Tom by Jeanne Johnson THAT'S the preacher's son out there. No, not the tall one, the short one. That's him, dirty little beggar, down in the dust on one knee. Shootin' craps he is. He gives no care to the knees of his trousers, which are padded with many patches. He gives no care to the chapped split knuckles of his hands. He's no sissy, Tom. He's happy with his two bone dice and a friend or two to make the game complete. Tom's a wonder with those dice. He's always winnin', and he never cheats. The town has it he'll be public enemy number one in ten years or so, but that's just stupid. Fight? Yes, Tom likes to fight. Anyone he can reach is a good enough opponent for him. He has fought every boy for three blocks in every direction from his home. He has come out on top, the victor, in one way or another, every time. He scorns little girls. They are a nuisance to be tolerated maybe at a fellow's birthday party, but only then if they have brought a good enough present. Handkerchiefs don't count. Girls to Tom are a continual source of trouble, and him with three sisters. To make matters worse, his sisters are three models of perfection, three perfect preacher's daughters. Their names are Faith, Hope and Charity. Tom isn't the perfect son for a preacher, I suppose. But have you ever seen Tom bully a smaller child? Have you ever seen him pick a fight with the little boys? No, not Tom; he fights the big ones. His philosophy is this: "Little things will take care of themselves; the big things are what count. They must be overcome first." He is the Boss of Bunker's Hill in his neighborhood. Tom will go out of his way to help anyone or anything in trouble. Just the other day he nearly broke his neck climbin' down the old dry well just to rescue old Miss Brown's cat. After he had brough the cat up, he wouldn't take the money she offered him; but he said he would lick the guy who had thrown the cat down there cheap enough. Such a boy, Tom; he wants to be either a marine or a prize-fighter. Does his father like him this way? Well, I don't reckon I'm sure enough to say, but way down deep, I think he's pretty proud of Tom. For even if Tom does climb every tree, fence, or barn in the lot, Tom doesn't lie. Tom has never told an untruth. Maybe it's because he just won't bother to think up one. He tells the truth straight-forward enough. Even if he would rather swim in the river than read the Bible to his pa, I reckon he doesn't sneak around about it. No, Tom's no sneak, and he doesn't lie, but he's the orneriest boy in the block. He has none of the quality known as tact. Why, last Sunday meeting, no one but Tom would have dared laugh when his Pa's glasses fell off his nose into the pitcher of holy water. He isn't afraid, that boy. What does his Ma think of Tom? Well, I reckon nobody knows that, except God. I got a feelin' that from way up there, when she sees Tom, dirty as the nigger kids from over the tracks, and sweatin' as he fights the Pickett boys, I have a feelin' that she says to the lady angel next to her, "That's my boy Tom." I Learned These Things (Continued from Page 16) Ninth, I learned that colleges are factories designed to accommodate a given maximum of students but forced to admit many more, that they must make money and "get on the map," that they cannot afford complete modern equipment, that they produce funds from some source for athletes and athletics. Tenth, I learned that colleges are business organizations. They have propaganda and publicity committees, talent scouts and subsidies, National Youth Administrations and Student Aid Committees. Eleventh, I learned what it means to fear the landlord, to burn electric lights through the night, to eat cold canned beans, to have too much to do and still get it done, to have sore eyes and not dare recognize their pain, to live alone, to be homesick beyond tears, to wear one shirt for a week or to wear no shirt for a week, to doubt my own abilities, to get up at five a. m. in a cold house to wash in ice water, to run eight blocks to school in winter. Twelfth, I learned that learning is memory, that independent thinking is heresy, that conventional indoctrination is academic Scripture. Having said that I learned all these things, what now can I say that I know? Should I answer much, or nothing, or both? I have gone to school and now have a job in a brewery. Had I not gone to school I might still have a job in a brewery. During brew time when the sun is warm I shall sit on the loading platform and wonder. Whatever else may seem to be, this much I know: schools are not alchemic laboratories where by the painless application of subtle learning processes the dross of mediocrity can be transformed into the pure gold of genius, and I am not the salvation of the world. I Made Woman by MICHAEL CREAGOR I plucked two stars from out the skies And gathered up the blue. I molded these into the eyes And then the eyebrows drew. I gathered up the dancing waves From out the murmuring sea. I placed these in her hair as slaves For all the world to see. I took the petals from the rose, Then crushed the juice into her cheeks. With sculptor's skill I formed a nose Above the lips with which she speaks. Above the stars I took the art. And with the Gods of old I made therein a perfect heart From out the purest gold. Then with the best of everything And with the utmost care I made a very precious thing So fickle, so faithful, so fair. page TWENTY Jungle Rhythm (Continued from Page 3) tried to make things easier on him, but he paid no attention to me. In fact he didn't even show that he remembered our first meeting. The time passed quickly at the village, and soon our preparations were completed so that we could proceed farther in search of the ivory. It was two days before we planned to leave that the second chapter in my acquaintance with Togo was written. I was returning from a short walk just after the evening meal when I heard the melancholy note of a jungle tom-tom. It rolled out across the still night like a sailor's chanty floating over the water on some quiet Caribbean sea. And I found myself lost in the rhythm of the music, for it was music. Whoever was beating that tom-tom was a musician to the fingertips. The low, rolling cadence of that heart-stirring drum was as enthralling as a Beethoven symphony. The change of time, the measured throb, was telling a story, a beautiful, primitive, vivid story. The shadings and actual half-tones that the unknown performer drew from so humble an instrument were astounding. They told of lamentings, longings, desires; and as the notes rose to a great crescendo, they spoke in accents wild and all-powerful of hate which prevents the realization of dreams. My silent appreciation was broken by the recognition of the instrument upon which this concert was being played. That tom-tom, with its high pitched tone, in direct opposition to the drums used in this part of Africa, hung on the wall of my tent where I always kept it when on trips of this type; and yet its notes were here, breaking the silence of the jungle night. In wonder, I made my way to the tent. Throwing open the flap, I beheld a brown body swaying back and forth to the strains of that primitive rhythm. Little Togo, for surely it was he, sat lost in the rapture of his own creative beauty. Here in this bit of wood and tightly stretched animal skin was the thing that took away the dull, pained vacant look which had haunted my dreams and put in its place a look that could be translated by even the poorly trained; here was a master at work. My arrival was unnoticed by the small swaying form. The music would have gone on until the poor soul was satisfied had not the tent flap knocked a lantern off a table by the entrance. Instantly the music stopped, and again that look of terror filled those great brown eyes. He turned, whined as he had before, dropped the tom-tom, and would again have escaped had I not stepped in front of him. "Togo, Togo," I said quietly and slowly, "Togo not go. I Togo's friend. Togo like tom-tom? I like Togo." My words spoken slowly in his native tongue seemed to have a soothing effect on him. It also seemed as if he remembered when I had been friendly before. "Togo not go," I continued, stepping forward and slowly picking up the tom-tom and holding it out to him. "Togo like tom-tom? Tom-tom belong to Togo. Togo take tom-tom." There was no doubt in that small mind as to what I meant then. He rose and eagerly snatched the drum from my hand and then drew back, fondling it like a child with a new toy. I held out my hand. "Togo and I go now. Go to fire and Togo play." I took his hand, which he gave willingly, and led him to where the other natives sat around the fire. The chief saw us approach and led the way to the center of the circle where I sat Togo down and then backed away. At first the natives were displeased at having an "evil spirit" join them at their fire and it made Togo afraid to play, but soon his first love conquered his fear and he began to beat the tom-tom. Before he had finished all the natives were swaying and chanting to the strange melody. As its echos died away, the witch doctor rose and put his hand on Togo's shoulder. "The white man has spoken. Him show Togo not evil spirit. Togo man of tribe." By my side the chief smiled as he said, "You Togo's friend. Him never leave you." And I found that he was right when on the morning of our departure Togo refused to stay at the village. He followed the pack train at a short distance, his tom-tom over his shoulder and such a hurt look on his little brown face that at last I relented and with him by my side proceeded towards the elephant country. When we neared the territory inhabited by the hated savages, we split our forces. A large party as a rear guard was to follow Togo and five or six gunbearers and myself at one or two miles distance, with the understanding that the sound of Togo's tom-tom would mean that we were in danger. Togo was always at my side, constantly looking for the sign that would mean he could use his beloved toy. In fact it was hard at times to keep him from using it. But I showed him that we must be quiet, and he waited happily. On our tenth day out, we were passing through a dense part of the tropical wilderness, only a few days journey from the elephant country, when on all sides there appeared savages. They were upon us, had taken our guns, tom-toms, and food, tied us and were carrying us back to their village almost before we were aware of their presence. We were thrown into a small hut to wait for the night, while our captors prepared for the ceremony that was to take place. I did my best to keep up the hopes of the natives in my party, assuring them that the rest of our group would find out we had disappeared and soon come in rescue. But I knew that without a signal from us it might be days before they realized we were not ahead of them. In the confusion I had forgotten to look for Togo, but now I found him sitting in a deserted corner of the hut, swaying back and forth, and whining slightly. As he raised his eyes I saw again that vacant stare I had first seen in those dark brown pools. He couldn't understand why his drum had been taken away from him, and as he sat looking up at me he said slowly, "Tom-tom--tom-tom--tom-tom?" Evening came all too quickly. Just after dark the door to the hut opened and a group of fiercely painted (Continued on Page 22) page TWENTY-ONE