Page 2 Scribulus Winter Issue TOLERANCE Every student has an inherent right to two educations. The first, of which he is most conscious, and which he slowly acquires, midst the impetuous arm-wavings of hortative instructors and cycles of study and quizzing, is more or less factual. The second, which he must gain for himself solely upon his own initiative, is by far the more important. He gives it to himself without consciousness of his generosity; yet it tones his whole life and fixes his place in society. Since he must give himself part of this second education through personal contacts with his fellow men, tolerance of other races, other creeds, and other beliefs is necessary to his self-philanthropy. He must dispense with preconceptions, the product of narrow-mindedness and self-satisfaction. The fact that some of his associates may be of a different race or religious belief, or both, should no more breed antagonism than the fact that each may have a different favorite mode of dress. Beliefs are founded upon thought, and ''thoughts are but the apparel of the mind.'' Only the smug can be so sanguinarily secure in their beliefs that they insouciantly disregard the tenets of convention, as well as the feelings of those they offend, by displaying their petty prejudices, though completely ignoring those of different races or beliefs, or through condescendingly taking notice of them, or through openly ridiculing them. Who knows which race is to be favored, or which belief is right? Tolerance is not so much a credit to its practitioners as intolerance is an obstreperous discredit ito its followers. Each has his own beliefs, but they should not exclude from him the thoughts behind other beliefs. The courageous have confidence in the strength of their own convictions, a confidence which gives them tolerance they believe something without having a desire to persuade or convince. The weak refuse to subject their uncertain views to the clashes of dissimilar veins of thought. They half-believe something; therefore, they tolerate nothing. It seems to be taken for granted that tolerance is a characteristic of those with broader minds and visions. "Why narrow your education? Winter Issue Scribulus Page 3 AFTER TODAY By Marjorie J. Woods Mr. Ellery's eyebrows grew in queer little peaks on his forehead. They hung over a bit and stuck out here and there. Below them his eyes gleamed out like blue lakes seen under a growth of pine saplings. Emily liked his eyes and the thickness of his hair. They made him look the musician he was. "He should wear a flowing tie and loose white collar," Emily thought, looking at him. "He'd show up nicely there between Handel and Bach." Mr. Ellery's fingers were white and nervous, and he ran his fingers, now, back through his hair, rumpling it up like a child's. "Emily," said Mr. Ellery, "Emily, you.'' He paused a moment in his earnestness, catching his lower lip between his teeth. "You undoubtedly have something. Your fingering, your feeling, your facility they're quite remarkable. You do excellently well now. In ten years you" He interrupted himself again abruptly. "How many hours do you practice each day, Emily?" "Two hours! Sometimes three!" He stopped, stared at her intently, his eyebrows drawn down roof-like over his eyes, and Went on with the sharpness gone from his voice. He leaned forward a little. "Emily, Emily, you've too much talent to expend so little time on a gift that could place you on the concert stage. With five hour's practice each day although I prefer you did seven you'll rise, Emily, you '11 rise. Make an audience close its eyes and feel that Chopin, Debussy, and Schubert are actually living before them.'' In Emily's eyes there lived for a moment a small, strange light. Her heart slowed a little its even pace, then leaped faster. "But, Mr. Ellery. I I" She stopped. There was a silence. Then Emily rose and went to the table where her violin lay. As she placed it in its case, words skipped madly about in her head, but she said only, "I'll practice seven hours every day, Mr. Ellery," and walked quickly from the room. As she walked along the street, Emily could feel the breath crowding fiercely up her throat, the pupils of her eyes dilate. In her mind there was no coherency, only a heterogeneous mass of words, milling around like motes in a sunbeam. She walked quickly at first as if to keep pace with her breathing. Gradually, her heart slowed its rapid beating, and her mind became aware of an insistent phrase, "In ten years ... In ten years . . . ." On the corner below her home she stopped beside an elm tree, its leaves gleaming in the sun. Emily reached up and ran her finger over a shiny leaf. Through a hole in her glove she could feel her finger bumping stickily along over a gummy surface. The finger reached the end of the leaf, released itself with a cracked sigh. Still her mind writhed futilely, like a man in chains twisting his head from a single drap of water dripping a monotonous rhythm. Of course Mr. Ellery's judgment might have arisen out of conceit, a dead dream eluding its ghost, vicariously fulfilling itself through her. But he had said it. Said it of her. The concert stage and something special, a talent as of old mas-