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the rebel yellThis issue of The Rebel represents a variety of student writing and art work as well as re-views of some of the latest books and an interview with a prominent poet. But the editorsfeel that the magazine needs a wider range of student participation. We encourage all stu-dents to submit any material that they feel would be of benefit to The Rebel.The staff feels that perhaps this is the place and occasion to include a statement of ourpolicy about contributions to The Rebel from faculty members. It is felt by us that althoughThe Rebel is primarily intended as an undergraduate publication, faculty members could con-conceivably be interested in submitting work of their own which they consider to have specialmeaning for the student and the faculty of the college. We believe that the magazine shouldremain predominantly undergraduate, but we shall welcome from others whatever will give themagazine life, variety, and significence.Peter Viereck won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry with his volume, Terror and Decorum in1949. A professor of history at Mt. Holyoke College at South Hadley, Massachusetts, he vis-ited East Carolina College in connection with the Danforth Lecture Series here in February.On February 16th, he recorded an interview with the staff of The Rebel in which he discussedhis own poetry, student writing, the ~beat generationTT and problems of general education.The interview was tape-recorded through the courtesy and facilities of WWS Campus Radio.Special notice goes to Jay Robbins whose woodcut, Beaching, supplied this issueTs cover.Jay is from Ahoskie, a Senior majoring in Art. Other Artists featured in this issue, whoseworks are displayed on pages 4, 10, and 16, are Harrley Woodard, Nelson Dudley, and DavidMathews.Rachel Steinbeck, whose story, The Journal, was published in the Winter issue of The Rebelcontributes A Bag of Gold. Miss Steinbeck graduated prior to publication and is now servingon Senator Sam D. ErvinTs staff in Washington, D.C. Miss Steinbeck is a native of Greenville.Sherry Maske submits her first short story, Old Man SamTs Garden., Miss Maske is a Juniorand a business major from Rockingham.Poetry appearing in thi issue was contributed by Betty Jo Chappell, Lewis Gordon, and DavidLane.Sandra Mills, a past contributor to The Rebel, reviews three Doubleday Anchor Books forthis issue. Hugh Aqee, former Book Review Editor of The Rebel reviews an important _work ofcriticism. Robert L. Harper, who previously has contributed short stories, reviews ErskineCaldwellTs latest novel. Bryan Harrison, Editor of The Rebel contributes an essay on booksabout the South, using two recent books for comparison.Sketch for the short story, Old Man Sam's Garden, was contributed by Nelson Dudley. Nelsonhas been selected by the Art Department to succeed Bob Harper, who is graduating, as ArtEditor of The Rebel.2 the REBEL

eS Me CE RETHE REBELBox 1420East Carolina CollegeGreenville, North CarolinaEditorBryan HarrisonBusiness ManagerNancy DavisFaculty AdvisorOvid PierceManaging EditorDavid LaneBook Review EditorDan WilliamsArt EditorRobert HarperExchange EditorBetty Vic GaskinsAsst. Business Mgr.John FilickyAsst. to EditorsAnnette WilloughbyWoodrow DavisPRINTED BYOFFSET PRINTING CO,SPRING, 1959IN THIS ISSUErit tonOld Man SamTs GardenA short story by Sherry Maske 13Bag of GoldA short story by Rachel Steinbeck 17ESSAYSAn Old and New Look at the New and Old South 19WOODCUTSHarrley Woodard 4Nelson Dudley 10David Mathews 16POETRYBarbara Jo Chappell 22Dave Lane 22FEATURESAn Editorial 11An Interview with Peter Viereck 5VOLUME 1 SPRING « 1959 NUMBER 4NOTICE- Contributions to THE REBEL should be directedto P.O. Box 1420, E.C.C. Editorial and business officesare located at 309% Austin Building. Manuscripts and art-work submitted by mail should be accompanied by a self-addressed envelope and return postage. The publishersassume no responsibility for the return of manuscripts orartwork.Published by the Student Government Association of EastCarolina College. Created by the Publications Board ofEast Carolina College as a literary magazine to be editedby students and designed for the publications of studentmaterial,3

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AN INTERVIEW WITHPETER VIERECKInterviewerWhen do you write your poetry?ViereckWell, the first ideas usually come to me when I'm walking. I walk a lot. We have some beautifulwoods - white birch forests and pine forests - where | live in New England. So when ITm strol-ling along very often the rhythm of my walk determines the rhythm of the verse. In other words,I often have the rhythm earlier than the words, and ITm likely to jot down rhythms as I walkand this is how it originates. The hard work on the poem afterwards, putting in the words andmaking sense of them, takes place usually at night at my typewriter.InterviewerWould you say there is a dominant theme in your poetry?ViereckI think that that would be for others to say, really. I donTt think a man can judge his own writ-ing. D. H. Lawrence once said one should never listen to the artist about his work, but shouldlisten to the art. In other words, the artist thinks he is doing so and so. (Tolstoy thought hewas doing certain things in ~War and PeaceTT.) But what he is really doing is quite different,because in the poem, the unconscious of the artist is doing a lot of things that the artist does-n't know and doesnTt intend. What he produces may be entirely against his intentions. Thepoet may think that his theme has some high resounding moral message proclaiming some newphilosophy. Milton probably thought that was his purpose proclaiming his Puritan philosophyin his ~'Paradise Lost'T, and yet, the real verse may be: something he is unaware of - the thingthat really gives it beauty and excitement. And this is why I would say of myself and of anypoet - donTt listen to the poet about his work, listen to his art and decide for yourself whatthe themes are. I can tell you one little anecdote about the aerlier question about whether apoet should self-teach poetry. There is a story of a centipede which had been walking veryhappily all of his life until one day somebody said to him, 'T Which foot do you walk with first.TAfter that he could never walk again. Do you see what I mean about a poet teaching poetry,becoming too critical to have spontaneity?InterviewerWe have noticed a great concern over World War II in your poetry. Is there a particular reasonfor this?ViereckWell, not except to use the cliché,TTThe best years of oneTs life.TT The best years of my life,I was a soldier in the African attack. I wasn't a soldier in World War I. I hope I will not beone in World War III. Therefore, itTs only natural that the war in which I was a soldier, march-ing up and down Africa and Italy, would give me the images and the subjects one has observed.A poet writes about what he sees; otherwise, he lacks concreteness. This was the particularwar in which I happened to have fought. This takes me to my first book, Terror and Decorum,which was written while I was a G.I., and that was battlefield pdetry. The later books, I think,are less concerned because they were written in other places. The book I like best of mine,The Persimmon Tree, was written in Italy where I spent two years recently.InterviewerDo you think that the poetry written today is among some of the best poetry ever written?SPRING, 1959 5

ViereckI donTt know. We donTt know what to expect of it. Maybe the g ood poet of today is not evenbeing noticed, but starving in some garret. I think time will have to tell. I don't particularlythink that, though. There is no reason to think that. I think this is an age of over-adjustednessand gregariousness, and it's not an age of exciting individualism, such as the Elizabethan ageand the Renaissance in Italy. Today, smugness and mass pressure concerns high living stand-ards rather than the zest for life and individual experience that you have in the Elizabethanage in England or the Renaissance in Florence. My hunch would be that this age will not pro-duce anything to equal Elizabethan.InterviewerDo you think there is any good writing at all being produced by t he so-called "beat gener-ationTT writers?ViereckYes, I would say when they forget about being beat. Also, when they are not grinding an axeor hawking their wares. ThereTs a lot of talent there, but I think the talent will come despitethemselves, just as the work of art may be quite different than what the artist intends. So Ithink that though they have a lot of talent, they misdirect it when they put their talent in theform of manifestos, saying how daring and non-conformist they are. I think thatTs misdirectedbecause there is a false situation. We all sympathize with the non-conformist as being op-pressed and demanding individual freedom. You see, the paradox is that the west coast - theSan Fransisco - non-conformists are not being oppressed. They are having a wonderful time,making money, getting large audiences, reading their poems in night clubs, and so on. So youhave a kind of shadow boxing taking place in which they proclaim how beat they are, and howthey are persecuted. Meanwhile, everybody applauds them and makes a success of them, andI think thatTs a false situation, having the best of both worlds: I mean a lot of conformistssaying how non-conformist they are, how they suffer. I think thatTs false situation anddoesnTt have the kind of tension that genuine rebellious verse would have.InterviewerWho is your favorite contemporary poet?ViereckWell, I want to stress contemporary a little to mean not living necessarily, but poets of thetwentieth century. Otherwise, I'd have a hard time answering it. I would then answer withouthesitation, Yeats, if it means modern poets close to the twentieth century. Yeats, I think, isthe greatest lyric poet since Shakespeare.InterviewerDo you find college teaching a satisfactory profession to be in when writing?ViereckNot normally - no, I donTt think so. I think it is for me, personally, very good. As it appliesin general to writing, I would say no. In my case I avoid teaching poetry and deliberatelyteach a different subject - history, so I find it very helpful. But I feel that most poets donTthave knowledge of another subject. I have training in college history, meaning my trainingmight be interesting. But most poets have to teach English, thatTs their only union card, and Ifeel that if a poet teaches English this is very bad. He becomes s elf-conscious. He losesspontaneity, and the whole fun and point of lyricism should be its spontaneity. Thus the aca-demic poets tend to be critics and analyists rather than feel the joy of spontaneity, and atthat you have so much modern poetry being too critical, too intellectual, too dry, too lackingin music. I think this partly resolves from the academicism of it.InterviewerRobert Graves has implied that modern education, or more specifically, modern English facul-ties have helped to further obscurity in poetry and aided in the decline of poetry. Would youyou support this?6 the REBEL

ViereckI think that makes sense. We had the pleasure of meeting Robert Graves at our college recently.He came over from England and gave a lecture there and he seemed to be a man with real in-sight. He sometimes will exaggerate a point in order to sharpen it up, and perhaps the state-ment as you read it is a little over-dramatical, a little sweeping, but I would say that in gen-eral the professional teacher is summed up by the words, ~~/Whysay things simply and thenmake them complicated?TT I mean this is the way of the profession. They come between thefree air and the poem and they read in the poem things they think are there. Whether thosethings are really there or not is debatable. ItTs certainly true of most teachers. It doesnTtseem to be true here. The teachers out here seem to be awfully able and sincere people.InterviewerWe have noticed that college students writing poetry seem to lack a respect for accepted form.Do you have any advice for them?ViereckI think that everyone has to go through this little form, not because I believe in being a slaveto it, but rather precisely because I think you should be free of it. And you can only be freeof form by having learned to discipline and then reject it. A great musician has to know allthe finger exercises. After that he can dispense with form and violate whenever necessary, buta person doesnTt have a right to violate forms until he knows what they are. Then he shouldmove beyond them. If he sticks to the finger exercises and sticks to rigid forms he may bevery dull and pedantic, but he has no right to go beyond them until he has gone through thediscipline. In other words, there is no objection to free verse when there is very fine freeverse, but first you have to show you know how to use a form before you discard it. In anycase itTs a very good discipline when considered as something temporary.InterviewerToday, in what seems to be a too-materialistic society, what is the place of the non-sciencemajor? In other words, as you stated in your recent Saturday Review article, ~TThe UnadjustedManTT, what is the place of those majors in the ~~impractical, humanistic, and spiritual stud-iesT'?ViereckI would say that both are necessary. I hope I am not being maneuvered into the position of be-ing against science. Obviously we need science to survive in the modern world. Military sci-ence to survive deadly enemies in Moscow, and also the various physical sciences in orderto keep our industrial machines going. You need both and the accomplishment of the scient-ist is as important as our humanities may be. What is different is the fact that the scientist'scontribution is an obvious one and you can see what he is doing, dealing with chemicals tomake soil more fertile. In other words, what the humanities man gives is subtler, and if in myarticles and books I deal more with that, it isnTt because I want to exclude the other, but be-cause itTs subtler and less easily understood. To put it briefly, I would say that it sciencegives us the 'T know how "T which we definitely need, the humanities, manwith his understand-ing of human nature, literature, holding a mirror up to life, and so on gives us the 'T know whyT!to match the TT know howTT. If you have only the 'T know howTT, what is to prevent our scien-tific knowledge from being used destructively instead constructively. So the humanities manwould give the ethical and the esthetic guidance to the 'T know howTT. Does that count in youranswer? The TT know why�! guiding the TT know how�T,InterviewerLately, we have noticed a trend from educational theory represented by the so called education-ists, who have made a science out of education.ViereckI think itTs an art, not a science. I think any attempt to make it a science is ridiculous as, welltrying to make anything dealing with human beings a science. You can only have science withSPRING, 1959 7

chemicals, dealing with a dead man, but when you are dealing with human beings it's an artthat has to be played by ear, and if you try to make it a science it would just make everythingpedantic and dry.InterviewerWould you say there is a trend back toward education in the fine arts away from this trend to-ward education as a science?ViereckI donTt know whether there is or not and I wouldn't be concerned about it. I say and do whatI think is right whether itTs fashionable or unfashionable, whether it's a trend or not a trend.I wouldnTt bother to investigate it. Its very hard to measure trend in a country as big as thisYou've got one trend in one college and another trend in another college. One shouldn't worrytoo much about trends. If one thinks too much about trends it's a kind of a Gallup poll approach.Instead of doing what is right, one begins to have a public relations approach to oneTs liter-ary training. think one should just do and say what is right in educational liberty, regard-less of whether itTs a trend or whether not a trend. If enough people say the right thing theyT1lmake a trend of it even if itTs against the grain.Interviewer :Do you feel high school teachers should have a good background in the humanities?ViereckWell not if itTs a trade school or something like that, but normally, yes. I think a high schooleducation should not be merely teaching you some specialized trade, but preparing you for lifeas a whole, and the humanities seem to be the best preparation for life as a whole. Thereare two aspects of them, you could say. Those with religious and spiritual values, and thosethat deal with the esthetic discipline, and the spiritual and religious disciplines will teachyou how to improve yourself and how to guide yourself. The humanities, to my knowledge, em-brace both the esthetic and the spiritual. Without that it seems to me you just become a boor-ish, narrow specialist at some trade, but you are not going to find life very rewarding nor con-tribute much to it without that kind of training and self-knowledge which the humanities give.So I would insist on humanities having absolute priority in any general education unless youare going to some trade school and learn to be a good typist.InterviewerWould you say that it is a mistake for undergraduates to specializd in college?ViereckYes, if they have the choice, it is a mistake. There may be cases of economic necessitywhere they have no choice, and that would have to be taken into account But in general,I wouldsay it is a great mistake to specialize that early. The important thing is general train-ing for life. Ithink if you talk with the big firms, in engineering, and law, and so on, the reallybig ones, they'll say again and again: ~TWe donTt want a man to specialize in our field. Hecan pick up that knowledge quickly in the office anyway. We want a man with a general train-ing for life such as the humanities give.TT ItTs a mistake to think that specializing is helpful.The really top lawyers, doctors, engineers are people with a broad, humane wisdom and un-derstanding of life in general. The number two man, the plodding truck horses, will be thespecialists, not the race horses.InterviewerWe know you can not tell anyone how to write, but student verse writers are always willing tohear what a practising poet has to say about his art. Could you say something to them whichwould help them avoid some of the pitfalls in verse writing?8 the REBEL

ViereckI think the kindest and best thing I could do would be discourage them as cruelly and sar-castically as possible. Throw cold water on their tenderest dreams. Tell them to burn theirmost precious manuscripts. Because it seems to me someone who is really born to be a poet,has a real sense of divine calling, will do it anyway. You canTt stop them. ItTs an obsessionfor those of us who are really writers. One talks of alcoholics anonymous. We could have poetsanonymous - an obsession. It seems to me those who clutter up the literary market would cer-tainly be those who are doing it because itTs fashionable and itTs a way of getting ahead. Andso by being as cruel and discouraging as possible I would help to eliminate those who are do-ing it, not out of a necessary urge, but out of fashionableness and forgetting. In other words,nothing I could say would ever discourage a real poet because he has no choice but to be one.COLLEGE VIEWCLEANERSAND LAUNDRY, INC.109 Grande Avenue---Main PlantFifth Street and Colonial HeightsBranchesJENKINS MOTORCOMPANY, Inc.EAST CAROLINATS MOST AGGRESSIVE FORD DEALERFORD - CARS - TRUCKS - TRACTORS - IMPLEMENTSCoca-Cola Bottling Company 4th & Cotanche St.Greenville, N.C. GREENVILLE, N. C.SPRING, 1959 9

editorial(This editorial appeared in a college literarymagazine some years ago; we feel that ithas some application to all colleges and un-iversities that publish a literay magazine,and we are reprinting it with the permissionof the author.)* * *Most college literary magazines sooneror later go the same road. They hold, by vir-ture of their purpose alone, compromisingstands in the collegiate pattern; their sub-sistence has been due to authorization bypublication boards and the more less per-functory backing of faculty members ratherthan to general student interest and partici-pation. It is suggested to members of liter-ary staffs that they make their obeisancesfor having presumed to maintain standards inliterary work and that they start again on theso-called semi-humorous basis. College mag-azines have been promised readers for alljokes and cartoons and purposely lewd stor-ies that they might publish; and this is thecompromise that a considerable number of thecollege magazines make, with a resultingpublication that can stand on not one of itsown feet and which finally finds itself inlimbo. But whether the magazine reachesthe greater part of the student readers or not,its purpose still is to publish creditable lit-erary attempts written by students, that be-ing, as the staff sees, its sole raison deTetre.Aganist the type of criticism existing inthe university life, the staff of the magazinewishes to protest, believing it wholl y un-justifiable; and that is the unsympatheticcriticism that all sincere dramatic, literary,and cultural attempts have recieved in thelast three or four years; not that the teachersand students instigating these attempts areafraid of criticism or are in any way trying toshun it. But they do legitimately ask forcriticism from those who are capable of crit-icising, from those who do have some drama-tic, literary, and cultural discernment. TheSPRING, 1959limitations upon those persons who are work-ing sincerely for those things are obviousenough; and the burden of discouragementand indifference makes the tasks the moredifficult. This is not a veiled plea for high-schoolish praise upon attempts for the reasonthat they are made by students, but it isaplea for approval upon the honest work thatmerits approval. A student is the harshestcritic that a student has; in fact there seemsto be a notion among college students thatthe first principle of review is a search forflaws.There has been in the past, at least inthe undergraduate school of the university,an apparent absence of any cultural consci-ousness; there has been a none too eagerappreciation of those aspects of college lifewhich can make the individual imprint bywhich a student is known from other menafter he has completed his college training.For the greater part of the students, life incollege seems to have been reduced to thesimple schedule of compulsory classes,broken intermittently by dances, fraternity.smokers, and football games. Perhaps thatconsciousness, which is atmospheric andmust be felt rather than seen, will grow withthe years.The changes in policy which the staffanticipates will be made in the hope of bring-ing the magazine home, of making it a publi-cation of regional study, and of local inter-pretation. The staff is of the opinion thatmore distinctive work can be. done by stu-dents the more closely they restrict thescope of their study. Most young writers feelthat in order to be recognized they must beprofound, they .must write for literature im-mediately. It apparently never occurs towriters beginning that they can describebest, that they can say best, w hat theyknow best. Almost without exception thoseworks in American prose since 1900 whichwill continue to be read are those by writers11

who have restricted themselves most nar-rowly to regional interpretations. In surveyof these works, DuBose HeywardTs Porgymight be mentioned, Julia PeterkinTs GreenThursday, James Boyd's Drums, Roark Brad-fordTs Old Man Adam anT His Chillun, andEllen Glasgow's Barren Ground; in New Eng-land, the poetry of Robert Frost and AmyLowell and Edith WhartonTs Ethan Frome;in the West and Mid-West, the poetry of CarlSandburg and Vachel Lindsay, Ruth SuckowTsstudies of common-nace life, and WillaCatherTs O Pioneers and My Antonia. Thisis by no means an adequate but a very gen-eral survey.The hope of the staff will be to capture,in so far as possible, something of this spiritof local study, believing that in that directionits best efforts lie.THe Searcu122s HARPERthe REBEL

OWD MAN SAMby SHERRY MASKEOld Man Sam died on the afternoon of ascorching-hot day in the middle of July. Hewas sitting on his front porch in the over-sized, green-painted rocking chair when hisheart stopped beating. I found him there. Atfirst I thought he was asleep. He looked justas he had so many times before as we satthere together talking quietly or in a com-panionable silence. I sat down in the othergreen chair and waited for him to wake.I must have been there twenty minutesbefore I noticed his hand. It hung limply downby the side of the chair. It was a big ,roughhand. I suddenly realized that I had neverbefore seen the hand still.Even when he wasidle, the old manTs hands shook gently, asdid his head. The hands only stopped shak-ing when they were clasped around a hoe ora water bucket or some other tool connect-ed with his garden. But now the hand wasstill. The old man was dead.I called his daughter. Soon the littlehouse was filled with people. I went homeand sat down on the back steps. I could stillsee the little house and the people and OldMan SamT~s garden.The first time 1 sawMr. Sam he was work-ing in the garden. It was in the spring of theyear. I had just arrived in Lilesville after aserious illness had forced me to retire, at theripe old age of forty-nine, from my profession,the honorable and poorly-paid profession ofteaching. Dr. Phillip James, formerly Pro-fessor of English, now a fully-trained andoriented idler. I had come to Lilesville be-cause I owned a house here, an inheritancefrom a maiden aunt, and because I had neitherthe means nor the desire to go anywhere else.I intended, when I arrived, to spend the restof my days doing absolutely nothing, and myfirst glimpse of the town assured me that itwould be remarkably easy to realize my am-bition. The town was composed of one street,lined with a dozen or so business establish-ments, with the residential section extendingon either side for several blocks. My houseSPRING, 1959was several blocks from the center of town;there was a vacant lot next to mine, and theJohnsons lived next to the vacant lot. Beyondtheir house was open country, except for asmall frame house, surrounded by huge oldtrees, which was set well back from the road.I discovered later that Mrs. Johnson's fatherlived there; his name was Mr. Sam Cooper,andhe was known tothe town as OldMan Sam.Mrs. Johnson called on me several daysafter I arrived, bringing with her a lemon pieand an invitation to supper - both of whichI gratefully accepted. The Johnsons werevery nice, I decided; a typical American fam-ily. I asked them about the frame house, ex-plaining that I had seen no one about theplace at all."My Daddy lives there,TT Mrs. Johnsontold me. ~We tried to get him to stay up here,but heTd rather be by himself. And sincethatTs what he wants, we donTt insist on any-thing else.TT"He's visiting another of his daughtersnow,T! her husband added, ~but heTll be backsometime next week.T!The next week he was back. I saw himgiving directions to a man with a tractor. Thenext week he was again outside, this timeworking in the space that had been plowedand smoothed. I walked across the open fielduntil I reached him.''T'm Phillip James,'T I told him. ~TI liveover there,TT waving in the general directionof my house.~My nameTs Sam Cooper,'T he returned.'INice to meet you. Lois and Paul told meabout you. If you donTt mind waiting a while,we can go over and sit on the porch foraspell.T''Fine,'' I said, and waited.He continued with his work and I watchedhim. He was a big, burly man, probably in hissixties, I told myself. His hair was white andhis skin was wrinkled and burned by the sun.His face was almost square, covered now with13

a stubbly beard. The eyes that he turned tome when he was ready to go were small and afaded blue.We walked the few yards to the house insilence. Mr. Sam (everybody called him ~TMr.Sam!! when they spoke to him, ~TOld Man Sam!Twhen they spoke of him) pointed to a chair onthe tiny porch. We both sat, and after that wesat there nearly every afternoon until the sunwent down, sometimes talking, sometimessilent.Old Man Sam worked in his garden everymorning except Sunday. The Johnsons remon-strated with him about working in the sun. ~/Hehas a weak heart,TT Lois told me. ~~HeTs al-ready had two bad attacks. But you canTt tellhim anything; heTs stubborn as a mule.TOnce I asked him why he put so muchlabor into the garden. He spat a brown streamof tobacco juice over the porch railing beforehe answered me.''Reen talkinT to Lois and Paul, haveyou? They think itTs bad for me to work, butit ain't near as bad as not workinT would be."THe looked down at his hands, lifted them forme to see.'TSee these hands? TheyTve alwaysworked, ever since I was a kid. Never wentto school a day in my life - canTt read, canTtwrite nothinT except my name. I got to dosomething, Phil, and I canTt do nothinT exceptwork. I been a farmer and a carpenter andthese hands have turned out a mess of work.I donTt aim to quit now."TAnother day I asked him, ~~How manychildren do you have, Mr. Sam? �"Six - five girls and one boy,T he an~-swered. ''I got twenty-three grandchildren andfive great-grandchildren. You'll meet ~emFatherTs Day; we always have a picnic uphere and everybody comes. The youngunsTllprob/ly run you crazy, hoopinT and hollerinT.I got a couple of grandchildrenTs been to col-lege, though; one of ~em~s a English teacher.Maybe she can swap some fancy languagewith you.TMr. Sam was proud of his family, and thatthey loved him was very evident at the picnic.They fussed over him and filled his plate withthe very best pieces of chicken and his fav-orite pie and beans, that had been cannedfrom his garden last year. Mr. Sam pointed out.his daughter Sue to me. ~TSheTs. the most likeDorie,'T he said.14The next week I asked him about Dorie."She was your wife?!T I asked.~'KA-huh. SheTs been dead twenty-twoyears come October,TT he said. 'TI near aboutwent crazy when she died. I knew there wonTtno God, else he wouldnTt have taken her awayfrom me. I started drinkinT, thinkinT it'd helpme forget. It didnTt. I drunk heavy for nearabout fifteen years. Then I had a little spellof trouble with my heart. So I started going tochurch, thought that'dhelp me get straightenedout. But I couldn't feel any God in that church-house full of dressed-up folks and fancysinginT. Then I planted me a garden.'T Theold man paused for a minute, then turned tome and said slowly, '~It just ainTt possible,Phil, to watch a seed no biggerTn a ant growinto a stalk of corn highTn your head and stillbelieve there ainTt no God. I feel like a managain in my garden. It's the only thing I| got.I even feel closer to Dorie there. I know I gota bad heart, and I know | could set in theshade and live ten years longer. But I ainTtscared of dyinT, and I got to take care of mygarden. It's all I got left to do.TTThe next week was hot and dry. Theplants in Old Man SamTs garden looked wiltedand brown around the edges.I saw the old manlook at them with a hopeless look on his face.Then his jaw tightened. ''I ainTt goinT to letthem plants die,TT he said.The next morning about 1] o'clock Ilooked out to see Mr. Sam trudging toward thegarden with a bucket in each hand. ~TMy God!TI thought, ~He can't be carrying water all theway from the spring!TT But he was. The springwas at least two city blocks away from thegarden. I hurried across the field. ~~Stop it,you fool!!/I shouted at him. ~TYou'll kill your-self!!T I was damp with perspiration from theshort run; the old man, who had probably beenout since early morning, was dripping wet.Great beads of perspiration stood out on hisforeh2ad. His shirt stuck to his back.He grinned at me, showing tobacco-stainedteeth. ~DonTt get so het up, Phil, you'll bustablood vessel if you ainTt careful.'T I watchedasT heT emptied the contents of the buckets onthe plants. ~TI'm through,T he said. Every rowof plants had been watered.~Don't do it again,TT I pleaded. ~~It isnTtworth it, Mr. Sam.!T~'Come on down and set awhile, son. Ithe REBEL

got to rest up a little bit.TT But he didnTtpromise not to water the plants again. Thenext morning he repeated the watering pro-cedure - and the next - and the next. Lois andPaul threatened and pleaded - to no avail. Iwent to help, but he said no in a way thatbrooked no argument, so I went home andprayed for rain.It didnTt rain though, and for two weeks,even on Sundays, Mr. Sam watered his garden.On the last Sunday afternoon I went down tosee him and found him dead.The day after Old Man Sam died the raincame. It fell in torrents for three days. OnThursday the sun came out and Old Man Samwas buried. I had thought heTd be buried inSPRING, 1959the shade of one of the huge old trees aroundhis little house. Instead he was taken to thecemetary in Albermarle where his Dorie hadlain for ~Ttwenty-two years come October,TT andburied beside her.When I got home from the funeral,I walkeddown to Old Man SamTs garden. The sun haddried it out, and already the weeds were push-ing up between the even green rows. I pickedup a hoe, and awkwardly began to destroy theweeds. Presently the Johnson's ganglingtwelve-year-old son came with another hoeand began to chop along with me. He had blueeyes and a square jaw. He handled the hoeexpertly and cleared the weeds from threerows before I had finished my first one.15

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=In that splendid, old mansion on the hillJim Cutright is finally breathing his last. Ican see him now, lying in his musty bedroomwith the mildewed quilt pulled up tightly underhis chin. He was like that a week ago when Iwas there glaring wildly at the cracks in theplaster and gripping the edge of the quilt withvulture-like hands. Luke Rowan was sittingby the iron four-poster which caged his friendand, from what I hear, he is still there.I was about ten years old when firstsaw Jim and Luke. It was early summer and Iwas pulling weeds in the rhubarb patch whenI happened to see two strangers saunteringaround the bend in the road. The shorter manwas wiping his round face with a bright redhandkerchief which clashed loudly with hisglistening pink skin. He jerked along on twothick legs which seemed completely over-powered by his pear-like, shape. His overallswere stretched over his protruding middle andhis light blue shirt revealed its true shade inscattered patches which weren't stuck to hisgreasy body. The taller man took one step tohis partnerTs two, and his long legs carriedhim gracefully over the rutted clay of theroad. Although his arms swung loosely at hissides, his whole body gave the appearance ofdelicate strength, like that of a steel coilready to spring. When he came closer, hisice-blue eyes glittered coldly. I remembershuddering underneath the hot sun whichsprayed the rhubarb patch after they hadpassed out of sight. Then I plunged my handsbelow the warm earth and tried to forget aboutthe two strangers for the moment.I saw Jim and Luke only two or threemore times that summer. They moved into thedeserted Rohrbough cabin on the farm adjoin-ing ours, but they kept pretty much to them-selves.Another man who came by during thosevacant months was the cattle buyer, JakeAndrews. He usually visited the farm once ayear, and we always were on the lookout forhim. That summer he had bought a new whitemare on which he galloped up the dusty roadin fine style. And his faithful shepherd dogSPRING, 1959Of Goldby RACHEL STEINBECKran close behind. Dad met him at the gate,and I hung around hoping I would get a chanceto rub down the new horse. She was a beauty.I can still feel the hard ripples of musclesbeneath her soft skin and hear her hoofs clickbehind me on the slate slab path leading tothe barn. As I was slipping the saddle off,I heard Jake come running and yelling downthat path. He stopped for a moment in thedoorway io catch his breath and let his eyesbecome accustomed to the shadows. Then hecame towards me without saying a word andtore the saddle bags out of my hand. Hundredsof gold coins fell from the pocket of that sad-dle bag.They glittered there in the dust on thedirty planks. Even the dust which rose in theair seemed to contain that same golden shim-mer. I had never seen so much money in mylife. There must have been at least a quart ofgold coins lying there at my feet. ImmediatelyJake began to scrape the money back into thebag, and I bent over to help. Before I toucheda single coin, JakeTs shepherd stood growlingin front of me. I donTt know where he appearedfrom, but I didnTt stay long enough to find out.I never mentioned what had happened thatday. I felt guilty somehow over what I hadseen, and I never felt exactly right about thatcattle man again. I noticed he never camearound any more after that day.That's what's strange about the wholeincident. Jake never came back, but his dogdid. That shepherd couldn't have been missed- not by me anyway. He was a _ large black-maned shepherd with black blotches down hisforelegs. His nose was more blunt than a col-lieTs, but he held his head collie-proud andcarried his body in a delicate way. Jake usedhim to herd in the cattle on the different farms,and Dad said the dog was one of the bestcattle dogs he had ever seen. I donTt knowabout his being a good cattle dog, but I doknow he knew how to protect Jake. You neversaw one without the other -- the dog evenslept at the foot of his masterTs bed. Thatused to bother Mom quite a bit when Jakewould stay with us, but she always gave in.1?

One night when he was visiting us, Momwas going to the cellarhouse to get a crock ofbuttermilk when she thought she heard some-one slipping around outside the cow-shed. Shescreamed and the giant shepherd bounded outthe kitchen door. He sniffed and poked aroundthe cow-shed for awhile and then stood pat-iently while Mom got her crock from the cellar-house. Later he followed her back to the kit-chen. Jake laughed and said something aboutthe dog was just hunting around for someoneto protect, and that he was a poor one to needprotection. Mother laughed too, but the doggot an extra serving of food that night andfrom then on he was doubly welcome at ourhouse.The last time I saw the shepherd wasaround the last of July. He streaked acrossour barnyard like all hell had broken loose. Iwasn't too surprised to see him in the neigh-borhood because he had been hanging aroundthe Rohrbough farm ever since Jake had leftthree weeks before. But I sure was surprisedto see him bounding across our farm with JimCutright loping along close behind. Jim'slong legs easily lifted him over the fence, andhis arms waved a double-barreled shotgunwildly above his head. They rounded the corncrib twice and then both flew down toward theriver. I jumped on old Frank and rode afterthem. At the edge of the river both Jim andthe Shepherd paused, and then the dog pushedhimself off the bank and into the water. Jimraised the shot gun to his shoulder and aimedit at the swimming dog. There was a sharpreport and the dog sank with barely a ripple.He didnTt even yell out. The shot must havehit him right in the head. Jim just stood therefor a long time, from where I was, I couldonly see his tall black shape pinned againstthe red sky. He didnTt look strong then. Hejust looked tired.I guess Jim and Luke grew aggravatedbecause the dog stayed around their farm somuch. Folks talked like he might have gonemad because of his peculiar behavior.After the cattle buyer left, we didnTt seethe dog for awhile until one day when I wasup in the north quarter -- where our propertyjoins the old Rohrbough place. I saw that dogjumping over the fence that divides the land.He would jump over at one place, go a coupleof steps, and crawl under the fence. Then hewould run around a black circle on the otherside of the tence where a fire had burned atone time. He didnTt notice me. He just kept18on jumping over, crawling under, and circlingthe charred pieces of wood. His black manewas full of cockle burrs and his sides werebeginning to cave in. All the grass was wornaway where he had been making that circle.He must have been at it for a long time, be-cause the path was so definite and the grassbeginning to cover up the remains of the fire.People said that at night he would just standover the black dust and howl like his heartwould break. I never did understand why JakeAndrews would ride off and leave such a fineanimal like that.Not too long after I saw Jim shoot theShepherd, Jim and Luke paid us a visit. Thatwas the only time they ever came on our landjust to be sociable. They stood under thegrape arbor near the barn and talked to Dadfor a long time. I didnTt hear too much of whatthey were saying, but I could tell that Jimwas doing most of the talking. He would flingthose long arms out making swooping g2sturestoward their farm, and then Jake would nodhis funny, round blob of a head. He still hadthat red handkerchief and was making gooduse of it that day. His hands shook and hisblack eyes kept jumping to Dad and then toJim. ITve never seen the heat get away withanyone like it did with Luke Rowan. Dadwasn't saying much. He just leaned up againstone of the arbor posts and chewed on a pieceof straw. About the only motion he made wasto brush a fly away from his bald head. Fin-ally, Dad nodded yes to what must have beena very important question, because Jim'sice-blue eyes lit up. Luke quit wiping withhis red handkerchief. Then they all shookhands and Dad came up to the porch where |was. He said, ~TSon, we just bought the Rohr-bough place,TT and I looked back at the twomen who were now leaving. Jim sure was tall.He just stepped right over the fence, whilesquatty Luke had to crawl through.Jim and Luke moved into town after theyleft the river. It seems like they came intoquite a bit of money. In fact, John Lovettewho works at the bank told Dad that those menbought the mansion on the hill with cash -gold coins right across the counter. John musthave known because he counted the gold outhimself. Anyway, they have been living upthere for years now, and they haven~t madefriends with too many people. They wouldrather be by themselves.Luke sure is going to be lonely after Jimdies.the REBEL

the rebel reviewAN OLD AND NEW LOOK AT THE NEW AND OLD SOUTHThe South, as a geographical area, is,except for its history, little differen t fromany other regional areas in the United States.Its people are possessed with the samefaults and virtues, the same prides and pre-judices as people generally are. The South-erner has been exposed to the same good andevil forces as other people in other lands.Any realistic analysis of the South will re-veal that there is no such thing as a South-ern mind, a Southern temper, a Southern atti-tude, a Southern hospitality, or, for that mat-ter, a Southern violence. The only real thingthat distinguishes a Southerner isT that hehappens to live in a state that once made upa part of the Confedercy.Yet, for one hundred and fifty years out-siders have assumed that the South is dif-ferent and have assigned to it a uniquenesswhich it does not deserve. Because of thisassumption, the Southerner has often as-sumed the role he is expected to play and is,therefore, partly responsible for perpetuat-ing the myths about the South.And for the same period of time the Southhas been exposed to constant moral indict-ment. From the days of New England aboli-tionists to the present, the South has beenattacked for evils, which, though present,are not necessarily indigenous. Such a con-dition has forced the Southerner to defendhimself.It is not surprising, therefore, that onestill find books which do no more than re-peat all the earlier clichés of condemnation.It is refreshing to find a book written in1959 which seeks to interpret the South rea-listically and objectively. Such a book isHodding CarterTs, The Angry Scar (Double-day, 425 pp., $5.95), which tells the awfulstory of Reconstruction. It is a book whichhas no respect for professional Southernersor professional anti-S aitherners, for it clear-ly reveals how their counterparts of a hundredyears ago engendreed a bitterness tha t isstill with us.SPRING, 1959After the fighting was over in 1865, thestage for tragedy was already set. The sorryperformance and its aftermath is the generalconcern of this book, which shows how Re-construction entered into every phase ofSouthern life, political, religious, economic,and social. It is the story of the carpetbag-ger, the scatawags, the radical politicians,and the Ku Klux Klan. It is a story of pill-age, waste, and human exploitation.It is an old story, but this time freshlytold in narrative form. The author attemptsto minimize the sensational. aspects of Re-construction and to relate only those whichaccount for present-day attitudes. In orderto account for the present, he must examinethe past.Hodding Carter has made an effort to givehis book meaning for the present genera-tion. He has done something good, for hehas shown that roots lie deep.Unfortunately, other interpreters are notequipped with CarterTs background and un-derstanding. This includes William Peters,a free-lance writer, who has recently writtena book on the South called The SouthernTemper (Doubleday: 283 pp., $3.95). Petersis a Northerner who has written about sports,crime, politics, and medicine for nearly everypublication in the United States, and hasnow taken an extensive trip throughout theSouth.Peters is an integrationist and his bookis little more ~than a biased account of themovement to desegregate Southern schools."Tt is not surprising,TT he says, ~~that theliterature of the segregationists m the evedesegregation should bear a strong resemb-lance to that of the apologists for slavery onthe eve of the Civil War.TT It is therefore,not surprising that the literature of the de-segregationists should bear a strong resemb-lance to that of the abolitionists of the1850's.This is unfortunate, for it enables themodern critic of the South to pass off socialpropaganda for fact.19

There is nothing at all objective aboutthis book. Nor is the picture of the South afresh one. One chapter includes the amaz-:ing, almost ludicrous analysis of Southernwomanhood. The Southern woman, as pictur--ed here, is sexually. suffering from a com-plex which is somehow related to the racialproblem. A far different picture of the South-ern woman is found in: CarterTs story of re-construction.The Southern Temper is filled with amonotonous barrage of statistics, recordedconversations and glorified accounts of act-ive integratimists. The main fault, as it iswith other superficial indictments, is over-simplification.* * *The Masters, C. P . Snow, 352 pp. Double-day Co., Garden City, N. Y. 1959, $1.25.This is the best known volume of C. P.SnowTs series, Strangers and Brothers, onEnglish life during the last half century.The book traces the progress of Lewis Eliotfrom his lower class provincial backgroundto a position of prominence. However, thestory is also a record of the radical transitionsthat have taken place in English society inthe 20th Century.** *The Classic Theatre, Volume II, Edited byEric Bently, 512 pp., Doubleday B ook Co.,Garned City, N. Y., 1959. $1.15.Volume II The Classic Theater Seriespresents five German plays. New transla-tions of these classics were made especial-ly for this series. The plays are: Egmont,by Goethe; Mary Stuart and Don Carlos, bySchiller; Renthesilia and Prince of Homburg,by Kleist.* *Prefaces To Criticism, Walter J. Bate, 218pp. Doubleday Book Co., Garden City, N. Y.1959, $.95.A briefT but comprehensive history of liter-ary criticism, it is divided into two sections:The first section deals with classical andneo-classical criticism. Aristotle, by virtueof his Poetics, which mark the beginning ofliterary criticism, is considered to be therepresentative of classic antiquity. Sir PhilipSidney, as the first great English poet-critic,represents the Renaissance statement of clas-sicism. John Dayden, who embodied the neo-20classical ideals of correctness, unity, andclarity, and who wrote in so many genres, isconsidered to be the great model of neo-clas-sicism. Representing the close of :the classi-cal tradition is Samuel Johnson, who main-tained a conviction that the aim of artis~'the mental and moral enlargement of man.TTThe. second part of the. book deals withmodern literary criticism. William Hazlitt,the main figure of Romantic individualism,exemplifies the union of empiricism withemotional intuition. Samuel Coleridge repre-sents the group of Romantic Transcendental-ists. Because of his constant support of thedignity of critical thinking, Matthew Arnoldrepresents the period of Humanism and Nat-uralism. T.S. Eliot is examined as the centralfigure in modern criticism.Through examination of their work, theories,contemporaries, and period, Professor Bateprovides a valuable guide to the study ofthese critics who have so influenced westernliterary thought and practice.SANDRA PORTER MILLS* * *The Picaresque Saint by R. W. B. Lewis.Philadelphia: Lippincott 317 pp. $6.00In The Picaresque Saint, R.W.B. Lewisexplores a generation of writers, Europeanand American, through the works of its mostrepresentative figures: Alberto Moravia, AlbertCamus, Ignazio Silone, William Faulkner,Graham Greene, and Andre Malraus. In thisstudy of these writers he unearths a basicclay from which he molds his ~~picaresquesaintTT --a saint-sinner-rogue fashioned insome degree after the old hero of the earlypicaresque novels.~'Paradoxical as he is, the picaresque saintis the logical hero of our paradoxical ageTT,Mr. Lewis contends. He emphasizes the changein two generations by pointing out the almostcomplete about-face from the artist prototypeof the generation of Thomas Mann, JamesJoyce, and Marcel Proust to the picaresquesaint of the present generation. In the formergeneration, Mr. Lewis finds ~Ta world in whichthe aesthetic experience was supreme, andone which criticism dealt with properly enoughby means of close technjcal analysis, by de-licate discrimination of texture and design.TTHowever, the world of the present generationis one ~~in which the chief experience hasbeen the discovery of what it means to beahuman being and to be alive.TTthe REBEL

Although the trend of the present generationhas been away from the ~~aesthetic experience!Tof its predecessor, Mr. Lewis calls our atten-tion to the unmistakable debt owed it by thecomtemporary writers in question. Certainlythe picaresque saint of the contemporariesis not without artistic undertones.Mr. Lewis has written a very important crit-ical work. His observations and conclusionsshow a genuine freshness of approach, which,in the final analysis, makes the author oneof the outstanding young critics at work today.HUGH AGEE* * *Claudelle Inglish. By Erskine Caldwell.Boston-Toronto: Little, Brown and Company.1958. 208 pp. $3.75Erskine Caldwell received first acclaimwith the publication of Tobacco Road in 1932and God's Little Acre in 1933. In his latestnovel, Claudelle Inglish, he follows the sameformula employed in these books with a poor,earth-tied tenant family stuggling to eke outa living on the dusty soil of the deep South.In CladwellTs early novels he uses as asetting the depression-ridden thirties of thelower South. With Claudelle Inglish. how-ever, he has attempted to modernize thisSouth. He put telephones in the tenant housesand tractors on the farms.As for sex, this book has it. ClaudelleInglish, the tenant farmerTs daughter, hasjust been jilted by her lover who leaves herheart shattered. After brooding for half a day,she proceeds to go to bed with almost everyfarm boy and wayward husband in Smyrnacounty. Even the Preacher of the Stony CreekFree Will Church cannot resist the seducingmethods of Claudelle.Caldwell also uses the one other con-vention of popular fiction: violence. He windsup the book with a liberal amount of blood-shed.In summary, the reader cannot say thebook is a masterpiece carrying a deep, earth-shaking theme; it is, however, entertaining.ROBERT L. HARPER* * *Joyner Library - Available Books of InterestThe Russian Novel in English Fiction byGilbert Phelps London: Hutchinson's Uni-versity Library.SPRING, 1959Mr. Phelps traces the reception of pre-Revolution Russian novels in English trans-lation; particularly those of Turganev, andattempts to show their impact on English andAmerican wr iters.Dickens at Work by John Butt and KathleenTillotson. Fairlawn, New Jersey: EssentialBooks, Inc.An examination of a number of DickensTnovels in light of the conditions under whichhe wrote them.Style in the French Novel by Stephen UllmannAn examination of certain elements inthe style of French novelists. The last twochapters dealing with imagery in the novelare particularly interesting.The Sinai Sort by Norman Mac Caig . NewYork: The Macmillan CompanyThe second book of poetry by NormanMac Gaig to be published in the United States(The first was Riding Lights.) Mr. Mac CaigTsstirring images makes this book worthwhilereading.Cas I A Play in Five Acts by George KaiserAn English translation of George Kaiser-'s second play in a dramatic trilogy that de-picts the conflict of social morality and thecomplusion of power. Kaiser got thumbsdown from the Hitler gang for his efforts.Afternoon of an Author by FT. Scott FitzgeraldNew York: Charles ScribnerTs SonsA selection of uncollected stories andessays arranged in near chronological orderto show the pattern of maturation in Fitz-geraldTs writing. Arthur Mizener writes a co-gent introduction, along with appropriatenotes with each selection.* * *The Nigger of the Narcissus by Joseph Con-rad Garden City, New York Doubleday.190 pp. $2.95.A reissue of the novel originally publish-ed in 1897, The Nigger of the Narcissus isone of ConradTs memorable tales of men atsea. James Wait is the ~~NiggerTT of theship Narcissus, and around him revolves theStruggle of the crew aganist the sea andaganist each other.21

| YOUTH VIEWED IN MOODYesterday we walked upon the beach,| (Copper pennies on a gleaming desert). Flung our laughter skyward| to mingle with the spray,) Clasped hands and watched the crimson rim) disappear beneath fiery horizon.) Then the sand grew cold,We sought warmth in embrace,and love was born mid wind and salt.Then time with malevolent mien,Caressed our cheeks and hair,Perfumed our agile bodiesWith the scent of death,And severed Youth's grip.Today we speak no more of tomorrow,But fearing the coldness of the earth,Seek warmth in permanent embrace.BARBARA JO CHAPPELL22Conrad's prose style captivates the read- and misshapen with a tormented face-a faceer. He sculptures each character with delicate pathetic and brutal: the tragic, the mysteriousforceful strokes. Wait is a fine example: the repulsive mask of a niggerTs soul.~'He held his head up in the glare of the Conrad's work is of a quality that de-lamp-a head vigorously modelled into deep serves to be reread; certainly many readersshadows and shining lights-a head powerful _ will enjoy their voyage with the Narcissus.NELL AGEECHIAROSCUROpneumatic crush-puff snow generalizes rooftops,fillets fences, butter-welds walls;all this white, salt-shakered onthe fields (like humus-dark)on the streets (like soot saved scars)now all sub-snow.power cables that once hung like abrupt pencil linesaganist the summer sky now hangwan concavities of thin-lined smilesdrooling ice-rime saliva.and the trees, the ones behind the wire-squared fence,stand (stiffeden stock) black in the dayTs late light.but gentlythe silenceand in the snow dusted distance darttwo brilliant, rigid tentaclesreally reaching rayscolliding coldly in the air.but gently thesilenceand as I step, my silhouetted legs puncture the vastpillow-soft plot andlike a fly on dull white paintI fly-track through the snow;the wee bit of gravel on the sclerotic coatand always, though chance vehicles pass,snow-bulged and mechanized,even with three hundred horsepower passing by,always gentlythe silenceDAVE LANEthe REBEL

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