billy sadly. Billy, 
steadily avoiding his eyes, was examin- 
ing the hedge closely. Then he glanced 
down at Puggy sideways. 

“Puggy, I don’t want to see Miss Kate 
or Mr. Jack today. Let’s just write our 
names on the box and leave Speckle on 
the back steps.” 

“Billy, let me take just one more look 
at her before we leave her,” pleaded the 
younger child as he hugged the box 
tightly to his breast. 

“All right, but don’t look too long, 
’cause it’s best to get this thing over in 
a hurry now. You look at her while I 
write our names on the box.” 

Reaching into his pocket Billy drew 


Page Six 


The Wesleyan 


out a stub of a pencil. Very seriously 
he licked the point. Then, stopping to 
rest the box top on his knees he wrote 
laboriously. 

“Will this do, Puggy? I said ‘Merry 
Christmas from your friends, Puggy and 
Billy/ I put your name first 'cause 
you're the littlest.” 

Solemnly, as if it were a sort of rite, 
they put the top back on the box, se- 
curing it with a piece of dirty string 
from Billy's pocket. It had not entered 
their minds to submit Speckle to the in- 
dignity of having her legs tied, and they 
were fearful of her attempts to get 
away. They went up to the corner of 
the backyard where they could see the 
steps. Puggy was carrying the box. 
Suddenly he bent over and put his mouth 
close to it. 

“Good-bye, Speckle," he said solemnly 
and gave the box to Billy. 

Billy took the box gently in his two 
small hands and ran to the steps where 
he deposited it easily. Slowly he backed 
away to where Puggy stood. For a min- 
ute both children stood silent looking at 
the box in which they were leaving the 
one thing which in their new life abso- 
lutely belonged to them. Puggy winked 
hard. Then he looked at Billy. Very 
slowly the two little boys reached up 
grimy fists to wipe tears from their 
eyes; then clasping hands they ran down 
the lane and to the road. 

Lou, the negro cook who had been 
with the Strongs for many years, had 
seen the children as they came up the 
lane. Quietly she had watched Billy 
leave the box; from her kitchen window 
she had watched the tearful departure. 
Now she went out on the steps, and as 
she stooped to pick up the box, a loud 
cackle made her almost drop it. Then 
she saw it all, and she wiped her eyes 
with the corner of her aprort as she went 
to tell Miss Kate of the children's gift. 

Jack, I think we made a mistake in 
sending Billy and Puggy i n town to 
stay," said Kate Strong as they sat at 
dinner that day. “The Roberts feed 
them and give them clothes to wear, 


but those children are missing their 
mother too much. They aren't getting 
love." 

“Oh Kate, you're getting sentimental. 
Of course, Jim and Eliza Roberts are 
not the kind to baby those kids, but 
they're good to them. It is too bad that 
their mother had to get tuberculosis, but 
they say she'll soon be well, and the 
family'll be together again. It’s not as 
if they .were going to be there always.’’ 

“Just the same Jack, I believe you 
made a mistake in not letting me keep 
them as I wanted to. They would’nt 
have been any trouble. Besides I am 
strong enough for anything now. Those 
children are crazy about you, and they 
need me to mother them." 

Then she told him of the gift they had 
brought in the morning. 

“And Jack, that means a lot to them. 
It's almost like giving up a part of 
themselves. That chicken was all they 
had left of their life out here with their 
mother.” 

Jack laughed — an unusually hearty 
laugh it was — and then he was quiet a 
moment. 

“Perhaps, you're right, Kate. I guess 
things haven't been any too easy for 
them lately. I’d have let you have your 
way in the beginning, only I didn't think 
you were strong enough to stand it." 

Again he was silent for a while; then 
he turned to her and said, “Let's have 
them out here for Christmas — a real 
one. PH bet Jim Roberts would be glad 
to have them off his hands for that. He 
and his wife don't believe in all this 
Christmas fixing. He said so to me 
once.” 

So it was that when Billy and Puggy 
started to bed that night after having 
been carefully bathed, they were told 
that they were to go to the Strongs' for 
Christmas. After Mrs. Roberts had 
turned out the light, the children lay in 
bed talking softly. 

“Billy, I-I don't think I just want to 
go out there. I most wish Christmas 
was over.” 

“Now Puggy, don't you worry. You're 
soing to have a good time this Christ- 


The Wesleyan 


Page Seven 


mas. Just think: Mama’s up yonder 
getting well, we’ve got a nice home to 
stay in while she’s away, and we’re go- 
ing to Mr. Jack’s for Christmas. You 
know that’s better than being here, even 
if they are good to us. Christmas is a 
time for loving people, and there aren’t 
any better people in this world to love 
than Mr. Jack and Miss Kate — less it is 
Mama, and course, she loves us and we 
love her every single minute.” 

“I know, Billy, but if we go out there, 
we may have to — may have to eat 
Speckle. I just couldn’t do that; it 
would just choke me,” 

The younger child’s voice had risen to 
a shrill wail of despair. From down- 
stairs came the voice of Mrs. Roberts 
telling them to “quiet right down and go 
to sleep or you shan’t go one step to- 
morrow.” 

Puggy turned to the wall, and Billy 
threw a protecting arms around his neck 
whispering softly, “Anyway, don’t you 
worry, Puggy, I’ll look after that.” 

Early Christmas Eve morning Jack 
Strong came for the two children. He 
explained that they were to go with him 
for a tree and vines for the house while 
Miss Kate went shopping. The boys 
were unusually quiet on the way out; 
the chill tang of the air seemed to have 
taken away their breath. Puggy went 
on an exploration tour as soon as he 
could get into the back yard, and in a 
few minutes he confided to Billy in a dis- 
tressed whisper that he couldn’t find a 
single trace of Speckle. 

Trudging along through the woods be- 
hind Jack Strong, who took such long 
steps, kept them from talking for a 
while, and then there were saplings to 
be climbed for mistletoe and bamboo. 
When Miss Kate came home from town 
she brought some things that she said 
they were to send to their mother by a 
man who was going up there for Christ- 
mas. They prepared a lovely box for her, 
and each child wrote a note to slip into 
the present that he sent. Mr. Jack and 
Miss Kate added theirs, and the whole 


big box had to be tied with red tissue 
and gay green ribbon. 

Still there was something lacking in 
the happiness of the children, and Kate 
worried over it as she helped Jack deco- 
rate the tree and fill the stockings after 
the children had gone to bed. Jack was 
trying to put a very complex airplane 
together, and he was paying little atten- 
tion to what she was saying. 

“Why, I don’t believe they even know 
how to be happy. They’re like little old 
men. I do hope these things will wake 
them up. And I’ll tell you one thing 
right now, Jack Strong. Those children 
are not going back to Jim Roberts to 
stay. They’re going to stay right here 
with me. Maybe they will be happier 
tomorrow. Perhaps, they were just 
tired out today.” 

Jack only answered her a rather ab- 
sent-minded “All right,” but Lou, who 
was brushing around in the dining room 
shot a glance at Kate Strong and smiled 
slyly. She knew the ways of children. 
Didn’t she have eight of her own? 

The boys were awake early the next 
morning, and there were a thousand 
things to be seen and examined. Never 
had the children known such a Christ- 
mas — so many presents. Why they had 
everything they had thought of from 
books to building sets, and there were 
even sparklers to light in the grey chill 
of the early morning. Sparklers that 
Jack could throw up into the cedar tree 
where they hung like twinkling stars. 

Yet during the day, Jack thought 
more than once of what Kate had said 
the night before. He wondered how 
boys could have grown so timid and so 
quiet in such a short time. Only occa- 
sionally did they break into the real 
spirit of boys, and that was when he 
played football with them on the front 
grass before dinner. 

As dinner time came closer, the chil- 
dren grew even quieter, and Jack won- 
dered if they had eaten too much al- 
ready. No, that couldn’t be the cause, 
for Kate had seen to it that the supply 
of candy was limited. Somehow he was 


Edge Eight 


The Wesleyan 


strangely ill at ease with them; they 
were so thoughtful and so weighed down 
with the cares of the world. 

Finally, though, Lou had placed the 
last dish upon the table and the group 
went in to dinner. Puggy shot a furtive 
glance at Billy who kept his eyes glued 
to the floor. Jack served the children's 
plates, and he watched them as they 
began to eat. They did not really eat; 
they simply toyed with their food in a 
manner that was entirely foreign to 
Jack with all his knowledge of small 
boy appetites. Even Kate was begin- 
ning to notice that they were not eating. 
She reached over to feel Puggy’s hand 
that rested listlessly upon the edge of 
the table, but it was not feverish. Could 
they be thinking of their mother — that 
was not like small boys, but maybe 
that was the trouble. Anxiously she 
looked from one small lad to the other 
then at Jack. She was not eating and 
neither was he. 

Billy looked up rather startled, and 
began hurriedly to force down a bit of 
potato salad. He looked at Puggy. 

Finally Jack could stand it no longer. 
He spoke to the children urging them to 
eat, begging them to try some meat. 
Oh, he must have said the wrong thing, 


for as he said meat, Puggy looked at 
Billy and two great tears welled up in 
his blue eyes and rolled down his cheeks. 
Perhaps it would be better just to ignore 
them; he signaled his thoughts to Kate, 
and they began to eat. Food choked 
them, and they kept stealing side glances 
at the children. Billy was making a 
pretense at eating his salad, but Puggy 
just sat there staring into space. The 
meal lasted an interminable length. 
Finally, though, it was time for Lou to 
bring the mince pie. 

She came from the kitchen, her black 
face beaming beneath the great white 
cap that she wore. In one hand she car- 
ried the pie, and in the other she bore a 
large hat box. Without a word she gave 
it to Billy, and stood back to watch him 
untie the string. Carefully he lifted the 
lid and with an astonished cackle 
Speckle jumped out into Puggy’s hands 
and settled quietly. Billy gave a wild 
whoop of joy and seized Puggy and 
Speckle both in his arms. 

Lou turned to Jack Strong. 

“They was choking over that chicken. 
Mars© Jack, but you just let ’em start 
again. I'll betcher they kin clean up 
now,” she said with a sage grin. 


EST-CE QU’IL FAUT? 

O wind, which causes snowy clouds to 
drift across blue summer skies. 

E’en you, sometimes in your path crush 
homes and lives. 

O Rain, which causes lovely flowers to 
spring up from dry cold land, 

E en you, sometimes bring sorrow by 
your merciless hand. 

O, God, of wind and rain 
Of happiness and pain, 

Must there always be a balance of 
storms and flowers? 

Frances Zachry. 


TRANSFORMATION 

The mist on the lake 
Lifts its pale, gauzy Angers 
To the stars 

In adoration — supplication — 

But the stars are haughty 
In their elevation, 

^d metallic 
In their lumination. 

They bear themselves away at dawn’s 
approach 
Leaving the mist 
Damp and white 

In the starkness of morning’s light. 

— Modena McPherson. 


The Wesleyan 


Pate Nine 


Sprig of Green 


Just a little sprig of green leaves surrounding 
clusters of white berries which someone christened 
“ mistletoe " many years ago. Only that and nothing 
more , but think of the great part it plays in the life 
of almost everyone. 

Old or young , rich or poor — mistletoe has the 
same peculiar fascination for all. 

A youngster will trudge diligently through the 
woods searching for the plant. His little feet may 
feel like two crusty icebergs , his nose may be as red 
as a fresh strawberry— but he is unmindful. 

How his eyes sparkle as he spies a bit of the mis- 
tletoe hanging enticingly from a high bough! 

And it seems to be a law of nature that the jrret- 
tiest cluster of mistletoe must always dangle from 
the highest liynb. Not only must it be on the highest 
limb but it must be also on the tip-most edge of the 
branch. 

Even though his arms are crammed and over- 
flowing with the green plant and its white berries , 
the youngster usually hesitates before every tree 
laden with the plant. 

Then when he finally reaches home with his 
precious burden , it seeyns to be somewhat of a prob- 
lem as to just why his older sister grabs the sprigs 
of ynistletoe out of his arms and hangs it over the 
door. 

To the young girls and boys t mistletoe means ro- 
maytee , gaiety, adventure! They forget that it is a 
plant ayid a somewhat coynnwn place plant at that. 

Shy girls open their eyes with shocked atnaze- 
ment at the very thought of pausing for a ynoynent 
under some mistletoe hanging ynost innocently from 
a doorway. But nevertheless they seem to make a 
number of trips under that particular doorway. 

Older people smile reminiscently at the ynention 
of the word , 'mistletoe." At the very sight of it, 
memories of the long ago come sweeping back over 
the years. Memories tinged with sweetness, loveli- 
ness, perhaps a little sadness. 

And in this dreamland of long ago they see hoop- 
skirted maidens gracefully bowing before a tall lad 
under the chaperonage of a bunch of mistletoe. 
Maybe it brings back the poignant memory of a few 
moments of bliss. Just a little sprig of ynistletoe 
but it carries the old people into the gay world of 
youth and beauty. 

So to all these ages of yuan ynistletoe is synony- 
mous with romance, adventure, love — 

But to the botanist mistletoe is just a parasite l 


Page Ten 


The Wesleyan 


Out of the Dar\ 

By Roberta Cason 


N IGHT had come quickly, 
and with it a fog: had 
risen from the river 
making: the lights in the log- 
hewn homes of Jamestown 
send a murky gleam into the 
narrow, muddy streets. The 
palisade was invisible and the 
dense forest beyond was only 
a part of the shadows that 
stretched away from the 
patches of light into the vast 
unknown reaches of a new 
continent. The fog seemed a 
ghostly harbinger of horror. 

It filled the air with forebod- 
ing and tried to choke the 
night fire struggling to light 
the open space around the 
block-house. 

A shadow staggered out of the intense 
blackness of the forest and started its 
stumbling way across the rough cleared 
gTound between the edge of the forest 
and the palisade. The long race with 
time and his fast failing strength 
through the almost impenetrable wilder- 
ness had completely exhausted the man 
weakened by seven months of captivity 
in an Indian camp. His splendid physique 
had been almost destroyed; one arm in 
the tattered woodsman’s coat was 
burned useless; his poor, starved, body 
was just a skeleton upon which his 
ragged clothing hung. The Paspageghs 
had reasoned almost correctly: they had 
starved him, maimed his body with cruel 
tortures, all but killed him during the 
seven long months, then they had iron- 
ically told him of the alliance with the 
Powhatan, of their plans to fall upon 
the outlying English Hundreds two 
nights later, and at sunrise raze James- 
town either killing or capturing every 
inhabitant. 

After a night filled with their fantas- 
tic war-dances and weird cries around 


the campfires, gleaming in the 
depths of the forest, throbbing 
with the monotonous rhythm 
of the dull thrum of their 
deer-skin drums, they had 
given him a rattlesnake quiv- 
ver filled with arrows and 
powder and set him free, bid- 
ding him to warn his people. 
Two warriors had followed 
him and shot him with a 
poisoned arrow when he had 
gone only a short distance 
from the camp. The head of 
the arrow had broken off in 
his shoulder and was fester- 
ing there. But those cruel 
monarchs of the forest and 
the wilderness had failed to 
take into consideration one 
thing. The young man with whom they 
were dealing was John Montgomery in 
whose veins flowed the blood of ancient 
Celtic kings; who, though he was a 
“youngest son,” a nonentity in England, 
had a will of iron, a flaming courage 
that nothing could quench, and a loyalty 
to his people that only death could make 
inactive. Now after two days and a 
night of struggle, of driving his exhaust- 
ed body through the dense forest, of 
falling, and rising, and struggling on, 
he was about to reach Jamestown . . . . 
in time. 

Was the distance between the forest 
and the palisade interminable? One 
step after another, carefully, for he 
knew that if he fell he could not sum- 
mon the strength to rise again. One 
step after another .... one step after 
another. The pain in his shoulder was 
horrible. Would he never get there? 
He staggered on over the rough ground. 
At last the palisade! the gate! He was 
in Jamestown! His goal was the three- 
room log house he and Hugh Godfrey 
had built. Down the muddy street to- 




The Wesleyan 


Page Eleven 


ward the group of homes he stumbled, a 
fierce triumphant joy in his heart. He 
would warn them in time. Hugh could 
take the quiver and the messages to the 
governor. He had not remembered that 
it was so far from the palisade to the 
house. One step after another .... one 
step after another. Jamestown, the out- 
lying hundreds were warned, the Eng- 
lish in America were safe. 

From the homes came the low hum of 
voices, the crooning songs of women 
lulling their babes to sleep, the growl 
of dogs contending over their supper 
bones. Mechanically John turned in at 
the little path that led to the door-step 
of his home. At last! He must hurry. 
Then he fell! Frantically he tried to 
rise, tried to call Hugh; but he lost con- 
sciousness as the faint sound he had 
made was lost in the fog-sodden dark- 
ness. He lay there, a pathetic heap in 
the cold, dark night. The rattlesnake 
quiver, Jamestown's warning, pressed 
close to his faintly beating heart 

Inside the cabin Janet was drying the 
heavy crockery dishes, and Hugh, sit- 
ting relaxed in the home-made chair, 
was experimenting with his pipe. A 
number of changes had taken place in 
the bachelor home Hugh and John had 
built. Since that day seven months be- 
fore when John had not returned from 
a hunting expedition and searching 
parties had been unable to find him, a 
ship load of maidens had come from 
England. Hugh had married one who 
called herself Janet Truslow. The pio- 
neer cabin had become a home. 

Janet's musical laughter rang out now 
and then when Hugh would be thrown 
into a paroxysm of coughing on account 
of the unsuccessful results of his valiant 
attempts to learn to smoke the tobacco 
weed. 

“I fear, sir," Janet laughed finally as 
she set the last dish in place, “Thou art 
not quite so far advanced in the art as 
John Rolfe.” 

“Nay, that I am not,” he admitted as 
he looked ruefully at his pipe. “But I 
prithee remember, madam,” he added 
with a smile, “John had to go through 


this awkward stage also. And the pleas- 
ures that result are . . . . ” 

“How is that, sir ... . pleasures ? Me- 
thinks that thou canst know but little 
of the pleasures of the pipe.” 

They both laughed. Hugh knocked the 
ashes from his pipe into the fireplace 
and laid it on the chimney-shelf. Janet 
had got her ball of yarn and knitting 
needles and was dragging the three-cor- 
nered 8 tool from its place beside the 
spinning wheel. She sat down upon it 
near his chair. 

“Sit down, and tell me some stories,” 
she smiled up at him. 

John stood there a moment, his back 
to the fire, watching her as she deftly 
took up the knitting where she had left 
off and began what seemed to him the 
very intricate process of ribbing. Then 
he sat down and very gently laid one of 
his roughened hands over the slender, 
shapely white ones that made the shin- 
ing needles click so industriously. 

“These hands were not made to toil 
in a wilderness, to become roughened 
and—” 

“Hush!” Janet cried softly. “Neither 
were thine by birth meant for such; in 
England thou wouldst be a lord entitled 
to every luxury,” her eyes flashed still 
with rebellion against the foppish form 
of the society she had left. “But thou 
art a man and I am a woman and this is 
a world where there is no place for soft 
hands and cowardly hearts hidden under 
satins and flashing jewels. But tell me 
a story of thee .... and John Mont- 
gomery. There was a slight quiver in 
her voice. 

“Rather would I tell thee another 
story, the story of how a man who had 
lost his only intimate friend stood alone 
on the shores of a new world looking out 
into the vast reaches of the interminable 
sea; of how this man saw the great 
white sails of an English ship tip the 
horizon with hope; of how that ship 
sailed up the river with the fairest car- 
go that ever a ship bore. Thou wert on 
board, Janet. Then of how I saw thee, 
and loved ” 

“Oh Hugh,” Janet interrupted, her 


I* age Twelve 


The Wesleyan 


hands clasped tightly over the knitting 
in her homespun lap, “Must thou bring 
back that day?” There was pain in her 
voice. “That day and the one that fol- 
lowed were not .... easy for me.” 

Her voice broke slightly, but her proud 
head remained unbowed. 

“I forgot, Beloved. That day brought 
me such wonderful happiness.” There 
was a pause, then he continued. “Janet, 
I have often wondered why thou didst 
leave England, why thou didst come to 
Jamestown on that ship. Everything — 
your manners, you mein, your speech, 
is that of a lady. Thou canst not be 
of the serving class as were thy travel- 
ing companions.” 

“Hugh,” and Janet looked deep into 
the steadfast eyes of her husband, “I 
left England seeking for freedom, for 
happiness. I left my name and every- 
thing else connected with my past there. 
I am just Janet Truslow whom thou 
didst find in the courting meadow, just 
*he English maiden whom thou hast 
made thy wife, Janet Truslow Godfrey. 
Is not that enough, Hugh?” 

“Oh, Janet, Janet,” it was a heart- 
breaking cry. “Thou art always enough 
.... if .... if I could only teach thee to 
love me as I do thee.” 

She smiled up at him through her 
tears. 

“I am trying to learn, Hugh,” she said 
softly. 

Silently they sat there, gazing into the 
fire that checkered the room in light and 
shadow; sat there gazing into the fire 
of love that checkers life with light and 
shadow. And the face that Janet saw 
in the flames was the face of handsome, 
noble, young John Montgomery for 
whom she had left England, family, 
position and come alone into the wilder- 
ness of an unknown country. The 
mockery of the letter she had written 
and sent on the ship before the one on 
which she sailed still lying on the chim- 
ney-shelf waiting for him to return from 
the wilderness that had swallowed him 
up was almost more than she could bear. 
The absolute tragedy of it, as she 
thought back, was that he had never 


known that her love had stood the test, 
had never known that she had refused 
to marry the title-laden lord her family 
had commanded her to marry and had se- 
cretly left England to come to America 
to be bought by the titleless man of her 
choice whom her family had prevented 
her marrying two years before. How 
strange it was to be the mistress of his 
house, Hugh’s wife. She admitted that 
she was happier as Hugh’s wife than 
she had ever been in the repressed life 
in England. Hugh loved John too. She 
wished that she could give him all that 
he deserved, for he deserved all the de- 
votion of a noble woman’s heart. But 
while she would always be Hugh’s duti- 
ful wife she could never give him what 
she had given John. Hugh had saved 
her from a terrible fate for John’s not 
meeting the ship had meant that she 
might have become anyone’s wife. Oh, 
why couldn’t she love him? He was so 
noble, so kind, so dear, and he loved her 
so! She would try very hard .... but 
still she saw John’s face in the flames. 

And Hugh as he sat there in the si- 
lence of the firelight broken only by the 
simmering of the water boiling in the 
black iron kettle swinging over the 
flames, watched them strike gold from 
the heavy brown hair wound like a coro- 
net around his wife’s head. Ah! the 
wonder of it! If she could only love 
h»m! The torment of knowing that she 
was having to try to learn! If she could 
only know how he loved her perhaps 
• • • • but he would have to wait for 
time to show her that, he had done all he 
could. Finally, able to sit still no longer 
he rose, and leaning over her took her 
lovely face gently in his hands and 
kissed it tenderly. 

“I love thee Janet,” he whispered, a 
life of love in the simple words. Then 
he unbarred the door and stepped out 
into the darkness of the foggy night to 
see that all was well before banking the 
fire and retiring. 

As he opened the door the watchman’s 
cry “All’s well!” came to him in tones 
muffled by the fog and the low wind 
that had sprung up and was swaying 


The Wesleyan 


Page Thirteen 


the fog into fantastic shapes. A cry of 
surprise burst from his lips as he al- 
most stumbled over a bundle of ragged 
clothes, a man lying unconscious. Kneel- 
ing down beside him Hugh lifted the 
man's face into the light that streamed 
through the open doorway. Pushing 
back the tangled, matted hair from the 
high forehead he looked into the pale, 
haggard, shaggily bearded face of John 
Montgomery. “John!” He almost wept 
in the sudden joy of finding his friend 
alive. 

Janet, at her husband’s first exclama- 
tion, had run to the doorway where she 
stood, silhoueted against the light of the 
fire. 

“Janet,” Hugh called, “it is John!” 

Janet swayed slightly, ever so slightly 
in the doorway. 

“Thou hadst better bring him in at 
once, Hugh.” How could she speak so 
calmly? John, her John! Not dead, 
after all! Her mind was in a whirl, her 
heart in a tumult of painful joy. 

Hugh gathered the cold, unconscious 
man into his arms as gently as a mother 
her babe and carried him into the room. 
Janet closed the door behind her hus- 
band, then ran for their simple restora- 
tives. When she returned with them 
Hugh was kneeling beside his friend 
whom he had laid on the bear-skin close 
to the hearth, a look of horror on his 
face. He had seen the rattlesnake 
quiver; he had found the festering ar- 
rowhead in John’s shoulder. To a man 
of the wilderness that told the whole 
terrible story. 

He flung the quiver on the hearth 
where it gleamed menacingly in the fire- 
light. Janet had learned much of the 
language of the wilderness. She too 
understood the meaning of the rattle- 
snake quiver. 

Hugh forced wine between John’s 
seemingly lifeless lips. Janet stepped 
into the next room to get some soft 
cloths and salve in order to wash and 
bind up the wounded shoulder. 

The eye-lids of the unconscious man 
flickered, then opened, resting unknow- 


ingly upon Hugh for a moment, then he 
smiled faintly. 

“Hugh!” his lips formed his friend’s 
name. 

“Yes, John, it is Hugh.” He pressed 
his friend to his heart in joy and thanks- 
giving. Then the rattlesnake quiver 
gleaming on the hearth turned his joy 
into uneasiness. “Can you tell me when 
the Indians are coming, John? The de- 
fense . . . . ” 

“Thank God, .... in time . ...” the 
whisper was broken, was painful. “To- 
morrow morning .... Hundreds, al- 
ready warned .... sunrise, Jamestown 
.... Powhatan .... Paspageghs .... 
alliance. In ... . Anne!” And he lapsed 
into unconsciousness. Janet almost 
dropped the salve and the cloths in her 
hand. 

Hugh laid his friend gently on the 
bearskin. 

“Do not be startled at anything he 
may say, Dearest. He has mistaken 
thee, in the condition that he is in, for 
the young woman in England whom he 
loves.” Hugh had risen as he spoke and 
was taking his sword from its cus- 
tomary place on the wall. “I must go 
to the governor’s at once,” he continued, 
buckling on the sword and flinging his 
heavy cloak about him. “I shall return 
as speedily as possible. Thou canst do 
as much for him as anyone.” 

He picked up the rattlesnake quiver. 
“Bar the door after me,” and in an in- 
stant he was swallowed up in the dark- 
ness and the fog. 

Slowly Janet barred the door and 
walked back to the hearth. She was 
trembling from head to foot. Kneeling 
there in the firelight beside him, her 
gray homespun dress billowed about her, 
tears running down her cheeks, she lift- 
ed the arrowhead from the wound in 
his shoulder and bathed and dressed the 
wound as best she could. The pathetic 
burned arm she dressed too. Then she 
washed his haggard, pain-worn face. 
She laid a quilt over him, and taking his 
head in her arms forced wine between 
his lips from time to time. She scarcely 
knew what she did, only that she worked 


Pa%e Fourteen 


The Wesleyan 


frantically to restore him to conscious- 
ness. She must explain everything to 
him before Hugh returned. 

At last he opened his eyes. 

“Anne,” he whispered. 

“Yes, John,” very low, very tender. 
“Hast thou .... really come .... to 
me?” 

“I came, John, but thou wert not 
here.” The pain in her voice was heart- 
breaking. 

“But .... I am here now .... and 
thou .... art here .... now,” he mur- 
mured, and a deep, unspeakable joy 
transfigured his face. 

Oh, how could she tell him? But she 
must. Why couldn't her heart break? 
She had not known that it could ache so. 
She gave him more wine. She tried to 
smile at him through her tears. He 
seemed to grow stronger. 

“Ah, Anne, Anne, .... Beloved . . . . ” 
he whispered, “if I could only .... tell 

thee .... if I could only tell thee how 
» 

She laid her fingers upon his lips. 
Her tears fell upon his face. She 
thought that her heart broke. 

“Hush, Dearest,” her voice quivered, 
“I must tell thee. It can never be.” 

“Anne! But thou art ... . here!” It 
was a cry of anguish. 

“I came to thee, Beloved. They told 
me that you wast dead. I am thy friend's 
wife. I am Hugh’s wife . ...” her voice 
faltered. 

Oh, Anne, Anne! My own! My own 

.... not Hugh not Hugh ” It 

was the tortured heart-cry of a mortally 
wounded soul. A great sob shook him, 
almost tore his heart out. 

The silence was broken only by the 
simmering of the water in the black 
iron kettle swinging over the flames, now 
and then the falling of a piece of burned 
wood into the ashes, and the low moan 
of the wind around the log-hewn corners 
of the cabin. 

Long they gazed into each other’s 
eyes. 

“He must .... never .... know,” 
John said finally, quietly, distinctly. 
“Nay,” Anne's voice faltered, but she 


too spoke distinctly, “he must never 
know. I am not thy Anne. I am Janet 
Truslow Godfrey. I am Hugh's sworn 
wife.” Her head bowed. The years 
stretched ahead, painful years . . . . 
vaguely she wondered if the pain in her 
heart would ever cease, could ever kill 
her. 

Hugh, returning from the governor’s 
had been arrested as he stood outside 
the door, his hand uplifted to knock, by 
John's cry of anguish, “My own! My 
own! .... Not Hugh .... not Hugh.” 
And Hugh had stood there paralyzed in 
body and soul, his arm uplifted to knock, 
not realizing that he was listening to 
something that was not meant for his 
ears. Oh, the pain in those voices, the 
voices of the two he loved more than 
life itself. Janet was Lady Anne Ham- 
ilton come seeking John in the new 
world. He saw it all now, the letter 
that had lain waiting for John, her com- 
ing, her not being able to give him her 
love. Oh God! How could there be such 
suffering? And he had caused it ... . 
caused theirs, caused his own, by mar- 
rying Janet. And they were not going 
to let him know! Slowly he turned and 
stumbled away. He must think, must 
think. Oh, why couldn't he think? Over 
and over in his mind whirled Janet’s 
words, “I am trying to learn, Hugh” 
.... trying to learn! Oh, the bitter- 
ness, the heart-breaking joy of the 
knowledge that she had had the courage 
to be true to him. “I am not thy Anne, 
but Janet Truslow Godfrey, Hugh’s 
sworn wife.” The memory of the pain 
in her voice as she said those words cut 
his heart like a knife. He had not 
known that a man could suffer so. 

And John loved her. He knew how 
much, for he too loved. And she 
loved John. There was no need for all 
to suffer! But why should he? They 
had said that he should never know! 
Ah! But he did know! He must do 
something! That it should be the two 
that he loved more than his own heart’s 
blood, more than life itself. Those 
phrases kept repeating themselves in his 
mind as he went, he knew not whither, 


The Wesleyan 


Faze Fifteen 


through the fog and the night. Then 
the thought came to him .... but why 
should he? Had he a right to happi- 
ness; he had waited long for love; John 
should not have it. But he did have it. 
Janet’s love was not his. Janet .... 
Janet .... she had a right to love, to 
happiness. What had she said? That 
she had left England seeking freedom 
and happiness in a new world. His love 
for her was not real if he would bind 
her ... . would destroy her happiness. 
Up and down the muddy streets he 
tramped in the fog. Ah, how he wanted 
her. She was his wife. His hat was 
gone, his beard was wet in the fog. 
Love .... love .... did he love her? 
And suddenly he knew. Reverently he 
bowed his head and folded his arms. 
Two tears coursed down his cheeks in 
the darkness. He had submitted to the 
great law of love. 

And then the torment, the conflict 
were gone. There was peace in his soul, 
and sorrow, .... and a vast longing. 


Slowly he walked to the governor’s 
house and knocked heavily upon the 
barred door. There was a light still 
burning inside. The governor would not 
sleep to-night. The Indians would come 
with the morrow. Through the fog 
came the shouts of men at work 
strengthening the defense at the block- 
house. 

“Ah, Hugh, come in.” Governor 
Yeardley saw that there was something 
the matter with his friend. 

But Hugh stood there on the door- 
step. 

“Governor Yeardley,” he said slowly, 
“I will meet the Powhatan to-morrow 
. . . . outside the palisade. Listen for 
the signal for their approach. Good- 
night, Your Honor, and God bless James- 
town.” 

Before the Governor could speak Hugh 
had turned and was lost in the cold gray 
fog, and the blackness of the night. 
They both knew that he would not re- 
turn. 


SONNET 

They tell me fifty times each busy day 

That which, all fifty times, my heart de- 
nies. 

They say that I won’t always be this 
way — 

There’ll come a time when mute, de- 
lighted cries 

Won’t fill my throat and songs won’t 
cram my heart — 

Because your hands are clean, and your 
soft hair 

Won’t stay in place. Each time we part 

The little warmth won’t play around me 
where 

Your arms have been. Each bread and 
butter kiss 

Won’t satisfy the hunger that I feel. 

No happiness will fill myself like this 

As you, by me, in love and kindness 
kneel. 

Twice fifty times these platitudes I hear. 

But never mind — I can’t believe them, 
dear. 


— Lucy Fulghum. 


Page Sixteen 


The Wesleyan 


In Defense of China 

By Tsoo Yi Zia 


A CHALLENGE to the peace-loving 
generation of to-day. Peace! 
Peace! Peace! 

This is the watchword of all the na- 
tions after the war. “We can’t afford to 
have any more wars, we must live to- 
gether in peace” — was solemnly agreed 
upon by every one. As a result of this 
the League of Nations was established 
to promote world peace and to settle 
world disputes. This was followed by 
the disarmament conferences and the 
Kellog-Briand Peace Pact. The nations 
can certainly pride themselves at these 
good attempts they have made toward 
peace. 

But how can there ever be peace when 
Might still rules over Right, when the 
stronger nations can still plunder the 
weaker ones without restraint, when 
militarism and imperialism still holds 
sway over all the earth ? We have a good 
example of this to-day in the Sino-Japa- 
nese conflict over Manchuria. Manchuria 
is, as every one knows, a Chinese terri- 
tory. But we hear of Japan’s sending her 
troops to occupy Manchuria, of her air- 
planes flying above Manchuria bombing 
the cities, of her warships patrolling the 
Chinese waters to prevent any show of 
opposition on the part of the Chinese. 
Not satisfied with all this, Japan has 
deliberately deposed the Chinese gov- 
ernor of Manchuria, Gen. Chang-Hsueh- 
Liang and has planned to make Mr. 
Henry Pu Yi deposed emperor of China, 
the governor of Manchuria so that the 
latter can be a puppet in the hands of 
Japan. Japan has further persuaded 
Manchuria to declare its independence 
of China so that like Korea it will ulti- 
mately come into the hands of Japan. 

Now what right has Japan to send her 
troops over a territory not her own? 
What right has she to depose the Chinese 
governor in Manchuria ? No wonder the 
Chinese people are astir at this en- 
croachment of China’s sovereignty, no 


wonder they are filled with resentment 
toward these imperialistic designs of 
Japan. The patience of China is tested 
to the last degree. But instead of de- 
claring war with Japan, China has tried 
her best to maintain peace. As both 
China and Japan are members of the 
League, China has asked the League to 
stop this manifestation of militarism on 
the part of Japan. The League, after 
some deliberation has asked Japan to 
withdraw her troops from Manchuria. 
This, Japan has refused, insisting that 
the situation concerns Japan and China 
only and that the League has no right 
to intervene. But Japan and China are 
both members of the League. If the 
League cannot prevent its members from 
fighting, what good can the League be? 
Besides China and Japan are both signa- 
tories of the Kellogg Pact. If the signa- 
tories fail to fulfill their obligations, 
what further guarantee can we have for 
world peace ? 

Japan insisted that the reason why 
she sent troops over to Manchuria was 
to protect “the life and property” of the 
Japanese inhabitants as there were anti- 
Japanese demonstrations afoot in Man- 
churia. China claimed that Japan had 
been stationing her troops outside the 
treaty zone along the Southern Man- 
churia Railway (a certain number of 
Japanese troops had been assigned by 
treaty to protect the Japanese interests 
along this railway) and that the anti- 
Japanese demonstrations of the Chinese 
inhabitants had been caused by increas- 
ing number of Japanese and troops 
which had been sent over by Japan in 
big numbers recently on the pretense of 
protecting the life and property of the 
people. The truth is Manchuria is a 
rich piece of land and Japan has always 
wanted to get it under her control. She 
is taking every excuse she can to get 
Manchuria. The Chinese naturally re- 
sent Japan’s imperialistic designs backed 


The Wesleyan 


Page Seventeen 


by her military powers and is anxious 
to maintain the territory that belonged 
to China by right. We can see that 
Japan is doing her best in stirring up 
hatred among the Chinese people. If 
the Japanese lives are really in danger, 
they will be the more so with every in- 
crease of Japanese troops sent over to 
Manchuria. Japan has turned Manchu- 
ria into another Alsace-Lorraine. Is she 
going to stir up another world war? 

Here we have before us a big prob- 
lem disturbing world peace. How are 
we going to handle it? If the nations 


do not stop this manifestation of im- 
perialism coupled with militarism on the 
part of Japan, if a stronger nation can 
bring oppression on a weaker nation just 
because of its military supremacy, we 
will never have peace in this world. The 
League of Nations is tested for its abil- 
ity and strength, the Kellogg-Briand 
Pact is questioned. Another Alsace- 
Lorraine has been created before us, 
strong in its racial hatred. Are we go- 
ing to see another great war or are we 
going to work for Peace? 


LIFE’S EVENING 

Change 

Alone doesn’t bring 

This pain into my beaten heart — 

It is the suddenness of it all 
That hurts,, like seeing 
First violets 
Pierce dank old woods — 

That shakes my soul 

As small white harbingers of winter 

Shake it annually — 

That grips my being 
As that cool veiled moment, 

Stained with color, 

Leaves the sun suspended in its course — 

It is known as 

Eventide. 

— Modena McPherson. 


TO MY ROOMMATE 

Your heart is glowing with living fire, 
Enveloping in one pure desire 
All life about you — to increase 
The world in joy — 

To give surcease 

To all the pain you see or hear, 

To make life precious, winsome, dear. 


Page Eighteen 


The Wesleyan 


Hallam and Son 

A TALE OF DESTINY 
By Dixie Jones 


E dgar was half 

way down the 
stairs when the 
first notes rang out in 
the chill night. From 
his bed he had heard the 
creaking of the wide 
boards of the hall and 
had seen a dark figure 
move past his door. 

Could it have been his 
father in that old dress 
suit which had always 
hung at the back of 
his mother’s wardrobe? 

Edgar had followed 
him, fearing that his 
father had taken to 
sleep walking. He had 
not been well for a 
week past, had said queer things and 
moved in a dazed, senseless way. Edgar 
started when the first chord was struck, 
and the full, vibrant harmony which 
came from the room below, kept him 
there gaping into the blackness. 

Poignant, wonderful, superb the dulcet 
melody floated up to him, filling him so 
completely that his heart had not room 
to beat. His mother arose and stood 
beside him there in the dark. There was 
no one else in the house. They had no 
neighbors. Of this Edgar was glad. 

The music went on, joyous, keen, and 
loud. With tones delicately shaded, then 
running into a somber, mellow cadence, 
its consonance filled the old house which 
had been for years devoid of melody. 
Gradually the touch became more vig- 
orous. Heavy chords crashed one upon 
another like the breakers on a stormy 
night The volume increased until the 
air became metallic with its strength. 
The thunderous tongues rose higher. 
Then came one crashing, overwhelming 
discord. And all sound ceased. Empti- 
ness and silence returned again to the 


lumbering old house. 

The boy and his 
mother stood aghast 
for a moment. Then 
Edgar lighted an old 
oil lamp and brought 
it, glimmering sleepily 
into the room. The 
great square piano was 
open. Its yellowed 
ivories seemed to grin 
at them like the teeth 
of a monster, which 
had just devoured its 
prey. Edgar turned up 
the wick of the lamp, 
revealing on the worn 
carpet a crumpled fig- 
ure in black broad- 
cloth. The light caught 
a gleam in the white hair, as Mrs. Hal- 
lam knelt beside him. 

Tho horror of nature's sublimest phe- 
nomenon swept the souls of the wife 
and son. Then as grief subsided into 
the deep calm of sorrow, the mother 
spoke. 

‘‘Look, Eddie," she whispered, “he 
smiles as if he were glad!" 

“Ah, mother, perhaps he is. Life has 
been hard for him to bear." 

“This is like a second triumph to him. 
See the joy in his face. He must have 
thought that he was playing again be- 
fore an appreciative audience. How well 
this old suit fits him yet!” 

Anton Hallam was wearing the suit in 
which he had appeared before the foot 
lights thirty years ago at that one great 
victory of his career. After that all had 
been failure, repression, and defeat. The 
relaxed muscles left an expression of 
peace upon the face which looked tired, 
but tired only with the fatigue that coin- 
cides with rest. The plastic features fell 
into a slight smile as if he were glad of 
the release. His pent up energies had 




The Wesleyan 


Page Nineteen 


spent themselves in one last luxurious 
exertion, a glorious yielding to the fate 
that he had fought against. 

Long ago Hallam had given up the 
struggle for what to him was unattain- 
able. But in giving up he had found a 
greater struggle. By force of will he 
had forsworn the power that ruled his 
life, the art to which he had devoted all 
his energies for forty years. 

His audience had been enthusiastic 
that first night. He had made a dozen 
engagements for concerts, but when 
those were over there were no more. 
Fame had given him one taunting taste 
of herself and then had fled forever. 
That one great night had instilled in him 
the self confidence which had brought 
about his downfall. No longer could his 
instrument be to him a lifeless object. 
It was a part of himself, and into his 
playing he threw his whole soul. But 
the public did not care to have a soul 
with their music. There was something 
indefinable in it that they objected to. 
But Anton could not overcome it. He 
could not go back to the old mechanical 
repetitions. Self expression came forth 
in his music despite his efforts at re- 
straint. 

Composing came natural with him. 
He wrote lovely things, some of them 
subtle, enticing; others lucid, pleasant, 
and soothing. He sent copies of his 
compositions out to his musician friends. 
Now and then a letter would come, 
praising his work, filling him with en- 
couragement. But still the public re- 
fused to listen. He could neither ob- 
tain an opportunity to appear in a con- 
cert nor find a publisher for his original 
work. 

At last he realized that he could no 
longer support himself and his young 
wife in the city. He bought an old farm 
in a rural section of Pennsylvania and 
went there to study alone. Perhaps 
some day he would be able to produce 
the wretched doggeral that the public 
was willing to pay for. 

Maria, his wife, had been wonderful. 
She knew nothing of country life, but 
she set to work trying to make a home 


of the rough old farmhouse. The funds 
gave out before they could furnish the 
place even with rustic comfort. But 
they were happy there in spite of fail- 
ure. Anton always hopeful of the fu- 
ture, Maria ever nurturing that hope. 

Then the children came. Little Joe 
first, then Ursalus. In desperation An- 
ton had turned to the earth for help. 
All day in the hot sun he worked, his 
tender hands blistered and sore with the 
unaccustomed labor. But when he re- 
turned to the house at night he played 
over the little melodies which had taken 
form in his mind while he worked with 
his hands in the field. The earth, he 
discovered, gave but grudgingly of her 
fruit, and anxious coaxing brought forth 
little. It was only by skillful trading, 
foresight, and knowledge, he learned, 
that the neighboring farmers were able 
to live in comfort. But the men on the 
surrounding farms were kind to him. 
They gradually taught him their own 
methods while inwardly chuckling at his 
awkwardness. 

Anton soon became proud of his young 
sons. They showed that they had in- 
herited abundantly of their father’s 
genius. And as he trained them, Anton 
transferred to them the ambitions which 
he had held for himself. Earnestly he 
taught them all he knew and even read 
and studied that they might have the 
most modern views of theory and criti- 
cism. He insisted on doing all the heavy 
work on the farm himself to keep their 
hands sensitive and agile. For Joseph 
he bought a violin cello, and for Ursalus 
a flute. 

The two boys were both well in their 
teens when Edgar was bom, and Hallam 
put off training this child of his age un- 
til the older ones should have begun 
careers. They had both left home be- 
fore they were twenty, and they soon 
made their old father proud by winning 
recognition from their work in a sym- 
phony orchestra. 

But success was too much for the two 
ignorant country youths. They fell into 
the gay life of their fellows in the or- 
chestra. There came one day a tele- 


I* age Twenty 


T h e Wesleyan 


gram to the old home. Both the boys 
had been killed in a drunken brawl. 

This had been too much for Anton. 
Faith had fled forever. He realized that 
music, his idol, the thing to which he 
had devoted his life, was really his 
curse. Music — what had it brought him 
but poverty, inability to face life's prob- 
lems, the failure to give his children the 
education they needed, and finally this 
awful disappointment, this calamity and 
disgrace? 

Anton turned the key in the piano and 
when Edgar was not near, hid it under 
a loose tile of the hearth. 

Then had come the painful years. An- 
ton with his rigid self repression be- 
came irritable. His strength began to 
fail. His whole personality was changed 
and materialism had become his gospel. 
But upon this youngest child he lavished 
the last of his vitality. 

To Edgar he talked in proverbs: “Seek 
not for beauty. Art in all its forms is 
vanity. Grace is a fleet nymph, leading 
man quickly over the precipice. Look 
only to wealth for it is forever objec- 
tive. Riches will free and not imprison 
the soul. Play not with illusive images. 
Art will never provide you a livelihood. 
Music is selfish; it takes all and gives 
back nothing." 

Edgar grew up, ignorant of scales and 
chords, but unlike his brothers, he at- 
tended school in the nearest town. And 
after obtaining something of the uni- 
form public education he studied bank- 
ing and accounting. He found no joy 
in these, however. He would talk to his 
father of interest and annuities when 
his mind was seeking some lonely isle of 
fiction and when his ears were filled 
with the musical moaning of the trees 
outside. 

“Y es, Dad,” he would say, humoring 
the old man, “as soon as I have accumu- 
lated enough from the harvest, I shall 
buy shares in Dehune's new cannery. 
That is a stock which is bound to rise." 


But now, Edgar mused, it is all over. 
No more deception would be necessary. 
There lay the white old head, torn in 


youth by unsatiated ambitions, wracked 
in age by a determination to resist that 
fundamental drive of his nature, the will 
to beauty. 

But the ceaseless effort, the guarded 
conversation, the locked piano could not 
erase from Edgar's mind that early 
image, that childhood memory of lovely 
sounds in the old house. He could not 
forget the rapt, glowing faces of his 
father and his brothers at their instru- 
ments. How could he, born with music 
in his ears, give his life to the accumu- 
lation of wealth? But then he must 
Yes, he too must resist this awful crav- 
ing. His father w*as right. Devotion 
to music had been the curse of the fam- 
ily, and he had his mother to care for. 

Edgar Hallam prepared for the winter 
as old Anton had started him, striving 
to bring in the greatest possible har- 
vest, using all his knowledge of curing 
and preserving the crop, trading with an 
effort at shrewdness. 

Winter came on and Edgar had no 
overcoat heavy enough for the severe 
weather. Awaking one morning he 
noticed that there had been a consider- 
able change in the weather during the 
night. Heavy clouds hung about the 
horizon, and fearing an early snow, Ed- 
gar set off to the town to purchase the 
coat. He drove in with a wagon load of 
potatoes, meaning to buy the coat with 
the money received from them. 

On the curb in front of the general 
store of the village a crowd had gath- 
ered. From somewhere in their midst 
Edgar could see the bow of a violin rise 
and fall. The listeners applauded en- 
thusiastically and began to search their 
pockets for coins. Edgar elbowed his 
w'ay toward the center. The blind man's 
cup was going around. 

This poor fellow was gaining a live- 
lihood with his instrument, Edgar medi- 
tated. Perhaps some day he too should 
be blind. Why had his father said that 
beauty took all and gave nothing? He 
glanced at the show window of the store. 
There lay a violin in the midst of a 
dozen articles of dry goods. It was not 
a new one. The case was scratched and 
worn. The proprietor had probably 


The Wesleyan 


Page Twenty-one 


taken it in for debt. He motioned to 
the store keeper. 

"How much for that?” 

"Thirteen dollars,” the man said. 

Thirteen dollars, that was about what 
the load of potatoes would bring:. With 
the instrument so near, he could hardly 
wait to touch it. There was no time for 
bargaining. "Will you give it in trade 
for a load of potatoes?” 

The man stepped over to the curb to 
appraise the contents of the wagon. “I'll 
make it a trade with the basket of nuts 
on the seat,” he said. "Unload at the 
side door.” 

Edgar soon came back and claimed 
the instrument To his surprise he did 
not even know how to hold the bow. He 
was ashamed to take the violin home, to 
reveal his weakness to his mother. He 
drove the wagon toward home, but be- 
fore he realized it he had turned off into 
a narrow side road. Anything except 
to let her see his folly. Perhaps he 
could stand it if he could play it, if 
there were promise in it. But he was 


too ridiculous as he stood there holding 
the thing which would only scream out 
harshly at his touch. 

The flakes of snow began to fall heavi- 
ly. The storm he had foreseen was upon 
him, and his clothing was thin and all 
of cotton. He did not even know where 
he was. He wandered aimlessly. It be- 
came too dark to sit on the wagon. He 
hitched the mule and began to pace to 
and fro with the violin in his hands. He 
placed the case on his shoulder and tried 
again. The noise was shocking to his 
ears. In agony he sawed the strings 
with the bow; his fingers moved aim- 
lessly along the stem. Now he struck 
a clear sound. How it thrilled him. 
Little by little he discovered the scheme 
of the instrument, and with an over- 
powering fascination h© worked until he 
brought forth a simple melody. 

The snow piled up around his feet, 
but he heeded it not. His soul had 
found an outlet. Soon everything was 
dazzling white around him, but he could 
not see. His whole being had become 
finger tips and ears. 


TO 

There is rhythm in your fingertips, 
Laughter on your glowing lips, 

Depths too deep to fathom in your eyes, 
Which open in naive surprise, 

Whene'er I hint that in them lies 
The hidden key to Paradise. 

— Charm ian Stuart. 


LOST LOVE 

A breath of a June 
Ending too soon 

in unharmonious discord — 

A flower we knew 
Losing its hue 

And falling pale to the ground. 

— Frances Zachry. 


SCARS— 

You'll never know 

Of the tiny scars 

Left there — so small 

The human eye^can scarcely see 

And yet — each scar 

Has seared itself 

Into my heart 

And made me suffer agony. 

— Harriet Campbell. 


Page Twenty-two 


The Wesleyan 


Every Thursday 

By Betty Hunt 


^TT is the decision of the court, John 
I Gregory, that you are guilty of 
murder in the first degree, and I 
do hereby sentence you to penal servi- 
tude so long as your life shall last.” 

The cold, metallic words rang out 
solemnly over the hushed stillness of 
the courtroom. Edith Gregory, at her 
little table next to John’s, breathed a 
tortured sigh. So this was the end — 
this punishment of a life spent behind 
sullen prison walls was the end of both 
her life and her husband’s. As she 
thought of the double meaning that this 
sentence had, Edith dug her sharp nails 
into the tender flesh of her hands to 
keep back the rebellious tears. It 
wasn’t fair to John for them to shut 
him away like a dog in a cage when he 
had killed Roger for the sake of her 
honor. What man wouldn’t kill another 
if he saw him trying to take advantage 
of his wife? But above all it wasn’t 
fair to her and Peter. It wasn’t just 
to have her and Peter’s love crushed 
down just before it had blossomed into 
a reality. 

Mechanically she ; stood up and put her 
comforting arms around John; uncon- 
sciously as was her habit, she soothed 
him, choking the sob that rose in her 
own throat. For a minute neither spoke 
— it wasn’t necessary. After all, six 
years of living together had given them 
the kind of understanding in which si- 
lence often means more than any 
amount of words. Finally they came to 
take John away, and Edith freed herself 
from his embrace, promising to come 
back the next day. Then dully she left 
the room after seeing him led away by 
two guards. 

Slowly she walked down the steps to 
the street, oblivious to the crowds 
around her. She had one thought up- 
permost in her mind— to get away from 
people so that she would have room to 
think. Somehow she escaped a group 


of reporters and went on her way un- 
disturbed. 

It was preposterous to think that her 
substantial old John should be im- 
prisoned — and for the rest of his life, 
too. Why it was too absurd! Surely 
there must be some mistake. But no — 
clearly those awful words rang through 
her head again, 

“I do hereby sentence you to penal 
servitude so long as your life shall last.” 

There was no mistaking the meaning 
of that sentence. Edith shuddered. How 
horrible it all was! 

“Extra! Extra! All about the jealous 
man who killed his wife’s old sweet- 
heart. Read about the trial of John 
Gregory.” 

Abruptly Edith realized that the news- 
boys were referring to her John. But 
they were making a terrible mistake. 
Why John hadn’t been jealous of Roger 
at all. He had considered him as a 
faithful friend until that fateful night 
She started towards the paper boy; she 
must tell him that he was wrong — that 
he was doing John an injustice. But no! 
Roger really had been in love with her 
before her marriage, and Edith remem- 
bered how futile it had been to try to 
convince the jury that John’s act was not 
the premeditated result of insane jeal- 
ousy but rather the rational act of an 
honorable man. She had a sinking sen- 
sation of loneliness at her heart. How 
quick the world was to condemn — how 
ready to make outcasts of people who 
are often only the unfortunate victims 
of circumstance. 

Her pace grew faster and faster as 
she tried to get away from her thoughts, 
so that she finally found herself quite 
out of breath. Seeing a cozy teashop in 
the next block. Edith turned in there to 
rest for a minute and to compose her- 
self. She didn’t know how long she had 
been walking; time meant nothing to 
her now; she knew only that she was 


The Wesleyan 


Page Twenty-three 


tired and that the tearoom apparently 
offered a quiet place to eat. 

“How do you do, my dear? Have 
your coat off and come over here to sit 
down.” 

The hostess was very kind, but Edith 
hoped that she wouldn’t insist on talking 
to her. 

“We have some very unusual Russian 
tea this afternoon made from a special 
recipe 1 brought back from abroad last 
year; I hope you will let me recommend 
it to you.” 

Heavens, why wouldn’t the woman 
leave and just let her alone! 

“Why thank you so much,” Edith 
found herself answering, and the pleas- 
antness of her response surprised her. 
“I believe I will try it And I’d like 
teacakes, too — anything light and crisp 
that you happen to have.” 

With relief she watched the woman 
go into the kitchen to prepare her light 
meal. Dully she wondered if this effi- 
cient, capable-looking woman had ever 
had her husband sentenced to life-im- 
prisonment — wondered if she had ever 
been in love with another man and quite 
fond of her husband at the same time. 
Then she wondered if the hostess were 
even married. 

She remembered her own wedding. 
Six years ago her father had picked out 
John Gregory for her. She had been 
only eighteen and he had been thirty- 
four, but urged by her father, she had 
fancied that she loved John. He had 
seemed so wise — so dear and she had 
been flattered at having an older man in 
love with her. 

And he had adored her. Her slightest 
wish had been his greatest command. 
He had loved her, spoiled her, petted 
Her. Edith remembered how every 
night he had lifted her in his strong 
arms and carried her up to bed — how he 
Had tucked her in safe and 'warm and 
then gone back downstairs to stoke the 
furnace and open the windows. He 
would never let her stay with him when 
he fixed the house for the night, for fear 
she would catch cold in her precious 
little head. 

In his blind heart, John never dreamed 


that Edith was just like other girls her 
age — prone to the same worldly tempta- 
tions that they so often yielded to. So 
when Peter, his younger brother, was 
released from the army in Nicaragua, 
John had asked him to come live with 
them. From that day things had 
changed with Edith. Up until then, she 
had — 

“Excuse me, please, but would you 
mind moving your elbow?” 

What in the world — oh yes, she had 
ordered tea. She obediently moved her 
elbow, making room for a plate of 
cookies. 

“I do hope you will enjoy this tea; I 
made it all myself. Did I tell you that 
I got the recipe from a friend in Eng- 
land?” 

Didn’t this woman ever stop talking? 
Edith looked up startled. Suppose she 
started in now to tell her about her 
European trip! Things almost as bad 
had happened before. When she had 
gone to her father’s funeral four years 
ago, the conductor had insisted on tell- 
ing her Scotch jokes until finally she 
had been able to stand it no longer and 
had fled to the rear of the observation 
car and the sanctity of her own 
thoughts. 

I brought this marmalade too. My 
sister in Virginia put it up. I am sure 
you have never tasted anything quite 
like it before. She puts grated pine- 
apple and cherry juice in it” 

Grated pineapple and cherry juice! 
How trivial it all seemed when one’s 
husband was in prison and one loved 
Peter. 

If you w’ant anything else, I’ll be 
right in the kitchen; you can ring this 
bell.” 

And the over-kind hostess handed 
Edith a tinkling, silver hand-bell. 

A wave of relief swept over Edith as 
she watched the woman’s back disap- 
pear. Finally the kitchen door swung 
to, leaving Edith to pursue her medita- 
tions. 

What had she been thinking about? 
Oh yes, from the time Peter came every- 
thing had been changed. Dashingly 
handsome in his army uniform, he had 


Page Twenty-four 


The Wesleyan 


stepped off the train and into Edith’s 
heart. Near the same age, these two 
children had found a hundred things in 
common. They had ridden together, 
golfed together, danced together — 
things Edith hadn’t indulged in since 
before her early marriage. It had been 
like April rain to a flower parched by 
too much sun. And John, unselfish soul, 
had encouraged it because it seemed to 
give his darling pleasure. 

But even at that, this relationship had 
been devoid of sentiment until they had 
started reading poetry together, for they 
both realized the abyss they were stand- 
ing on, and they had both struggled to 
ward off the impending calamity. But 
somehow the poetry got the better of 
them. How vivid to Edith was the night 
they had read: 

“Love in my heart is a cry forever 
Lost as the swallow’s flight, 

Seeking for you and never, never 
Stilled by the stars of night.” 

Peter’s hand had touched hers, and 
she had felt her whole body vibrate. 

They hadn’t read again for several 
weeks, and then one night he had read 
her: 

“Come, for life is a frail moth flying, 
Caught in the web of the years that 
pass, 

And soon we too, so warm and eager, 
Will be as the gray stones in the 
grass.” 

When he had finished, Peter had 
looked at her for several minutes. Then 
he had taken her by the shoulders, 

“Edith, sweet, it’s no use,” he had told 
her. Then he gathered her gently in 
his arms and kissed her so tenderly the 
sweetness of it still remained now after 
nearly two years. They had sat still 
not saying anything for a long while. 
Finally — 

“It’s like trying to stop the tide to 
try to choke our love,” he whispered. 
“One is just as inevitable as the other.” 

“But Peter, what can we do?” she 
had begged. “There is John, you know. 
We can’t hurt him. Oh Peter, darling, 
I do love John, but it just isn’t the right 
kind of love.” 

And Peter had understood. They had 


tried to live seeing less of each other, 
doing what they thought was the right 
thing by John. But the time had come 
at last when they realized that the right 
thing to do if they wanted to be fair to 
John was to tell him — when they realized 
that the game they were playing was 
nothing but hyprocrisy. They had de- 
cided all this one night when John was 
away from home. They knew only too 
well that the generous heart of John 
would free Edith to a greater happi- 
ness so long as their love was as inno- 
cent as it was. 

After Peter left that night, Edith had 
sat by the fire dreaming of a future 
filled with happiness. At length some- 
one knocked at the door. When she 
opened it, she saw that it was Roger. 

Carefully Edith spread a thin layer 
of marmalade over a crisp, brown cookie 
as she saw again the smiling face of 
Roger. Oh yes, he had smiled all right, 
but there had been something sinister in 
his suave smile that sent an involuntary 
shudder down her spine even now. She 
had avoided Roger since her marriage. 
He had been in love with her for so long, 
and when she had told him of her en- 
gagement to John, a threatening fore- 
boding had darkened his eyes. 

Since then she had been afraid of him. 
She had seen to it that they were never 
alone, but she could not stop seeing him 
altogether since he professed to being a 
friend of John’s. That night when he 
came in a sudden fear gripped her heart. 

“Oh, Roger,” she exclaimed, “I’m so 
sorry that John isn’t here.” 

Then for politeness’ sake she had had 
to ask him in. When they got back to 
the fireside, Roger started talking. 

“Now Edith, I won’t pretend that I 
didn’t know John was away,” he be- 
gan. “I did; that’s why I’m here. Oh 
my dear, (and he had come over on the 
couch beside her) don’t you realize that 
I still love you?” 

He had tried to take her in his arms, 
but Edith successfully eluded him. Evi- 
dently Roger had been drinking, for 
things rapidly went from bad to worse. 

“Oh, you can’t get away from me 
now,” she remembered his telling her. 


The Wesleyan 


Page Twenty-five 


“You tried to discard me six years ago, 
but I have you where I want you now. 
For tonight at least, you are all mine.” 

It had been like a nightmare — trying 
to evade him and his objectionable at- 
tentions, and Edith was almost at the 
end of her resources when the door 
opened and in rushed John. 

Without a word he had drawn a re- 
volver from his pocket and deliberately 
shot Roger through the heart. 

Edith saw again that terrible night. 
She recalled the guilty groan of Roger 
as he sank to the floor, never to rise 
again of his own volition. She remem- 
bered John’s grim expression as he felt 
the dead man’s pulse to make sure his 
gun had accomplished its purpose. Then 
she remembered how his expression had 
softened as he came over and picked 
her up out of the chair in which she was 
dumbly sitting. 

“Poor little kid,” he whispered. “It’s 
a dam shame you had to see all this 
mess.” 

Then he had kissed her and she re- 
membered nothing else. 

Almost surprised, Edith realized that 
she had finished her tea. She wondered 
how she could eat. Did people always 
eat when their souls ached? Wasn’t it 
strange that when everything you had 
to live for had crumbled around your 
feet, you kept on feeding your body so 
that you would live anyway ? It seemed 
that it would be more logical to stop 
eating so that death would come and 
help you bear your miserable burden. 
But habit somehow got the better of 
you and you went on living. 

The door to the tearoom opened and a 
man entered. Edith looked up and gave 
a startled cry. It was Peter. 

“Dearest,” he said, walking over to 
her table quickly and sitting down by 
her side. “I have been searching every- 
where for you. Why did you slip away 
so quietly?” 

He poured out a cup of Russian tea, 
the recipe for which the hostess had 
brought back from England. Funny — 
that she should remember such a detail 
at a time like this. After drinking the 
tea, Peter looked up at her with 


troubled eyes. Sensing something in his 
glance, Edith spoke. 

“What is it, Peter? Have you been 
thinking, too?” 

Then she wondered if she had really 
been thinking. 

“I have been with John,” he finally 
answered. “Edith, he told me how won- 
derful he thought we had been. He said 
we were all he had to live for now. His 
whole life is wrapped up in the love we 
have for him.” 

Edith looked at the leaves in the bot- 
tom of her teacup. Was what she saw 
there the symbol that the old gypsy had 
taught her meant sorrow, or was that 
only her imagination? Slowly a tear 
found its way to her eye and down her 
cheek. She looked up. Peter was 
watching her as intently as John had 
watched the jury when it brought in its 
verdict that morning. 

“Good-bye, Pete,” she said simply. 

That was all she said — all she had to 
say. He rose without a word and headed 
for the door. Then he turned and came 
back. Leaning down he softly kissed 
the top of Edith’s head. Then he was 
gone. 

For a while after Peter left, Edith 
sat staring in front of her. The stark 
tragedy of what she had done gradually 
burned itself deep into her brain. She 
had sent Peter away. That phrase kept 
repeating itself dully on her numbed 
consciousness. She had sent Peter away. 
Of course that did not mean that she 
would never see him again; it did not 
mean that they would be forever separ- 
ated in the flesh; rather it meant that 
they would be forever separated in the 
spirit Worse than having him taken 
away from her, she would have to see 
him, hear his voice, know that he was 
near her yet forever parted from her. 
This was a sort of living hell she would 
have to undergo, the tortures of which 
would be worse than death itself. 

Death! That was something she had 
not thought of before. Maybe that was 
the solution to her problem. Maybe 
that was a way out of the horrible 
tangle into which she had become im- 
meshed. But no — there was John. She 


Page Twenty-six 


The Wes i. eyas 


was all he had to live for now. Her life 
belonged to him, and it wouldn’t be fair 
to deprive him of the possession he had 
sacrificed so much for. Oh well — 

She stood up and unconsciously rang 
the little silver bell. In a moment the 
garrulous hostess came in, the check in 
her hand. 

“It’s fifty cents,” she informed Edith. 
“This tea is a little more expensive than 
the plain kind, but it’s so much better 
that I always thought it was worth the 
price.” 

What was she talking about? Oh, 
yes! Edith dimly remembered that she 
had been drinking Russian tea, the reci- 
pe for which had been brought from 
England or China by — was it by the wo- 
man herself or was it her great-grand- 
mother? It really didn’t matter. 

“I hope you will come in for lunch 
some Thursday,” the woman rambled on. 
“That is our special day and we always 
have chicken pie then. Every Thursday 
we serve a regular Sunday dinner.” 


For a second Edith hesitated. 

“Why how splendid,” she finally an- 
swered. “I will be in almost every 
Thursday I suppose. You see my hus— 
I mean — I — I — well I visit a friend in 
this neighborhood then.” 

She had remembered that Thursday 
was visitor’s day at the prison. Every 
Thursday — chicken; every Thursday— 
John. As Edith opened the outer door 
in front of her, it was not the dark 
street that she saw, but the dark years 
stretching out before her. Years and 
years of monotony with nothing to break 
it but a chance glimpse of Peter now 
and then. Years and years of adapta- 
tion, trying to change the sharp pain in 
her heart to only a dull ache. 

She saw in her future nothing to live 
for — absolutely nothing. Everything 
seemed so trivial, so lifeless. 

Softly she closed the door behind her. 
Every Thursday — chicken; every Thurs- 
day — John. 


REST 

Rest 

Is a dream 

Which hunted humans seek 

In night’s peace-pretending darkness — 

In dawn’s fickle silence — 

In twilight’s false naivete — 

Rest 

Is a dream 

Which hunted humans realize 

Only in 

Infinity. 


— Modena McPherson. 


The Wesleyan 


Page Twenty-seven 


lavender 


ROMANCE 

The voice of the sea sings beckoning me, 
The mountains high point up to the sky. 
While deserts of the east with burning 
sands 

Set my heart yearning for foreign lands. 
For foreign ports and foreign ships 
For damsels fair with ruby lips, 

For jewels costly, gold that’s fine — 

To have — to own — to call it mine. 

How can I stay and dream at home 
When my heart cries out for the world 
to roam! 

— Charmian Stuart. 


In a garden far down by the gate 
Two loitering lovers stood whispering 
late. 

She raised up to him her eyes of deep 
blue 

And pointing her hand, 

Counted stars — one — two — 

Then turning aside, 

And plucking a rose. 

She sighed to herself — 

“Why won’t he propose?” 

— Charmian Stuart. 


ALONE 

I sit at sunset 
And watch the day 
Turn into night, 

And know that for me 
There will be no sun — 

Only the memory 
Of a strange, old past 
That brought me life 
And new ideals and dreams. 
Now, even these must go 
And as they vanish 
In the starless night, 

So, I must face the dark 
And smile and never fear 
The days to come; 

I must go on and on. 

— Harriet Campbell. 


ONLY MEMORY 

Tiny mist of a moon 
Silver turning to gold 
Sinking into shadows 
Far, far too soon. 

The black night is cold 
And I grow lonely 
A shiver passes o’er me; 

I am left a memory only. 

— Frances Zachry. 


There is poetry in trees, 

In silvery brooks, 

On the whispering breeze, 

In cool shaded nooks 
There is poetry in nature, music and 
art — 

But the truest to me 
Is that found in your heart. 

— Charmian Stuart. 


A DAY AND A LIFE 

The morning star, 

a setting moon, and a rising sun — 
promise of a day to be won. 

The evening star, 

a rising moon, and a setting sun 
tell of a day that is done. 

Youth and age, 

tell of a life just begun, 
and of a race nearly run. 

— Frances Zachry, ’32. 


LIFE 

Life reminds me of a wheel 
That turns over and over, 

Sometimes running smoothly 
Sometimes hitting rocks and passing, 
But never ceasing to revolve, 

And in turning covers miles 

Until at length,— so rugged and worn 

It barely makes the way. 

Then, like us— it is put aside to rest 
But we go on into Eternity. 

— Harriet Campbell. 


Vage Twenty-eight 


The Wesleyak 


EXCHANGE 


Although we have only received a few 
fall exchanges, those that we have are 
very good. In The Aurora of Agnes 
Scott college, we liked the editorial and 
poetry, especially, 

REBELLION 
Myra Jervey 

And what is it to them if I did love you? 
That they should snoop around, and 
peek, and pry, 

And click their tongues, and say they 
always knew 

That you were weak, and smooth their 
skirts, and sigh. 

And what is it to them if you are gone? 
That they should say that it is better so, 
And that I must not cry when I am 
alone 

For time will ease the smarting of the 
blow. 

I do not want their sympathy and tears. 
Crass hypocrites! Ghouls, gloating in 
my pain! 

Seeking romance through lengths of 
dried up years, 

Vicarious the only joys they gain. 

God knows, if I shall live to be as they, 
You should have killed me, before you 
went away! 


We acknowledge The Chimes of Shor- 
ter college and The Prelude of Alabama 
Woman's college. 


In The Submeco of Sue Bennett col- 
lege the So They Say is a very unusual 
feature. Another unique feature for a 
magazine is Campus Briefs, which is a 
society column. We liked the articles 
in The Submeco, especially In The 
Realms of the Vanished. The book re- 
view of The Great Hunger showed 
great depth of human understanding. 

There are many intriguing thoughts 
embodied in the article, Work, of The 
Erothesian of Lander college. 

We particularly liked the freshman 
number of The Distaff of Florida State 
College for Women. The “rat” idea was 
carried out in the book from cover to 
cover. The article, Sketches, brought 
actual pictures into our minds as we 
read it. The story, Fo* Mista’ Jesus 
Sake, held our interest throughout its 
pages. The poetry in this issue of The 
Distaff was very good. We especially 
enjoyed, 

DEATH 

I always think of Death 
As like the fog I love — 

A cool caress upon my cheek, 

A veil, encircling and enshrouding 
Until familiar objects fade, 

Until there is no space 
But space itself — 

Beautiful, serene. 


— Carleen Vinal. 


The W k s l e y a n 


Page Twenty-nine 


BOOKSHELF 


The Fifth Son of the Shoemaker 

By Donald Corley 
Reviewed by Rietta Bailey 


I F you have heard nightingales in a 
pine forest, if you have known pur- 
ple violets in spring, soft and wet 
and hushed, if you have dreamed with 
the smell of music in the air, and if you 
have stumbled on the magic of life, then 
lost it — Donald Corley in his Fifth Son 
of the Shoemaker” gives it to you again. 

Mr. Corley is a Georgian, a graduate 
of Emory University. He has lived in 
New York since leaving Emory* He is 
a musician and artist as well as a writer. 
His “House of Lost Identity” and “The 
Haunted Jester” are collections of short 
stories, both of them illustrated by him. 
“The Dance of the Drowned” from the 
“Haunted Jester” and “The Legend of 
the Little Horses” from the “House of 
Lost Identity” more nearly approach the 
“Fifth Son of the Shoemaker” than any 
of the other stories. 

“The Fifth Son of the Shoemaker” 
holds the magic of all life and the beauty 
of its pain. The plot you may remem- 
ber but probably won’t. There is only 
the realization and relief that here, 
beautifully told, are all the things you 
have felt for so many years. There is 
a perfect understanding of grief and 
pain and happiness, and a complete har- 
mony of them all. 

The story is of Pytor Mestravvik, the 
artist child of old Ivan Mestravvik, a 
Russian shoemaker living in Orchard 
Street in New York. Pytor is the fifth 
son and there exists between him and 
the old man “that queer something that 
has no name” . . . and hardly ever was 
speech necessary between them.” 

Pytor, a thin, dark child “with eyes 


like black olives” heard symphonies in 
the sounds of Orchard Street, the cry 
of “vilets, vilets,” the “dunk, dunk” of 
his father’s hammer, the lonely song of 
the river under the bridge with the 
crashing overtones of the heavy traffic 
above it. 

Pytor’s and Ivan’s lives are made full 
by the coming of Miss ’Cindy, a fairy 
princess to both of them. She under- 
stands the artist in them and opens the 
way for the fulfillment of their dreams. 
She brings Pytor to the master violin- 
ist, Mutke, who recognizes the genius 
in the boy and makes a finished musician 
of him. Through her influence Nischka 
the great singer comes to Orchard 
Street for a pair of Ivan’s shoes and 
Ivan becomes the master designer of 
shoes for the theatre and for society. 
Nischka is his inspiration and his 
dream. 

In spite of the fame and wealth which 
come to the Mestravvik family and 
which makes the other four sons want 
to build and make more money, Pytor 
and Ivan keep the beautiful simplicity 
lost to most master artists and the fu- 
ture is for them “a Golden Age where 
gold is not the Price . . . nor the Penalty 
. . . nor the Scourge of living, but only 
the sun phining on a beautiful wall.” 

Read “The Fifth Son of the Shoe- 
maker” and go through that door beyond 
your fairytale childhood where there is 
true eternal magic, here in the life of 
you. The story is a lovely fragile thing, 
delicately toned. 


Page Thirty 


The Wesleyan 


The Triumphant Footman 

By Edith Olivier 
Reviewed by Marguerite Rhodes 


A FOOTMAN who attends a party 
in honor of a noted museum direc- 
tor in the guise of the celebrity 
himself, presiding over the occasion with 
a charming distinction, and even show- 
ering honors upon his own unsuspecting 
master and mistress; who meets with 
adventure on the London stage and de- 
ceives an actor’s own mother in taking 
a pal’s part for a night; and who in- 
herits his grateful mistress’s fortune, 
assumes a title, and lives the elegant 
role of a viscount for the rest of his 
days. Such is the character whose ups 
and downs comprise the chief interest of 
The Triumphant Footman. Alphonse 
has a happy, adventuring outlook on 
life. He is too kind-hearted to cause 
anyone a moment’s intentional pain. He 
is infinitely clever and successful in 
whatever project his imagination de- 
vises. He is very real and loveable. 

This rather delightful book, however, 
falls infinitely short of the expectations 
of the reader of Dwarf’s Blood. There 
is nothing deep, powerful, of even very 
serious in The Triumphant Footman. 
While reading it, one seems almost to 
regard it as its nonchalant hero regards 
life, that is, as something interesting, 
something to be enjoyed for all that is 
in it, but something to laugh at rather 
than to take seriously. It is not on the 
plane of a subject of great depth or 
height; in its most dramatic moments, 
the reader feels amused curiosity rather 
than suspense. 

Perhaps the most real, the most in- 
tensely felt part of the book is its char- 
acters. Of course, Alphonse comes first, 
but he is not alone. One can exactly 
picture the frail, tyrannical little old 
woman, Mrs. Leniaur, who so enjoys her 
invalidism— smug, steeped in luxuries, 
complaining, utterly selfish, yet with 
that pathetic appeal which so bound her 
husband to her. One can also picture 


Captain Lemaur, Alphonse’s master, the 
kindly, stupid soul entirely devoted for 
life to the needs and whims of his bed- 
ridden wife, even drawn unnaturally in 
his willing servitude to her into some 
of her cramped and severe views. Then 
there is Dove, the grim-looking, but 
gentle and sensitive maid; there is 
George, the slangy Cockney actor, who 
wants to “paint the town red” on his 
friend Alphonse’s “oof.” Count Pendini, 
the quiet, gentle collector of butterflies, 
is thrown especially upon the reader’s 
sympathy because of his goodness and 
his misfortunes. The amiable, studious, 
trusting professor, Walter de Bisque, 
with his hobbies of begonias and the 
study of his family history, is likable 
and real. It is his daughter, Mirabelle, 
who makes Alphonse such a suitable 
wife, spirited, ingenious, humorous, and 
philosophical. Such is the variety of 
personalities sympathetically and real- 
istically portrayed in the book. 

There are a great many other artistic 
qualities in The Triumphant Footman. 
The language is natural and vivid; it 
gives an impression of color and reality 
without being at all flowery. The setting 
too, Europe in Victoria’s day, is good, 
though unobtrusive. It is true that one 
feels the events might just as well be 
happening at the present day as a half 
century ago. Yet several complications 
are avoided by this time decision, and 
the reader is made to feel very realis- 
tically a different literary and social at- 
mosphere in Italy, a different stage at- 
mosphere in London, a different social 
atmosphere around the English court, 
and a very distinctive conservative at- 
mosphere among the old titled class of 
the countryside, who considered bi- 
cycling along the border line of pro- 
priety. In all the amusing situations an 
opportunity is never missed for humor, 
which sometimes consists in the por- 


The Wesleyan 


Page Thirty -one 


trayal of human nature, and sometimes, 
not necessarily as a different kind, in the 
portrayal of the purely ridiculous. 
There is an infinite number of surprises 
in the book, presented in a delightfully 
skillful way. One train of events, that 
of Alphonse’s successful flirtation with 
the leading lady who turns out to be an 
understudy, would in itself be a very 
pleasing short story of the O. Henry 
type. 

It is true that the happenings in the 
first part of the book, accounts of Al- 
phonse’s separate adventures up through 
the death of Mrs. Lemaur, seem rather 
unconnected. But in the second part, 
which tells of his courtship, his mar- 
riage, and his troubles as Vicomte de 
Beaujeu, all the former events of the 
book are cleverly brought forward and 
made to play their part in the plot. The 


last struggle, which is climatic, occurs 
while Alphonse and Mirabelle are on 
their honeymoon in Italy. As Vicomte 
Alphonse has assumed the same disguise 
as he had when he once posed as the 
museum director. He is recognized as 
the imposter of long ago by Count Pen- 
dini, accused of having been concerned 
in a plot to steal some precious pieces 
of art, and imprisoned. At the point 
when his situation seems hopeless, he is 
forced to shave. At the trial, Count 
Pendini recognizes him as the faithful 
footman of the Lemaurs and declares 
that the authorities have detained the 
wrong man. As is fitting in such a 
story, Alphonse is released amid the 
great rejoicing of his old friends, and 
he and Mirabelle life very happily ever 
afterwards. 


American Beauty 

By Edna Ferber 
Reviewed by Betty Hunt 


E DNA FERBER’S newest novel, 
American Beauty, may be aptly de- 
scribed by calling it a short story 
with a novel inserted. The short story 
is merely the tale of a self-made man 
who returns to the New England of his 
birth to buy the property which belonged 
to the Oakes family at the time when 
he lived there. Along with him, comes 
his daughter, a modern architect. 

They discover that the farmland is in 
possession of Orrange Olzak, son of a 
Pole and an Oakes, and that he is being 
forced to sell because of financial em- 
barrassment. The short story ends with 
a mere suggestion of a future love af- 
fair between the young girl architect 
and Orrange Olzak. 

In the meantime, however, the novel 
is inserted. It is the family history of 
the proud old Oakes, a family headed 
in 1700 by Orrange Oakes and “Judith, 


his amiable consort.” Down through the 
generations, this proud old line is traced, 
along with their struggle to obtain and 
hold the land upon which they live. 
After the background of the family is 
given, Miss Ferber chooses as a pivot 
for her story, Tamar, child of a younger 
Oakes daughter who ran off with a 
showman. After her mother’s death, 
Tamar returns to her maiden aunt in 
Connecticut. She is the last of the 
Oakes family and her marriage to one 
of the immigrant Poles, so numerous in 
the New England of that time, proves 
such a shock to the aunt that she dies. 

Tamar, is the mother of one son — 
Orrange Olzak, whom she rears amidst 
all the family traditions of a true Oakes. 
It is this boy that the self-made man 
and his daughter wish to buy land from. 

Without a doubt, Miss Ferber’s new 
novel may be classed as an achievement 


Faze Thirty-two 


T HE W E S L E YAN 


even for an author as skillful as she is. 
Her novel treatment of the story — that 
of interrupting a single incident with a 
full length novel — lends unusual interest, 
and in the characterization of her people 
she succeeds in creating a very “life- 
likeness.” 

Tamar, in particular, tears at our 
very heartstrings. Daughter of a trav- 
eling showman, reared among people 
accustomed to the dregs of high-living, 
her childish struggle to conform to the 
strict traditions of her aunt are a trifle 
pathetic. And as the years pass by, the 
transition of the half-grown child into 
a full-grown woman is as gentle as that 
in real life. 

Contrasted with the foreign Poles, 
even maried to one of them, her true 
New England blood comes to the fore. 


Her obdurateness in refusing to sell a 
single acre of the old Oakes farmland, 
her insistence in instilling into her son’s 
mind all the lore of his famous old fam- 
ily are only the human reactions of a 
woman placed among people whom she 
unconsciously considers somewhat be- 
low her own level. 

A crisp style, brittle conversation, and 
dynamic description, all help to make 
American Beauty a thoroughly enjoy- 
able book. Fairly light, but not so much 
so as to border on the silly, it seems to 
be unusually suited to fall reading. Al- 
though this book may not be as near 
our hearts and therefore may not con- 
tain all the poignancy of Miss Ferber's 
other success, So Big, still there is no 
doubt that it will have a place of its own 
in contemporary literature. 


The Good Earth 

By Pearl S. Buck 
Reviewed by Louise Pittman 


T HIS story of Chinese peasant life 
is a powerful epic of the soil, 
and in particular, of one man’s 
pride in and love for his land. The 
poignant cross-section of Chinese life 
presented in this novel genuinely stirs 
the emotions of the reader; we answer 
to its words — simple but extremely ef- 
fective — its moods, its picturesque de- 
scriptions, its magic whisperings of life 
in the Orient as one answers to the com- 
panionship of a friend. 

The very fact that an occidental wo- 
man can portray the life of an Oriental 
farmer so that it appears casual and 
natural and makes us through her real- 
istic touches experience the smell of 
the earth and of the rich rice fields is 
startling and surprising and alone is 
sufficient to make this a truly great 
book. Not even in the very first are we 
aware of any strangeness and we feel 
that this story is an inevitable tragedy 


that might have happened in any land. 
It is a universal story, very well told, 
honestly, sympathetic, without any self- 
consciousness whatever. The life of 
Wung-Lung unfolds naturally and 
marches steadily on from one season to 
the next. The story is one of nature, 
with its times of famine and plenty, 
flood and drouth, and of a Chinese pea- 
sant who loved the land above anything 
else. The characters appear human and 
very real, as people who, from the first, 
have our sympathy. The story becomes 
so vitally real to the reader that when 
the last page is finished it is as if some 
significant part of one’s own days were 
over, and then again we are truly thank- 
ful that Fate does not always deal such 
a hand to helpless mortals. As we read 
the book we live under the charm that 
it holds over us. 

Wang-Lung, a young farmer, marries 
O-Lan, a slave girl of the great House 


The Wesleyan 


Pa Thirty-three 


of Hwang. He sees that it is true there 
is not beauty of any kind in her face — 
a brown, common, patient face that 
seems habitually silent. In his heart he 
is proud of his woman. She has a good 
enough voice, not loud, not soft, plain 
and not ill-tempered. The woman's 
hair is neat and smooth and her coat 
clean. He sees with an instant’s disap- 
pointment that her feet are not bound, 
but he realizes she will be a strong 
helper for him. 

At first the earth is good and they en- 
joy prosperity. Then, with a crop fail- 
ure, comes dire poverty and famine 
forces them South to beg their food. 

At this point in the story we get to 
know and understand O-Lan in a dif- 
ferent light. During an up-rising in the 
South the poorer class or the common 
people force their way into the deserted 
homes of the rich and ransack them for 
all their valuables. O-Lan rushes in 
with the mob and slips out from behind 
a loosened brick a number of priceless 
jewels hidden there. She hides them be- 
tween her breasts and later when Wang- 
Lung discovers them he takes them away 
from her to exchange them for land. 
O-Lan, who has cherished these rare 
jewels because of their exquisite loveli- 
ness gives them up rather reluctantly 
and after much hesitation humbly asks 
permission to keep the two small white 
pearls. Wang- Lung for an instant looks 
into the heart of this dull, faithful crea- 
ture who has labored all her life at 
some task at which she has won no re- 
ward and who has seen in the great 
house others wearing jewels which she 
has never even felt in her hands once. 
Wang-Lung is moved by something he 
cannot understand and is touched by this 
appreciation buried deep in the heart of 
a woman starved for the beautiful in 
life, and he gives them to her and she is 
comforted. 


The girl-child born during this time of 
famine and want is called the “poor 
fool” because her weak mind broke un- 
der the strain of mal-nutrition. She 
wears an eternally happy though blank 
expression and is utterly helpless. Wang- 
Lung’s devotion to this pitiful little 
slave is very commendable, and makes 
the reader love him for his tenderness 
to her. 

During all of these hard times of de- 
pression and famine Wang-Lung never 
gives up his land and eventually is en- 
abled to go back to it again, prosper 
year by year, and build up a great 
landed manor; to hoard silver, own 
slaves and to awaken a lust for beautiful 
women. 

When prosperity comes to him and he 
can idle all day he looks at O-Lan and 
sees for the first time that she is a wo- 
man whom no man can call other than 
she is, a dull and common creature, who 
plods in silence without thought of how 
she appears to others. He begins to call 
at the great Tea Houses and there he 
is tempted by Cuckoo and charmed by 
Lotus, a “small, slender thing, with a 
body light as a bamboo and a little face 
as pointed as a kitten's face.” She be- 
comes his second wife and for her he 
buys all of the comforts and luxuries she 
desires. O-Lan hates this woman and in 
a fitful sleep just before her death she 
mutters “Well, and if I am ugly, still I 
have been a man’s lawful wife and I 
have borne him sons. How can that one 
feel him and care for him as I do? 
Beauty will not bear a man sons!” 

Wang-Lung's sons are a disappoint- 
ment to him. They grow up, are edu- 
cated and marry — but not one has his 
father’s love for the soil. Over the dying 
body of the old one these sons plan to 
sell this land and move as rich men to 
the city. 


Page Thirty-four 


The Wesleyan 


EDITORIAL 


The Trend of Modern Literature 

W hat is the modern drama like? What are its main characteristics? And 
what arc some examples of modern drama? 

To begin with, modern drama differs from the older drama in that it is 
more unified, more compact, and more to the point. Aptness of situation for the 
characters, and ease of comprehension for itself seem to be the two qualities that 
a present-day audience requires in entertainments. 

And the main characteristics that one finds, are intelligence, insight, and 
rapid, absorbing action. No longer do people care to sit and see a play gradually 
develop up to the climax, and then just as gradually sink back to the first level of 
interest. Dynamic action and swift revelation of character are prime requisites of 
the contemporary stage. After the climax comes the immediate denoument or 
even the climax itself is the denoument. There is no tedious falling action as was 
exemplified in the old Greek and Roman plays and in the Shakespearean plays. 

Many of the latest plays are expositions or defenses of modern psychological 
conceptions, although this is not always true. The main trend of the drama in the 
last year seems to be a reversion from the very light type of the play to a more 
serious sort. Some authorities seem to believe that this fact is due to the financial 
depression throughout the country; they are inclined to believe that in times of 
worry, men and women think too deeply to flock to flighty shows. 

As for examples of contemporary drama— probably Burns Mantles anthology 
of the ten best plays of 1930-1931, is the most recognized authority. He gives as 
his selection the following: 

Maxwell Anderson— Elizabeth the Queen 

Philip Barry 1 omorrow and Tomorrow 

Moss Hart and George Kaufman — Once in a Lifetime 

Lynn Riggs — Green Grow the Lilacs 

Susan Glasbell — Alison’s House 

Rachel C rot hers — As Husbands Go 

Louis Weitzenkorn — Five-Star Final 

William Bolitho — Overture 

Rudolph Besier— The Barrets of Wimpole Street 

Vicki Baum — Grand Hotel 

1 t0 b°°k’ Mantle gives his reason for choosing the 

plays that he did. He said : 

lizabeth the Queen is the most satisfying historical drama of several 

seasons. 

“Tomorrow and Tomorrow’ translates an Old Testament miracle into 


The Wesleyan 


Page Thirty -five 


terms of modern life and has ethical conclusions provocative of interesting argu- 
ment. 

44 ‘Once in a Lifetime* is the light comedy success of the season. 

44 ‘Green Grow the Lilacs’ is a poetic adaptation of folic drama dealing with 
a new division of the American scene. 

44 ‘As Husbands Go’ is a comedy light in weight, yet weighty in purpose. 

44 ‘Alison’s House* (Pulitzer award) represents the educational value and 
power of the stage. 

44 ‘Five-Star Final’ is representative of American melodrama inspired by 
righteous indignation. It is a crusade against that so-called phase of ‘yellow jour- 
nalism’ which is of vital interest to many American newspaper readers. 

44 ‘Overture* although not successful, remains a thoughtful, provocative, and 
generally important contribution to the season’s drama. 

44 ‘The Barretts of Wimpole Street,’ a sentimentally moving recital of the 
Elizabeth Barrett-Robert Browning romance, is one of the better type biographical 
dramas. 

44 ‘Grand Hotel’ represents a definite play-writing trend at the moment, being 
an adaptation of the cinema technique which cuts a play into many short scenes. 

Of course the modern drama could not be mentioned without mentioning 
Eugene O’Neill. He is the great exception to the rule. He follows the precepts 
of none of the modern schools; he creates his own school and his own precepts. 
His dramas have no thesis; they are merely the reactions of powerful human beings 
placed in character-twisting positions. He puts his climax where he chooses. He 
lets his action rise and fall at the inflection of his will. And yet he creates the 
illusion of rapid action. He is an artist unto himself and cannot be compared to 
the lesser lights. 



Page Thirty-six 


The Wesleyan 


Christmas Gifts tor College Chums 


For Your "Junior Sister''! 

GIVE FAN TAN SILK HOSIERY: 

An exclusive MANGEL feature which 
means an exclusive value-feature. It gives 
longer service and more satisfaction than 
other silk hose at any price. And its 
price is always lower than other hose of 
the same quality. 

MANGEL'S is a year-around treasure house for exqui- 
site lingerie and guaranteed FAN TAN hosiery. Here 
you arc sure to find just the right thing at prices which 
defy comparison owing to Mangel's-IIO-store buying power. 

Any Room-Mate Would 
Love These! 

GIVE LINGERIE: 

MANGEL'S are the largest re- 
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United States. Our huge buy- 
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better quality for less money. 
Our stocks are complete in 
styles, colors, sizes and price 
ranges. Mangel's underthings 
are always boxed attractively. 





MACON 


201 Peachtree St., ATLANTA 


The Wesleyan 


Page Thirty-seven 


WEDDING INVITATIONS 

Reception, At Home and Visiting Cards 
Monogrammed Stationery 

J. P. Stevens Engraving Co. 


103 Peachtree Street 


Atlanta. Georgia 


CapitoL 

FRIDAY and SATURDAY 

with 

Charles Rogers 

and 

Paul Lucas 


in 


"WORKING 

GIRLS" 


Economy Shoe 


Shop 

508 Cherry Street 

= 

Phone 2300 = 


FREE: With every half 
sole job we will give 
you a shoe shine card 
good for 10 free shines. 


Persons Luncheonett 

A Fried Chicken Luncheon 

Cooked Georgia Style 
Each Saturday at 

PERSONS 


Page Thirty-eight 


The Wesleyan 


Let— 

WARLICK’S 

Solves your 

CHRISTMAS 

PROBLEM 

with a 

PICTURE 


. DAVIS • 

< &hes Leading Specialty Shop 
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Dresses, Coats, 
Suits 

PEACHTREE STREET 
ATLANTA, GA. 


Oh, Girls! 

How about inviting your Junior ^ 
or Senior Sister over for Sun- r 
day Night Supper • 

Tell her you will have some Delicious 
things to eat— all to come from a . . . 

ROGERS' STORE