Poor Luck Is Best By Dell Foutz How's the hunting?" they used to ask. "Hunting's fine," he'd say, "but the finding not so good." Then he would look sadly down at his battered bow and handful of arrows, then brighten up with, "Maybe next time." Oftimes the boy walked to the foot hills near town and hunted with the simple weapon. What he hunted was a mystery since he never brought home any game. When asked how hunting was, he would answer them with, "Great hunting today, but the shooting, not so hot." Then he might remark that if he missed all the time the game would last longer. Some days he boasted of shooting lots of things, tin cans, or bottles or maybe a big fat tree. It was generally agreed that he had never killed anything with his bow. One fall he read about a special deer season for archers in the mountains near town. Naturally he'd like very much to hunt during this season, but one little item made him hesitate. In order to get a deer license he had to be sixteen. Would the wardens notice just one year? He was small for fifteen but decided to give it a try anyway. Sure enough, the dirty deed was easily done and with his license bought he turned to the problem of getting to the mountains. His bike would do for himself but to haul a deer home (a foolish speculation but still a consideration) would be impossible. He persuaded his father to buy a license and join him with the family car. The morning the season opened he sat quietly in the car beside his father as they drove into the mountains. He gazed into the pre-dawn blackness and grinned broadly. "No more missed rabbits and tin cans for me," he thought. "Why, I won't even settle for a big fat tree. Deer's my game. Will I show those guys a thing or two when I bring home a nice fat deer." The car parked, the two separated and drifted slowly into the chill morning. The boy stalked only a few hundred yards when he heard a rustling in the brush ahead. He dropped to his stomach on the rocky trail and listened. "Gad, what a racket! There must be at least fifty," he thought. He checked the arrow in the bowstring and lay quietly on the lumpy path. The sounds were coming closer and his heart thumped wildly. Any second one was sure to come full upon him. Closer and closer the sound came and his heart thundered. He wormed out of the path to avoid being stepped on as the crashing bore down on him. Finally in anxious desperation he rose cautiously to peer over the brush. There they were, close enough to stab with a pitchfork, but each one was a plump Hereford steer. The eager hope for a successful deer hunt faded as a water reflection dissolves when disturbed by a pebble. The lad kicked angrily at the scoffing brush, mumbling to himself. "Shoo!" he said, and the white faces turned curiously toward him. "Go away, ya' damn cows, an' lemme hunt." He shrugged his shoulders and shuffled away, still grumbling. "Maybe it's just as well," he thought. "If I'd kill one now I'd have to quit hunting spoil all my fun." The day was still new and with only slightly dampened spirits he began anew to look for deer. He struggled to the crest of a low ridge. Hoping that some of his elusive game might be on the other side, he crouched low and crept the last few steps to the top, where he could view the gully below. His breath sucked sharply in. There they were. Six of them at about two hundred yards ahead. He even thought he could see antlers. He planned the stalk. If he were careful he could get right up to them, pop up in front, and easily Continued on page 28 Hearing a twig snap, he glanced back over his shoulder to see an old buck less than twenty feet away, blinking curiously at him. He knew that if he turned around to shoot, the deer would bolt, so he blinked stupidly back. 8 Offbeat Music By Mary Kay Brian Progressive jazz, or the modernistic form of the original New Orleans type jazz, is a definite form of modern music, and it is here to stay regardless of widespread criticism regarding its merit. Jazz in its earliest form was originated by the Negroes, who brought their native chants and rhythms from Africa. Living in oppression, the Negroes' only solace was to pour out their souls in their strange, syncopated singing and dancing, and pray for the day they would be free. The fact that its very essence is found in the desire for freedom is one of the reasons that the white men adopted the Negro "jazz." This unusual rhythmic music seemed to typify America. It took time for the turn-of-the-century-Americans to accustom themselves to this radical music, but when jazz caught on, it swept like fire. Singers adopted its futile sadness, and began singing the "blues." Chicago musicians gave it "Chicago." In the thirties it was "swing." Wartime brought "boogie-woogie." The original was now called "Dixieland." Then a star under the name of Stan Kenton appeared on the musical horizon and gave us the newest form, progressive jazz. Because it was so entirely different from other forms, this new discordant, offbeat music was vehemently criticized. But instead of wilting under the criticism, progressive jazz has bloomed under it. Little by little it is being accepted in various musical circles, and is spreading exactly like its predecessors. Progressive jazz isn't conducive to dancing. It does not contain a simple beat and melody as other modern music does. It thrives on unearthly chord combinations, fugue-like rhythms, and tremendous instrumental range. It cannot be listened to casually; it must be studied and absorbed like fine literature or art. It is strictly American, untouched by any foreign influence. It expresses freedom in every note. And upon careful listening, one can find definite resemblances to the original Negro chants. Thus, Kenton's progressive jazz is a natural addition to the music of America, and will continue to make its musical mark in the history of this country, regardless of criticism. 9