Jungle Rhythm (Continued from Page 2 I) savages came and took three of the natives and carried them out, leaving the remaining ones to sit and imagine their coming fate. I thought it was strange that I heard no drums at the start of the ceremony, but our native guide told me that the tribe probably knew there were more of us and they didn't want to attract our friends' attention; for this was a small tribe, and our entire safari would outnumber them. Soon the savages appeared again and the rest of my natives were taken, leaving only Togo and myself. Then just before midnight they came for the last time and led Togo and me to the ceremonial grounds. The sight was horrible. There were eight crosses erected at the head of a sloping plateau, and on six of these hung our boys. Three of them were dead, but the other three, poor devils, remained alive, their bodies bathed in their own blood. As we approached, the six were taken down and piled at the foot of the two remaining crosses to which we were fastened. Then the ceremony began. It was sickening to watch that small knot of sweaty brown bodies surge forward in exultation as the torture began. At first Togo was frightened when the witch doctor approached and began his fiendish rites, but then he turned his eyes toward me and never took them off my face. I could see that it was not his own torment that made him look so full of anguish. When they had finished with him they threw his body down with the rest at the foot of my cross. Then I realized why I had been kept till the last. I, as leader of the party, was to be burned alive.... The natives got to their feet, piled brush around my feet and legs, and then began a slowly moving dance around the cross. Little by little the dance grew in rhythm and tempo; faster and faster went the gyrating bodies toward a pitch when the brush beneath me would be lit and my tormentors would break into loud yells and frenzied cries. Then it would not matter if they were heard. Discovery would be too late..... With closed eyes I listened to the maddening tread of those feet, no longer having the courage to look on the scene that was to be my last glimpse of earth. Suddenly I heard a noise, faint but clear. It was as if a small child were at my feet, mumbling inarticulately. I opened my eyes and saw Togo, half kneeling, his eyes wide and full of joy and anticipation. My look followed his to a space about ten feet from where he knelt. The savages had thrown in a pile the equipment taken from us, and on top of it rested his tom-tom. Quickly I spoke. "No, Togo, no. Danger let alone No!" But my words had no effect on him as he crept slowly and laboriously towards his goal. I saw out of the corner of my eye the witch doctor holding aloft the torch that would soon bring my doom. The dancing was almost at a climax. On crept the little brown form towards the pile. Now the witch doctor had lighted the torch and was approaching. The savages were closing in the circle. The witch doctor was but a few feet away .... suddenly through the still night came the voice of a drum. Its'tones came slowly at first and then burst in cannonade across the dense jungle. For a moment every form was still, but in that brief moment the drum spoke of eternity. It told of a soul that longed to save another. It sent across the blackness a whispering plea and then a screaming command for help. It said that the last form which hung upon the cross must not die. Then it changed and became raucous, wild with joy that once again before it quit this world, this tortured soul for which it spoke could be articulate, give vent to the smoldering inferno that raged within, tell of the pain which the flesh felt with every stroke. Then it changed once more, and with pathos in its tone thanked the form upon the crucifix for the small tastes of life that some know. Its words were beautiful and terrible at once, for they came from a heart so full of gratitude that even fear of death could not still it. Then that momentary eternity ended, and the savages turned and rushed towards Togo. Twenty spears flashed through the air, and ten or more of those spears found their mark; but even as little Togo fell, his eyes were bright and happy in his creation of rhythmic beauty. As he turned towards me his lips formed the words, "Tomtom Friend." Quickly as they had come the savages disappeared into the night, leaving only an empty village to be found by the rest of our party when they arrived. You wonder why I left the body over there in a shallow grave, perhaps to be dug up by some animal and eaten? Yes, I thought of bringing it back here and honoring it with a fine gravestone. But somehow I couldn't. As we laid him in that shallow hole, his beloved tom-tom by his side, he seemed to smile up at me and say that whenever I get ready to join him "over there" he'll be waiting waiting and eager to play for me again. by LOUISE DE WIT Blessed Aspen, why dost thou quiver so? 'Tis not in fear, nor joy, nor woe These things are not; tor thou art but a tree And, as such, thou hast no sorrow. Yet thou liveth and on some Tomorrow Thou too shalt hear when God's voice calls. Methinks thou art as a being alive. Thy trembling is as a being's it, too, alive. Thy limbs quiver in pride and shame, For much is the sin and blot on thy name. Thou it was who bore Him on that fatal Hill: On thy wood lay the Master, cold and still. And so thou tremble, but fear not, Dear Tree, He will forgive and send His heart to thee. Peace by RUTH MYERS Like echoes in a canyon Comes your voice at night To still my restless soul. page TWENTY-TWO The Return of the Lost Chord (Continued from Page 6) Harold Pulsipher's hazel eyes popped; his baton forgot to make the trick whirl; and his heart, previously in his throat, sank to the bottoms of his feet. How could she have misunderstood? Miss Hopper, Jr., with that curious cynical uplift again on her chiselled mouth, remained quiet perhaps out of due respect to her maidenly relative. The choir members, bewildered, stumbled over the short phrases inserted at various intervals. Harold suddenly became very tired. Handing the baton to his assistant, he sank into a seat and duly watched the Sister perform. Anyway, he reflected ,his last act would appear to the audience as if he wanted his assistant to share the honor of conducting the chorus. Desirous of displaying her talent now that opportunity had come her way, the old woman soared and zoomed like an airplane on its test flight. After several nosedives and a series of barrel rolls she hit high A. There her voice cracked. Unable to control her joy at having reached the climax she burst into tears. Amused glances were exchanged, not only in the audience, but also in the choir. Harold could detect Andre's sweet voice as she sang in the group. Her eyes were fastened upon the semi-bald head of the young man in front of her. A pinkish tint spread unevenly across her even features. Somewhere, someone tittered. Even as far down as the back row he could hear whispers concerning Josabelle. He did not need to see; he knew what was happening. He moaned, low, to himself. Beads of perspiration broke into rivulets and trickled down his flushed face. Again Josabelle Hopper rose into a shrill falsetto and took off, utterly oblivious to everything about her. Despite the fact that the orchestra had been lost several times in the accompaniment, she soared gleefully up and down the notes. The song reminded one of the wind whistling up and down the chimney and suddenly getting stuck there, and then breaking loose and wailing again wilder than before. Peeking through the fingers covering his eyes, Harold glowered at the old woman. At any rate, it would not last much longer, but now another problem arose that he had not thought of before. What could he say in his talk? The one he had prepared could not be used now. Shouid he back out of it? He could explain that he was ill, or maybe had another appointment. Or he could tell them how it all had happened, but somehow that did not seem the sporting thing to do. Could he pass it up, ignore it? Then again, he could just get up and go out. Josabelle Hopper finished on a strange note, originally written as E, but sounding more like a series of notes. The piano, lost in its attempts to follow her, also ended on a wild chord. With a wide, partially toothless smile at the audience and a beaming, gratified look at Pulsipher, the singer found her seat. Weakly, Harold arose. Once beside the pulpit, he felt confidence and self-control again become master. Without faltering, he began quietly, his words cutting the silence. "I want to leave but one central thought and impression today. We profess to be Christians. . . . We pretend to grasp and adhere to Christian principles. . . We think that we talk and act like Christians, and thereby expect reward and happiness as our share of the returns. But all, all, are warped and jumbled ideas of what is true and lasting happiness and blessing." Here, his well-kept hand came down upon the stand with a decidedly vehement thump. Somehow, he resisted the impulse to stop and nurse it. "If glory is to be attained, we must find it through our actions toward others. What could be greater than homage and tribute to the elderly souls who have most nobly suffered for our benefit? Do we reflect upon the courage, patience, and fortitude which enabled them to carry on for us?" Harold felt that he was doing rather well. He wished that he might see how Andre felt now. He would show her how to get out of a mess. Inwardly he grinned a very wide grin. On he went. "The years pass rapidly. When we, too, become childish, those who respect our whims and love us for them will receive the grandest reward all Heaven can bestow upon their worthy heads." At this point in his talk, Harold turned his back upon the congregation and glanced at the graceful girl in the fourth row back on the stand. Her head was ud now a nd she was looking right at him. He had no idea that eyes could be so blue, that a coquettish girl could look at her sweetheart so directly. A proprietory glow suffused him when he thought of the word sweetheart. With even more enthusiasm he went on with his talk. It became something like a masterpiece. "Far be it from me to give naught but respect and what little tribute I am able to lend to these aged and pent-up souls. Today, I, representing the choir, honored Miss Hopper as the oldest choir member by giving her the distinction of being the only woman soloist. It is certain that she truly appreciates this little deed, and my heart is warmed by it. Taking into consideration her age, you will agree with me that Miss Hopper has a surprising voice and talent and should be given other opportunities. "In conclusion it is my humble wish that each of you benevolent souls (and I know you all are at heart), recognize this failing and strive to mend, that all due honor and reverence be given where most needed, that all eternal blessing and happiness be yours in the bright future. Amen." Harold walked straight to his seat. He was conscious of absolute stillness. . . . Not a murmur was heard. But many eyes were suspiciously bright. . . Many lips trembled. Suddenly many hands found expression for the feeling within the hearts of the congregation. As he sank into sleep that night, Harold's last thoughf was: "Perhaps I'd better not marry her. I'm afraid she really doesn't understand the permanent values of life." Andre's final words, almost whispered to him after the meeting, had been puzzling him ever since. She had said, "Harold, they liked your talk. They think it a masterpiece. I especially appreciated your Christian declaration that 'Many of us are blindly and selfishly seeking pleasures and fame for ourselves.' I want to congratulate you on your success with the brothers and sisters. "I think" her voice had faltered a bit. "I think you had better keep your glory entirely to yourself. After all, the whole choir knew that Aunt Josabelle was not supposed to sing." page TWENTY-THREE