the andrean

Vol. Ill Spring Term

I94O

No. Ill

In taking over the ANDREAN forthe year 1940-1941, we, the presenteditors, hope to continue along thesame heights that our predecessors

have scaled.

N D R E A N

ST. ANDREW'S PUBLICATION

1940-1941

EDITORIAL BOARD

Managing EditorHenry L. McCorkle

Executive EditorAnthony R. Parrish

Literary EditorJames Duffy

Business ManagerArthur Dodge

Photography EditorWilliam Dodge

Art EditorDonal Philips

Advertising ManagerCharles Kallman

Feature WriterDavis Platt

Staff

Sam HazardLaudon Wainwright

THE ANDREAN is published by the student body ofSt. Andrew's School, Middletown, Delaware, three

times during the school year.

VOL. Ill SPRING TERM, 1940 No. Ill

the andrean salutesIts Founder And Faculty Adviser, Mr. Large

Perhaps we so-called writers should have littletrouble in composing an article bidding farewellto Mr. Large. Other times we have glibly rattledoff a story or an essay which may or may not havebeen worthy of THE ANDREAN, but which wasnevertheless printed. Yet now when there is somuch to be said, we can say nothing.

We suppose that one without thinking wouldcall it regret. But it goes deeper than that; forwhen Mr. Pell announced in chapel that Mr.Large had accepted a Wilmington Parish andwould leave the school in June, a sense of loss andbewilderment stirred in our hearts.

THE ANDREAN was fathered by Mr. Large. Hewas the one who inculcated in the minds of PeterBrown, Henry Gibson, William Sibert, and thelate Charles Turner the idea of publishing a schoolliterary magazine representative of the school'screative literary ability. Carefully he laid theformat and devised the unique captions of THEANDREAN. Upon the cover he placed a photo-graph, something comparatively new in schoolmagazines. When THE ANDREAN won a second-place award in the Columbia Scholastic Press Con-ference no one, we had felt, had more right to beproud than Mr. Large, for we all realized that itwas through his efforts that this distinction hadbeen achieved.

It has always been a sarcastic criticism of theschool that THE ANDREAN was a class of 1940monopoly. Self-termed critics indignantly refusedto write for the magazine because one didn't dosuch a thing. Mr. Large did more than any otherperson to break down this attitude of complacentaloofness which maintained that working for THEANDREAN was beneath one's social dignity. Pa-tiently he solicited articles from forms other thanthe fourth. Slowly he broke down this wall of in-difference until he now leaves us a large group ofcontributors representing not only the original

THE REVEREND JOHN E. LARGE, B.S., B.D., M.A.

CHAPLAINManual Training High SchoolTrinity CollegeColumbia UniversityEpiscopal Theological SeminaryVirginia Theological Seminary

fourth form (or present sixth) but also manymembers of the third, fourth, and fifth forms.

Now as we send Mr. Large's last ANDREAN topress, we feel it appropriate to express our grati-tude for his help and interest. We do not find ita simple task, for to say merely, "Goodbye andgood luck," does not seem enough; yet to saymore seems superfluous. Therefore we are forcedto embody all our unexpressed sentiment in bid-ding him, "So long, sir."

ANTHONY PARRISHJAMES DUFFY

Editors

Two

And As I Stared Ahead Into Nothing, SheStepped Into Sight. The Breeze Gently BlewSeveral Locks Of Her Hair Over Her Face,Hiding The Few Freckles On Her Nose.

The sun had gone behind the cedars as I step-ped from the doorway and started down the dusty-lane. The symmetrical beauty of the trees blendedwith the tranquillity of the hour. In the distancea farm bell called some belated worker to hisdinner. A light evening mist settled on the grassthreading each blade with drops of moisture.The marsh frogs and whippoorwills had not yetstarted their evening songs, and the silence ofan early evening gave inspiration for poeticthoughts. I started to whistle a lively air butit seemed so foreign to the picture that I stopped,and the mute beauty of the scene reclaimed itsown.

Where the road made a sharp dip into the val-ley, a small, winding path turned off and ledinto the dark magnificence of the forest. I turnedoff here, leapt easily over a sagging rail fence,and followed the windings of the trail. Small fieldmice, unseen in daytime, scampered nimbly acrossmy shoetops and disappeared into a tangled mazeof briars. A rabbit, unafraid, and even disdain-ful of me, loped easily along several yards infront of me, his white tail and heels bobbing upand down in unison. How close to nature it allseemed. How simple in its radiating aura offriendliness. Here, man and animal, big andsmall, enjoyed in common brotherhood the landthat was created for them.

I neared the forest, with its mighty oak sen-tinels rustling a soft warning in the warm breeze.I penetrated into the cool sombreity of an agelessworld. Far above me, through a pattern of younggreen leaves, the first stars of a perfect eveningtwinkled in diamond-like splendour. Their bril-liance probably came from some cold, dead planetmillions of miles in space, but my thoughts, madebuoyant by the perfection of the life around me,reverted quickly into the tedium and chaos of theworld that was so near and yet so far. I threw my-self on the luxurious moss at the foot of themightiest oak and wept.

How long I stayed there I don't know. I satup, wretched and bitter. A refreshing draft ofair carried to my nostrils the subtle emanationof violets hidden somewhere in the darkness. An

owl could be heard screeching raucous promisesof love to his mate. Her answer comes back inin a high whining shriek that made me shiver.The more dulcet tones of some bird unknown tome softened the harsh impact of the owls' cry-ings. The monotonous twang of a whippoor-will brought to my memory a childhood spent ina small New Hampshire town, where that nasalquality of the voice was ever-present.

I should have liked to have sat there all eve-ning and reflect in my solitude on the grandeurof the picture. However, I could not. I hadcome into the forest to struggle with a problemthat had arisen rather tragically on my horizon.Here, in the quiet, I hoped to solve it in such away that no one would be hurt or left with hope-less scars of the affair. My problem was an an-cient one, probably met and combatted manytimes in the past. But I doubt if it was eversolved satisfactorily for the ones involved.

I was training for a career in the Roman Cath-olic Church. I had been brought up a strict Pres-byterian, and, rebelling against its reins of bigot-ted, selfish inconsistency, I had been caught in amaelstrom of conflicting religious emotions. Iturned to the more liberal Catholicism, and en-tered a seminary to serve and learn. The orderof celibacy had not bothered me at the time. Ihad never associated with girls as a boy, and asI grew older I developed a self-conscious complexregarding them. And then, prior to exams, whileI was visiting my sister at her husband's countryestate, I fell in love.

The moon was now directly overhead, and itgave to that forest a pale, indescribable radiance.Each green leaf was trimmed with a silver hem,while the majestic hemlocks were covered witha garland of threaded moonlight. My thoughtsturned to dwell on Anne, and I wished that shewere beside me, sharing with me this soft perfec-tion of nature's stage. I wanted her then morethan anything else in the world. And as I staredahead into nothing she stepped into sight. Thebreeze gently blew a few locks of her dark redhair over her face, hiding the few freckles on her

(Continued on Page 16)

Three

he is trampling out the vintage...John Steinbeck Is Known To Some As A Realist

To Whom Blood is Merely Ketchup, To Others

As A Proletarian With Class Consciousness.

The most exciting thing about an author isto watch the steady unfolding of his talents. Itis exciting because it is rare. Van Wyck Brooksonce said, "The blighted career—the unfulfilledpromise—is in American writing." His prophecyturned out to be true. Writers, who producedone or two books—writers who kept doing thesame book over and over (enter Mr. SinclairLewis), left their admirers holding the bag.

Among the novelists of his generations, themost notable exception to this rule is John Stein-beck. He has never flashed in the pan. Sincehis first published book, each successive one hasrevealed a new talent. The humor and pathosof some lovable and disruptable Mexicans, thepoignance of physcological tradegy in "Of Miceand Men" and the versatility manifested in "TheLong Valley".

The world in which Steinbeck was born isMonterey County, California. It is "Steinbeckcountry" today as surely, as Hannibal, Missouri,is "Mark Twain" country. It is the world inwhich John Steinbeck grew up, the world heknows, loves, dreads, sometimes, in its changeshate. Is it a world without neckties where agood quail shooter, a knowing hand with a horse,a knack at story-telling rank higher than the civilvirtues and family trees esteemed in Los Angelesand Boston. It does not rank cleanliness next togodliness, and its everyday vocabulary consists offour-letter words.

The world's great who people John Steinbeck'sbooks are "all little boys who want the moon".Such are Danny and Pilon and Pablo, Big JoePortgage and Jesus Maria Cerenau of "TortillaFlat"; such is Lenny in "Of Mice and Men";such was the old timer who walked up into themountains in "The Long Valley"; such are MaJoad and the preacher in "The Grapes of Wrath".These are John Steinbeck's friends. He is, despitehis name, more Irish than German. Irish Calif or-nians understand the brown hills, and the treesin the canyons, and the divinity of the soil. Withthe Irish toughness and tenderness walk hand inhand.

John Steinbeck is known to part of his audiences

as a realist to whom blood is merely ketchup, toanother part as a mellow, leisurely observer ofthe West, to some as a psychological analysist,and to others as a proletarian with class con-sciousness. Although he is still in the transitorystage, he may also be stamped a realist whosedirectness of impressions makes his novels glowwith life—small-scale life though it is.

"Tortilla Flat" is the story of the "Piasanos"of Monterey—sunny-eyed, lovable, immoral andunreligious. It is the story of Danny, and ofDanny's friends, and Danny's house. They liveon Tortilla Flat where they have a good timewhich respectable citizens deplore, and secretlyenvy. It deals with the adventuring of Danny'sfriends, with their multiple loves and wonderfulbrawls. When one speaks of Danny's house, theyare understood to mean a unit of men from whichcame goodness, philanthropy, and in the end, a"mystic" sorrow. The dialogue of the charactersdemonstrates an acute ear on the part of theauthor. "What branch of the army do you wantto go in?", said the sergeant. "I don't give aG D ", said Pilon jauntily. The setting con-veys an everlasting impression—"The night camedown as they walked in the forest. Their feetfound the pine-needle beds. Now Pilon knew itfor a perfect night. A high fog covered thesky, and behind it the moon shone so that theforest was filled with a gauze-like light. Therewas none of the sharp outline we think of asreality. The tree trunks were not black columnsof wood, but soft and unsubstantial shadows.Ghosts could walk freely tonight, without fear ofthe disbelief of men; for this night was haunted,and it would be an insensitive man who did notknow it." The tale is not as sad as "Mrs. Wiggsof the Cabbage Patch", not as raucous in its humornor as grim in its realism as "Tobacco Road". Itis not as whimsical or pathetic as "One MoreSpring". It comes, closer, perhaps, to the novelsthat deal in spirit of charm and amused sym-pathy.

"Of Mice and Men" is another of John Stein-beck's parables of the earth. It contains a prose

(Continued on Page 21)

Four

for what shall it pfofiteth a man...Wherein A Conscientious Objector Is Caught InThe Web Of Fate At The Time When The GermansAre Hammering At The Gates Of London.

Anderson arose from his cot when he heardfootsteps outside his door. Smoothing over hiswrinkled uniform, he glanced in the small tableat his close-cut hair. A stiff brush made himfeel more military; but he knew deep down thathis vocation was not that of a soldier. Yet thiswas war. There was a knock at his door.

"Come in, sir.""Anderson—we leave at dawn tomorrow—3:22

—for flight over Wilhelmshaven. You will beready."

"But, sir, I thought—I was under the opinionthat we weren't bombing the German coastlineuntil April."

The officer looked up at the boy's sensitive fea-tures, his total misunderstanding of war and war's

problems. "I'm sorry, Anderson," he replied."Headquarters have changed their plans afteryesterday's raid on Birmingham. Don't worry,"the officer continued shutting the door, "for itis now the time for England to be the aggressor."

Don't worry, Anderson murmured to himself;don't worry about bombing women and children.He threw himself on his cot again, leaving hispolished boots to dangle helplessly over the end.Yes, he thought, everything's going to be fine;then, he added sarcastically, and England's goingto be the aggressor. Without glancing towardthe table, he reached for his cigarettes, lit onewith nervous, skinny fingers, and blew the matchout with the precision of a man racked with dis-gust. (Continued on Page 16)

Five

numquam sine honesta mente

In John Gaylord's speech was a live qualitywhich reached beyond his reticent smile and quietmannerisms. This, coupled with a certain eagercontentment in his eyes, aroused warmth in hisacquaintances and interest in those who had notmet him. He was one of those rare people whosecharacters can honestly be evaluated at first meet-ing; one's evaluation of Gaylord was that he wasfriendly and quite honest. Actually, he wasmore than this—to protect his honesty and friend-liness, he surrounded himself with a wall of dig-nity. This dignity was with him at all times; henever let anyone break through it, even his veryoldest and most dear friends. But withal, noone could say that he was in the least reserved.His un-selfconscious and dignified bearing didaway with the need for any reserve. No matterwhat he did, the act was committed always withthis nobleness. He was never known to unbend,as we ordinary mortals know the word, for whenone of us run-of-the-mill beings unbend, we losewhatever dignity we possess. But not John Gay-lord. He could exchange anecdotes with kings orinebriate tramps, and both he would treat thesame.

The natural companion of this dignity was Gay-lord's fearless honesty. This quality had beenwith him in every deal he had made, every deedhe had done, and every association he had had.It was wholly indigenous not only to him, but alsoto all his forbears. The motto on the coat-of-arms of the first Gaylord was:

Numquam sine honesta mente.All through his life honesty had been his watch-

word; it was as much a part of him as an arm oreye. He would never so much as have dreamedof dispensing with this ingrained virtue. Hewould not have been insulted if anyone had sug-gested some action beyond the law on his part—he would only have been sincerely amazed. Andso, it was an obvious corollary that Gaylord's lawpractice should be a success. Among lawyershis reputation was unparalleled. Had he deemedhimself worthy of public service, almost anyoffice could have been his for the asking, for inhis private life he was a peerless diplomat. But

John Gaylord Is Faced WithHis Most Enigmatic Problem.Shall He Or Shall He Not.. ?

John Gaylord's flaw was his self-depreciation. Henever judged himself with the same enthusiasmthat others did, and, therefore, he never attainedthe heights that were rightfully his.

* * *It was the spring of 1923. America was bust-

ling with prosperity. Morals were no longerfashionable. The Volstead Act had caused theshifting of the breweries and distilleries fromfactory to home. Bootlegging was a popular andprosperous business. Bootleggers were regardedas public benefactors. Life was a hurdy-gurdy ofpost-war merriment. The American people wereall in a hurry, rushing headlong through the mazeof life. Crime, lechery, vice were the three muses

(Continued on Page 18)

Six

the assault of the curl...CANTO IOne day upon a summer's morn,When dew hung heavy on the thorn,And grapes grew thick upon the vine,And sun had not begun to shine,I roused me from my slumber deep,Got up, a rendezvous to keep;Put on my clothes, an apple ate,Ran from the house a minute late.Through the sleeping town I speed,Barely even out of bed.On and on and on I ran,Past the gypsy caravan—Down the highway, past the stores,Past monuments of ancient wars.Into the woods at last I cameAnd called aloud my dear one's name.Aroused, my passion mounted, 'till,O'er the heath, by yonder millThe object of my search appeared.Approach I did, and as I neared,A blush perceived I on her cheek.Her usual manner, mild and meek,Was gone, however, vanished—lost.This maid would ne'er again be bossed!"How strange," quoth I myself to me,"That she so cold towards me should be,For once she loved me, begged to wed,And that she loved she often said."Penelope!" in anguish cried I then,"Dost thou forget the moment whenMy faithful wife you said you'd be?Now fetch your things and marry me.""You cad!" she cried, and shed a tear."No closer than one foot come near.Last night the locket at my breastYou robbed and hung upon your chest.A ringlet then of my gold hairYou somehow managed to ensnareAnd place within the little boxWith all the cunning of a fox.I hate you, knave, I hate you so.You robbed my virtue don't you know ?And with ingenuity you tookThe only cause for loving lookThat I had e'er possessed. Oh swine!The shame I bear is really thine.Some hair you took, my virtue snatched.

Uf (^ke Gar/. . .It Was Only A Bit Of Hair, But

What A Giddy Head It CoveredHow e'er can our affair be patched ?I hate you as I said before,Right here before the miller's door,I've said it once; I'll say it more.And never e'er will it be knownThat I'm the wife of Pat Malone.And so it's off, and off for good."Defiant by the door she stood."And if you will, I wish you wouldReturn the locket. Here, false ring,No longer to my finger cling."With that, she tore it from her hand,And threw it down upon the sand.

CANTO III, determined, held my ground,And cried aloud with fearful sound,"I'll not return the locket, norCan I accept the circlet, forI've earned the locket by my love,And you the ring by yours. AboveThere reigns a God, methinks, who's just,He's fated us in happy trustA man and wife to be. And, lass,I say this is no Devil's Mass:If I a vandal seem to thee,You seem a vixen sure to me.For I but wished a little thingPossessed by you—to me, a wingTo Heaven and to Paradise.Don't argue, dear. It isn't wise.The truth in that you must surmise.But still I knew she's ne'er give in,Which added much to my chagrin.I loved her still, I don't know why—Perhaps because I was so shyAnd knew few girls. I soon must wed;I knew that well, for in my steadMy father at nineteen had tiedA knot unbroken till he died.My love was aged in years a score,And I had almost fifteen more."How old I am!" I often cried."Will she never be my bride?"

CANTO IIIWell, now I knew she never wouldFor now at last I understood

(Continued on Page 15)

Seven

shall we go to war today?Or Shall We Close Our Eyes To Europe, Thus

Preparing Ourselves For The Role Of Mediator

When The Ashes Of War Have Cooled?

There are a few questions in life today morefiercely disputed, nor in regard to which the com-mon man differs more widely than "What ofEuropean Peace?" Why is the most fatalistic at-titude taken in so many editorials and radio talks ?Although this question is both delicate and diffi-cult, there is hope. In answering theseriddles, we must consider time and other factors.

First, America has absolutely no cause for en-tering the war. If we do, it won't be a fight for"democracy" or "justice", but rather a war be-tween two imperialistic nations, England and Ger-many, both scared of each other's powers, eachstaunchly determined to lord it over the other,both striving to control the lion's share of com-merce and trade. There is no doubt that theUnited States will be "pulling chestnuts out ofthe fire" should we even consider the possibilityof fighting again.

We are never asked to settle European peace-time probelms. Why at the cost of life shouldwe settle their wartime difficulties? Therefore,point one is for America to hold the torch ofliberty high above the flood of hate. Americamust escape the scourge of war and revolution,and prepare itself for the role of mediator whenthe ashes of war have cooled. And, above all,America must keep the machinery of Democracyworking here in peace and harmony.

I am neither a Franco-phile or an Anglo-maniac,but I feel than an Armistice will not bring peace.Let us look at the facts. Twenty-five years ago,her every artery cut, whipped Germany scurriedacross the Rhine, only to find her country ravagedby revolution. Hitler, the Kaiser grown to gar-gantuan form, was weaned on this seething brothof envy, hatred, and dissatisfaction. And thiswill happen again and again, unless Europe real-izes the fact that the situation has changed. Themodern world has changed; therefore, the remedyalso must be changed. The European continenthas become too small. Like the drawing up of aVenetian blind, nations find themselves within abomb's throw of each other. It was the telegraphthat did this and the telephone. Peacemakers, un-

Eight

fortunately, are striving for a Utopia under old,outworn principles. These problems are becomingdifficult, because of the complicated application oftheory to modern life.

Europe must assemble and proclaim a UnitedStates of Europe. This would do away with thethirst for conquest, hate in the name of pettypatriotism; the standard of living would be raised.In addition, there would be no huge armies for thepeople to support; there would be only one postalsystem, one currency system. This would not onlycut down expenses, but would also speed theprogress of civilization. Trade would still beamong the states (as between ours); borderswould go unguarded, as between America andCanada.

This plan is not an idle dream, a fantasy froma schoolboy. It can work, and along with Chris-tian principles (which were so dreadfully lackingin 1919) it cannot fail. The worst of war, how-ever, is its aftermath. If some such plan as this isnot promulgated, Europe will be ravaged by rev-olution, not parochially, as in Russia of 1918, butuniversally.

If only people would realize that the cancerousattacks of Hitler and the hate of the world are notso much the fault of their leaders, but rather thefact that man has lost his faith in God; man, him-self, is reflected clearly in his leader. Commu-nism, Fascism, and their children are examples ofthis.

In the last war we did not usher in the goldenera of Democracy, but instead produced a bumpercrop of dictators, gave America 140,000 tombs onwhich to weep futile tears, veteran hospitals, filledwith crippled men. Why all this ? Why all thishatred and bloodshed? A simple question witha depthless answer. Man is to blame for thisseething cauldron; man is to blame for the en-tire chaos that is shattering the world today.

Therefore, only through man, himself, can wesecure peace. Yet, to do so the remedy must fitthe cause. Again I say, have a United States ofEurope that will use America as a perfect example

(Continued on Page 21)

i forgot

. . . It All Happened To Me So Suddenly;

My Mind Kept Swirling Inside, Then . . .

I gotta have some butts. A guy needs themwhen he's in a spot like I'm in. I leave Maryand the kids and start walking down toward townto buy some. It's real dark out here on the road,but I don't mind because I can think good atnight. I wonder if any other man has the sametrouble that I'm having. That Joan! Why didshe have to come back here when she was so wellfixed up where she was? And me with a sweetwife and two kids. We was all happy when shewas away. She just has to leave again. Oh, howI need a butt. God, it's dark on this road! Thereain't a light anywhere. Not many cars come outhere this way. Here comes one now. What head-lights! I don't see why that guy has to keep hislights on full. It blinds me. I wonder what he'sstopping for. Maybe he wants directions. Ioughta bawl hell out of him about those lights.Hey! It's Joan! Hello. I never expected to seeyou out here this time of night. Gee, you'relooking swell, Joanie. I'm sorry I ain't been overto see you, but I have a lot of work to do all thetime. I know, I know, kid. I'll come over ifI have time. I'm married now and have a coupleof kids and they take up all my spare minutes.I know, I know, Joanie. You came back to seeme. But you gotta go away again. We have toforget old times. Aw, but Joanie, you gotta! Don'tyou understand I'm all set in life. You don'twant to ruin it for me, do you ?

She just sits there and swears at me. She callsMary and the kids a couple of real bad namesand I get awful hot way down inside. I neversaw her like this before. I gotta shut her up. Ican't stand it any more! I stick my hands throughthe open window and grab her throat and shakeher. In the dim light from the dashboard I cansee her face get real red like she was blushingawful hard. She don't struggle much, just slapsat me feeble-like, and now her head falls backon the cushion. I take one look at her staring,frightened eyes and start running down the roadtoward home. All the way back I keep think-ing of her face as she lay there in the car. Every-thing gets in my way. I trip on rocks, fall in

ditches, and skin my legs. Now I can see thehouse. I run through the gate and throw my-self past the door and into a chair. Mary dashesinto the room and asks me what's wrong. Thekids come after her, falling over each other intheir clumsy, baby movements. I tell Mary every-thing is all right, kiss the kids good-night, andsay to Mary that I'll be upstairs in a minute. Theyall leave me and I try hard to think straight. Ican't get Joan's helpless look out of my mind. Iknow the cops will be here tomorrow after me.What'll happen to Mary? I can't possibly getaway with it. Oh, How I need a ! Oh, myGod! I forgot the butts! —L. WAINWRIGHT

Nine

Unfortunately for me, the editors of this scare-sheet once claimed that I wrote a piece calledKisses for Irene. No doubt they were being hu-morous, but their humor put me in a spot, becauseat the success of my last play, Springtime for Jona-than, my public started clamoring for a reprint ofKisses for Irene. The fact that there was no suchthing did not worry me, but it seems that the edi-tors have a policy to keep up. So, one day, oneof these creatures sidled up to me, and, with aningratiating leer on his homely face, miserablybegged me to uphold the honor of his magazine.All I had to do, he stated, was to dash off a minormasterpiece in the way of comedy, slip it in thereprint file, and thereby set the magazine on itsfeet once more.

In the first-place, every story must have a plot.PLOT

Irene meets a young man. They fall in love.Irene's mean old society mother dislikes theyoung man. She forbids Irene to see him.Therefore, Irene and Percival (the young man)elope. They have a fine time and live happilyever after on the young man's twenty dollarsa week.Every story must have conversation. (This is

purely arbitrary.)CONVERSATION

"What ho, varlet," said Irene. "Shut thedoor."

"Shut it yourself," added Percival."How much are aggs today?" subtracted

Irene."Remove thine hands from my neck, dear

one," said Percival Fairheart."Ah, g'wan," continued Irene, completely

cowed at last.Every story must have a love angle. (All

these are arbitrary.)

ALOVE ANGLE

115°Every story must have description.

Being A Stark, Classical Drama

Filled With Pathos And Bathos

DESCRIPTIONIt was a long and lonely road. No one was

on it. The moon was shining in the sky. Asolitary adenoid whined unhappily in a tree-top. The wind blew coldly and whistledthrough the windows in the old, broken-downhouse. A woebegone bat nestled her youngunder her wing, and remarked, "Hell, it's cold."And Hell said, "Damn if it isn't."Every story must have a climax.

CLIMAXIrene rushed out to the patio. There was

Percival. "Darling, we must fly," she cried."Mother has got the state cops after us." Sothey flew out of the patio.Every story must have a moral.

MORALAll state cops eat caviar.

-JOSEPH R. C. T. WHITAKER

Ten

The Soothing, Idealistic Ravings Of Socialism AreBut Shadows On The Sands; They Are Unsound,Constantly In The Process Of Change, And AreTherefore Extremely Dangerous

PRO CAPITALISMAgain an election is near and again the poison-

ed arrows of Socialism and Communism are be-ing drawn to pierce the heart of Capitalism. Be-cause the capitalistic system failed slightly in thelast decade, Americans are beginning to feel thatthe latter system is the immediate cause for oureconomic woes. The Socialists cry out for us to"abandon Capitalism, the sinking ship." However,nothing can be farther from the truth. Such rea-soning is completely fallacious, in that it tends topresent to the gullible public ten years of a de-pression as representative of a period of capitalism.

America is in a depression today not becauseof the utilities, but rather because of governmentunder the enigmatic Mr. Roosevelt. Furthermore,had the government not suppressed private indus-try with needless investigations, pessimistic in-quiries, and obstreperous regulations that com-pletely deaden commercial progress, we would bewell on the way to prosperity today.

Our fears at the present time should not bedirected at big business, but rather at big govern-ment. America should take note of the fact thatdisastrous Socialistic programs grow to dictorialsupremacy by means of pointing the accusingfinger at Business saying, "Beware of the un-scrupulous!" But did not private enterprise makeAmerica the most powerful and successful nationin the world; did not Business raise our standardof living and increase our worker's wages, at thesame time shortening his hours? Through Busi-ness man was given greater opportunity forleisure and greater facilities for the enjoyment oflife.

Also through Capitalism, for the benefit of theAmerican people, private enterprise has progress-ed enormously with the advent of telephones,automobiles, airplanes, the telegraph, and ad-vanced medicine. These great necessities can onlybe thoroughly appreciated after a visit to a for-eign nation where small, inefficient, government-controlled telephones fail when they are neededmost, and where the trains poke along with com-plete lassitude because again the government has

its finger in the economic pie. To speak againstthese systems in foreign countries is unpatriotic;to act is treason.

Many men in extreme fatuity curse the mono-poly as they pay their electric or telephone bills;they curse to themselves the Capitalistic system.However, they deplorably forget that if the gov-ernment owned these utilities, the expense of theiroperation would increase enormously and wouldtherefore result in even higher rates. Second, theprogressive improvements and new methods usedby the utilities could not be maintained withoutprivate expense and private reseach.

The most important factor against government(Continued on Page 15)

Eleven

The inside of Thompson's Pub was really avery pleasant place to be that night. It was foggyand sort of dampish outside, and with most ofthe boys off in the army, there really wasn't muchuse of Officer Robbins' patrolling his beat allnight long. Besides, it was twelve o'clock nowand he was getting mighty sick of tramping upand down the damp sidewalks and not seeing somuch as one yellow glimmer of light.

Usually at twelve o'clock on Friday nightThompson's was full of young fellows rushingabout and singing or arguing fiercly about thegovernment, but when Officer Robbins pushedopen the door, there were only two or three ofthem engrossed in a sombre card game in the farcubby-hole. They were all in uniform, andRobbins remembered that he had played cardsat that same table two nights before he wascalled to France.

At the near end of the bar he noticed CharlieFergusen, his brother-in-law, talking to the barmaid, so he went down to the other end andsqueezed in between Andy Salenger and LongBelliker. It made him feel a lot better to bewhere there was some light, and the stout feltgood sliding thickly down his throat. Andy andLong were having a muted discussion about thewar—nobody talked very loud about the war—and, after the usual ribbing about his leaving hisbeat, they introduced him very simply into theconversation by saying, "Heard anything new?"

There was no mistaking that. Robbins hadheard that phrase at least four times earlier inthe evening. It was not a question, for no onewas expected to have heard anything new, but itwas an invitation to an expression of opinion.Robbins' opinions on the war were usually re-spected. He had been a lieutenant at the end ofthe last war, and he had a simple and forcefulway of saying things that made people listen tohim. "Robbie," they said, "knows what he's talk-ing about." Nor did he abuse his privilege. Herecognized its worth and used it sparingly. Per-haps that was one of the reasons he had it.

However, that night he felt in a peculiarly ex-pansive mood. After his third glass of stout heturned around and rested his elbows on the barbehind him. His eyes wandered from the heavily-curtained window to the cubby-hole in the cornerwhere the boys were playing cards.

Heard Anything New?"

"Well," he said, "I'm wishin' I could get mycrack at 'em again. They tells us we're nghtin'to rid the world o' Hitlerism, er make good ourpledges er some other such high-soundin' twad-dle. Way I see it is we're fightin' so's we kin stillbe proud to call ourselves Englishmen. Myself, Idon't give a tinker's damn for all the Polacks thisside o' Hell. The Norwegians are nice enoughpeople, I suppose; but still, the Germans couldhave 'em for all of me. It's not their taking'em I mind, it's their taking them when we told'em not to. There ain't anybody got a right todo that."

By this time the group at the other end of thebar had drifted up and was gathered about Rob-bins and Long and Andy. Robbins paused andfilled his pipe while his words sank in. A tall,angular fellow, with a scrawny yellow beard anda twitch in his left eyelid spoke up.

"Hey, Robbie, wot about this Norway busi-('Continued on Page 14)

Twelve

The crowd at the Wax Museum stared at themusty features of great figures in history. Hardlyanyone spoke as they gaped in awe before the lean,sagging replica of Lincoln. The Great Emancipa-tor's face showed signs of suffering with the years,for the red paint that colored his cheeks hadslowly drained down the sides of his neck. Amoth-eaten suit clothed the gaunt body that hadonce been so full of action and strength. Lincolnsaid nothing; his agate eyes merely stared pathe-tically off into the distance.

A scantily-clad Cleopatra lounged on the artist'sconception of an Egyptian chair. Her almondeyes expressed none of the desires or loves thathad so characterized her life. The contours ofher body were hideously out of proportion, andone leg was curled under her at an impossibleangle. A golden asp on her crown held its headhigh, ready to strike at anyone who would touchhis mistress.

And there Napoleon stood between Caesar andFlorence Nightingale. His cocked hat was settypically forward on his head; his hand tradi-tionally placed inside his coat. His face wasstern and misshapen. One leg was thrust for-ward defensively, exposing to public view an un-polished and faded boot. A sword hung scab-bardless at his side. It was rusty and of theWorld War type. The air of depression in themuseum was heightened by the presence of sogreat a man made so dejected.

The crowning touch of irony was rendered byGuisseppe Zangara. This maniac sat in an electricchair unflinching, surrounded by some of the nobl-est men and women of all time. A thatch of wilteddark hair was pressed on his head. His eyesprotruded almost beyond his broken nose. Hisunmoving limbs were strapped quite securely tothe mock executing seat. He wore a tatteredprison uniform, the black and white of the stripesblending almost into one. As the crowd passedthe murderer out into the warm sunshine most ofthem instinctively shook their fists, but one joke-ster muttered, "Better luck next time friend."

—FREDERIC S. CLARK, III

Two Articles On Varied SubjectsFor almost five years, I have suppressed a de-

sire to state my thoughts regarding a certainissue. People will probably become lividlyapoplectic when I say this, but I've held myselfback too long. The question at hand is that ofrats. Liberal though I am, I still do not believethat boys should be allowed to keep rats in theirrooms.

In the first place rats are not, by nature, domes-tic creatures. I do not say that they cannot betrained, but I do insist that sometimes they willnot be trained. A rat is inherently treacherous.Why, just the other day I heard a boy refer to amaster — behind the latter' s back, of course — asa rat. Thus we see to what depths the reputationof the rat has fallen. Since these rodents arenot primarily home-loving, it is quite natural, Ipresume, to draw the conclusion that rats are notsuitable pets to keep in a room.

Nor must we forget that our long-tailed friendis a carrier of disease. There lurk in his sleekpelt innumerable little lice and equally unpleasantinsects which carry germs. So when one is fond-ling aforesaid rat, one is very susceptible to be-coming the new home of some restless louse.While some people may have an affection, nay,even a passion, for lice, I confess that I am ex-tremely narrow-minded concerning that question,and since rats carry disease germs of the pestilen-tial bubonic plague, I hereby draw another con-clusion on the debated point — that rats are notsuitable for room-pets.

Rats are generally reputed to be a bit voraciousat the table. While they may not eat as muchas some of our neighbors, who drop in aroundCoca-Cola time, I still should not feel safe inleaving food around. Rats seem to care for mosteverything, and I doubt if even our crustiest pieceof bread would be safe. I should hate to comeinto my room, entirely fatigued after two rousinggames of tennis, and find my larder empty. Ratsseem to be utterly lacking in scruples regardingother people's food, and I should certainly beembarrassed if I discovered that my rat had eatensome of my roommates's candy. I consider that

(Continued on Page 15)

Thirteen

Wherein Betsy Marries Henry...

A tall, slightly awkward youth stepped off thestreet car at Pine Street. He had a long neckand close-cropped black hair. His tortoise-shellglasses lent him something of an air of intel-ligence. Gentle reader, it was Henry Forbes, thehero of our story, and he was melancholy. "Hell!"he muttered as he shuffled into the house. Henryrarely swore.

It seemed that Henry had been a failure ateverything: he spent fifteen years in school with-out graduating; in a year as a Dodge salesman,he had failed to sell a single car; after years ofstruggling with piano lessons, he had been givenup by his teacher—the poor boy was tone-deaf.But what was infinitely more discouraging thanany of these things was the fact that after four-teen years of continual wooing, he had been un-able to persuade Betsy McGee, the light of hislife, to marry him.

Indeed, this very persistence may have beenthe explanation for his rather-lack-lustre career.He had worried constantly about Betsy ever sincehe had met her, at the age of eight, and hadscribbled "Betsy" in seven places across his schooldesk-top. This had been the beginning. Through-out his school career he was laughingly referredto as the class Romeo.

No one could doubt that he loved her deeply,very deeply, but Betsy was, of course, a stub-born girl herself. The affair had not been ex-pected to last more than eight years, at best.

This particular night was in May, a ratherordinary warm May night. Henry had walkedhome with Betsy from the Senior Prom of hisold school. He could remember so many otherMay nights, all of them warmer, more fragrant,with fuller moons, that he thought it hardly worth-while to propose tonight: he had lost count ofthe times he had tried before, on far more roman-tic occasions; but he thought he might as welltry—it was a sort of ritual after parties now, any-way. So down on his knees he dropped, and inhis most polished manner, with his smooth drawlpitched low, he said, "Betsy, darling, won't youmarry me?" Betsy had grown a little tired ofHenry's nagging. She had, that very day, decidedto act colder toward him. Why, he regarded heras private property! She began to doubt her-self, almost for the first time. Did other boysthink she was private property, or did she simplynot attract them? She had never had an oppor-

tunity to make sure, but she had a sinking feel-ing that the latter must be true, and it worriedher to think that she might soon be "on the shelf".Half of the girls she knew were already married.

Henry supposed it was the new moon, or theway he had learned to hold her in his arms, orperhaps the catch in his voice, that, after a longpause, prompted her to declare, "Yes, Henry, I•will marry you." —DAVIS PL ATT

Officer Robbins(Continued from Page 12)

ness? Wot do ye thinks gonna 'appen hup there?Is them Germans gonna get their air bases they'realways bellering for, and are they gonna startdroppin' bombs on London town? Can ye an-swer me that, Robbie?"

Robbins waited until he had got his pipe lit anddrawing before he answered. The yellow flareof the match startled the hunched shadows onthe ceiling and one of the group called loudlyfor whiskey.

"Weel, Johnny, me boy, surely you ain't scaredof them drappen bombs on London town areyou?" he asked. "Sure, I know ye ain't, but whatif they do? We got deep cellars. Wot's gonna winthis man's war for us is the same thing as haswon all the rest of 'em for us—the fleet. As longas we got the fleet between us and the rest of theworld, we're all right. Just you remember that,Johnny."

It was the first time he had ever made so posi-tive and optimistic a statement, and he was alittle embarrassed. He should have been muchmore so; for he had just uttered the prayer ofthe British Empire.

—POWELL PIERPOINT

Fourteen

The Assault Of The Curl(Continued from Page 7)

That she had never loved at all.(How this discovery did appall!)I was just a lover rash,To her a source of extra cash.A sugar-daddy fit to kill,She put the profits in her till.Diamonds, rubies, mink fur coats,Why hadn't I been taking notes ?"Penelope, your vice I seeYou have just been robbing me.Good day in the morning, Saints above!Your dupe I've been and not your love.But no more of me you'll see,For I will see no more of thee.Farewell, I go. Look not askanceYou, my dear, have lost your chance.Long may you seek another foolTo give you every gown and jewel!I leave you now forevermore,You need not think my heart is sore.For I am full well rid of theeAnd you in sooth are done with me."

—DAVIS PLATT

A Defence Of Capitalism(Continued from Page 11)

control of business is this: public operation willbring political influence; this interference byWashington's one-crack mind politicians would bemore corrupt than private management ever was.The temperament of the American people andtheir attitude toward government prohibits widescale political control of business, and thereforethey prohibit any form of "Utopian" plan: social-ism or Communism.

Why any sane American would want vainly tocast off Capitalism, which has made him the mostenvied man in the world, for a shoddy system ofCommunism is more than can be understood.The latter plan has failed horribly in Russia; theirpeople are poorly clothed, wretchedly housed; andpractically not fed at all. Russia today is a na-tion of fear, of hate and of running blood—theblessings of a Communistic government. Shouldwe bang in all the nails of our economic coffinfor the system of government that Russia so proud-ly displays.

Now if our government had never touched theutilities we might feel that Communism couldsucceed. But Washington has taken over utilitiesand has preformed a miserable job. Inexperiencedmen are placed in charge and they flounder intheir own incompetency. Government control of

Philadelphia electricity was grossly inefficient;Government control of the air mail was disastrous;their incapability in the running of the TennesseeValley Association caused investigations, charges,and counter-charges among the gentlemen Wash-ington put in charge! This government grab isan attempt to compete with private enterprise,which is certainly unfair, for the government hasAmerica's treasury as capital. Chaos has beenthe result of all the government's childlike man-agings of private industry.

Again America must realize that Capitalism(even though the New Deal has changed its con-notation) means freedom:—freedom of a man tomake his own living, freedom from a dictator whomay manipulate him like a puppet. Withoutprivate industry America would lay dormant,stagnant in a pool of dissatisfaction. Furthermore,all of us are living from our business or upona person in business, so, directly or indirectly, itis our greatest concern to protect our livelihood.Because business best survives with Capitalism asits medium, the latter is also our concern. Thesoothing, idealistic ravings of Communism andSocialism are but shadows on the sand; they areunsound, constantly in the process of change, andare therefore extremely dangerous.

Capitalism is a servant who has served long andfaithfully. When this servant becomes ill, weshould not discharge him, but instead, try to helphim recover his health. If the government wouldpermit private industry to get its health back,America will then continue on its rapid economicprogress that started some three hundred yearsago. —PETER M. BROWN

Rats(Continued from Page 13)

fact another good reason why rats should not beallowed in boys' rooms as permanent guests.

While I do not mind if a rat visits a boy everynow and then, I do protest against their beingkept as pets. The three reasons that I have given,I consider to be ample evidence to prove my case.But if these in any way are not satisfactory, Ishould hereby like to fall back upon the schoolrule, taken from the rule book, under Article139, section 6, wherein it states that no boy mayhave any pet at school with him, while the boyis under the jurisdiction of the school. And therule book is infallible, Mr. Schmolze says so andhe ought to know. So there.

—JAMES DUFFY

Fifteen

Triumph . . .(Continued from Page 3)

nose. She smiled at me with the ease of anaction often performed. A simple dress of ging-ham did not hide completely the willowy grace ofher figure. My heart was pounding with raptureas I arose from my seat. But a haze drifted acrossmy vision. It engulfed her in its enshroudingcloak, and she was swept away. Very near to methe owl once more rasped its call of love.

I was stunned. I rubbed my forehead in de-spair and stumbled to the middle of the glade.I could not think, only my brain kept insisting,"She's gone, she's gone, and she won't come back."I turned and walked haltingly back to my seat bythe oak. I fell on my knees and prayed. Turmoilbecame reason as God answered my prayer.

I no longer looked at the forest unobjectively, nolonger merely regarded it as a spot of exceptionalloveliness. No it was far more than that. It wasa haven for animals, and a place set apart forthose tired of the hectic pace of a mechanizedpeople. It offered solace for those weary in soul.God had created this forest for the purpose ofprotecting his creatures. This small world afford-ed momentary shelter from the strife and war,which continually wage. The unwavering trunksof the giant trees epitomized all that was right andstrong. The far-flung boughs with their leaveslike so many fingers, protected one, and reducedthe shout of the cities to the merest whisper. Sucha region could be only the ultimate of perfection.

Undoubtedly there were other spots in theworld, similar to this. They too were probablyunravished, and as pure in their simplicity as wasthis tiny area. I mused that they should be savedfrom the destruction of revolution. God hadcreated the world and man should be kept fromdestroying it. Only the Church could bring abouta peace that would be everlasting. I had to pre-serve this spot for generations to come that they,like I, might realize that everything was notprogress and strife. Tomorrow, I would go backto the seminary and carry on the work of Godthat the world should be saved.

Anne appeared and walked beside me along thewooded path. My steps were slow and far aheadof me I could see the diffusive rays of the sunstreaking heavenward, heralding the arrival of an-other day. I came to the edge of the forest, turn-ed and hung my head for several moments. Annewas disappearing in the mist as I lifted my head.She still smiled. I murmured my last goodbyeand strode towards the lane with tears in myeyes. —JAMES DUFFY

For What Shall It Profiteth A Man(Continued from Page 5)

Things always happen so fast in life. Almostyesterday he was playing soccer at Marlborough;today, he was contemplating the raid at dawn thenext day. He'd never meant to be in the air force,much less to be fighting at all. A grin crossedhis tightly-set jaw, as he remembered how he andhis classmates had all signed a pledge for peace."Our fathers fought," they had said, "but wenever shall." Then, they had toasted Mars withcomplacent assurance and sophomoric intellect.Weren't they a newer, smarter generation; hadn'tthey learned the foolishness of war, the hate andthe fear ? But now, as he lay on his bunk, all thatseemed like some veiled scene, a memory thatcame back to haunt and to mock. Anderson satup for a moment, placing his hands over hisweary face. What was the matter with him? Wasthis bombing raid tomorrow making him a cow-ard, and why wasn't he out with the other pilotsin the bars, drinking, cursing, and laughing—laughing in the face of death or victory as thecase might be?

Certainly, he had been different a year ago.Upon hearing the news of actual war, he hadrushed home from school to beg his father tobe a pacifist like all the seniors at Marlborough.Then he remembered how his father had glancedat him with that nauseating look of complete con-tempt. It all came back to him too clearly now.And it was all so unrealistic, so distant. And yetwhen you put your hand out you knew that thiswas you, that this bunk was your bunk, that youmust die for England because England wanted itthat way.

When the last war was finished, he wastold it never would happen again. That thiswas the end of hatred, envy, and dissatisfaction.As a child, his mother had drawn him aside,snatched a pistol from his eager hands, and beggedhim to turn his mind away from guns and tolook upward for life itself—its creation, not itsdownfall. If she coud see him now, he thought,dressed in khaki, not only with a pistol, but themost pernicious weapon man knows of today:his Bristol-Stetson bombing plane, shiny, smooth,completely enigmatic in that its beauty only inten-sified its malicious potentialities.

Suddenly, as if he were being raised from themist of a trance, he was shot back to the real-ities of life by the vacuus, echoing blasts of thebugle. His aching muscles convinced him thathe had dozed off—and that bugle—it was forhim. Glancing at his watch, he saw the hands

(Continued on Page 18)

Sixteen

Phone 2-6212

Wilmington Stair Shop, Inc.

JOHN E. McGoLDRiCK, Manager

Stair Building

Milhvork and Cabinet Work

407 Adams Street

WILMINGTON, DELAWARE

PLUMBING, HEATING AND

AlR-CONDITIONING EQUIPMENT

Assures Home Comfortthe Year Around

*Visit Our Showroom

SPEAKMAN COMPANYShowroom Factory

816 Tatnall St. 30 and Spruce Sts.

for iij Years

Philadelphia's Foremost Store for

School and College Men's

Clothing, Furnishings

Hats and Shoes

STYLE HEADQUARTERS

FOR MEN'S QUALITY APPAREL

SINCE 1824

1424-1426 Chestnut StreetPHILADELPHIA

DU PONT MAKES

"Better Things for BetterLiving . . . through Chemistry"

These are but a few of the chemical products manu-factured by the du Pont Company. Many of them youare familiar with . . . many others serve you daily inthe form of goods converted or processed by other man-ufacturers.

"Duco" and "Dulux" finishes."Cellophane" cellulose film.Motion picture and X-ray films.Rayon, from which fine clothing, draperies,

upholstery are made."Pyralin" and "Plastacele" plastics."Fabrikoid" pyroxylin-coated fabric used in

superior luggage, handbags, etc.Cellulose Sponges."Tontine" washable window shades."Five Star" and "Zerone" anti-rust anti-

freeze solutions for your car."No. 7" automobile cleaners, waxes, top

dressings, etc."No. 7" Duco Cement.

E. I. DU PONT DE NEMOURS & COMPANY, (INC.)WILMINGTON DELAWARE

Seventeen

For What Shall It Profiteth A Man(Continued from Page 16)

approaching three o'clock. A chilliness crept uphis back; he realized that he now had twenty-twominutes of liberty, of living then, off he wouldhave to go, mechanically, like a robot, to kill anddestroy all those whom Parliament said were hisenemies.

Raising himself slowly from his bunk, hehooked on his pistol belt, took one more glance athis small room and swiftly stepped into the corri-dor.

He remembered hearing the other men, joyousin their egoism, shout, "Good morning" to him;he had merely nodded, thinking how foolish itwas, how futile and incomplete.

The five planes were lined up, pointing east-ward, at the second hangar, the motors roaringtheir impatience. It was the hour before dawnand Anderson wrapped his scarf around his neck,walking slowly over to the plane.

His co-pilot, Lieutenant Harvey, ran out fromthe yard: "Got the weather reports, Anderson?"

The latter nodded, then drawing in the coolmorning air, he stepped into the cockpit. Theother pilot, after receiving last minute instructions,hopped in beside him; he signaled for the re-moval of the blocks and soon five glisteningplanes soared higher and higher. Presently,against the violet hue of early dawn, they roseabove the ominous mountain ranges, silhouettingthemselves against the steadily increasing light tothe east. Then, suddenly, the sky flushed withthe breath-taking colors of dawn. To Anderson,slouched low in his cockpit, it made their missionall the more sinful.

As the water turned to land again, Anderson feltthe realization that this was enemy territory, thatthis was the land to be destroyed. Looking downbelow at the small patchwork of farms and bright-ly painted silos, he hated himself for ever comingon this raid. Some hand of fate was leading himon; it seemed to force him into situations uponwhich he later looked with utter disgust; but, then,that contemptible smile his father gave him thatday he arrived home from Marlborough made himbite his thin lips and forget.

It was just one hour and a half later that twoglistening planes crossed the now lead-coloredmountains, circled twice around the field andlanded. As the pilots alighted, they talked ex-citedly with the station officers. Yet Andersonsaw nothing to talk about, only to forget. With-out the slightest gratitude that he had been sparedfrom destruction, he went to his room. His an-

Eighteen

guish was no longer passive. Instead the pres-sure of circumstances had penetrated his sensi-tive nature, utterly shaken his entire physical andmental being. His eyes glanced around the roomin an unnatural, prolonged stare, then, tearinga piece of paper from his desk he wrote in hur-ried, slanting handwriting:

"It is only that I don't wish to be thought acoward that I am writing this. Today we bombedWilhelmshaven and whether it is for England ornot, it is wrong. The slow agony of watching theworld shatter around me has caused my senses tonumb. Every day is a nightmare for me andevery night a hell." And then with a slow, care-ful hand he quoted: "For what profiteth it a manthat he gain all the world and lose his own soul."Rising from the desk, he drew his gun; he raisedit slowly to his temple calmly, knowing what hewas doing. There was no emotion on his faceexcept the blank expression of relief. He wouldbe free soon. Then, the hammer fell.

Within a second the room was filled withofficers and aviators. Silently, they drew back,leaving the two superior officers near him. Onehanded the note to the other, drawing in hisbreath and then letting it out in short sections.The two officers' eyes met; a dreadful misunder-standing swept between them. A rush of bloodto his cheeks made the tall officer stand back.Then, lifting the bloody head of the fallen youthin his hands, the other looked up at the pilotsstanding motionless in the doorway.

"The fools," he said, "if they'd only told him—if they'd only let him know that the bombs hecarried over Wilhelmshaven were only propa-ganda leaflets . . ." —PETER M. BROWN

Numquam Sine Honesta Mente(Continued from Page 6)

of the day. Sex and sin were things to tell jokesabout. National, state, and city politics were inthe hands of mobsters. Clodius and his band ofRomans must have laughed at the familiarity ofthe scene as they looked down from their citadelon high.

One Saturday morning in May, John Gaylordwas sitting at his desk in his office in the Common-wealth Bank Building. He had just finished pre-paring an outline of a case he expected to defendin June, and he was getting ready to leave for hishome. As he stood up and reached for his hat,his secretary walked into the room.

"Mr. Gaylord," she said, "there are three menoutside who wish to see you. I could not gettheir names."

(Continued on Page 20)

ESTABLISHED 1818

MADISON AVENUE COR. FORTY-FOURTH STREETNEW YORK

In addition to our Clothesand Accessories for

Younger BoysOUR YOUNG MEN'S DEPARTMENT

carries Suits up to size 44at $42 to $47

Overcoats, $37 to $52Camel's Hair Overcoats, $60Odd Jackets, Flannels, Shirts

Furnishings, etc.at proportionate prices

B R A N C H E SN E W Y O R K : O N E WALL S T R E E T *

B O S T O N : N E W B U R Y COR. B E R K E L E Y S T R E E T

SOUND - - SAFE • CONSERVATIVE

BANKING

In Middletown

Since 1857

/

DELAWARE TRUST COMPANY

Middletown, Delaware

Depository of St. Andrew's

Delaware Hardware Co.Second and Shipley Streets

WILMINGTON, DELAWARE

117 Years of Continuous Hardware Service

16,000 Major Items

Nineteen

Numquam Sine Honesta Mente(Continued from Page 18)

Gaylord sat down again. "Show them in."The men entered, and Gaylord saw at once

their type. All possessed quick, darting eyes; asthey came into the room they surveyed it withsidelong glances, spotting the location of thedesk, the chairs, the bookcases, and seeing if any-one else was present. One of them was big andbrutish-looking. The second was rather short,dapper, and had a weasel face. The last wasdark, pock-marked. He walked with a strut, andhe gave the impression that he considered no oneelse had any right to live at all except by his grace.He was the one to speak after John Gaylord hadinvited them to sit down.

They wanted Gaylord to take a case forthem, to defend one of their friends who had beenaccused of murder. That was all there was to it—they wanted to retain John Gaylord. And theirmain reason was that he could not lose the case,because he had never lost one, once he had beenassured of its justice. But therein lay a drawback.Would he take it ? They thought they could per-suade him, even though they knew that theirfriend was guilty, even though the deed had beendone as a part of a gangland political manoeuvre.So Gaylord the Lawyer was their man, and it washe who represented their sole means of safetyfrom public exposure of their methods. Even in1923 the racketeers had to keep themselves fairlywell hidden.

So the men talked. They urged. They pleaded.Gaylord had to help, they said. But they knewfrom the start that he would not be pressed intoservice by ordinary methods. So, since he wastheir only hope, they had to draw out their trumpcard, and make sure of the trick. Either he fellinto line, they stated, or else Gaylord would liveto regret his action. If he served, they would seethat he was paid well, better than he had everbeen for a case before. But if he did not—thenthey would see to it that he was taken care of.Perhaps disbarment; they controlled, through theirshysters, the state bar committee; they could ruinhis practice. If these things did not frighten him,what about his family, his fortunes? These wouldmake him consider, they were sure.

Then they departed.Gaylord leaned back in his chair. The thing

had been so unexpected, so unprecedented, thathe did not quite know what to do about it. Hesighed deeply and tried to put his mind on theproblem. His thoughts rambled from his familyto the matter at hand. In his mind chaos reigned,and he was overcome with a sudden tiredness.

All his life he had worked hard to be honest. Hehad succeeded in that, but now it seemed asthough it would do him no good. He wonderedwhat he had done to displease the Gods, and whyhe was paying penance. A great lethargy swepthis limbs and he felt that if he were to sleep fora while he would awake and find that it was all adream. He sat there at his desk, leaning back-wards, and staring at the ceiling, vacantly, for anhour. His brain could not quite encompass thistrick of fate, nor could he put his finger on whathe was to do. Slowly he got up, and, as thoughhe were in a daze, he walked out of his office andwent home.

His family wondered at his preoccupied air.To them he seemed peculiarly abstracted, and hiswhole house was quieted by the sudden changefrom his usual jolly dignity to this new and unac-customed quietude. Mrs. Gaylord was solicitous,of course, but to her he gave no explanation. Theproblem was all his; he determined to let no oneshare his worry.

He did not go to sleep when he went to bed.Instead, he lay awake, thinking and waiting foran answer. His wife heard him stirring restlesslyall through the night. She had never seen himlike this before; so she too was awake, wondering.It was not until dawn the Gaylord finally fellasleep.

When he awoke, it was broad noon, and thesun was shining gleefully on his bed. He stretched,and rubbed his eyes as though he had just had anightmare. Then he remembered . . . He sat boltupright, groaned, and retired under his pillow.After this demonstration he rolled over again.He clambered out of bed and got dressed.He guided his body downstairs to the diningroom, where he sat aimlessly, pouring coffeedown the opening in the middle of his face. Hefelt exanimate to the extent that his body was amere automatom, doing what some unconsciousforce—not his soul—directed. He attempted tobring himself to the norm, but he could not blinkthe overpowering void out of his mind's eye.Struggling, he focussed his thought on what con-fronted him. Taking leave of his family, he wentto his office downtown. There, since it was Sun-day and no one was around, he sat quietly.

What was he to do? His self-respect meantmore to him than anything else in this world.Therefore, he said, I see my way clearly. But thenanother thought entered his mind and unbalancedhis whole line of reasoning. He was unable toharmonize himself, his family, and his self-re-spect into one grouping. He had to provide forthem. Who was he to ruin the fortunes of his

Twenty

wife, his son, and his daughter, he asked himself.Other men had stepped off the path once or twice,and nothing had come of it. But it was impossiblefor him to do such a thing. It ran against hiswhole code. He was tormented by his worry. Hecould not expect his family to suffer, but at thesame time, he found it unbearable to think thathis honor would be lost and his standing gone.

Now, here is the crux of the whole business. Iam only the guy who wrote this thing, and I can-not figure it out. Last night I couldn't sleep onaccount of it, and now you ought to see all thegray hairs I have. The challenge is: what hap-pened to John Gaylord?

—C. ANEMONE

He Is Trampling Out The Vintage(Continued from Page 4)

made up of the wind and soil and weather. "A fewmiles south of Saledad, the Salinas River dropsin close to the hillside bank and runs deep andgreen. The water is warm too, for it has slippedtwinkling over the yellow sands in the sunlightbefore reaching the narrow pool." The theme,which a lesser would have cast aside, centersaround George and Lenny, two members of thetribe of causal workers, destroyed by loyalty. Butbefore they are destroyed there burns brilliantlybetween the covers the image of fire inside theflesh of two human beings—fate crushed beforebirth. The story seems simple when accomplishedby such a superb craftsman—the desire and strug-gle of two simple souls to own a little piece ofearth for themselves. The novelist puts awaycheap prejudice and distortion and tells us littletruths that he discovered with his eyes and cal-loused hands. It is full of stirring prose so typi-cal of the author, . . . "an' live off the fatta theIan' ", Lenny shouted. "An' have rabbits. Go on,George! Tell about what we're gonna have inthe garden and about the rabbits in the cages andabout the rain in the winter and the stove, andhow thick the cream is on the milk like you canhardly cut it" ...

"The Long Valley", a group of short storiesby John Steinbeck represent the author at hiscomfortable best. As a group they are neitherprofound nor passionate stories, and they are occa-sionally sentimental as was "Of Mice and Men".Yet all possess Steinbeck's gift for directness ofimpression. The background is again Salinas Val-ley, Monterey. The characters struggle with theirprimitive emotions. In "Flight" the emotion isfear. The story of "Vigalante" has the same emo-tional undertone. Though this is sentimental

stuff, try to resist the way Steinbeck tells it! Themost unusual thing about this collection lies inthe stories that step outside the author's usualcategory. "The White Quail" has a delicacy andsymbolism that recall Katherine Mansfield. MaryTeller sees in the quail the cool, lovely essenceof herself. It makes a story of subtlety andgrace unlike any Steinbeck had hitherto disclosed.The author demonstrates his capacity to tell ahumorous mocking fable in "Saint Katy the Vir-gin"—a rollicking tale of a pig that became asaint and the effect of her transition upon thebad man, Roark. Completely in contrast to Katy'shappy story is a grotesque and haunting char-acter study of "Johnny Bear"—pathetic as "OfMince and Men". Finally, there is the "RedPony" which equals Stevenson or Dumas in bruteincident. It all comes down to this. Out of six-teen short stories John Steinbeck has written agood dozen that are memorable. He shows moreemotional range and mature craftsmanship thanhe was thought to have.

In Steinbeck there is a flavor deeper than thepersonality of the author, which never intrudes;something deeper than ideas; something in thestyle of which one is almost never conscious. Hisposition in American literature is unique. He hashis faults, but possibly they are a measure of hisworth, in that he triumphantly conquers the faults.Fortunately, he is not working to prove any petynotions. Some babble about his socialistic pro-paganda. They fail to grasp the significance ofhis novels. It is not the arguments but the peo-ple with which he comes into contact. He knowshis people and he knows his scene without beinglogged down by a realistic detail. Beyond thathe has a tremendous and abiding sympathy forhuman beings on all levels of experience. Withtime and experience he may become genuinelythe "great" American author. Only time willtell! —ALBERT WAMPOLE

Shall We Go To War Today?(Continued jrom Page 8)

of peace and democracy, where a man can shoutuntil he is hoarse, instead of paperhanging hisway of revolution. No ideal, at present, is sacredto the European nations. Therefore, let us pre-serve ours, as the monks did during the DarkAges, and save our light of culture and Chris-tianity.

Let no mother be made to sacrifice her sonto greedy Mars of Europe this time. And, aboveall, to a Europe at war, let America set the ex-ample of PEACE. —PETER M. BROWN

Twenty-one

Dependable Property Protection . . .

Requires the selection of an insurance companyof unquestioned stability.The financial stability of the Insurance Companyof North America and its 147-year record ofprompt and equitable settlement of claims, makeNorth America policies synonymous with depend-able insurance.

INSURANCE COMPANY OFNORTH AMERICA

PHILADELPHIA

and the

INDEMNITY INSURANCE COMPANYOF NORTH AMERICA

Write practically every type of insurance,except life.

Capital$12,000,000

Surplus to Policy Holders$71,000,000

Be Sure to Shop First at .

M I D D L E T O W N

5c- 10c-$1.00 Store

Compliments of

A F R I E N D

Dial 2-8124

CROPPER AUTOMOBILE COMPANY

Automobile Repairing and

Machine Work

CHAS. A. CROPPER

1129-31 Orange Street

WILMINGTON, DELAWARE

B U C K I N G H A MG A R A G E

TYDOL GAS VEEDOL OIL

"THE CENTER OF MODERN SALESAND SERVICE"

Our new building has modern rest rooms,workshop, wash rack and lubricating

equipment.

We call for and return your car

PHONE 116