[This text is machine generated and may contain errors.]

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And how about those Rambler
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cost twice as much. Plush, com-
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Seats adjust individually for leg

envied by owners whose cars

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But donTt just sit there"drive
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Very big on economy, of course.

RAMBLER

World Standard of
Compact Car Excellence

IN

AY

VOLUME V WINTER, 1962 NUMBER 2

TABLE OF CONTENTS

EDITORIAL
CONTRIBUTORST NOTES

FEATURES
Interview with Edward R. Murrow
Interview with Hodding Carter

FICTION
A Short One From Tijuana by Jim Rockey
A Short Story by Richard Taylor
The Birthday Present by Dr. Elizabeth Utterback

ESSAY
Allegory and Billy Budd by Junius D, Grimes III.

POETRY
Low Tide by Sarah Hansen
A Southern Lullaby by Dr. Elizabeth Utterback.
PapaTs Journey by G. Carroll Norwood
Haiku by Joyce Evans
Haiku by Betsy Orr

ART
Figure Drawings - : CEO a Me rR

REBEL REVIEW - _.85
Reviews by J. A. Withey, Francis Adams, Sue Ellen Hunsucker, Jane
Teal, Milton G. Crocker and Bob Averette.

COVER by Al! Dunkle

THE REBEL is published by the Stu-
dent Government Association of East
Carolina College. It was created by the
Publications Board of East Carolina
College as a literary magazine to be
edited by students and designed for the
publication of student material.

NOTICE"Contributions to THE REB-
EL should be directed to P. O. Box 1420,
E.C.C., Greenville, North Carolina.
Editorial and business offices are locat-
ed at 30614 Austin Building. Manu-
scripts and art work submitted by mail
should be accompanied. by a self-ad-
dressed. envelope and return postage.
The publishers assume no responsibility
for the return of manuscripts or art
work.

AGE

STAFF

STAFF

EDITOR sor ees Sting Daniel Grimesttl
BUSINESS MANAGER. ___________________David Smith
ASSOCIATE EDITOR. __....___________._J. Alfred Willis
BOOK REVIEW EDITOR___________Sue Ellen Hunsucker
EXCHANGE EDITOR Carolista Fletcher
ASSISTANT TO THE EDITOR_________ _Milton G. Crocker
Atl OAD Poe to oe en oan a
Bob Schmitz
Larry Blizard
ADVERTISING MANAGERS Ronald Watson
Bob Averette
TYPige. Jane Teal
FACULTY ADVISOR_______________Ovid Williams Pierce
CIRCULATION: -:
NATIONAL ADVERTISING
REPRESENTATIVES _______ _._College Magazines Inc.
11 West 42nd Street
New York 36, New York

MEMBER ASSOCIATED COLLEGIATE PRESS

EDITORIAL

The practice of social promotion in public
schools wrings cries of anguish and scorn
from many educators. But in a public
school, where law enforces mandatory at-
tendance to the age of sixteen, many pupils
required by law to go to school simply are
not intelligent enough to do the work past a
certain grade. In such cases, of what value
is it to keep a child in one grade and over-
load that grade when he can onot learn�
just as well in a higher one? Thus, it is at
least possible to discern a reason for social
promotion on the grammar and secondary
school levels of education; and while we
justly abhor the need for it, the practice it-
self is not to be so bitterly excoriated.

But can we find an excuse for what might
be called osocial promotion� in our colleges?
If college admission standards are not a
farce, we can assume that college students
are intelligent enough to do the work. Why
then do we have in our colleges a practice
apparently equivalent to social promotion
on lower levels? What excuse can the col-
lege offer for promoting large numbers of
students who lack the ability to write co-
herent prose"who lack this ability not
merely as freshmen and sophomores, but as
juniors and seniors as well? The law does
not enforce mandatory attendance for these
students, and if they fail there are equally
qualified students anxious to replace them.

As editor of a college publication, we are
in a good position to see at least a sampling
of the writing on this campus. We have ac-

WINTER, 1962

cess to much student and faculty material
and, in fact, the last quarter has been most
gratifying in terms of publishable material
received by THE REBEL.

But we read much material that is not
publishable, and somewhere there is inequi-
ty when we see, with alarming frequency,
juniors and seniors submitting (not only to
THE REBEL, but to instructors) written
work so full of rudimental errors in organ-
ization and grammar as to be completely
unsatisfactory. And the students who sub-
mit this material have passed English
courses in grammar and composition to
reach the junior-senior level. When they
are allowed to pass these courses without
learning to organize and write coherently,
without learning that bulky words, shoddy
sentences and overall confusion do not com-
municate, then the moral is clear. Such a
student is left with a basic inability to com-
municate beyond a certain plateau, and
society finds foisted upon it, in the guise of
an academic degree, a parody of a truly
educated man.

As a literary magazine THE REBEL is
concerned with expression, not solely lit-
erary and poetic expression, but expression
for effective communication. To raise a
standard and maintain its elevation is a
task which THE REBEL attempts; it is its
osocial responsibility� to do so. Social re-
sponsibility and osocial promotion� appear
incompatible. :

his oPerson to Person� programs.

attacked by conservative leaders.

When he was appointed by President Kennedy to head the
USIA Mr. Murrow made an addition to the 1953 directive
The directive had stated that
the mission of the USIA was: o. .. to submit evidence to
peoples of other nations by means of communication tech-
niques that the objectives and policies of the United States
are in harmony with and will advance their legitimate

To this
oWe shall

that established the Service.

aspirations for freedom, progress and peace.�
statement of purpose Mr. Murrow has added:
operate on the basis of truth...�

Interviews With

Edward R. Murrow, Director of the United States Infor-
mation Agency, visited Greenville in December, 1961, on a
tour of the sites of the Voice of America radio transmitters
scheduled for construction in Pitt County. During his
visit Mr. Murrow granted a brief interview to the Rebel.

In his long career in radio and television, Mr. Murrow
has received numerous awards for his news reporting and
commentary, and has gained a reputation for accuracy and
objectivity. During World War II he became one of AmericaTs
most influential commentators through his program, oThis
is London,� and most television viewers are familiar with
He has been termed a
liberal progressive, and his political views have often been

EDWARD R. MURROW

Interviewer: Does the greatest benefit of the
USIA lie in person-to-person contacts or mass
media? How can 1250 field officers personally
contact many people?

Mr. Murrow: I think it is very difficult to
analyze the relative importance of contacts. Cer-
tainly, I think many of us who work in the field
of electronic reporting are inclined to forget that
the best method of communicating is always face-
to-face. You are quite right, of course, in assum-
ing that the 1200 United States officers abroad
cannot contact personally very many people. Our
total effort abroad is only a small segment of the
total United States communication with foreign
countries. We have, for example, 30,000 mis-
sionaries abroad. We have with their dependents
one million military personnel abroad. What we
attempt to do in the agency is to utilize all means

4

of communication. We operate the Voice of
America in thirty-six languages and dub our
shows in more than forty languages. We do car-
toon strips that have no text at all so that they
may be understood by people who are illiterate.
So we attempt to use all means, but in sophisti-
cated societies particularly, where no language
barrier exists, (by that I mean where we do not
have to deal with the exotic languages), the face-
to-face communication which can be transmitted
through radio, television, or print with the local
populace is certainly the most effective means of
communication.

Interviewer: Exactly how do these facilities
abroad operate?

Mr. Murrow: They place television shows on
local stations where such stations exist. They

THE REBEL

also place local radio programs. They spend a
great deal of time attempting to explain United
States foreign policy to editors, to columnists, to
broadcasters; in short, to make United States pol-
icy intelligible wherever they can and palatable
wherever possible.

Interviewer: What means does the USIA have
of reaching what might be called the olittle manT?

Mr. Murrow: I would suggest the primary
method is through radio. The secondary method
would be by the use of mobile transmitters to
show films, to play recordings, to distribute pam-
phlets. These, in many cases, do not reach what
you referred to as the olittle man,� because in
vast areas of the world, the olittle man� is illit-
erate. In this area, we must put more emphasis
than we have in the past on language training,
particularly in the training of people to command
the exotic languages. Some can be done with very
simple wall newspapers. We publish a great
many books, for example, that employ a vocabu-
lary of not more than 1000 words so that the peo-
ple who have an inadequate command of English
may read and understand. This is a very slow
process because we have to recognize that in many
areas of the world"particularly in Africa"there
is no national consciousness, the allegiance is
purely tribal, and the literacy rate is very low.
The essence of the problem, I am persuaded, in-
volves getting the right men, more of them, in
the right places, and with greater linguistic
accomplishments.

Interviewer: You mentioned books and maga-
zines. What type of material is published in USIA
publications?

Mr. Murrow: We publish a vast number of
them. For example, last year we published in
translation about nine million books. This sounds
like a sizeable number. However, it is to be re-
marked that the Soviet Union in that same time
moved from the publication of thirty million
books in non-Communist bloc languages to forty
million books in non-Communist bloc languages.
We publish a magazine in Russian in the Soviet
Union that is limited by inter-governmental
agreement to a print run of 52,000. We could, of
course, sell a hundred times that number if we
were permitted to do so. We publish a similar
magazine in Poland. One is published in South-
east Asia, called ~Free World,� that has a print
run of 350,000, another called oOhiyett� in Arabic
with a run of about 30,000. In addition to that,

WINTER, 1962

we print large numbers of pamphlets and car-
toons. To answer your question specifically, much
of the book translation has to do with what would
be called oAmericana� which is an effort to pub-
lish books that reflect American political, eco-
nomic, social, and literary life.

Interviewer: What part of the American legend
or creed have you found most difficult to repre-
sent to other countries?

Mr. Murrow: It is difficult to represent, par-
ticularly to the emerging countries, the whole eco-
nomic and governmental structure of this country
because we are operating a very complex system
of government. It requires a high degree of lit-
eracy and a degree of political sophistication. I
think our major problem has been in conveying to
people abroad that we do have a diverse pluralistic
society, one that is not always intelligible in its
constitutional construction even to more literate
persons in western Europe. But I think we have
our basic success by doing what every nation has
done in time of crisis: by going back to its root-
holes, by making it clear that we are a revolution-
ary people, that we are not allergic to change, that
we have no desire to sanctify the status quo, that
we are a nation of change, that we recognize im-
perfections and constantly strive to improve them,
and that we want to improve the conditions under
which we live.

Interviewer: What part do you find the least
difficult?

Mr. Murrow: The least difficult, obviously, is
to convey the strength, both economic and mili-
tary, of this country"its relatively high standard
of living and the generosity of the American peo-
ple. This sort of thing in most societies is not
very difficult to convey.

Interviewer: How damaging has our integration
problem been to American prestige and how is
the integration problem presented by foreign
propaganda?

Mr. Murrow: There is no doubt that it is dam-
aging to our prestige. When many of us in this
country see a picture of a burning bus, we are
likely to think that it is merely an example of
journalistic enterprise. We in the agency know,
of course, that this will be front page news all the
way from Manila around the world. However,
in terms of accurate presentation» we do not at-
tempt to suppress the fact that racial tensions
exist in this country. We do make it clear that
incidents of violence are isolated. We emphasize

5

what the Federal government does to correct the
situation, and we make it clear that this is a mat-
ter that is one of constant discussion, debate, and
progress in the United States.

Interviewer: To what extent is our internal
policy affected by the desire to create the oright
impression� in other countries?

Mr. Murrow: ITm not quite sure I comprehend
the question, but if you are asking if our domestic
policy is determined by or influenced by the desire
to influence foreign opinion, then I think the
answer is no.

Interviewer: Do you think that there has been
a resurgence of McCarthyism in the United States?
Do societies like the John Birch Society and the
Minute Men hinder the work of the USIA?

Mr. Murrow: I think it is dangerous to deal in
political short-hand, by saying a revival of Mc-
Carthyism. I think the sense of frustration of
what the President called right-wing extremism
makes our task more difficult, but movements of
this kind have not yet reached the point where
they present us with a major problem in telling
the American story abroad.

Hodding Carter began his newspaper career in the early

1930Ts and continued it to become the overseas wartime
editor of The Yank and The Stars and Stripes. He is now
the publisher of the Delta Democrat-Times in Greenville,
Mississippi.

A Bowdoin College graduate, Mr. Carter is winner of the
Pulitzer Prize and is one of the outstanding Southern lib-
erals. His ideas have been of great importance, especially
in politics and social movement. He has published several
books: The Angry Scar, John Law Wasn't So Wrong,
Lower Mississippi, The Marquis de Lafayette, Southern
Legacy, The Winds of Fear, and Where Main Street
Meets the River (autobiographical).

Se Ah

HODDING CARTER

Interviewer: How responsible for present con-
ditions in the South is the Reconstruction period?

Mr. Carter: It is not so much the Reconstruc-
tion period itself but its use by four generations

6

of Southern politicians that link the two tragic
periods. In a preface to my fairly recent book,
The Angry Scar, I pointed out that the North re-
membered too little of the period and the South
too much. Perhaps this may give you an indica-

THE REBEL

ad

tion of my feeling without your having to read
the book.

Interviewer: Has the development of integra-
tion in the South since the Supreme Court decis-
ion been about what you expected?

Mr. Carter: I expected integration to proceed
much more slowly and far more violently after
the Supreme Court decision in 1954.

Interviewer: Has the ocore of resistance� in the
South been broken?

Mr. Carter: In terms of widespread urban ac-
ceptance of token integration only, it might be said
that the Southern ocore of resistance� has been
dented, if not broken; but in the small town and
rural areas of the deep South there has been little
softening of the white will to resist by almost any
means.

Interviewer: Do you feel that the more wide-
spread distribution of the Negro throughout the
country has increased sympathy for the South
in non-Southern areas?

Mr. Carter: I emphatically feel that the impact
of the economically and socially sub-marginal
Negroes throughout the industrial areas of the
non-South has made at least emotional allies of
many Northern whites in respect to traditional
Southern viewpoints.

Interviewer: Has traditional hostility towards
Southern conservatism tended to isolate the South
and put it on the defensive?

Mr. Carter: The South has been pretty much
on the defensive, politically and economically,
since before the Civil War. Antagonism from out-
side stemmed from many causes: race attitudes,
the old political-economic clash between Northern
industrialigm and Southern agriculture and in
latter days the conservative attitudes of Southern
spokesmen, being high among the reasons.

Interviewer: Have contemporary Southern writ-
ers"for example Faulkner, Caldwell, and OTCon-
nor"rendered the South in depraved cliché, and
to that extent done it a disservice?

Mr. Carter: I doubt that the Southern writers
whom you listed have misrepresented the South
"incidentally, there is no such thing as the
Southern Writer or The South in literature and
life. They have simply concentrated upon cer-
tain aspects.

Interviewer: Do literary critics tend to receive
well any anti-Southern writer?

WINTER, 1962

Mr. Carter: I do not believe that the honest
literary critic receives anti-Southern writers with
open arms simply because they are anti-Southern.
Much criticism of Southern attitudes is well and
honestly done. I like to think that the good critics
differentiate.

Interviewer: What do you think of W. J. CashTs
Mind of the South?

Mr. Carter: I think CashTs Mind of the South
is still the classic in its field and as responsible and
objective as any treatment of our region could be.

Interviewer: What do you have to say about
ofreedom rider� episodes in Mississippi?

Mr. Carter: As to the Freedom Rider episodes,
all I would want to say at this time is ~o~a plague
on both your houses.� State and even Federal
executives let this thing get away from them. As
for Mississippi, the majority of the white citizens
seem determined to buck the Federal government
on integrated bus stations as long as they can.
How long that will be depends on the Federal gov-
ernment.

Interviewer: What part have newspapers played
in recent crises?

Mr. Carter: I am not sure I understand this
question. Some notable Southern newspapers have
counseled moderation. Others, less notable and
more strident, have tried to make matters worse,
it seems to me, by their advocacy of extreme meas-
ures and extreme leaders.

Interviewer: What does the future hold for the
South? Is the pattern yet discernible?

Mr. Carter: I am not worried about the SouthTs
future"if there is going to be any future for
anyone of us at all. The pattern is clear: increas-
ed industrialism, large scale mechanized agricul-
ture with more and more diversification, a deser-
tion of the countryside and growth of the larger
towns and cities, and a continuing radical shift of
the center of Negro population from South to
somewhere in the Mid-west. I think most, if not
all of these trends, will be helpful.

Interviewer: Has the integration problem here
hurt our prestige overseas?

Mr. Carter: Iam certain our prestige has been
greatly damaged by the various unhappy episodes
arising out of the integration issues. However,
our enemies would have invented something else
to hurt us even had this problem not existed.

MA "=« moO VU

Low Cide

Some cruel and calloused hand

Has pushed the river back today,

Leaving exposed a mass of distorted roots
Resembling broken bones.

These, and the hulls of barnacled boats
And jagged broken bottles

Lie bare, as witnesses

Of the riverTs last folly ...

And tiny waves come lapping in

Trying to stretch and cover

This naked ugliness of passion spent,
That has been, until now, harbored and hidden
Below the glassy surface of the river.

"SARAH HANSEN

A Southern Lullaby |

Hush, my honey, hush yoT cryinT,

Mammy am here doT her
heartTs a-sighinT,

YoT daddy at de crap-game"
losinT all de money,

Dat I tek in washinT fo de
white-folks, honey,

Hush yo cryinT anT sleep.

Lie still, baby, rest while yo can,

A yaller woman has got
my man,

He buy her corn liquor and dey
dance anT sin,

AnT de Lawd calls in vain his
soul to win"

Sleep honey, sleep and rest.

Sleep, my baby, de doTs on de
latch,

Mammy gotta go to de cotton

patch

When wuk is over and night
is fall"

I go to de church when
my Jesus call"

Sleep, honey, sleep and rest.

I gonna kneel at de mourners
bench"
And pray God to take him from
dat yeller wench"
And pray dat the lynchers
wonTt never come take him
But sin or no sin, Lawd
I'll never forsake
him"
Sleep, honey child, sleep and rest!

"DR. ELIZABETH UTTERBACK

THE REBEL

Pay s
Joyrncy

ie CARROLL Norwoop

Now he has gone, the rugged old cuss,
TCross the river and into the trees:
Not gently tapping but raising a fuss
As he bellowed for those Eternal Keys.
His roaring aroused the keeper,
g Who fumbled at the gate; EP
Old Papa wasnTt excited,
But, God, he hated the wait .. .
& The glowing gilded gates swung slowly open wide, a
And as the bulbous old man peered inside,
With knapsack and shells, paper and pen,
He snuffed through his beard and walked right in. §
The brilliant light from the Sinless Skies
Made Papa squint his tired, veined eyes"
And as the truth and goodness found his face, p)
He wondered if he would like this place.

He looked like a weathered old tent, like a Ee
hemp rope,

As he stood heavily there,

And his anger rose -

As he raised his nose

To smell the too pure air.

oAinTt there no maskeeters and stuff lik at,

To give the air some spunk?

Then whatTs to swarm on the bottle

When all the beerTs been drunk?� Pe

With skin tanned to Ta se Papa peered
out from under those great shaggy white hedges
which grew in ong-jine ss his forehead, and
warily viewed iene place he had decided to
come to. oNo damn maskeeters,� he thought.

BA st wagd@/bother him when he went fishing"
what was he to shoo away as he tried to read in
his tent"what was to wail around his lantern and
get burned and fall dead on his desk"?

WINTER, 1962 9

He was a curious sight as he stood there. The
land and the sea and the air all had left their auto-
graphs on PapaTs great hulking frame, and they
combined into one to give his bulk that same bat-
tered, used look which he himself had seen on the
hull on many an old boat, on the handle of many sf
a native knife, on the face of many a flinty wood-
land path.

His ponderous chest took a massive heave
As he stooped and set his grips down,
For he had decided, before pitching camp,
To take a look at this new town. Py
He ambled down the Avenue of Trust,

Turned right on The Promised Land,

And noticed that there was no dust,

No weeds, no mud, no sand.

All was clean, all was hard;

No variance met his eyes.

No cold wind, no hot wind.

No rain clouds in the skies.

Then, a glistening mailbox on his left

Fair brought him quick to bay:

The letters, fashionTd majestically there,
Read, ooE. Hemingway.�

His eyes Tmost rolled down to his feet,

And bounced on the gold of the perfect street!
For there he saw, to his dismay,

The mansion where he was to stay.

Qo

I thought I was going to enjoy myself up here,
the way those gravelly preachers talked about it

~d on earth! Are all the streets so hard with this
bloody gold that I can find no place to pitch a

camp? A mansion. Hell. What good is a place

like this? You canTt put no tent in there, them

§ floors is probably harderTn these streets! I sure
couldnTt flick my ashes on the floor and set upyno

cook stove and build me a pine fire and spit re

& I want to in this place! Whoever built it done a

fine job, but why give it to me? I donTt want to

live oeternallyTT"as them preachers say"inf@pme-

thing which ought to of been donated to t AR

S or the UDC clubs. And look at the ~where they
built the monster. No trees. Just lean and per-

fect everywhere. No grass which is supposed to

> aeons but you just let th inter come and
ferit ah nghaprobaQ no winter here,

either. how flat the land is. So people

wonTt tire theirselves walkinT up and down hills.

Shoot. I been in places hillierTn a muleTs hind leg.

I bet they donTt even have mules and stuff like

that up here on account of the smell and having

| 10 THE REBEL

x to feed Tem the grass they donTt have and
having to shelter them from a winter which never
mes.

oThese folks donTt know what theyTre missing up

4 here,�

He mumbled as he clacked along,

oTTve about got a mind
a) To go hunt and find

The owner, and tell him heTs wrong!�

So Papa went back, and

Picked up his pack, and

Marched toward where the Light was brightest;

His one free hand

Swung like a "

(He felt he was at\bis tightest!)

That night the saintly @ahabitants saw

Great wonders in the Ye

Great shafts of light, sparks red and bright,

And they wondered a re

Well, Papa made his tattered presence known,
And if you ever get tHere, you'll see:
For he, singlehanded and alone,

Chucked out all that Tfinéry.

He hauled in dirt and rai

With determination so grim,

And in the course of days, or years,
Made things liveable tofim.

ThereTs no gate now, ni table there,
Where you sign as you §o in.

ThereTs gas lamps, creeks, mossy banks,
And still a lack of sin. \

The maskeeters hit you thi#k and hard
If you stay long in your grassy yard,
But if you to relief feel bent,

JusT duck inside your Tskeeterproof tent!

A stubborn, hard-headed, bushy mountain:
Papa"rebel with a cause. Folks say those who
enjoy themselves wonTt last long, but he is and
will do it"~eternally,� as them preachers say.
He was a powerful, big wave of a tempested ocean
who rolled back his @leeves and brought his long
white foamy hay ms roaring in"head and
shoulders above theNother seas"casting all the
vessels of this mind and emotion naked upon the
beach. And theseXVessels remain, dried"froth
on the sand. N

Farewell, then, to those mdxive arms,

Which cut into hearts for life"

Yet weTre content, though lacking their charms,
For Papa left us his knife.

WINTER, 1962

ALLEGORY and BILLY BUDD

By

JUNIUS D. GRIMEs III

Bi, Budd is the story of a young sailor who is
impressed from a merchant vessel for duty in the
British Royal Navy and almost immediately, how-
ever innocently, antagonizes Claggart, the master-
at-arms of the warship. Claggart falsely accuses
Billy before the captain of the warship, and in
consternation Billy kills him with a single blow.
Captain Vere unwillingly condemns Billy to the
gallows.

How should we interpret the story? Is it sym-
bolism or is it allegory, or is it either? Much criti-
cal opinion favors the allegorical interpretation;
but before we can analyze Billy Budd as allegory,
it is necessary to formulate some working defi-
nition of allegory itself. A difficulty arises im-
mediately from the lack of clear distinction be-
tween allegory and symbolism. We discover this
distinction in the authorTs handling of the rela-
tionship of object and meaning.

The symbolist ordinarily begins with the ob-
jects and proceeds to explore meaning. The ob-
jects exist because they are a part of the narra-
tive. Further, they do not derive their meaning
outside the narrative; and although the object
may have several levels of meaning, these levels
would exist for this same object in an infinite
variety of contexts. Thus, meaning must be im-
plicit in the object, and the symbolist is concerned

12

with presenting at least the illusion of experience.

The allegorist deals with experience less di-
rectly than does the symbolist. Objects in the
narrative are equated with meanings that lie
outside the narrative, and the objects become con-
venient emblems manipulated to suit the purpose
of the allegory. The allegorist employs these ob-
jects in a logical pattern dictated by the require-
ments of the allegorical idea; and surface objects
ultimately express an abstract idea in concrete
terms. Thus strict allegory is essentially rational-
istic. It is opposed to random, purely empirical
experience and usually fastens upon some codifi-
cation of experience to define itself. Each object
in the allegory must have its logical, symbolic ex-
planation and contribute to and progress towards
the final allegorical significance.

- the opening pages of Billy Budd, Melville
draws a possible symbolic parallel. Compare to
the disciples and Christ this quotation concerning
the oHandsome Sailor.�

In certain instances they would flank, or
like a bodyguard, quite surround some su-
perior figure of their own class, moving along
with them like Aldebaran among the lesser
lights of his constellation ... With no percep-
tible trace of the vainglorious about him, ra-

THE REBEL

4

ther the off-hand unaffectedness of natural
regality, he seemed to accept the spontaneous
homage of his shipmates.

But Melville keeps this almost supernatural paral-
lel within the framework of reality. He gives
an example. Such a figure was a large black whom
he had observed once, with an aggregation around
him that would have owell fitted them to be
marched up by Anarchis Cloots before the bar of
the first French Assembly as representatives of
the Human Race.� In two paragraphs, Melville
implies a possible parallel between the oHand-
some Sailor� and Christ but maintains reality by
the illustration of a large black man and his brood.

The possibility of progressive-symbolic (alle-
gorical) interpretation arises upon the impress-
ment of Billy from the merchant vessel. The
captain says,

. . . Billy came; and it was like a Catholic
priest striking peace in an Irish shindy. Not
that he preached to them or said or did any-
thing in particular; but the virtue went out of
him, sugaring the sour ones.

Christ radiated similar virtue.

Later, when asked, Billy is ignorant of his
background. He doesnTt know who his father is;
thus we have a possible parallel to Christ if we
accept Christ as the bastard son of God. But the
significance of this may be, and more probably is,
symbolism of Adam. Adam actually had no par-
ents, and his virtue was the virtue inherent in the
primitive state of innocence. And the Adam in-
terpretation is strengthened later when Melville
observes that Billy

. .. possessed that kind and degree of intelli-
gence which goes along with the unconven-
tional rectitude of a sound human creature
"one to whom not as yet has been proffered
the questionable apple of knowledge.

And Melville fortifies the probability of this sym-
bolism when he says that in many respects Billy
was little more than an o. . . upright barbarian,
much such perhaps as Adam presumably might
have been ere the urbane Serpent wriggled him-
self into his company.� He adds, apparently cor-
roborating the doctrine of manTs fall, that when a
person is seen to have pristine virtues, these
seem to derive from a time prior to civilization and
not from the custom or convention of civilization.
Any such virtue would certainly be more akin to
Adam than to Christ, because the doubts and
frustrations of a civilized man encumbered Christ.

WINTER, 1962

He did not possess the primal innocence of Adam.

Additional confusion of a precise interpretation
of Billy as Christ appears when Billy kills Clag-
gart. It is difficult to imagine such violence from
Christ, the man who said, oThe meek shall in-
herit the earth.� The only violence Christ ex-
hibited was when he drove the money-changers
from the temple, and this was a case of righteous
indignation. Never did Christ become indignant
or frustrated to the point of violence when accused
personally.

On the other hand, Billy commits an error of
judgment in a moment of irrationality just as
Adam did when he accepted the apple from Eve.
Adam knows he will be punished by God if he
takes the apple, but he acts irrationally and com-
mits himself to damnation. Billy, despite his in-
nocence, is certainly aware that he will be punish-
ed for killing Claggart, but he acts irrationally
and commits himself to his fate.

A parallel does exist between Christ in the
Garden of Gethsemane and Billy during his im-
prisonment on the gundeck following his condem-
nation. At the end of each experience both tran-
quilly await their fate.

... as nipped in the vice of fate, BillyTs agony,
mainly proceeding from a generous and young
heartTs virgin experience of the diabolical in-
carnate and effective in some men"the ten-
sion of that agony was over now.

But Billy, unlike Christ, had not gone through any
period of true agony. Christ was fully cognizant
of what was happening to him and Billy was not.
oNot that like children Billy was incapable of
conceiving what death really is. No, but he was
wholly without irrational fear of it�"a fear pre-
vailing more in highly civilized societies than in
those which stand nearer to unadulterate nature.

Billy may parallel Christ in that he dies in in-
nocence, but there is neither moral nor legal ob-
ligation nor moral right to condemn Christ, and
as Captain Vere discusses natural and legal jus-
tice:

Now can we adjudge to summary and shame-
ful death a fellow-creature innocent before
God, and whom we feel to be so?"Does that
state it aright? You sigh sad assent. Well,
I, too, feel that, the full force of that. It is
Nature. But do these buttons that we wear
attest that our allegiance is to nature?

The court is legally obligated to convict. The most
striking parallel here is the inadequacy of manTs
justice in both cases. However, it is possible to

13

examine Billy here as Adam. Both transgress
the law and both are condemned"Adam by God,
Billy by man. In both of these cases the justice
is at least lawful.

Additional parallels between BillyTs death and
the death of Christ are obvious. BillyTs last words
before being hanged, oGod bless Captain Vere!�
were"

Syllables so unanticipated coming from one
with the ignominious hemp about his neck"
a conventional felonTs benediction directed
aft towards the quarters of honour; syllables,
too, delivered in the clear melody of a sing-
ing-bird on the point of launching from the
iwi. 3.

What could be more like this statement among
the last words of Christ? oForgive them Father,
for they know not what they do.� Yet Billy is
more artless than Christ. Certainly MelvilleTs
comparison of Billy to the songbird has appear-
ances of the immemorial songbird-soul compari-
son. The innocent soul of Billy is about to be
launced from the twig of life and wing its way
to God.

And at the precise moment of BillyTs death.

It chanced that the vapoury fleece hanging
low in the East, was shot through with soft
glory as the fleece of the lamb of God seen in
mystical vision; and simultaneously there-
with, watched by the wedged mass of upturn-
ed faces, Billy ascended; and ascending, took
the full rose of the dawn.

Compare this scene to the glorious rise of Christ
to heaven following his return to the Apostles.
Again there is a parallel to Christ. The spar
from which Billy hung was eventually as a chip
of the cross to the crew.

Despite the strong and obvious parallels between
BillyTs death and ChristTs death, complete justifi-
cation for calling Billy an allegorical Christ is
difficult to see. There are entirely too many im-
plications and statements which compare him to
Adam prior to the fall for us arbitrarily to decide
Billy is Christ. It is better that we should study
Billy as the symbol of primordial, unregenerative
innocence, containing elements of both Christ
and Adam.

It has been said that Melville creates Claggart
in vindication of the innocence in Billy. Certainly
from the very first the contrast favors Billy; the
evil in Claggart manifests itself in his description.
He has no chin; he is like some fraud of the past;
his skin has a strange pallor and is foiled by the

14

blackness of his hair; his whole appearance seem-
ed... oto hint of something defective or abnormal
in the constitution of the blood.� Here is definite
implication of something physically evil about
Claggart. Melville further links Claggart with
evil figures from the past and then discourses at
length about his possible origin. Melville never
pinpoints the evil in Claggart, but he says early
that the men, with their rude conceptions, felt
rather than understood this evil. Thus, with his
discussion of origins and evil, he places Claggart,
at least insofar as his evil nature is concerned, out-
side the realm of human comprehension.

Attempting to explain this evil nature, Melville
further removes him from the realm of ordinary
evil as comprehended by man. He uses PlatoTs
definition: oNatural Depravity: a depravity ac-
cording to nature.� This natural depravity is
not often found in civilization and is ~~without vices
or small sins.� And such was the nature of Clag-
gart: o ...in whom was the mania of an evil
nature, not engendered by vicious training or cor-
rupting books or licentious living, but born with
him and innate�; in short, odepravity according
to nature.�

Melville proceeds to exemplify the elemental
and Satanic evil in Claggart. He indirectly com-
pares Claggart to the insidious evil of the devil
in the Garden of Eden and in the wilderness with
Christ. The Dansker says to Billy: o...a sweet
voice has Jimmy Legs [Claggart].� There is a
portent of his evil nature when, after the soup-
spilling episode in which Billy accidentally slosh-
ed soup near him, Claggart

must have momentarily worn some expres-
sion less guarded that that of the bitter smile
and, usurping the face from the heart, some
distorting expression perhaps"for a drum-
mer boy, chancing to come into light collision
with his person was strangely disconcerted
by his aspect.

More illusions to the evil and mysterious nature
of Claggart when:

What more can partake of the mysterious
than an antipathy spontaneous and profound
such as is evoked in certain exceptional mor-
tals by the mere aspect of some other mortal,
however harmless he may be?"If not called
forth by that very harmlessness itself.

In attempting to explain this evocation of evil
Melville digresses under the heading of opale ire,
envy and despair.� He discourses on envy and
antipathy as passions irreconcilable in reason, yet

THE REBEL

which may be found in the same person. He says
the envy of Claggart did not partake of the na-
ture of SaulTs for David. It is something more
(or less) than human. It is perhaps the same
envy that Satan felt for Adam in the Garden.

And Claggart, with one possible exception,

. .. was perhaps the only man in the ship in-
tellectually capable of adequately appreciat-
ing the moral phenomenon present in Billy
Budd, and the insight but intensified his pas-
sion ... which at times assumed the form of
cynic disdain.

In other words, Melville implies that Claggart
would have shared the innocence of Billy, but he
despaired of it. And despairing he felt antipathy.

With no power to annul the elemental evil in
himself though readily enough to hide it; ap-
prehending the good, but powerless to be it;
a nature like ClaggartTs surcharged with ener-
gy as such natures invariably are, what re-
course is left but to recoil upon itself and
like the scorpion for which the Creator alone
is responsible, act out to the end the position
allotted to it.

This is much the same passion the devil might
have felt when confronted with the innocence
manifested in Adam and Christ. It is certainly
the passion he felt just before his fall from heav-
en. But Melville then attempts to explain the
passions of Claggart in rational, cause-and-effect
terms. A stooge of ClaggartTs fabricates stories
concerning the actions of Billy Budd and reports
them to Claggart. Here there is no evident sym-
bolism, but the reader nonetheless feels that Mel-
ville is making a half-hearted attempt to explain
something so elemental that it is outside the realm
of human cognition.

The suggestions of fatality and the Satanic
parallel are apparent when Melville describes the
effect the sight of Billy on the upper gundeck has
on Claggart. Claggart would observe Billy

. with a settled meditative expression"
his eyes strangely suffused with incipient fev-
erish tears... Yes, and sometimes the melan-
choly expression would have in it a touch of
soft yearning, as if Claggart could even have
loved Billy except for fate and ban.

And again, when Billy is confronted by his ac-
cuser, the eyes of Claggart undergo a strange
transformation, othose lights of human intelli-
gence losing human expression, gelidly protruding
like the alien eyes of certain uncatalogued crea-
tures of the deep.�

WINTER, 1962

The character of Claggart evidences a more
justifiable restricted allegorical parallel, at least
ideally. It is perhaps proper to call Claggart an
allegorical Satan in that the constituents of his
character are those of SatanTs. But even this
parallel is justifiable in only a general sense of
character, and not through specific, contextual
actions. Claggart is Satan only insofar as Satan
represents the most elemental evil known to man.
An evil which man knows but does not under-
stand.

But this allegory is not borne out in consistent,
progressive action. Claggart is not Satan inter-
acting with Billy-Christ in the condemnation by
man, nor is he Satan interacting with Billy-Adam
in the fall from grace. There are obvious elements
of both.

The character of Captain Vere is less clearly
delineated than the characters of Budd and Clag-
gart. From the very beginning of the novel he
is hazy and detached. He has the ounaffected
modesty of manhood sometimes accompanying a
resolute nature ...and... whatever his sturdy
qualities [he] was without any brilliant ones.�
The implied and at times expressed relationship of
Billy and Vere may give a clue to the possible inter-
pretation of Vere. We may choose to interpret the
suggestions that Billy is the bastard son of Vere,
in which case we may see Vere as God and Billy
as Christ and Claggart as Satan. Thus Vere gives
his only son to death to save mankind from com-
plete chaos. Or we may choose to interpret Vere
as God, Billy as Adam, and Claggart as Satan;
then we have God punishing Adam the trans-
gressor according to law, for man by his nature
must be governed in law. This interpretation is
more feasible than the first, but it is not supported
so precisely throughout the novel.

A more justifiable interpretation of Vere is as
mankind, who is detached from the basic contro-
versy between Billy and Claggart, but who event-
ually comes to love good (innocence) even when
it is defeated by evil. He represents mankind who
must ultimately choose between the two without
really being able. This is more justifiable be-
cause"

He was old enough to have been BillTs father.
The austere devotee of military duty, letting
himself melt back into what remains primeval
in our formalized humanity, may in the end
have caught Billy to heart, even as Abraham
must have caught young Isaac on the brink
of resolutely offering him up in obedience to
the final behest.

15

|

Vere is a man; Abraham was a man. They both
have a responsibility to a higher power.

And Vere neither evades nor transcends the
responsibility placed upon him as the captain of
the ship in her majestyTs navy (perhaps repre-
sentative of the entire world.) He forces his will
to be more than the lip-servant of law, and ad-
ministers law so that it will benefit the world that
exists"not the ideal one projected in the form
of Billy. He knows that if he makes any decision
other than guilty, he condemns the ship (the
world) to chaos. oSo Captain Vere knew that
Billy Budd must hang even though the last As-
sizes of manTs perfection hungering heart would
acquit.�

Bit, Budd is thus the dramatization of the
events which befall the ideally pure Budd in the
world of human realities, and the novel itself
is the reconciliation of the implicit ambiguities in
the demands of nature and society upon man.
Captain Vere (mankind, if you will) is struck with
the necessity of the choice of adherence to natural
law or adherence to the laws of society. Natural
law almost demands that he set Billy free. His
onatural innocence� is never questioned; but the
laws of man are not tractable. They are explicit,
and especially in regard to naval impropriety.
Billy Budd has struck down an officer, an action
for which there is no justification and for which
there can be only one punishment"death.

Melville apparently subordinates the supernat-
ural idealization to the historical reality. Despite
implied and at times overt comparisons between
his characters and supernatural ideals, he invests
the narrative framework with an abundance of
detail which certainly gives the illusion of reality.
In fact there is some contention that Melville took
his story from an actual case, whose similarity
of events is more than striking. But even so,
realism does not preclude allegory if the object-
meaning equation validates the allegory.

If we accept the plot of the novel as determined-
ly realistic, we must then decide if the objects
would retain their meanings in a variety of con-
texts. Here we must distinguish between char-
acter and object, because only through this
distinction can we answer the question. The
character, Billy Budd, has distinctive ramifica-
tions not common to oBilly� the object, and these
are manifest only with the particular involve-

ments of the plot. Billy Budd would not neces-
sarily represent innocence in any variety of con-
texts.

These contextual restrictions evidence them-
selves for Claggart, but they become salient in
the case of Vere. The incidents of the plot and
the foils of the other characters are vital to VereTs
ultimate identity ; and the character Vere is him-
self vital, because in one sense it is as much VereTs
story as it is BillyTs. It is Vere, confronted with
the inevitability of making a decision, who makes
the decision and achieves an essential identity and
nobility. Certainly he would not retain these
achievements in a variety of contexts. Conse-
quently we cannot interpret Billy Budd as unal-
loyed symbolism and indeed it is difficult to con-
sider symbolism, since the objects of the narra-
tive fail to satisfy the most important and defi-
nitive element of symbolism.

But can we, by definition, interpret Billy Budd
as unalloyed allegory. Hardly. We must allow
Melville some haziness of conception, for it is
improbable that he viewed allegory as rigidly
as theory dictates. Billy Budd does not batten
upon doctrine to define itself"unless we choose
to infer Calvanistic overtones in BillyTs ofate.�
But then the definition is too general, because
Billy Budd concerns itself with the fate of inno-
cence and not random predestination.

However, the objects of the narrative are equat-
ed with meanings that lie outside the narrative;
(This, perhaps, is a criterion for distinguishing
Billy Budd the character from oBilly� the object.)
the surface objects are employed in a logical pat-
tern which accentuates and is ultimately vital to
the abstract meaning.

Thus Billy is the allegorically employed sym-
bol of primal innocence engaged in the ineluctable
combat with Claggart, the symbol of natural evil;
and Vere is mankind, who represents sympathy
and law"and must choose. Though Billy lives
on in the hearts of man and is evidence that evil
is finally defeat and that onatural goodness is in-
vincible in the affections of man,� the novel it-
self provides the peaceful conclusion that inno-
cence cannot exist ideally in the world created
by man. It is the reconciliation of innocence and
experience and is the final admission that men
must fashion moral law within the framework
of human limitation and reality rather than with-
in a projected framework of supernatural and
transcendant ideals.

16

THE REBEL

HAIKU

Soft snow swirling cool
caresses gently on the

bosom of the boughs.
"JOYCE EVANS

HorizonTs colors
TTis a stormy night at sea:

The paintbrush slipped.
"BETSY ORR

WINTER, 1962 17

vt

~ " : i all be p ( jj { } \ \\
SP), f Pe ie

om

4 Short One from Tijuana

By Jim ROCKEY

Tijuana at night is every bit as exciting as
magazines brag or deplore, depending on the kind
of magazine. But some people"if tourists can
qualify as people"never realize it. They hit the
main street of the city, buy a few cheap leather
things, flip a coin or two to the beggars, and then
head back to advertise their recent tour of Mexico.

I needed no guide or tourist pamphlets in Ti-
juana. Once off the main street, I moved quickly
through the shadows toward a tiny neon sign
that blinked blue in the distance. I saw the sign,
but I didnTt need to read it. I knew it would be
there and I knew the words on it. It was always
there. Two steps for every blink; a shorter man
would need three.

As I reached the door under the sign, I felt a
small hand on my arm. It was ringless and dirty;
looked like it had been rummaging through a
garbage can or something. There was a piece of
corn silk, maybe, draped across the wrist.

oHey, mister,� a voice whispered. oYou like
me, huh? I be real good for two dollar.� The
dirty hand had started up the sleeve of my shirt
toward the shoulder, squeezing as it went.

I grabbed above the hand and jerked whoever
or whatever it was into the neon light. I might
have guessed it would be a young one, but I
couldnTt help laughing when I saw the figure
standing in front of me. The bare feet looked
pure and untouched"by soap and water at least

18

"and the toes were doubled back under each
foot. Thin legs turned into bony knees that peek-
ed out from the too-short cotton dress. It was
dirty, too, of course. The dress was shapeless
from top to bottom and sleeveless. Just a feather
of a dress on a figure that seemed too frail to
hold even that much weight.

oSo you could be real good for two dollars, is
that right?� I stooped over and put my hands
on knees to look at her. The face was so serious
that I stopped laughing.

oSi, mister. My sister she teach me everything.
She very good, and I be real good, too, for two
dollar.� She looked up at me with a half-smile
that she intended to be sexy and inviting. I
laughed again.

oHow old are you, kid? Ten, eleven?�

oSixteen next week.�

Varey
Wizard

oSixteen, eh?� I chuckled. I wouldnTt have
been surprised to learn that she still had her baby
teeth. The stringy, uncombed hair didnTt help
her look any older. oI'll give you a quarter if
you'll get out of here and go home,� I said as I
reached into my pocket.

She looked startled. oOh, so, mister! You
think I beg, eh? Me no take nothing for nothing.
Me no beg!�

I thought about explaining the quarter to her,
but decided it wouldnTt do any good, anyway.
With a push and a soft boot in the rear, I started
her off down the street.

She shouted back at me as I opened the door
to the bar, ~oYou want me for one and half dollar,
maybe?�

I moved off the street and into the musty odor

THE REBEL

of rum and cheap tobacco. My pupils did what-
ever it is they do for dark vision, and I searched
for familiar faces. All were strange, except the
one behind the bar"Carlos. He was a permanent
ornament"smiling, but dirty like everything
around him. I had hoped Rosa would be there;
I wanted her especially to be there.

oHey, mahn,� shouted Carlos. He wiped a glass
with a dirty towel and smiled big. oHo! You got
the hongry look in your eyes tonight, but Rosa
she not here no more: She got sick with baby.�
His laughter was loud, as usual.

oYeah,� I mumbled, wondering if ~RosaT was
written across my face or something. She was
good, though. Crossing I said, oAfter the chica
that hit me up just outside the door, I could use
a full-blown night with Rosa.�

The third rum from Carlos made me feel a

little better ... for perhaps half a minute.
Damn, no Rosa tonight! Another rum and I had
spent almost an hour with no prospect of a sub-
stitute for Rosa. Rather than chance picking up
something I didnTt want from a quickie on the
streets, I decided to go back to the gate and Cali-
fornia.

Leaving the tiny blue sign blinking behind me,
I turned the corner in the direction of the border
crossing. In the shadow directly ahead of me I
could make out a small figure, like maybe it was
that little girl again. It was.

oT watch you from kitchen, mister. You still
want gorhl, maybe you want I be real good for
one dollar.� Her voice pleaded, but without a
beggarTs professional tone . . . like any little kid
asking for a piece of candy or an ice cream cone.

oNah, kid, get out of here, willya!�

WINTER, 1962

oMaybe six bits, eh? I be good for six bits,
mister.�

oTell you what, kid. How about taking this
four-bit piece... just as a present from me. For
your birthday or something.�

oNo take nothing for nothing! But I be good
for four bits if you want. O. K.?�

WhatTs a guy going to do when he canTt get it
through somebodyTs head that some things arenTt
charity, but some kind of friendship giving? Here
this little girl figured it was begging unless she
did something in return for the money. WhatTs
a guy going to do, anyway? I decided to make it
a dollar for her.

oLook, kid. In the States weTve got a saint,
see, that makes us give a dollar to some chica or
chico every week. If we donTt, we donTt get to
heaven. See what I mean?� In the dim light I
could see her eyes reflect reverence and respect at
the mention of a saint.

oSee, if you donTt let me give you this dollar,
youTll get me in trouble with the saint. O. K., kid?�
I slipped the bill into her dirty fingers and watch-
ed her for a moment.

A tear nudged its way down her cheek as she
whispered, oGracias ... senor. Say your saint
that I love her.TT She crossed herself, and I hur-
ried toward main street and the border gate.

Near the gate I passed several small leather-
goods shops. From inside one came a shrill voice
in loud, rushed American accent. oOh, George!
Just look at this be-a-utiful purse"and only four
dollars. WonTt Elsie simply die when I get back
and tell her what I paid for it!�

I handed the guard the two-cent fee and slipped
through the gate, back into the States and away
from the pleading of dirty little fingers.

19

a short story

By RICHARD TAYLOR

Fs as we were about to enter the railroad sta-
tion my sister Marie stopped in the doorway
and looked back at me.

oJimmy, how much money do you have left?�
she asked.

I reached into my pocket and took out the re-
mainder of the money my father had given me
when Marie and I left Somerset. oThree dollars.
Dad only had eight left out of his pension check,
you know. ItTs pretty near the end of the month.�

oWell, may I have it, please? I saw something
in a store back there that I need for the kids. You
donTt have to go back; you can wait here in the
station. We've got lots of time before the train
leaves.�

Marie took the money that I held out to her
and walked off down Broadway. I stood in the
doorway a moment wanting to buy a newspaper
from the rack under the marquee until I remem-
bered that the half dollar I had been saving in
my watch pocket would be needed for cab fare
when Marie and I got home to Somerset that
night. I went on through the door.

The waiting room was stuffy, but it was warm-
er than the streets where we had window-shopped
all afternoon. There were lots of servicemen on
their way back to camp from Christmas leave.
Some of them couldnTt have been more than a
couple of years older than I was. I saw a college
student sitting on a bench with a shiny suitcase
plastered with stickers in front of him. He had
his feet propped on the suitcase, and he was read-
ing what looked like a textbook from which he
looked up abruptly every little while to glance at
a group of soldiers who laughed and talked and
tapped their feet and ground out half-smoked
cigarettes under the heels of their polished boots.

A young couple with two children sat on the
bench opposite me. The husband, his elbows on
the arm rests and his hands clasped slackly

20

across his stomach, gazed openly at the passers-by,
following their progress through the station until
his attention would be attracted to someone near-
er. His shoulders were bent forward and down-
ward, and his hands were grey-white on the backs,
shading off to stark white knuckles and ending
in black rimmed fingernails. I thought he was
probably a coal miner.

His wife held a baby on her lap while it drank
milk from a bottle. A little boy was on the floor
in front of them. He crawled back and forth
across their shoes for a while until his mother
reached down suddenly to pull him up from the
dirty floor. As she bent forward, the baby lost
his grasp on the bottle, and it crashed to the floor,
splashing the milk across the manTs shoes. The
baby began to cry, and the man, his wandering
attention brought abruptly to his family, drew
the little boy roughly from the floor into his lap.
The boy began to cry.

There had been nothing kind about that day
Marie and I had spent in Louisville. The weather
had been depressingly solemn, and the city had
worn that air of finality"of things being over and
done with"that always mark those few days
between Christmas and New YearTs. I wished
that Marie would come back and I wished that it
were time to leave. I wondered again, as I had
off and on all day, what she would do now that she
had come home again to Somerset. I wished that
I had bought the paper so that I could read and
not think about her.

Three days before, after her husband had put
her on the bus in Louisville, Marie had come home
with her two children and a suitcase full of soiled
clothing. That night at the bus depot was the
last time she saw Phil; he had simply disappeared,
and she had no idea where he had gone.

Things had looked pretty good for Phil and
Marie just after they were married. Phil

THE REBEL

still had some money left from his army pay, and
they hadnTt had the children then. About a month
after they married, Phil quit his job in Somerset
and took Marie to Harlan with him where he
went to work in the mines. That was the first
time they moved; the time they came here to
Louisville was the last one. In between, there had
been a whole series of moves from one small Ken-
tucky town to another. Phil had tried a lot of
jobs, but he had either quit or been fired from all
of them. He had never been able to get enough
money ahead to get out of debt after the children
came, and some of his creditors had written to
my father about the bills. There wasnTt anything
my folks could do, though; I was still in high
school, and my father had no income except his
pension. A couple of times, when Phil had been
out of work for a long while, he brought the fam-
ily to stay with us while he looked for a job.

My mother blamed Phil for not keeping a job
and for not taking care of his family as she
thought he should. She had cried about the way
Marie had to live and the places she had to live in.
About two months back, after they had lived with
us for the second time, Phil announced that he
had found a good job in Louisville, and my folks
loaned him the money to move again. My mother
told him not to come back until he could support
his family decently. She said that he was a liar
and couldnTt do anything except invent schemes
to fool Marie. She blamed Marie for believing
him.

Now that Phil had sent the family home and
hadnTt shown up himself, my mother believed he
-had abandoned them, and she had made me come
to Louisville with Marie to help her bring her
things home. I hadnTt wanted to come because
Marie was pretty miserable and I was afraid she
would feel worse when we left Somerset. But I
didnTt have much choice since my father was sick
and somebody had to go.

I was almost glad, when I saw the room Phil
and Marie had rented, that my father hadnTt come.
The place was a lot worse than either of the places
where they had lived in Barbourville or Manches-
ter. The room was dim and cold, and we didnTt
stay there any longer than it took to make a bun-
dle of the bed clothes and fill a box with MarieTs
hotplate and some odds and ends of dishes. There
wasnTt any furniture to bother with because it
had been lost in a flood when they lived in Pine-
ville.

We got the canary too. Phil and Marie had
bought it the day they came to Louisville. It was
a pitiful sight to me, but it was alive, huddled in

WINTER, 1962

a shoebox Phil had fixed for it to live in. The
box had air holes punched through the top, and
it had some shredded newspaper inside. After
three days in the box, the canary had made a
mess of the paper. It was wet where the water
cup had been spilled, and it was matted with ma-
nure and crumbs. The canary reminded me of a
puppy Phil had bought when the children were
still pretty small. They had fondled and mauled
it so much that it had finally sickened and died.

I was glad to get away from that room although
I was embarrassed having to walk back to the
station with those boxes and the bundle of bed-
ding. We left the canary box and the other things
in a locker at the station since we still had several
hours to wait, but if I had thought it could live in
the city, I would have turned the bird loose.

Not all of MarieTs belongings had been in the
room; there were still some packages to be picked
up at the bus depot which was about six blocks
from the train station. Phil had left the things
at the bus depot when he sent Marie home because
she hadnTt been able to manage them along with
her suitcase and the children. He had promised
to bring them down with him the next day after
he met his payday at International Harvester
where he worked. It was when he didnTt show up
with them that Marie had become worried. She
called the people who lived in the room next to
hers, but they hadnTt seen Phil for several days.
She and Phil had had a phone of their own when
they first came to Louisville, and Marie had called
home every week, but the telephone company dis-
connected it later because Phil couldnTt pay the
bill. After she talked to her neighbor, Marie
called the personnel manager at the factory where
Phil worked, and that was when she learned that
he had never been employed there at all.

It was noon when we reached the bus depot,
and it was even more crowded than the railroad
station had been. Marie and I went to the locker
where Phil had left the things, and I opened it
with the key Marie had found in her room that
morning. There was nothing inside except a
slip of paper with a date and some numbers on it.
I guessed that after the twenty-four hour check-
ing period had expired the things had been picked
up by the maintenance men.

With the crowd of travelers in the depot the
employees were pretty busy, but I finally located
a man who unlocked the lost-and-found room and
gave me the packages. I had not known what
they were until then, and when I saw them, two
gaily printed cartons with a toy train and a little
girlTs tea set inside, I felt pretty bad.

21

ee

oMy God! ItTs the kidsT Christmas presents!T
I cried.

The man stood holding the doorknob waiting
for me to move so he could close the room. He
had to get back to his regular work in the baggage
room. oYeah, I thought about them Christmas
presents when I found Tem,� he said. oTI figured
somebodyTd hidden Tem here and forgot to pick
"em up.�

I took the toys back to the waiting room where
Marie had stayed, and I wished that they had
been wrapped or had been in a sack so that she
wouldnTt be reminded of the children. I didnTt
enjoy looking at them myself, and when I reached
Marie I immediately suggested that we go to
lunch, hoping that would keep her from thinking
about the presents. She hardly mentioned them
though, and I was relieved.

We went to WalgreenTs for lunch. There was
a restaurant next to the drug store, and Marie
wanted to eat there because she and Phil had
eaten there not long after they were married.
They had come to Louisville then to celebrate a
large bonus Phil had gotten through the Veterans
Administration. He had been a prisoner of war
in North Africa and Europe for almost the whole
duration, and that was what the bonus was for.
He had told me lots of interesting stories about
the war, but I had never been able to get him to
tell me about those months he had spent under
the Germans.

Anyway, after I explained to Marie that we
couldnTt afford to eat at the restaurant, she was
willing to settle for the lunch counter. I could
tell that she was disappointed, but I couldnTt help
it.

We finished lunch and walked up Fourth Street
to the river, looking in store windows and occa-
sionally going into a store to look at the left over
Christmas merchandise and decorations. At the
river, we crossed the street and spent an hour
walking down that side. When we came back to
Broadway, we decided to go back to the train
station and wait. On the way, Marie stopped in
a couple of stores, and she saw a lot of things that
I know she wanted to buy, but she didnTt say
anything.

I guess it was because I felt sorry for her when
we were in those stores that I didnTt protest when
she asked me for the last of the money. I did feel
sorry for her, and sitting there in the Union Sta-
tion thinking about her suitation and the day we
had spent in town made everything worse, espe-
cially when I couldnTt think of anything to do
about it all. I would be glad when we were on
the train going home.

22

Thinking about the train reminded me to check
the time, and when I turned around to look at the
clock, I saw Marie coming toward me across the
waiting room.

oT didnTt mean to be away so long,� she said,
obut I had a hard time finding exactly what I
wanted. I was going to buy a flashlight that Phil
had been wanting for a long time, but it cost four
dollars, so I didnTt get it. And then, at that last
store where we stopped, I found this.�

She handed me a book, and I read its title:
A Pictorial History of Old Louisville. oIt leoks
like a pretty interesting book,� I said, and I leaf-
ed through the pages. I tried not to imagine what
my folks would say when they saw it.

oTI thought Phil would like it. You know how
he is about books.�

oItTs a nice book,T I replied, because I didnTt
know what else to say. I looked through it a
moment longer and handed it back. oI guess ITd
better get the things out of the locker. TheyTll
announce the train any minute now, so why donTt
you take the toys and walk down to the gate.
Maybe we wonTt have to stand in line very long.�

I waited until she had gathered up the toys and
her book and had started toward the gate. The
lockers were not far from my bench, and I opened
ours and took out MarieTs things. I set the bundle
and the box of dishes on the floor and held the
canary box in my hand. Its bottom was limp and
soggy against my palm. When I reached inside
to see if the canary was still alive, I felt him brush
my hand as he tried to get away from it. He
struggled, and he smeared manure on my hand
with his feet, but I caught him and took him out
into the light. I held him in my hand, his back
against my palm, and he blinked in the station
lights. I watched him for a moment, and I looked
at his box in my other hand, feeling its dampness
and smelling the faint acrid ammonia of the bird
droppings. Then, without really thinking about
it, I closed my thumb and forefinger on his neck.
I held them tightly pinched together until he
stopped struggling and his eyes were closed.

I put the dead bird back into his box and pushed
the bundle and the other box away from the locker
with my foot. When I moved them the locker
door swung shut with a soft bump, and the row
of lockers was flat and smooth again.

On the way to the gate I dropped the shoebox
into a trash can and went on to where Marie was
waiting. I told her that the bird must have suf-
focated in the locker. I couldnTt tell her that I
had killed it because I couldnTt think of any reason
why I had.

THE REBEL

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india ink and brush
by Ann Marshburn

charcoal drawing
by Betsy Ross

india ink by Bob Schmitz ?

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isd ian pee RS pt

black and white conte
crayon on gray ground
by Betsy Ross

charcoal drawing
by Ann Marshburn

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pen and ink drawing
by Pat Waff aed

| stood on the sidewalk inf front of West Broad-
way School. It loomed bif, dark, and forbidding
7 before me. I clutched my worn red-plaid school
bag that held a McGuffeyTs Fourth Reader and a
scarred and battered pencil box that had once
boasted a bright picture of Mary-and-her-little-
lamb on the cover.

It was my first day in Marshall.

Pop had found work with the Emporia Coal

: Company, and Aunt Maggie had brought Buster

LARRY are and me and come to keep house for him. She had
hennaed her hair again and was already hopefully

HE looking over the male population of GennetTs Lane.
AK by I was desolate and homesick for Chesterton, West

Virginia. It wasnTt much of a place, but it had

Bi RTH D MN Y DR. been home, and I had lived there most of my ten
lf

years. Here, I was just an outsider.
ELIZABETH It was October. Children ran up and down the

1
PRESEN UTTERBACK street, laughing and calling and talking in little

groups. They watched the flag, for when it was
removed from the telephone-pole in front of the

28 THE REBEL

school, that meant that school had ~~took up,� and
they were late.

A big red car"a Stanley Steamer"chugged to
a stop before the school, and a little girl jumped
out and ran up the walk. She had yellow plaits
and round blue eyes, but the thing you noticed
first about her was her cleanness"her skin, her
teeth, her white pique Peter Pan collar, her flash-
ing white petticoat.

oMarcia, remember your music lesson at three.�

oYes, Mama.�

From that moment, I admired Marcia Westlake.
I admired her beauty and her elegant manners,
but most of all, I admired all she stood for. The
big car"one of two in town"with its chauffeur,
the great brick house with its white columns, the
servants, the clothes she wore, her parents and
friends. Her money! Fascinated, I followed her
in to the school. I tried to pull my short, faded,
pink chambray down over the hole in my black
stocking. I was conscious of my run-over, scuffed
shoes and the faded, soiled ribbon in my not-too-
clean hair.

Miss Breckenridge sat at the teacherTs desk in
the 4-A room. She was a big, masculine woman
with nose-glasses that perched precariously over
watery, red-rimmed eyes, and a perpetual dark
stain of perspiration with a sour odor ringing
her serge dress in great wide circles under her
arms. She had a kind of a pink, rabbity nose that
twitched with nervousness.

oWell, little girl, whatTs your name?�

I gulped; I was conscious of forty pairs of eyes
staring at me.

oWell, speak up, canTt you!�

I mumbled, oGwendolyn St. John Maginnis.�
I was ashamed of my name. Mama had gotten it
out of a novel called Her Fatal Mistake.

Miss Breckinridge wrote it down disdainfully.

oWell, go ahead; where do you live? What does
your father do? Where do you come from?�

I mumbled something about Chesterton, West
Virginia; I said I lived in GennetTs Lane and my
father was a miner; my mother was dead. Aunt
Maggie kept house for us, and I had a letter from
the principal at Chesterton in my school bag.

Miss Breckenridge took it gingerly. I heard
tittering in the room. I squirmed and reddened.

oNow where am I going to put you?� asked
Miss Breckenridge irritatedly. oGoodness knows,
ITm overrun now! I do wish youTd come at the
first of school! ThereTs not a single desk!�

I hoped she couldnTt find one. I looked long-
ingly at the door. Just to get away"anywhere!

Then I felt a light hand on my arm. I looked

WINTER, 1962

up and found Marcia Westlake standing beside
me.

oShe can sit with me,� she said smiling, and
she slipped her hand in mine.

oOh, dear no, Marcia,� cried Miss Breckinridge,
shocked. oDoretta Grey has that seat! Anyhow,
I~m sure your mother"�

oDoretta Grey has gone to Florida for maybe
all term,� said Marcia decisively. oCome, Gwen.�T

Suddenly everything was all right. I had a
friend! I found myself in the desk with Marcia,
near enough to see her lovely smile and to sniff
the nice PearTs Soap smell. And she had called
me Gwen"a beautiful name! I could only look
at her with dumb devotion as Miss Breckinridge
began irritatedly to call the roll.

At recess I marched out with Marcia. Five
other little girls flocked around and looked at me.
They looked at my faded dress and the hole in my
stocking and my limp hair ribbon. They whis-
pered about me to one another.

oWhere did you say you lived?� asked a pretty,
curly-haired little girl.

oIn"in GennetTs Lane,� I answered blushing.

They looked at one another meaningfully.

oAnd is your father really a coal miner? All
black and smutty with a little lamp on his cap?�

oLetTs play tag,TT said Marcia suddenly, and all
at once I found myself in a game. I could run
faster than any of them and get more otags.�
When the bell rang I marched in proudly.

After school I walked home with Marcia. She
lived on Main Street in a big white house that sat
far back in a shady lawn plot in front of the steps,
and a lovely iron deer kept watch over the flower
beds. It was like a fairy palace!

oCome in and play.�

I shook my head. I had loitered too long, and
I knew Aunt Maggie would have work for me to
do at home.

The house in GennetTs Lane looked even shab-
bier in the bright October sunlight"its tin roof
sagging, its gate off the hinges, the front screen
door with a big hole that let in flies. Aunt Maggie,
in a red kimona, without her corset, lolled in a
rocker on the porch and wielded a palm-leaf fan.

oWell, you were sure late in coming,� she said
irritatedly. oBuster has been fretting all day and
nearly run me ragged; take him out somewhere
in his wagon. I declare, if I didnTt have nothinT
to do all day but jest set up in a nice, cool school
room, I wouldn~t mind at all. How do you like
your school?�

I went in and picked Buster up from his crib
and brought him back to the porch. His yellow

29

�

hair was matted in damp curls and his little face
was flushed and dirty.

oItTs all right,� I said, oI sit with a wonderful
girl"Marcia Westlake. WeTre friends.�

oWestlake?� mused Aunt Maggie. ~Her old
man must own the mines. Well, donTt get too
big for your britches, Sister. She wonTt take to
the likes of you.�

I put Buster in his little wagon and pulled him
out in the hot dusty lane. He was elated. He
gurgled and pat-a-caked.

oBuster go bye-bye,� he chirped.

Almost without thinking I found myself going
across the tracks and down Island Ford Street
to where Main Street ran, shady and wide. I
sat down on the curb across the street and feasted
my eyes on the house where Marcia lived.

oSome day we are going to live on Main Street,�
I said dreamily. oIn a big white brick house
with trees and flowers and an iron deer.�

oWhen?� asked Buster practically.

oWhen ITm grown,� I told him; owhen ITm a
famous writer and sit all day in a big, cool room
and write wonderful stories like Louisa Mae Al-
cott and sell them and make lots of money! We'll
have an automobile, and a Negro cook, and you
will have a tricycle, and Aunt Maggie will have a
hat with a willow plume, and weTll have ice cream
every day for dinner!�

oT want ice cream now!� wailed Buster.

I caught a flash of MarciaTs yellow braids and
white dress on the porch.

oSheTs my friend!� I told myself proudly.
oSheTs lovely and kind and clean. ITd do anything
in the world for her"anything!�

When Buster and I got home supper was ready
"sardines and crackers and soda pop. Aunt
Maggie didnTt like to cook, and besides Mr. Crab-
tree was coming to call on her. He was her new
gentleman friend who ran the lunch room on the
corner"MikeTs Place. She had pushed herself
into her American Girl corset and put on her
polka-dot silk dress, made sailor style with a big
red bow tie, and had done her bright yellow hair
into a big pompadour. I had to button her high
white shoes, for the corset was laced too tight for
her to lean over.

Pop was on the night shift, and while Aunt
Maggie and Mr. Crabtree swung in the porch
swing, I washed Buster, and when he was asleep
I heated water in the big kettle and filled the wash
tub and took a bath. Then I washed my hair and
sewed up the hole in my stocking, and rubbed my
shoes with grease. I got out my three dresses
and looked at them. They were too short and

30

faded. I sighed and heated the irons and
pressed~them. They would have to do.

Next morning before the bell rang for taking
up books, Marcia whispered to me as we were
coming in from the cloak room.

oGwen, come and look on Miss BreckenridgeTs
desk. IsnTt that the loveliest thing you ever saw?�

I looked. It was a paper-weight"a big glass
ball. Inside it there was a tiny lady in a pink
coat and hat and a little white fur muff. She was
holding up a tiny pink umbrella.

oLook! Pick it up"it does something! Here"
like this!�

She seized the ball, turned it upside down, and
then vigorously righted it. Immediately the little
pink lady was in the midst of a fairy snow storm!
The tiny flakes drifted down and settled lightly
all around her.

oTIsnTt it beautiful! ItTs the dream of my life
to have one of my very own"just like it! Here,
you try it!T

She passed the ball to me, and timidly I invert-
ed it. We stood entranced as the snow flakes fell.

oGwendolyn Maginnis! Put that down im-
mediately!T Miss Breckenridge loomed large be-
fore me. oAnd keep your hands off everything on
that desk!�

She snatched the ball from my trembling hands.

oBut, Miss Breckinridge, it was my"� began
Marcia.

oAnd donTt you go teaching Marcia your bad
manners and impertinence! Get to your seat!T

Marcia squeezed my hand, and the world light-
ed up again.

oDonTt you mind her,� she whispered. ~oI wonTt
let her hurt you!�

I looked at her in wonder.

oWhat can you do?� I asked trembling.

oMy father owns Emporia,� said Marcia bland-
ly, oand Emporia is the biggest thing in Marshall.
Bigger even than the school! SheTs afraid of my
father,� and she giggled happily.

The bell rang then and school took up.

And so October passed and November. And
Marcia never flagged in her friendship. I adored
her. I wanted to do something for her"some-
thing big. I longed to give her the world. But
what had I to give?

My days at school were happy ones"the hap-
piest I had ever known. I studied and made good
grades"in Reading and Spelling and Speaking
Pieces I was the best one in the room. I could
write too; compositions were easy for me. My
head was bursting with stories! I was too happy
to live when Marcia would come to me for help.

THE REBEL

oTtTs wonderful the way you can think up
stories, Gwen,� Marcia would marvel, her round,
blue eyes alight. oI canTt. ITm just a ninny.�

oTl write it for you,� I would say, magnani-
mously. oI have lots of them in mind. After I
feed Buster and put him to bed, ITll come and help
you.�

Mrs. Westlake was very grand. She was always
playing flinch or calling or giving big teas. Aunt
Harriett, an old Negro woman, looked after Mar-
cia. Aunt Harriet was snobbish; she hated o~po
white trash.� She didnTt like me. But Marcia
made her tolerate me. She told her that if she
wasnTt nice to me sheTd tell her mother about Aunt
HarriettTs stealing all that sugar and flour and
taking Mrs. WestlakeTs ruffled petticoat and say-
ing it was stolen off the line.

oAnd I'll call in the haTnts, too!T declared Mar-
cia.

That did the trick. I was a welcome guest.

MarciaTs birthday was just before Christmas.
I got the invitation to the party one day when I
went home from school. It stood on the kitchen
mantel propped up before the clock.

oA nigger come and brought it"had the nerve
to come right up to the front door, but I soon
learned him better,� said Aunt Maggie, excitedly
wiping her hands on the front of her kimona and
pushing back her blonde hair. oHurry up and
open it! What does it say?�

I broke the seal. ~Marcia Westlake invites you
to her birthday party at two oTclock on Saturday,
the fifteenth of December. Please come.�

oNow what do you know!� Aunt Maggie was
impressed. ~oPopTll have to shell for some mate-
rial, and ITll make it up into a real stylish dress
for you! We donTt want them snooty Westlakes
to think weTre trash! Why ITd like for them to
know that your uncle is a butcher in Dee-troit!�

Next day all the fourth grade buzzed with Mar-
ciaTs party. At recess the girls huddled in little
groups and whispered about presents. I had been
thinking about a present all night! Nothing in
the world was too good for Marcia. If I could I
would have given her a gold watch that pinned on
and a heart-shaped locket and chain and a ruby
ring!

In the afternoon when I was pulling Buster in
his wagon along Main Street and looking discon-
solately in the shop windows, suddenly I saw it!
In Mrs. AbbottTs Novelty Shop window I saw it!
I caught my breath and pressed my face up against
the window. There it was! A paper-weight
exactly like Miss BreckinridgeTs"the little pink
lady with a white fur muff holding up the pink

WINTER, 1962

umbrella while the snow lay softly on the trees
around her!

I left Buster outside and went in.

The lady obligingly took it out of the window
and looked at the price.

oOne dollar,� she said. oIt was a dollar and a
half, but itTs marked down because itTs the last
one we have.�

One dollar! It could not have been farther
from my reach if it had cost a hundred. I had
never had a dollar. I had fifteen cents that I had
saved, a nickel at a time, money Pop had given
me when I went to the LadiesT Entrance of
OTReillyTs Saloon after supper and brought him
home a tin bucket of beer.

But I had to have that paper-weight! Marcia
had said that she wanted one more than anything
else in the world.

I had learned about prayer at Sunday School,
and that night I prayed long and fervently for a
dollar. I even bargained with the Lord. I would
go to preaching as well as Sunday School if he
would give it to me. I would hurry home from
school every afternoon and sweep and dust for
Aunt Maggie. But nothing happened. It seemed
a very slow way, and I was sure God would need
to take a much longer time than I had"just a
week"to answer my prayer and arrange for any-
thing that cost a whole dollar!

Another thing worried me. There was always
the possibility that the paper-weight might be
sold for Christmas, and I haunted the window,
morning and afternoon"almost afraid to look.
But there it was"pink and lovely as ever!

And then one morning something marvelous
happened! A miracle really! As I turned away
from the shop window, I saw a glint of something
between the bricks of the steps, and when I picked
it up it was a fifty-cent piece! I clutched it in my

31

hand and hurried into the shop.

I wanted, oh, so badly to keep it! It seemed
like the answer to my prayer"but it wasnTt mine.

oDid you lose this?� I asked the lady, holding
up the shiny silver coin.

oNo, no,� she said, shaking her gray head.
oWhere did you find it, child?�

I told her.

oAnyone could have lost it,� she said finally.
oLeave it here today, and if no one asks for it"
itTs yours.�

I stumbled out. All day I kept making little
prayers while I should have been studying.
oPlease, God, please, please, please!�

After school I hurried to the shop. No one had
come to claim it! I untied my fifteen cents from
the corner of my handkerchief and tald my story.

oAnd you need"letTs see"thirty-five cents
more to buy the paper-weight?�

I nodded.

oCan you sweep out the shop and dust?�

I nodded. I couldnTt speak.

oCan you deliver parcels?�

oYes, MaTam.�

oVery well; you are honest; youTve already
proved that. Come before school, make a fire in
the stove, sweep and dust, and then after school
come in and deliver any parcels I may have. And
on Friday ITll give you the paper-weight.�

And to seal the bargain she took the little pink
lady from the window, removed the tag, and put
it in a box, tied it up with white tissue paper and
pink ribbon, and put it on the shelf marked Sold!

Intoxicated with happiness, I stumbled home,
not forgetting to say a little prayer of thanksgiv-
ing to the Lord for making it all come true. Aunt
Maggie was sewing up a storm in the kitchen.
While Buster contentedly played with the scraps
on the floor and the cabbage boiled over on the
stove, she had taken her prized pink satin evening
dress, and in a burst of generosity had cut out of
it a party dress for me! She had an old Ladies
Home Journal propped open to a picture of a
plump, fairy-like little creature with long golden
curls demurely dropping rose petals from a basket
in the path of a blushing bride. The dress was to
be very short with a full skirt, and the waist,
low-necked and short-sleeved, and Aunt Maggie
was adding heavy cream lace and satin rosebuds
and what had been once shining sequins.

oThere!� said Aunt Maggie proudly, taking the
pins from her mouth and holding aloft the pin-
ned-together creation. ~We canTt let you hob-nob
with the elite in an old dress! Your Pop didnTt
have no money for a new one, and I didnTt wear

32

this much anyhow. I bet this will make Miz
WestlakeTs eyes bulge out of their sockets!T

The next four days passed in a whirl of getting
up at six, gulping my breakfast, hurrying to the
store, making the fire, sweeping and dusting, and
rushing to school. After school I delivered par-
cels until six oTclock. Once Mrs. Abbott sent to
the WestlakeTs house with a big package. When
Aunt Harriet came to the back door to take it, I
smelled the fresh, warm smell of cake baking and
caught a glimpse of pink crepe paper streamers
and pink candles in the dining room.

Friday night at six oTclock Mrs. Abbott gave
me my box.

oYouTve done real well, and ITd be glad to keep
you longer, but I got word today that my sister
has been taken awful bad. She lives in Arkansas.
So ITm going to close up in the morning and go
out there to stay with her a spell. After Christ-
mas thereTs not much doing in a shop of this kind
anyhow.�

I thanked her and clutched the precious package
to my heart.

Aunt Maggie finished up the dress by noon on
Saturday, and we all stood around the bed where
it was laid out. Even Buster was awed. Aunt
Maggie in a burst of enthusuiasm had added a
sash, and a rhinestone pin at the neck.

I took my bath in the tin tub pulled up to the
kitchen stove, and then Aunt Maggie curled my
short, straight, black hair on her irons. I rolled
up the sleeves of my long union suit, and turned
in the neck. The dress was a little short and
tight and my legs and arms looked longer and
thinner than they usually did.

oNow, remember to keep your underwear roll-
ed up out of sight,� Aunt Maggie cautioned. I
do wish you had some pink satin slippers and pink
silk stockings like the ones in the picture! But
maybe if you sit down you can tuck your shoes
back out of sight. Rub them off good, and Ill
put a little dab of ink over that hole in the toe.�

At last I was ready, my glory hid under my old
winter coat. Aunt Maggie and Buster went with
me to the door. oRemember to act like a lady,�
called Aunt Maggie. oDonTt jump or run or the
sequins will fall off.�

I walked on air to Marcia WestlakeTs carrying
the present.

Marcia opened the door. She looked beautiful
in a dark red wool dress and a white linen pin-
afore. Around her hovered the other girls, all
shiny and clean in soft woolen dresses.

I gave Marcia the box. ~Happy Birthday,� I
said.

THE REBEL

We all watched as she unwrapped it. There
was a chorus of oohs� and oahs.� Marcia held it
up, her eyes glowing.

ooA little snowlady!� she cried. ~o~What I wanted
most! ItTs exactly like Miss BreckinridgeTs! Oh,
Gwen, Gwen darling"thank you so much!� She
pressed her soft, red mouth against my cheek.
She turned the present up and back and the snow
fell softly. She laughed happily!

I was satisfied. While the little girls hovered
around Marcia and the present, I followed Mrs.
Westlake upstairs and took off my coat. She
looked at me oddly. I felt that my dress was
somehow wrong. The pink finery looked garish
and shoddy.

There was a titter among the girls when I
came down, and I saw them looking at my woolen
sleeves that kept slipping down. I sat in a corner
and tried to remember to hide my shoes. There
was tag and blind-manTs bluff, but I couldnTt play
because of the sequins.

oWho is that odd child in the pink furbelows?�
I heard one of the grown-ups say to Mrs. West-
lake.

oSh"poor little thing! SheTs one of the minerTs
children from across the tracks. Marcia wanted
her"children are so democratic, you know! But
it is atrocious, isnTt it?�

We had refreshments"lovely pink ice cream
and a birthday cake with candles and roses, and
little baskets of jelly beans. I sat by Marcia, and
afterward when we went back to the parlor she
said, oGwen, you must be chilly. Put this coat
of mine around you.�

I did feel better. The soft brown coat hid my
dress, and the sleeves could come down now.

Marcia was saying, ~o~Come, everyone, letTs lis-
ten to my new music box. It came all the way
from Switzerland! And Gwen will make up a
story about it to tell us.�

I was on familiar ground now. I sat in the
middle of a circle of interested faces. It was the
story of an old music-box maker and his pretty
blind daughter that I made up.

My story was interrupted by the arrival of
Miss Breckinridge. She arrived simpering, to
bring Marcia a book of Bible stories. She no
sooner was in than she said in a burst of indigna-
tion, oITm sorry ITm late, but what do you think
happened? I stopped in at the school a moment
and discovered that one of my most prized pos-
sessions"my beautiful snow-scene paper-weight,
is missing from my desk. Someone has taken it!�

There was a sudden hush! One little girl snick-
ered and looked at me. And at the same moment

WINTER, 1962

Miss Breckinridge caught sight of my gift on the
table with MarciaTs presents.

oThere it is"my paperweight!
is it doing here?�

There was a terrible silence. I felt everyoneTs
eyes on me, boring through MarciaTs brown coat,
seeing my gaudy finery, my gray underwear, my
tarnished sequins. My hands went clammy; I
felt suddenly sick at my stomach. I saw MarciaTs
eyes"hurt was in them.

oGwendolyn brought it to Marcia,� piped up
little Penny Tolliver.

oSo!� cried Miss Breckinridge. ~oThat~s what
happened to my paperweight! I should have
known. She stole it!� And she glared menacing-
ly at me.

I couldnTt stand it. I couldnTt be called a thief.
I burst into tears and covered my face with my
trembling hands.

oShe did it for me! She knew I wanted one!�
cried Marcia. oThere, Gwen, donTt cry! ItTs going
to be all right.�� And she threw her arms around
me.

oT didnTt steal it! I bought it! I can prove
it!� I cried tearfully. oMrs. Abbott will tell you.
It was in her window! Oh, you must have seen it.
DidnTt any of you see it?�

I looked helplessly from one to the other.

oA likely story! Why this came from Germany,
and ITve never seen another!T Miss Breckinridge
sniffed.

oOf course, you must take it. ITm sure the child
meant no harm"� Mrs. Westlake took the paper-
weight and wrapped it again in the discarded
paper and ribbon and pressed it upon Miss Breck-
inridge.

I waited to see no more. Sobbing I ran for my
coat, not heeding MarciaTs flying footsteps and
cries after me. I had a glimpse of Miss Breckin-
ridge and her cruel smile, of all the awe-struck
faces of the little girls, of Mrs. WestlakeTs look
of dismay. I was two blocks away when I remem-
bered that I had not told Marcia and her mother
that I had enjoyed the party!

I ran crying down Main Street to Mrs. AbbottTs
shop and beat on the door. It was locked and the
shop was dark. Suddenly I remembered that
Mrs. Abbott had left that morning for Arkansas!

But perhaps she hadnTt gone! I ran blindly
through the streets, and when I reached her little
house, I flung myself against the door madly and
beat upon it. But all was still. The blinds were
down and the mat taken in. She had gone!

There was nothing to do but go home. It was

Why, what

33

dark now. Pop sat in the kitchen, reading the
Police Gazette and soaking his feet in a pan of
hot water. Buster was in bed, and Aunt Maggie
had gone out somewhere with her gentleman
friend.

I crept into bed, and cried myself to sleep.

I canTt remember much about the next few days.
Sunday was a blur of terror. I couldnTt tell Aunt
Maggie of my disgrace, when she had made my
dress for me. I had to talk about the refresh-
ments and answer questions. I pled a sick stom-
ach and stayed home from Sunday School. All
day I kept praying, hoping that Marcia would
come and say Miss Breckinridge had found her
paperweight"but the day passed and no one
came.

Monday it was cold and raining and not even
the Christmas decorations in the houses lighted
up the streets. On the way to school I saw little
girls in bunches, whispering. Timidly I entered
4-A. There was an instant hush.

Then Miss Breckinridge spoke coldly.

oGwendolyn McGinnis, take your books and go
to the office. Professor Alcock wants to see you.�

Numbly I gathered my things. MarciaTs blue
eyes were full of tears, and she put her hand on
mine.

oWe're still friends,� she whispered. ~You did
it for me!�

So she believed it, too! I stumbled blindly from
the room clutching my school bag. The last thing
I saw was my paperweight"the little lady I had
worked so hard for"standing on Miss Breckin-
ridgeTs desk.

Professor AlcockTs office was as grim and for-
bidding as Professor Alcock himself. He came to
the point immediately.

oNow, Gwendolyn, we canTt have thieves at
West Broadway. I know youTre poor and want
things, but stealing is no way to get them. We
have tried to help you here; the Westlakes have
tried, but to no avail. We have decided to sus-
pend you from school until I can talk to your
father and look into your home conditions. That
is all.

He turned back to his work. The episode was
finished.

I stumbled blindly out into the bleak December
day. What could I tell Pop and Aunt Maggie
now? What could I do?

But when I got home to GennettTs Lane I was
spared the agony of telling them. Pop had lost
his job at Emporia and Aunt Maggie was busy
packing to move on. This time Pop had heard of
a mine in Western Kentucky where they were

34

taking on men. He sat with his feet in the oven,
calmly drinking his beer, while Aunt Maggie
scolded and Buster got in her way.

oWe'll do fine in Manitou,� said Pop winking
at me. oI guess thatTs all youTll want"a man or
two, eh, Maggie?TT And he laughed loudly at his
own joke.

We left. Marshall the next morning. It had
been snowing, and the slush around the station
made everything look more drab and desolate
than ever. I climbed on board the sooty little day
coach carrying an ecstatic Buster, while Aunt
Maggie and Pop staggered under the worn
valises.

I sat down in a shabby plush seat, and while
Buster pressed his eager face to the window, I
looked out, too, at the town where I had been so
happy. It looked dull and desolate and drab.

Suddenly I saw Marcia. She was flying over
the platform, her eyes darting here and there as
she searched the windows of the train. Suddenly
she spied me and held up something"the paper-
weight.

She motioned me to put up the window.

oLook, Gwen, look!T She was out of breath.
oJoe Peters stole Miss BreckinridgeTs paper-
weight! Joe showed it to Sam Withers, and Sam
told on him. This is mine"like you said! Oh
Gwen, Gwen, come back!T

I shook my head. It was too late. The con-
ductor was calling ~All a-boo-ard!�

oOh Gwen, please write and tell me where you
are! Please do! ThereTs so much I want to say!
I always believed you, Gwen!�

The train was beginning to move. Marcia ran
along beside it, trying to talk over its roar.

oWe can still be friends, Gwen! Remem-
ber."

We were gone. The last I saw of Marshall was
MarciaTs little figure clutching the pink lady, her
lovely blue eyes full of tears.

oFTr heaven sake, put down that window! Are
you trying to freeze us?T�T shouted Pop from across
the aisle. Aunt Maggie was already making eyes
at the conductor.

oGoodbye, Marcia,T I said softly. oGoodbye.�
Someday, I tried to tell myself, ITd be a famous
writer, and then I would come back to Marshall in
a lovely fur coat and a hat with red roses and
drive down Main Street in a Stanley Steamer.

But it didnTt work. Marshall was just an epi-
sode in our wandering existence of run-down
houses across the track, faded dresses, worn-out
shoes. .. . I turned my face to the window and
closed my eyes to hide the tears.

THE REBEL

THE REBEL REVIEW

" a fa 4
tt se \
Setting of L

The Theatre Of The Absurd

Garden City,
1961. 363

The Theatre of the Absurd by Martin Esslin.
N. Y.: Anchor Books, Doubleday and Company.

pp. $1.45.

Martin EsslinTs stated purpose is oto define the
convention that has come to be called The Theatre
of the Absurd; to present the work of some of its
major exponents and provide an analysis and
elucidation of the meaning and intention of some
of their most important plays; to introduce a num-
ber of lesser known writers working in the same
or similar conventions; to show that this trend
sometimes decried as a search for novelty at all
costs, combines a number of very ancient and
highly respectable traditional modes of literature
and theatre; and, finally, to explain its significance

WINTER, 1962

as an expression"and one of the most representa-
tive ones"of the present situation of Western
man.� Mr. Esslin is admittedly partisan, believ-
ing that playwrights are writing some of the finest
dramatic works of our time within the convention
of the Absurd.

Eugene Ionesco, whose play The Rhinoceros
recently enjoyed a limited Broadway success de-
fines oabsurd� as that which is devoid of purpose
and believes that such is the present state of man.
The playright of the Absurd sees man adrift,
without moral certitude or political conviction,
and so without a basis for independent action.

The major playrights discussed by Esslin are

35

Samuel Beckett (Waiting for Godot, Endgame),
Arthur Adamov (Ping-Pong), Eugene Ionesco
(The Chairs, The Lesson, The Bald Soprano), and
Jean Genet (The Maids, The Balcony, The Blacks).
He also includes Harold Pinter, the English play-
wright whose work The Caretaker had a fine crit-
ical reception in New York last month, and Ed-
ward Albee, the American writer of KrappTs Last
Tape and The Zoo Story.

The author claims that Beckett has successfully
bypassed conceptual language in much the same
way that abstract painting bypasses recognizable
natural objects and that he has with like success
substituted the static situation, where characters
merely endure anguish, for the dramatic action
where they bring anguish upon themselves. He
regards BeckettTs method as one that has a thera-
peutic effect upon an audience, much the same as
that achieved in psychoanalysis. He does not
mention T. S. EliotTs dramas"The Family Re-
union, The Cocktail Party, and The Confidential
Clerk"though he might well be describing the
work of this Absurd old timer. EliotTs language
has certainly become more tenuous with each suc-
cessive play.

Some of the Absurdists have described their
work as a search for the sacred, the infinite, with
a tragic outlook that the doctrine of original sin
has provided in the past. Adamov writes: oFrom
whatever point he starts, whatever path he fol-
lows, modern man comes to the same conclusion:
behind its invisible appearances, life hides a mean-
ing that is eternally inaccessible to penetration by
the spirit that seeks for its discovery, caught in
the dilemma of being aware that it is impossible
to find it, and yet also impossible to renounce the
hopeless quest.� No wonder many of our the-
ologians have expressed an interest in this body
of drama!

Esslin points out that it is Ionesco who has best
succeeded in devaluating language. Convinced
that words are meaningless, and that no communi-
cation between human beings is possible, he tries
to translate the feelings of his characters into
visual symbols by letting the scenery and proper-
ties reflect their anxieties; e.g., The Chairs. Like
Adamov he denies that he is a pessimist. He be-
lieves that the only way to an authentic existence
is by putting man face to face with the absurdity
of his condition. In this way, Ionesco says, comes
catharsis, or liberation from anxiety. Esslin cites
Oedipus and Lear as characters similarly con-
fronted with a desperate situation. I wonder,
however, if we are to think of the Furies as prop-
erties.

36

All of these playwrights are writing plays of
social protest, but in Jean GenetTs works the pro-
test is most vehement. Genet protests the help-
lessness of man confronted with the complexity
of modern life, protests by revealing the dream
world of the outcasts of society as one completely
alienated from reality. Esslin compares Genet
with Pirandello, noting that in their plays appar-
ent reality is always discovered to be illusion.

There is much to admire in The Theatre of the
Absurd, and Esslin offers some convincing argu-
ments in support of its significance. Most impor-
tant, these plays are theatrical pieces, needing a
stage, the trappings of the theatre, and actor-
audience contact. The authors have not written
them with one eye on a movie adaptation. There-
fore, they are oof� the theatre, meaningful only
in that medium. Next in importance is the re-
vitalized dialogue, expressed in language so dif-
ferent from the cliché cuteness of the drawing
room comedy of the solemn slobberings of the
ocommon man� dramas that the audience is com-
pelled to listen attentively. One enjoys somewhat
the same effect in reading Cummings or Stein;
the language scrapes at the roots of feelings and
ideas in a way that has little conceptual (or
sequential?) meaning, but that creates images
which have a cumulative effect on the mind of the
listener. Lastly, this body of work is impressive
because the writers have struck an authentic
stance, have presented a personal vision of life in
our time that jibes with the outlook of many civ-
ilized and sophisticated humans throughout the
world.

The limitations of the Absurdists are about
equal in number. The devaluation of language, if
carried far, limits the audience to a coterie who
can translate the special symbols of the play-
wright. The greatest playwrights have always
reached a large audience. But if Beckett and com-
pany succeed in sifting the gold of words from the
dross that often conceals their meaning"who
knows?"the Absurdists may prepare the way
for a modern Shakespeare. Another limitation
that Esslin does not note is the fact that the most
successful plays of these writers are of one act.
The play with a static situation does not lend itself
to development of plot, character or idea. The
best than can be done is to reveal the situation as
it exists, the character as he is, and the one theme
of the absurdity of his condition. John Gassner,
in reviewing BeckettTs latest, Happy Days, calls
it an over-extended metaphor. Lastly, this re-
viewer cannot stomach a good many of the char-
acters in these plays. As Aristotle would have

THE REBEL

said, they are not representative. True, they are
symbols for certain attitudes and ways of behavior
in our society; but are they representative sym-
bols? BeckettTs hapless tramps, IonescoTs middle
class morons, and GenetTs conscienceless carica-
tures all exist to a degree, but some of us might
prefer reactions to the absurdity of our condition
from such as Albert Schweitzer, Charles de Gaule,
or even Yuri Gagarin.

Martin Esslin has written a provocative and
exhaustive study of The Theatre of the Absurd,
one in which writers and theatre buffs should wal-

low contentedly.
"J. A. WITHEY

The Crooked Corridor

The Crooked Corridor: a Study of Henry James. By Eliza-
beth Stevenson. New York: The Macmillan Company. c.
1961. 172 pp. $1.35.

The Macmillan Company has recently published
a paperback edition of Miss StevensonTs 1949
study of the work of Henry James. In spite of
the vast amount of James scholarship in the in-
tervening years, it remains a valid and useful
work. Having said ouseful,� however, one must
quickly point out that since Miss StevensonTs
method is inductive, supporting her assertions
with so many citations from both JamesT novels
and short stories that even she seems to be em-
barrassed by the sheer accumulation, the book
should properly be read only after an extensive
reading of James himself.

Miss Stevenson does not fall into the biograph-
ical pitfall: James sought to unite life and art,
not his life and art. As she says, ~o~An item from
life . . . cannot be allowed as of any weight or the
author can be accused rightly of cheating.T�T Hence
the section devoted to biography is only thirteen
pages long. Other sections deal with JamesT scope
(severely limited but self-sufficient), his central
theme (the collision of the individual and society),
the variations he played on this theme (about
which James may well have been more aware than
Miss Stevenson suggests), and his means (that
famous, fascinating, maddening, and increasingly
convoluted Jamesian style, which he called his
ocrooked corridorTT).

So long as the reader does not mistake this for
an introduction to Henry James, but turns to it
only after a large experience of the works of
James (and it doesnTt take long to find out that
reading James is precisely an experience), he will
find it a rewarding book.

"FRANCIS ADAMS

WINTER, 1962

Tell Me A Riddle

Tell Me A Riddle. A Collection by Tillie Olsen. New York:
J. B. Lippincott and Company. 1961. 156 pp. $3.50.

Four short stories, a variety of styles, and re-
freshing views on four subjects make Tillie
OlsenTs first book, Tell Me A Riddle, a delight to
read.

The first of these stories, oHey Sailor, What
Ship?� introduces the reader to a medley of de-
scriptions, thought processes and spoken phrases
which, when diffused into a pattern of moods and
impressions, leaves the reader awed. Not only
does Mrs. Olsen use words well, she is evidently
careful in choosing them. Her punctuation could
easily confuse the reader, but after a page or two
the train of thought overcomes the lack of quota-
tion marks, and the story moves more smoothly.

Mrs. Olsen uses one character"an old sailor"
in one situation"a homecoming with his daughter
and grandchildren"to describe the relationship
between the young and the old and their effort to
understand each other.

oO Yes� relates the white childTs impressions
of a Negro baptismal service. The story is based
on the friendship between a white child and a
Negro child. The relationship is set between the
two mothers. The problem is a social one which
Mrs. Olsen views with sympathy and understand-
ing. She moves beyond the surface into the core
of human relationships"friendship and religion.

The whole problem is one of ~~differences.�T The
white mother wants her daughter to remain in
the child-like society where there is no odiffer-
ence.� The white child sees this social difference
between her Negro friend and herself clearly at
the Negro church. The Negro mother understands
that the two children cannot be close friends for-
ever, but she wants the white child to understand
the reasons.

Through these characters and a Negro church
service, the reader sees a childTs first experience
with the grown-up world. This experience is well
expressed when Mrs. Olsen writes, o... it is a
long baptism into the seas of humankind, my
daughter. Better immersion and its pain than to
live untouched. Yet how will you sustain?�

The shortest of the stories, oI Stand Here Iron-
ing,� is a motherTs recollections of her daughterTs
childhood. It is a sad, pathetic story that leaves
the reader apprehensive and helpless at having
viewed the girlTs indifference toward the actual
olivingness� of life. Mrs. Olsen retained the de-
tached quality of her other stories; yet she pre-
sents a sensitive, touching picture of a motherTs
anxiety at having sensed failure in the rearing of

37

"""""E



her oldest child.

The last story, oTell Me a Riddle,� is a highly
dramatic and poetic love story at which Mrs.
Olsen reaches her peak with word-pictures. The
authorTs characters are at first vague and color-
less, but as the story progresses, the color comes
through in shades of violet and pink"colors for
the old, shadowed by weariness and the ever-pres-
ent threat of death.

The couple has been married forty-seven years,
and their children are married and have childdren
of their own. The man wants his wife to enjoy
old age with him, and the wife is resentful that
her children were not for her a joy, but a drudg-
ery. oThe childrenTs needings; that grocerTs face
or this merchantTs wife she had had to beg credit
from when credit was a disgrace, the scenery of
the long blocks walked around when she could
not pay; school coming, and the desperate going
over the old to see what could be remade; the
soups of meat bones begged ofor-the-dog� one
winter...� The basic idea is fear"not so much
fear of death as fear of separation and loneliness.

Here is a collection of four stories presenting
to the reader four different ideas, four varieties
in writing style, and one new writer, Tillie Olsen.
If her first book, Tell Me a Riddle, is an example
of Mrs. OlsenTs work to come, we look forward
with anticipation to her next publication.

"SUE ELLEN HUNSUCKER

The Lattimer Legend

The Lattimer Legend. By Ann Hebson. New York: The
Macmillan Company. 1961. 325 pp. $3.95.

Ann Hebson, the author of The Lattimer Leg-
end, is a newcomer to American writing. She has
spent most of her life in the South and has set
both of her novels in that region. Her first book,
A Fine and Private Place, was published in 1958.
The present novel, The Lattimer Legend, was pub-
lished in 1961 and won for Mrs. Hebson the third
annual Macmillan Fiction Award.

The Lattimer Legend revolves around the reac-
tions of Tom Lattimer to diaries written during
the Civil War by his ancestor, Kate. Tom is a
member of the country club set. He is a material-
ist and participates in all the Saturday night club
frolics. A mere figurehead in his business, which he
has inherited from his father, Tom allows his part-
ner to assume all of the responsibility. Even at
home, he evades responsibility by allowing his
wife to make most of the decisions. He resents
the children who, he feels, oclutter up their lives.�

His wife, Cora, represents the strength on
which Tom is dependent, but he does not recog-

38

nize her true significance. Although Cora knows
about the love affair Tom had just before World
War II, she does not oretreat back to her own
high mountain valley and become a gaunt and bit-
ter woman.� Instead, she accepts him as he is.
Through KateTs diaries, Tom discovers that Cora
possesses the same qualities he admired in Kate,
othe same stubbornness and gritty humor and
earthiness, the same ability to fight with dignity
and nobility, the same nimbus of sexuality.�
After Tom has developed this new conception of
his wife, he appreciates her as an individual.

KateTs diaries also affect TomTs relationship
with his grandfather, a Civil War veteran. Early
in the book, Tom neglects his grandfather, thus
driving Joel Lattimer to escape into the past from
the unpleasant realities of his old age. In KateTs
diaries, however, Tom discovers the secrets of the
past, the most profound of which was his grand-
fatherTs passion for his own stepmother, Kate.
He finally confesses to Tom that, oI wanted her
agTn worse and worse. It wore me down, that
awful wanting. When I thought I couldnTt stand
it, I went to her room. I laid there till dawn under
them sheets that smelled of her soTs I could hardly
breathe.� Through his discovery of his grand-
fatherTs affair with Kate, Tom realizes that hu-
man sin is eternal. Thus, his guilt over his own
affair relaxes. Tom no longer regards his
grandfather as a ridiculous old man but eventually
respects and even loves him.

The Lattimer Legend is concerned with both the
past and the present. The author, who presents a
well-developed and rapidly moving plot, uses Tom
as the cohesive force between two generations,
While The Lattimer Legend could be considered in
part an historical novel, it is a story concerned
primarily with individuals whose lives demon-
strate the basic similarity of emotions, regardless

of time or place.
"JANE TEAL

Initial A

Initial A. By David Schubert. New York: The Macmillan
Company. 1961. 70 pp. $1.50.

David Schubert was not a well known poet. He
has not been examined greatly by the critics,
nor has he been widely read and anthologized.
His is not a bombastic, passion-filled voice, but a
gentle soothing one; a voice that calls to mind the
green years directly after the turn of the century.

Schubert was born in New York in the year
1913. After an impoverished childhood he
somehow found his way to Amherst College
and the College of the City of New York, later

THE REBEL

attending the Columbia Graduate School. During
this time of his life, his work enjoyed relative
popularity. However, he succumbed to othe
rigors of the age"and of his own life"illness and
a complete breakdown led to his death in April
1946.� Today, he attracts little attention.

Perhaps SchubertTs greatest gift was his sim-
plicity of style and tone. He concocted no startl-
ing images through complicated wordage and jux-
taposition. There is in his simple and direct verse
nothing which calls attention to the fact that this
is a poem, a complicated mechanism. There is
instead a subtlety of imagery and idea, a moving
panorama of innuendos with great meaning at-
tached. However, there is a detriment to this.
While SchubertTs work escapes the bombastic
certitude of much of the modernistic school, while
it is not didactic in the least, it loses the readerTs
interest. It enfolds itself in vagueness and tends
to skim the surface of the ideas. In a sense, David
SchubertTs poetry lacks depth. Without this
depth, it lacks interest.

However, for the persevering reader who is
willing to drift through the world of shadows and
subtleties twice, interest and aesthetic value can
be gained from David SchubertTs simple and clear
phraseology and symbolism.

"MILTON G. CROCKER

High on a Hill

High on a Hill. By Lucy Daniels. New York: McGraw-Hill
Book Company, Inc. 1961. 320 pp. $4.95.

Lucy Daniels was born in North Carolina, and,
after attending the George School, she became a
reporter for the Raleigh Times. She is the author
of the highly successful Caleb, my Son, a novel
involving a Negro family in the South shortly
after the desegregation of schools was ordered.

In her new book, High on a Hill, Miss Daniels
has taken the unusual setting of a mental hospital
at Holly Springs, New York, and its collection of
people with their various mental disorders. The
book moves from the highly insane, almost hope-
less, to the slightly disturbed who have an aban-
doned air.

While interesting as a group of individual cases,
the book lacks the cohesion necessary to tie the
cases together on some common ground other than
Holly Springs. The reader can see the authorTs
attempt to use Dr. David Holliday, the director of
Holly Springs, as the cohesive element. It is
doubtful, however, that this attempt has been
successful. Nevertheless, Miss Daniels dispels
many of the misconceptions concerning what ac-
tually goes on in a mental hospital.

"Bos AVERETTE

WINTER, 1962

ContributorTs Notes

Jim Rockey comes to East Carolina from Omak,
Washington. He is a senior and has been enroll-
ed in different schools from the West to the East
coast. This is his first appearance.

Sarah Hansen has her poetry published for
the third time in THE REBEL (Not the same
poetry). She is a primary-education major from
New Bern.

Richard Taylor arrived here via the USAF,
Piedmont College, and Kamuela, Hawaii. He
holds the position of graduate assistant in the
Social Studies Department and has a mustache.

G. Carroll Norwood is a Senior from Black
Mountain, North Carolina.

Betsy Orr is a Senior from Robbinsville, North
Carolina. She and Mr. Norwood appear for the
first time in this issue.

Dr. Elizabeth Utterback is a member of the
English faculty here at East Carolina. She has
had a good deal of material published in the past,
but not by THE REBEL.

Dr. Francis Adams is a member of the English
faculty.

Dr. J. A. Withey is a member of the English fac-
ulty and returns to East Carolina this year after
a yearTs teaching in Burma.

Bob Averette, Joyce Evans and Jane Teal are
freshmen (non-Freudian) and are members of
the staff.

Ann Mashburn, a sophomore from Washing-
ton, N. C. and Betsy Ross and Pat Waff, sopho-
mores from Edenton, N. C. are newcomers to the
art section.

39

| a
ME IN | As: prize ...35.00
, SPRING ~ : And prize ...10.00

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Prize money donated
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caax: | POEMS}

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