theandrean
Siegfried Sassoon
Fm The Boss
Eighty
ME
NDREAN
ST. A N D R E W S
PUBLICATIONS
1940-194!
EDITORIAL BOARD
Managing Editor
Henry L. McCorkle
Executive Editor
Anthony R. Parrish
Literary Editor
James Duffy
Business Manager
Arthur Dodge
Advertising Manager
Charles Kallman
Photography Editor
William Dodge
Art Editor
James Crichton
Staff
Robert King
Harding Hughes
Albert Van Petten
THE ANDREAN is published by the student body of
St. Andrew's School, Middletown, Delaware, three
times during the school year.
Si.25 A YEAR
VoL 4 — Winter Issue
1
the Minority Theory
A
andrean For World
proposes
Peace
In the days following the break-up of the Roman
Empire, the world was plunged into a darkness never
before experienced. The church then had a duty so
obvious that it could not be neglected. It had to
preserve the civilization of the past, its knowledge,
its literature, its science. In short, it had to retain,
in its isolation from the turmoil of the world, the
complete history of all past nations. To do this, the
church founded in monasteries and abbeys what
might be called the first modern schools. Schools not
devoted to the teaching of philosophy or secularism,
but dedicated to the teaching of all knowledge of the
past. In this way education continued a church
matter, with colleges started and headed by churchmen, until the church and state separated. Then
public education became and continued a state affair,
but recently there has come an increasing realization
of the importance of the church school in the world
today.
Today the church has a duty as great as any it
ever had in the past. The knowledge of the past is
being preserved by the state, but human progress in
the development of ideals, morals, and philanthropy
so laboriously achieved must be furthered. To this
end the church school is dedicated. Here those
advancements in human character, essentially embodied in Christian ideals, are taught hand in hand
with the philosophies of the world. It is their aim to
develop men capable of turning a state-dominated
world, where treachery, deceit, and war are regarded
as acceptable methods of both state and self advancement, into a world where justice is gained
through cooperation, to the lessening and not the
promulgating of human suffering.
On this ideal, the church school concentrates its
activities. In daily service, discussion, and example,
the student, while learning the requirements of life,
imbibes also a moral sense of right and wrong. He is
taught by the example of those above him, that
personal success is achieved only by adherence to
those ideals which he knows to be right. He learns
that the requisites of Christian life involve not a
renunciation of the world, but a renunciation of its
deterrent qualities.
To some extent, a knowledge of this renunciation
depends on the inherent desire for what is good of the
individual. He is taught by example, but if on finding
Two
what is good, he does not seek to pattern himself
after it, then its teaching has been lost on him. Yet,
to others who, seeing good, strive after it, this
example is priceless. It teaches them the knowledge
that success gained by sacrificing ideals is worthless,
making of them men who will defend the furthering
of these ideals all their lives. Example means much,
for by setting examples to the world, men may bring
the world to a realization that ploughshares are
greater than swords, and justice more powerful than
tyranny.
Thus the duty of the church is the preservation, in
the midst of state-attempted destruction, of those
laws of faith, hope, and charity that Christ exemplified for the world. It must bring men the realization
that to renounce these, to build up human doctrines
of state subservience, is to fasten the chains of
destruction tighter around civilization. The church
today must teach all persons not to be priests, but to
be Christians. Teach them from the start ideals that
God himself taught the church, and then give those
so taught the character to hold fast to those ideals
throughout their lives. Give them the knowledge that
faith in the essential reciprocal fairness of all people
brings cooperation and justice, and, above all, give
them the courage to apply this knowledge and faith
ir all phases of their existence.
"Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousands wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be."
Lord Tennyson
ANTHONY PARRISH
siegfried
There
Was Too Much Horror In The Last
sassoon
War
"Let no one ever from henceforth say a word in
any way countenancing war. It is dangerous even to
speak of how here and there the individual may gain
some hardship of soul by it. For war is hell and those
who constitute it are criminals. Were there anything
to say for it, it should not be said, for its spiritual
disasters far outweigh any of its advantages."
This, in his own words, is Siegfried Sassoon's
philosophy concerning war—a philosophy which,
since the year 1916, has been the dominant philosophy of his life. It grew out of two years in the
British trenches in the World War, and gradually
he came to believe in it so fully, and finally so
passionately, that he felt the inner compulsion to
make his beliefs known to the world in poetry. He
did put his philosophy into poetry, and what he
wrote is so sincere, so expressive, and so truthful
that he is rightfully ranked by many as the outstanding poet produced by the War.
Sassoon's poetry is no accident. It is the direct
result of what he has experienced in life. Its evolution
can be traced with his evolution. He was born
September 8, 1886, descended on his mother's side
from a traditional English county family, and on his
father's side from Persian Jews who established
themselves as merchants and bankers in Toledo and
Baghdad in the Middle Ages. His full name: Siegfried
Lorraine Sassoon. He was well educated at Marlborough and Clare College, Cambridge. As a youth
he learned how to get a great deal out of life in a
variety of ways. He was the athlete, the scholar, the
adventurer, the musician, and, above all, the
hunter. He loved to read books and play the piano.
Part of each summer was spent on camping trips.
He was an excellent tennis player. But his greatest
love was hunting. One who knew Sassoon well*
recalls that "hunting was a greater passion with him
than poetry." In fact the poetry he wrote then
constituted a particular form of personal enjoyment.
The titles of some of his privately printed volumes—
"Twelve Sonnets", "An Ode for Music", "Hyacinth"
—show about how unimportant a part of lite this
early writing of poetry was to him. A great deal of
his poetry described the joys of hunting and the
lovliness of the field in the early morning.
Then came war. Sassoon enlisted immediately and
went to the front in 1914. Then, slowly, came the
great change in Sassoon's life. He went to France
gaily, but became embittered by the sight of misery
and bloodshed. The change did not come about all
at once; he himself could not realize it. Home on
leave, he wrote more light and airy rhymes on music
and the beauties of nature, a satire on Masefield,
whom he liked, and, strangely, a vague poem called
"France", which actually glorifies war. France, he says,
"triumphs, in the vivid green
Where sun and quivering foliage meet;
And in each soldier's heart serene; . . .
And they are fortunate, who fight . . ."
But by 1916 he realized that a change had come
over him and realized it completely. He saw that war
was stark tragedy. He was filled with disgust at
corpses rotting in the mud, at man-flesh hanging
on jagged wire. No glory existed for him in the
splashing mirk of trenches and the stench of dugouts
where day in and day out men existed until finally
they gladly answered the summons of death. No
goal was to be attained in endless swapping of human
life for human life. So, obsessed by the waste and
agony, the physical and spiritual wreckage, Sassoon's
whole being rebelled, and he resolved to communicate the anguish and horror so that others, knowing
what he had known, might feel his rage to stop it.
To express himself, Sassoon turned to poetry,
which had once been a hobby. The poetry was
different, as he himself was different. Two years in
the trenches defied the idyllic mood of his previous
works. His new poetry sounded real, made sincere
by intense belief. Every line quivered with extreme
passion. Vivid, picture-forming detail brought a high
degree of effectiveness. It was the literary rebirth of
one whom Masefield hailed as "one of England's
most brilliant rising stars."
Sassoon's war poetry classes him as an intellectual
realist. He has pictured war as it is; he gives facts.
He sways his readers, not by essay, but by recording
warfare in awful detail as he knew it, as every
soldier knew it. Instead of saying, "How horrible it is
that so many men are killed every day," he describes
a young soldier—
his "livid face
Terribly glaring up, whose eyes yet wore
Agony dying hard ten days before;"
He decries the futility of it all in "Prelude:
The Troops":
"foundered trench lines volleying doom for doom."
The Germans went through the same horrors and
hardships as the Allies—Germans and Allies who
constantly took each others' lives. Most soldiers had
clear memories of harrowing encounters with the
enemy. Sassoon recalls the youth who remembered
"how he saw those Germans run,
Screaming for mercy among the stumps of trees:
Green-faced, they dodged and darted; there was one
Livid with terror, clutching at his knees . . .
Our chaps were sticking 'em like pigs."
Sassoon's method is much the method of the
imagists. Use of the exact word, the language of
common speech, effort to present an image, poetry
that is hard and clear—most of the imagists' creed—,
all are quite in evidence throughout Sassoon's works.
Home, to him, as it would have been to an imagist,
was a flock of memory's glimpses:
"balls and bats, . . .
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
*Robert Nicholas, in his Introduction to Sassoon's
"Counter-Attack."
(Continued on Page 14)
Three
eightyDutchmen
The
miles
Are Real
of Skaters
ice
There are three kinds of uncles, the dead uncles,
the uncles whom you have never heard of before, and
the kind that gives you books on your birthday
which you have already read. It was the third
species of uncle that jumped on us with the idea of
joining a big skating tour of about eighty miles
next Saturday.
Everyone was to meet at a refreshment stand iust
outside of Amsterdam on the Zuider Zee at six o'clock
in the morning. They were to pay the entrance fee
of a gulden and then try to skate eighty miles in a
temperature of twenty degrees, and in addition to
this accomplish the superhuman task of reaching the
finish, and that before eight o'clock. If one did all
that, and one was fortunate enough to be still alive,
one would receive a medal, which as we found out
later cost an extra gulden.
That next Saturday morning at five o'clock, after
all the unpleasant experiences of getting up at four,
we were on our way to the Zuiderzee. It was really
cold, and everything around us was white and foggy
except for our car which was blue with a pink
stripe.
Arriving at our destination, we found to our great
surprise that we were not the only ones who couldn't
resist the temptation; in fact there were about 827
others, among whom were about eight females, none
of them reaching the half way mark however. At
exactly six o'clock we set out, and after thirty
minutes we were in the open. Nothing but ice and
sky, with a few fellow competitors scattered about.
There was no wind, the ice was black and as smooth
as a mirror; we could really speed up, and this
certainly was the most pleasant part of our trip.
Around the island of Marken (the paradise for
wooden-shoe lovers) we headed back for the coast
to the town of Hoorn, and at that spot misery
began. Through narrow canals with the wind now
growing stronger every minute against us, we now
went north. After about ten minutes uncle felt his
heart, and resigned on the spot; after two hours my
father felt his back, and he too resigned (this was at a
different spot, however) leaving me all alone to keep
up the family name. After two more hours I felt
alone and hungry, but as that is not a good enough
Four
excuse to go into one of the Red Cross cars which
went on either side of the canal to pick up the dead
bodies, I ate and continued my struggle. At one
o'clock I had reached the half way stop, where one
crosses the dyke, gives the snowsweeper a dime, one's
self a hot cup of cocoa, and begins the way back.
It was easy now, the wind at your back, a cup of hot
chocolate in your stomach, and the thought of being
over half way in your mind.
An occasional windmill, looking cold, forsaken,
and entirely out of place, is passed on the way,
relieving the monotony of nothing but gray flatness
which is so peculiar to Holland in winter time.
In the distance is a small village with its wonderful
old church bells pleasantly relieving the silence so
well preserved by the gray heavy fog which suddenly
seemed to have arisen from the ground. I did not
realize it then but it must have been thawing rather
hard, because the ice was getting soft with little
pools of water here and there. At six o'clock it was
practically dark, there was about an inch of water
on the ice, and not a living soul seemed to be around
any more; the good ones had all passed me, and all
the others were giving the Red Cross something to
spend it's money on.
Asking one of the farmers how far it was to —
(you wouldn't know where it was anyhow) he told
me with a broad grin from ear to ear that another
mile would just about d:> it. This man was definitely
on the optimistic side however, because five minutes
later another farmer (this one had no grin) told me
that another two miles would do the same. This
process repeated itself two more times, and the third
time at about six o'clock I crawled in at my destination, absolutely soaking wet, miserable and cold;
but within me the Van Mestag heart was working
overtime with the thought of having done a good
deed.
When I found my uncle, hidden behind a large
bowl of beer, stuffing his face with an enormous
hamburger, he swallowed, wiped his mouth and said,
"What was the matter with you? I've been waiting
for hours. Couldn't you put it in second?"
—JAT VAN MESTAG
The Sixth Form Will Try Anything Once
FANTASY OF EVENING
poetry
Watchman tell us of the night,
Where and what its license.
Are its coming and its flight
As a lovely essence?
Are its candles glowing sparks
From an unknown aether?—
Signs from never ceasing darks,
Lights that shine forever.
THE CITY
The city is never quiet.
The taxicabs screech.
The sound of trolleys is harsh and shrill.
The subways roar.
The people are ever noisy;
The women chatter,
The peddlers shout,
The children forever scream.
But there is no roaring overhead.
SAMUEL HAZARD
Are its clouds that strand the sky
Things to earth attended?—
Souls of those who cannot die,
Forever apprehended.
Can the joys we know as love
Have another dwelling?—
Than the vaults that bound above
And quick death from living.
Watchman tell us of the night,
Where and what its license.
Are its coming and its flight
Edicts of God's presence.
THE CLOWN
The clown grimaced
Leaped
Jumped
Gave his all.
They laughed.
Behind him baboons,
Two or three
Picked futiley
For fleas.
DUNALPSHANNON
ANTHONY R. PARRISH
AND SO TOMORROW?
PINE TREE
Green pine trees.
Blown and bent by countless
Winds, I wonder at
Your glazed, green leaves,
Sharp and straight. I salute
Your slender stalk. Twisted
But upright. Your tall tapering
Beauty amazes me, even now, as
I stand and watch the wind assault
You and torture you, O pine tree.
FREDERIC CLARK III
Spinning ferris wheels,
Spinning gambling wheels,
Spinning heads from cheap liquor,
Spinning heads from young love,
All spinning together.
The whole world is spinning:
Train wheels, car wheels,
Factory wheels . . .
The world is a wheel.
The Sumerians invented the wheel.
They started the world spinning.
Spinning to what?
RIDGWAY CLARK II
Five
Peter Sipped Brandied Iced Tea
H. M. S. Devonshire, 40 gun frigate under Captain
Peter Townsend, lunged ferociously through the
choppy water at the end of the English Channel.
The Admiral, in a fit of rage, had ordered the
Devonshire to the Liberam coast to catch a pirate
schooner which had been ravaging the AngloAfrican trade. How could dear old England have its
date and nut bread for tea if Africa couldn't ship
any dates? Peter was off on his make or break
cruise; he could win either disgrace or honor. He
date and
hoped
for the
nut former.
bread
Peter instructed the mate to follow a southwesterly course which would place them off Liberia
in about ten days. Then he relaxed, supremely happy
in the knowledge that on his shoulders rested the
fate of England's teas. He was extremely proud of
the responsibility endowed upon him by the great
and mighty British Navy, and as he paced the
quarterdeck, he silently formulated plans for a
successful battle against this brazen enemy.
For ten days the stout vessel sailed through the
spray blown seas. Peter's valet was serving iced tea
at four o'clock now, for it does get hotter as one
approaches the Equator. One sunny afternoon, as
Peter was sipping his brandied iced tea, he happened
to think, "I wonder where the coast is." The ship
had been logging plenty all the way down, and by
this time its objective ought to be near. Peter set
down his drink and reached for his sextant. The
first try computed their position as two hundred
miles west of Cuba, but after careful research, he
Six
discovered his chart was upside down. Before he
could pursue his work further, he heard a lookout
yell the familiar "Land Ho" of the old-time sailing
ships. With this familiar sound still grating on his
ear-drums, Peter ordered the helmsman to put the
ship about and head for the shore. It is a truly sad
happening that Peter had neglected to procure the
new charts of that locale before he set out on this
eventful journey; for, as he was industriously
tacking up the series "A" channel, the good ship tore
into a mudbank. Undismayed, Captain Peter gave
his men a rest period and said the ship would float
at high tide. It was with great agitation that Townsend noticed the water slowly receding; the frigate
had struck at high tide. Seamen swarmed over the
side with braces of all sorts and descriptions, in a
successful effort to keep the warship upright in the
mud. A few hours later, when the Devonshire had
comfortably settled into its muddy bed, Peter was
rudely awakened as a gob of the slime struck him
squarely in the face. The pirate vessel, mistaking one
of His Ma)esty's formidable engines of war for a
stranded merchantman, had landed a one pound
shell in the mud next to the ship. Bubbling over
with righteous anger, Peter ordered a broadside. As
the noise died away, he felt the boat tremble, sway
back and forth, and then, with its masts swishing
through the air, topple ignominiously on its side into
the mud. The pirate harried the stricken ship for a
while, finally proceeding into the harbor.
(Continued on Page i$\
Gertie's Father Did Not Like Seymour
kiss
"Baby, sometimes I loves you. But after I've
looked at Hedy LaMarr for three hours, you're as
ugly as my mother-in-law."
"Lissen, you big lug, you leave my mother out
of this."
"Baby, sometimes when I think about how the
cat dragged you in, I wonder to myself why I didn't
keep the cat and throw you out."
"Yeah, and what was you before I married you.
A driver of garbage trucks. Now look at you,
workin' for the government."
Gertie switched her gum to the left check. She
nuzzled her face close to Seymour's down-laden
jaw. "We'll never fight like that when we're married,
will we, pet? Gee, Seymour, you got a smooth face.
When you gonna grow up and shave?
Seymour was miserable. Here he was eighteen
years old and he could not even raise a beard. He
protested to Gertie, "Gertie, honestly I shave twice
a month now. Anyhow, Gertie, it won't make any
difference, will it? You'll still love me, won't you?"
(Continued on Page 9)
"Yeah, the W. P. A. At least the seats in the
trucks was a lot softer than the wrong end of a
shovel. And I had a nice white little uniform."
"Honey, I ain't gonna sit here an' argue wit' you
all night. I'm goin' to bed. Good-night, Honey."
"Good-night, Baby."
CRASH. SLAM. SMASH. AND OTHER
NOISES OE EQUAL INTENSITY.
"Honey, come here quick. Mother just fell down
the stairs."
"Baby, you tell your old lady to stay the hell
away from my Scotch. I don't mind her drinkm'
my booze so much, but when she gets drunk and
calls it Housemaid's Knee, that's too much. If she
touches it again you tell her that I'm gonna beat her
head in with that crutch of her's."
"Ladies and Gentlemen, Cheweasy, the flavored
rubber chewing gum that never wears out, has been
presenting a fifteen minute little drama, dealing
with everyday household troubles. At the same time
next week, over this same station, Cheweasy will
again present another in their series of homelife
dramas. Until then this is Charles Chewwe bidding
you good-bye."
Gertie shifted herself to a more comfortable
position on Seymour's none too ample lap. Seymour
squirmed uncomfortably but said nothing. He
drowsily reached out a rather skinny arm and
turned the radio off.
Seven
Jason Was Smiling Contentedly To Himself,
i'm
When
Thethe
Sheriff Came
boss
The blonde man was talking quietly and rather
eantestly to the fellow leaning against the barber
pole, ' —As I was telling my wife last night.
'Listen to me,' I told her, 'I'm runnin' this family an'
any time that you get any different ideas, you can
pack up an' leave.'
The slightly tipsy man in the brown suit complained, "Yeah, but that wouldn't work with my
wife. Me out of a job and not puttin' any dough in
the family treasury. Why, my Johnny earns more on
his paper route than I do on the W. P. A. He's
gettin' so uppity that I have to hit him one every
now and then to let him know who's boss. Then my
wife jumps on me for pickm' on the boy. Naw, Pete,
that wouldn't work."
Pete's voice grew louder, "Well, how do you know
until you've tried? Just walk in the door and tell her
what's what. And I'll lay you three to one that you
don't get a peep out of her. Women are funny that
way. They need some one to boss them around. Why
do you think they call them the weaker sex? For just
that reason. I'm tellin' you that you better try it.
You won't get any peace until you do."
The name of the man in the brown suit was Jason.
Jason spat and rubbed his chin reflectively. It didn't
sould like such a bad idea to him. He had been
getting mighty tired of Molly giving him hell all the
time. And he tried to figure out a plan as men often
do when they are pressed with a problem. Jason
closed his eyes and scratched his back by rubbing it
up and down against the barber pole. He became
braver as he imagined himself batting Johnny in the
teeth and telling Molly to shut her damned mouth
if she didn't want her face pushed in. "Yeah," he
muttered, "I'll do it."
"That's a boy," rejoiced Pete, "You tell her where
to get off." Then he hurried away for his wife had
told him that if he wasn't home by five he wouldn't
get any supper.
Jason shifted his weight to the other foot and stood
there stork-like to enjoy better the last rays of the
fading sun. Carefully he cut a piece of tobacco from
a misshapen quid. He chewed slowly and from the
corners of his mouth two tiny streams of amber
liquid ran down his chin. With the back of his
stained> shirt sleeve, Jason wiped away the juice.
He remembered that his wife didn't like his chewing
tobacco all the time, and he softly cursed her. He
Eight
stayed there trying to work up enough courage to go
home even after the sun had gone down behind the
levee.
Finally Jason decided that he needed a drink. He
probed in his pockets for some change then realized
that he hadn't any money for three days when he
had got drunk and lost in all in a crap game. He
thought that possibly some one might stand him to
one. All the free drinks he had bought in his life for
other bums surely ought to get him one now. He
slouched slowly down to the tavern, dreaming of the
dire things that he was going to do when he went
home.
There was only one person in the tavern. Jason
had never seen him before in his life. It must have
beeon one of those travelling salesmen fellows. W7ell,
he wouldn't get a drink from him. Jason sidled up to
the bar. "Just one drink, Harry," he began. "I'll
pay you back as soon as I get my check. Honest,
Harry."
"Go away, you barfly, you never paid a debt in
your life." Harry's tone was harsh.
From the side of the room came a new voice.
"I'll stand the fellow to a drink, bar-keep."
Jason turned to his new friend. "Thanks, Mister,
I won't forget this. If you're ever in town again just
drop around and I'll surely pay you back."
"Forget it, fellow," the stranger cut in. "I guess
we're all down on our luck at some time or the other
in our life."
Harry shoved the drink across the bar with obvious
distaste. Jason lifted it and regarded the whiskey
with reverence. Then he downed it with one flip of
his wrist. "Thanks," he repeated and walked
determinedly out of the room. He was going home
and tell his family who was boss.
It was almost dark when Jason turned into the
walk that led to a small frame cottage. There was a
lamp burning in the kitchen and he saw Molly washing the last of the supper dishes. So intent was he on
working himself into a rage that he did not notice
Johnny's wagon parked in front of the stoop. Jason
fell and cut his jaw on the handle. This was the last
straw. Damned careless son. Well, he'd get rid of
that wagon the first thing in the morning.
With blood dripping from his jaw, Jason lurched
in the room. Molly turned and saw that he was
(Continued on Page 10)
The Kiss *
(Continuedfrom Page 7)
"Well, maybe, if you put your arm around me
instead of sitting there like a totem pole. Honest,
Seymour, you ain't got no more initiative than a
three-year old. That's it. Don't be afraid. I ain't
gonna bite you. To win a maid's fair hand these
days, Seymour, you gotta have more of that masculine touch. Ouch, Seymour, you're pinching me.
Oh, no, Seymour, not yet. Why, we're not even
engaged. No, Seymour, you can't kiss me, an' that's
final."
Seymour was disgruntled, to say the least. His
long, smooth-shaven face was red and perspiring.
"Damn this tight collar," he thought as he ran his
finger between the collar and the neck. Then he
turned his attentions once more to somehow winning
a kiss from Gertie's beautiful lips. "Gertie, do you
love me?" he asked.
"I think so, Seymour. After all, I don't let every
Tom, Dick, and Harry put his arm around me."
"Just one little kiss, Gertie, just one?"
"No, Seymour, and I must say that you're trying
my patience. Here I let you hold me on your lap and
you want to kiss me. Ain't you grateful for small
favors, Seymour?"
Seymour readjusted Gertie on his lap before he
answered. Gertie was about one hundred and
twenty-five pounds of small favor to be grateful for.
"Gertie," he inquired, "What would your old man
say if he saw us here like this? Wouldn't he be kinda
mad?"
"Well," Gertie replied, "He got awful mad last
night when he found me on Dan's lap. He kicked Dan
out of the house, and he told me that if he ever
found me on anyone else's lap, he was gonna knock
the devil out of them."
"Oh, my." said Seymour.
Gertie was now playfully biting Seymour's ear.
"That's all right," she whispered, "Pop took Ma to
the burlesque tonight and they won't be home for
hours."
"Gertie."
"Yes, Seymour?"
"Will you please stop biting my ear? It hurts.
Sometimes, Gertie, I don't think you love me."
"Oh, but, Seymour, I do. I wouldn't hurt you for
the world. You know that, don't you Seymour. I'm
just showing my affection for you."
"That's all right, Gertie," Seymour said slyly,
"We'll forget all about it in a great big kiss."
"I do wish you'd hush, Seymour. I'll kiss you
when you ask me to marry you and not before.
Besides, I'm a moral girl." Gertie tossed her head
proudly, looking at Seymour out of the corner of her
eye.
"Gee, Gertie," Seymour complained, "I'd marry
you on the dot if I only had a job. You know that,
sweet. Don't you think I could get a job in the
sewer department with your old man?"
"I'm afraid not, Seymour. You see, Pop's not
very fond of you, or, as a matter of fact, any of the
other fellows that hang around here. He thinks that
they want to marry me for my money."
"You know that's not true, Gertie. Tell your old
man that I'm an industrious fellow just waiting for
a job."
Gertie was getting tired of the discussion. She
wanted Seymour to kiss her, but a girl just can't ask
a fellow, can she? He might think that she was too
free. "Seymour," she said, "You know what?"
"What?"
"Your arms are so comfortin', Seymour. Hold me
tighter. Tell me that you love me, Seymour. Tell me
again and again."
Seymour looked at the door, expecting to see
Gertie's old man come in any moment. He leaned his
face closer to Gertie's. "I love you. I love you. I love
you." Then Seymour did something that he had
always wanted to. He called Gertie softly. \Vhen
she turned her head to look at him, he pressed his
lips against hers. She struggled at first, but then she
relaxed and sat there. Seymour was passionate.
Again and again he kissed her. Then Gertie got into
the spirit of things. She gave and how she gave.
Seymour was happy. He was kissing Gertie.
The first impression that Seymour had that
Gertie's old man was in the room was a heavy hand
on his shoulder. He looked up. Gertie's old man's
face was staring down at him. It was not the gentle
face of a happy father. It was the face of an irate
parent. He said nothing but merely lifted Seymour's
one hundred and thirty pounds with one hand and
carried him to the door. He opened it and savagely
kicked Seymour in the trousers. Seymour got up and
rubbed his seat rather ruefully. But Seymour was
happy for he had kissed Gertie and he knew that she
loved him. Seymour whistled all the way home.
—JAMES DUFFY
Nine
I'm The Boss=
(Continued from Page 8)
drunk. She kept on drying the dishes. Jason was
annoyed with this lack of attention. "Where's my
supper?" he demanded.
"You were so late coming home that Johnny and I
ate," Molly replied, However there's some cold
bacon in the cupboard, and you can make some
coffee, if you want it."
"I want something hot," Jason growled, "Listen
to me, woman, I'm boss in this house." He tried to
remember Pete's words. "And," he continued,
"Any time you don't like it you can pack up and
leave. Get that?"
Before Molly could answer, Johnny came whistling
in the room. He studied his father for a moment.
"Christ," he remarked, "The old man's got another
load on."
Jason caught Johnny in the mouth with the back
of his hand. Two teeth rattled to the floor before
Johnny could put his hands over his face. Blood
streamed through his fingers. He whimpered and
backed out of the room.
Jason turned to Molly, grabbed her shoulders
and shook her. "Get my supper, and get it quick,"
he said savagely.
Molly started to speak but thought better of it.
She turned and went to the cupboard. She returned
with a butcher knife in her hand. "Stay away from
me, Jason," she warned.
Jason gave ground. He retreated to the door. But
then he remembered Pete's words: "Women need
some one to boss them." And besides, Jason had
tasted blood. He turned and scooped up the coal
bucket that was alongside of the door. He swung it.
The bucket caught Molly full in the face, knocking
her backwards on the floor. She screamed. Johnny
rushed to the door. He saw Jason methodically
smashing his mother's head in with the coal bucket.
Johnny was terrified. Jason turned and saw the boy
staring at him. He thought of the wagon and the cut
on his chin. He started for the boy. Johnny turned
and fled. Jason followed him to the door and watched
the white-shirted figure racing through the darkness.
Jason returned to the kitchen, his fury quite spent.
He looked down at Molly without anger or regret.
"Wait'll I tell Pete about this," he thought.
When the sheriff came with his deputies to the
little frame house at the edge of town, he found Jason
eating cold bacon. On the stove was cooking some
hot coffee. Jason was smiling contentedly to himself.
—JAMES DUFFY
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Orchestras And Their Leaders
review
This is the time of the year when America's iazz
musicians, through trade papers such as "Down
Beat," elect their favorite musicians to the mythical
All-American Swing Band. This year the band is
made up of the following men; the name in parentheses being that of the orchestra in which each
plays:
Ziggy Elman (T. Dorsey)
Trumpet
Muggy Spanier (Bob Crosby)
Trumpet
Cootie Williams (Goodman)
Trumpet
Johnny Hodges (Ellington)
Alto Sax
Toots Mondello (Studio Orchestras)
Alto Sax
Eddie Miller (Bob Crosby)
Tenor Sax
"Tex" Beneke (Glenn Miller)
Tenor Sax
Ray Baduc (Bob Crosby)
Drums
Bob Haggart (Bob Crosby)
Bass
Charlie Christian (Goodman)
Guitar
Jess Stacy (Bob Crosby)
Piano
"Fazola" (Almerico)
Clarinet
Jack Jenney (Shaw)
Trombone
Jay Higginbotham (Red Allen)
Trombone
Bing Crosby
Vocalist
Helen O'Connell (J. Dorsey)
Vocalist
Fletcher Henderson (Goodman)
Arranger
Bob Crosby's Orchestra landed the most winners
on this list, five; which figure might even be increased considering the fact that "Eazola" achieved
fame while he was with Bob's Orchestra. Benny
Goodman's Orchestra, despite the fact that it was
disbanded toward the end of 1940, also made a good
showing. Some may wonder why there are no
leaders listed on the All-American Band this year.
This was due to a new rule which prohibited musicians
from voting for band leaders in the poll.
Saddest news in the orchestra world this past
month was that of the death of genial band leader,
Hal Kemp. While driving from Hollywood to San
Francisco to open an engagement, Kemp ran headlonginto another motorist and was critically injured.
For awhile there was hope that he might recover.
However, pneumonia set in, and in his weakened
condition he easily succumbed. It is believed that
Hal's band will continue as a unit, possible under the
direction of Skinny Ennis.
Jimmy Dorsey, in line with his recent great rise in
popularity, has signed a new contract with Decca
records at a figure which makes him the highest paid
leader on Decca's list. An important factor in
Jimmy's rise has been the singing of Helen O'Connell, the girl vocalist on this year's All-American
Band. Her first hit performance of the year was
Twelve
"Madame LaZonga" which was followed up by many
others such as "The Bad Humor Man." Jimmy's
band is rated as the band to watch in the coming
year, and it is possible that he may take Benny
Goodman's place as King of Swing.
For those of you who are fortunate enough to have
week-ends coming up soon, here is a list of name
bands which may be found playing currently in the
New York—Philadelphia area.
Mitchell Ayres. . St. George Hotel, Brooklyn, N. Y.
Will Bradley. . . Hotel Biltmore, N. Y.
Bobby Byrne. . . . Meadowbrook, Cedar Grove, N. J.
Jimmy Dorsey. . .Hotel Pennsylvania, N. Y.
Eddy Duchin . . . .W r aldorf-Astoria Hotel, N. Y.
Mai Hallett.... .Hotel Edison, N. Y.
Tony Pastor. . . . .Hotel Lincoln, N. Y.
Woodv Herman. . Hotel New Yorker, N. Y.
An evening spent listening and dancing to any of
these orchestras would be thoroughly enjoyable.
Your columnist
has seen the show at the New Yorker
featuring W7oody Herman. Twice each evening the
dance floor of the New Yorker's Ice Terrace is rolled
back and a colorful minature edition of the "Ice
Follies" is presented. The show is well-worth seeing,
Herman's Orchestra plays wonderful music, and the
check for the entire evening need not run over three
dollars per person including the cover charge in
effect after ten o'clock. For the person who doesn't
wish to spend the money necessary for an evening
at one of the hotels, there are always several good
orchestras at the Paramount and other theatres near
Times Square.
Shorts: Paul Whiteman is reorganizing his orchestra for a Florida night-club date. Star of the new
crew will be Murray McEachern, formerly with
Glen Grey . . . Horace Henderson has given up his
band and in the future will arrange for Charlie
Barnet. Horace is the younger brother of Fletcher
Henderson, Benny Goodman's arranger.
. . . Muriel
Lane is the new girl vocalist with WToody Herman.
She takes the place of Dillagene who has to retire
because of illness. . . . Jimmy Dorsey joined the
ASCAP during December, thereby making his music
ineligible for radio broadcast until the BMI-ASCAP
fight is settled. . . . Orrin Tucker with Bonnie Baker
inaugurates a new radio commercial this week over
the NBC blue network. . . . Figures for the year
just past show that Kay Kyser was top moneymaker among the name band leaders. His earnings
for the year may exceed Si00,000. . . . Only name
band in Baltimore at the present is Don Bestor at
the Hotel Belvedere.
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Fourteen
Siegfried
(Continued from Page j)
And going to the office in the train."
The war poems of Sassoon fall into two classes.
One consists of genuine expression of repulsion,
horror, and pity; the other of satiric, ironic, and
sarcastic protest. The form of both types is traditional, with varied types of simple rhyme schemes,
and sometimes no end rhyme at all. One finds an
occasional sonnet in his books. However, on the
whole, pattern and from are merely incidental in a
poetry that is weighed by other scales than whether
it is rhymed 'A-B' or 'B-A'.
The most impressive lines written by Siegfried
Sassoon are those which describe in ugly detail the
appalling tragedy of lives ended in their prime and
hearts broken, not once, but every day, by the
ravaging monster war. Sassoon puts us in the
trenches with the soldiers and the corpses that were
their comrades. Incongruous juxtaposition of opposites conveys the senseless confusion of the
battlefield. One poem, perhaps his greatest, "The
Rear Guard", takes the reader with a soldier into
hell and makes him thankful to God when they
finally emerge.
THE REAR GUARD
Groping along the tunnel, step by step,
He winked his prying torch with patching glare
From side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air.
Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague too know,
A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed;
And he, exploring fifty feet below
The rosy gloom of battle overhead.
Tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw someone lie
Humped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug,
And stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug.
"I'm looking for headquarters." No reply.
"God blast your neck!" (For days he'd had no sleep.)
"Get up and guide me through this stinking place."
Savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap,
And flashed his beam across the livid face
Terribly glaring up, whose eyes yet wore
Agony dying hard ten days before;
And fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound.
(Continued on Page if)
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(Continuedfrom Page 6)
Slowly the tide came back in, and as the water
deepened, the Devonshire's angle of depression
became less and less. At last, under the urge of the
straining canvas, the great ship slid off the mudbank.
Peter, immensely relieved, looked up to see the
impudent pirate flipping shells at them again. The
red ensign hoisted on her muddy mainmast, H. M. S.
Devonshire gurgled toward the enemy schooner.
Captain Peter shouted the immortal words of the
British Navy, "My God, there's a hole in my sail"
and gave the order to fire.
The raider and our British frigate traded iron for
iron in that long remembered action, affectionately
known as "Townsend's Triumph." Indeed, it was
a great moral victory; Peter killed with his own
derringer the scoundrel responsible for disrupting
the four o'clock tea of Great Britain. No one minded
Captain Peter and his gallant crew returning to
Portsmouth in the pirate schooner, for the Devonshire, like all good Englsih warships had gone down
with her colors flying. Let us record neither the fact
that one of the braces had rammed a hole in her
bottom, nor that the gallant and spirited attack of
H. M. S. Devonshire had been due to the wild desire
of both her captain and her crew to be aboard
another ship as soon as was humanly possible.
—ROBERT KING
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ANDREAN
Short - Story
Contest
with total prizes o
Wilmington, Delaware
Three dollars will be awarded to the boy in the
Sixth or Fifth Form who submits the best short-story
to the Editor of the ANDREAN.
Three dollars will be awarded to the boy in the
Fourth, Third, or Second Form who submits the best
short-story to the Editor of the ANDREAN.
George D. Hanby Company
Art Metal Office Furniture
RULES:
1. All stories must be original.
Stationery
2. No boys on the Literary staff of the ANDREAN
are eligible to enter this contest.
Printing
3. All entries must be typed or printed clearly in
ink on white paper.
919 Market Street
4. All entries must be submitted to James Duffy
before 6 P. M. on Monday, March 3, 1941.
WILMINGTON, DELAWARE
Phone 6391
5. All entries become the property of the ANDREAN and will not be returned.
6. The judges of this contest will be the Executive
Editor and the Faculty Advisor of the ANDREAN, and their decisions will be final.
(Continued from
Alone he staggered on until he found
Dawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stair
To the dazed, muttering creatures underground
Who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound.
At last, with sweat of horror in his hair,
He climbed through darkness to the twilight air,
Unloading hell behind him step by step.
In the other class are extremely effective poems of
satiric, ironic, and sarcastic protest against war, its
leaders, and its false glamour. Sassoon shows no
mercy for those who stay safe behind the lines and
direct others to death. The bitter satire "Base
Details" is a good example of his relentless attacks
on self-satisfied commanders.
BASE DETAILS
If I were fierce and bald and short of breath,
I'd live with scarlet Majors at the Base,
And speed glum heroes up the line to death.
You'd see me with my puffy petulant face,
Guzzling and gulping in the best hotel,
Reading the Roll of Honor. "Poor young chap,"
I'd say—"I used to know his father well.
Yes, we've lost heavily in this last scrap."
And when the war is done and youth stone dead,
I'd toddle safely home and die—in bed.
And then there is irony, in such poems as the
cutting questionnaire "Does It Matter".
"Does it matter?—losing your leg? . . .
For people will always be kind,"
"Does it matter?—losing your sight? . . .
There's such splendid work for the blind;"
Here Sassoon strikes a note of hellish, mocking
laughter. People are so nice to heroes of the glorious
war "on Anti-Christ." They are even more considerate of maimed, half-alive survivors of the
glorious war; so why not lose an eye, or have a lung
punctured, or have an arm shot off?
The World War produced other poets, and how
different from Sassoon some of them are. These men
all looked at the same things, all had opportunity
to see the same horrors and heroisms. But they had
varied reactions from the sights of the battlefield.
The heroic attitude is typified in Alan Seeger, who
went to war expecting death, but went anyhow,
looking upon fighting as a job that had to be done for
his country. John McCrae lifted the cry "Carry on";
he besought the living not to "break faith with us
who die." Wilfred Owen saw God in war. He believed
that something loftier than the battle itself springs
up in the midst of battle.
But the poet whose point-of-view toward war is
farthest from Sassoon's is Rupert Brooke. Formerly
a cynic, at the outbreak of war Brooke was fired with
patriotic idealism. He enlisted, but never saw the
war. Blood-poison took his life before he had a
chance to experience any fighting. In a sentimental
sonnet called "The Soldier", Brooke says:
"If I should die, think only this of me;
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England."
He goes on to speak of England's flowers, "her
ways to roam," "English air, washed by the rivers,
blest by suns of home". Clearly Brooke had never
reached the trenches. "The Soldier" sounds like a
piece written the day before he left for France, so
that his native land might have something by which
to remember him. Sassoon, too, was sentimental.
But his was a sentiment nurtured by four years in
the trenches—a sentiment full of pity for boys
awaiting death. He learned what was happening
"over there" and revolted. Brooke enlisted immediately in 1914, wrote, and started to war.
Sassoon enlisted immediately in 1914, went to war,
and then wrote. The difference is apparent.
From his pacifistic beliefs it must not be inferred
that Sassoon was a coward; records prove that he
was quite the opposite. He held the rank of captain
throughout the WTar. For valor in bringing in the
wounded under fire he was awarded the Military
Cross. In fact he came close to receiving a much
higher honor for the deed. Furthermore, if he was a
coward, then most other soldiers were cowards also,
for the majority of them shared his beliefs. Robert
Nichols, in his introduction to Sassoon's "CounterAttack", refers to his own numerous trips to the
battlefront: "One met it everywhere. 'Hello, you
know Siegfried Sassoon then, do you? Well, tell him
from me that the more he lays it on thick to those
who don't realize the war the better. That's the
stuff we want. We're fed up with the old men's
death-or-glory stunt.' ' Most soldiers saw the
evils of war, but few had both the talent and determination that Sassoon had to do something about
it.
Since the War he has continued his crusade, thus
proving the sincerity of his war-time beliefs. Of
course he has written a great deal of poetry that does
not concern war. However he constantly reminds
us of what was happening twenty-five years ago,
"lest we forget." Lines like these are interspersed in
his post-war poetry:
"Whose swindled ghosts are crying
From shell-holes in the past,
Our deeds with lies were lauded,
Our bones with wrongs rewarded."
But his latest works, though they represent sincere
effort, do not bear the fiery indignation of those
poems written of actual warfare. They lack the force
that comes with the awful facts, described in ugly
detail.
Siegfried Sassoon is not an immortal. It would not
be honest to say that his works rank him as a great
poet. The day will come when Sassoon will be remembered only as a minor poet of the twentieth
century who wrote chiefly about the First World
War. But though he die, and his poetry fade into
oblivion, the principle for which he fought will live
on and will someday be recognized and followed by
the world. Some day the method of settlement by
battle will be antiquated. Sassoon, then, may not ba
the general who wins the deciding victory, but he
will be a captain on the winning side.
—HARDING HUGHES
Seventeen
of, th& niakew
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/O1DIQQ /OlDiT^QQ /Ol I TH
L/tlloo * LxJtvLroo LxJL U Jo
PRESENTS
'WE RILEYS"
in I nree
by
H*
1
P
lI^mVITlC
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WJcli 1H, Q
o» A»
J /7
The Author of "MEANING NO OFFENSE", which made the
Faculty jump through the hoops, scores another S. A. S. hit.
8»10 P M
U»*J'V
JL « JLVJL.S
FEBRUARY 23, 1941