Hors d'Oeurves from "Behold, the Sun!" By florence main BECAUSE of the presence of some happy factor in the general scheme of things intel-lectual, there appears about once in every generation a mind gifted with the awful power of peering behind the veil and understanding the essence of things. The editors of Scribulus have discovered such a mind. Ordinarily, the disclosure to the world of an extraordinary intellect is made through frenetic declarations of the press and the somewhat less agitated proclamations by learned journals. This instance will be no exception. Scribulus, being a learned journal, offers herewith the less impassioned though no less positive assertion; press cries will come almost simultaneously. This "mind" is producing a work called "Behold, the Sun!" It will have to do with the whole problem of social intercourse. In order that the revelations to be bodied forth in this monumental opus shall not cause universal social cataclysm by flowering before mankind in toto, Scribulus has secured exclusive rights to print those sections now complete: the Preface and Chapter I, "On Filling the Innards." (Editor's Note.) PREFACE Like many other creations of high art and profound understanding, this work has its antecedents. Plutarch and Chaucer and Marlowe preceded Shakespeare; John Lyly and Samuel Richardson preceded Emilv Post: the autumn issue of Scribulus preceded "Behold, the Sun!" The analogy is not quite perfect, for the Shakespeare and Post situations have to do primarly with material; mine is concerned chiefly with method and purpose. It was in the autumn Scribulus that this author read an article which revealed with magnificent boldness the simple truths underlying the hitherto ago-old mysteries of the human heart. Truth, in consequence, made the solidest advance in man's history toward that sacred pedestal where she will eventually sit enshrined. Touched then with the spirit of progress, I determined to reveal for the good of all the universal verities basic in every social relationship. I set my heart upon blasting down the idols arbitrarily fashioned by conventionalists to sit in judgment upon the niceties of human conduct. By now the deep initial shock of those profound revelations that enrolled me in the ranks of Truth must have subsided sufficiently to allow the building of at least a small spiritual reserve against the stunning shock of another peep behind the veil. Upon that assumption I am preparing this new offensive against the forces of Ignorance. To those who become distressed over the destruction of Gods built out of superstition I offer much sympathy; to no one will I admit regret. What is, must be. Peal forth the bells! Carry from its dungeon the flaming torch! Truth shall prevail! Chapter I. ON FILLING THE INARDS Centuries ago, a small group of self-appointed critics of meal-time propriety foisted upon the body social the first of what has come to be a most confusing code of table rules. The result has been universal distress and the almost complete abandonment of naturalness. My conviction is that people need not submit to arbitary regulations to be correct. On the contrary, correctness and regulations have nothing to do with each other, save as manner arises out of the unconscious application of the performer to his performance. Instead of establishing a conventional tabulation of "do's" and "don't's" that would insure naturalness, I have chosen to carry each reader through the whole of an imagined dinner. Naturally the first consideration is your approach to the table. You can create an excellent first impression by making a running jump for your chair and endeavoring to be the first one seated. Everyone will probably remark about your wonderful agility. A modest blush should be your only answer. You will observe a small square piece of linen beside your plate. This is a napkin. Nonchantly tuck one corner under your collar and drape the rest over your bosom as though you had done it all your life. This will keep your chest spotless from everything but the soup which will leak through in spite of all your efforts. Now is the time to show your ability to "win friends and influence people." While everybody is waiting for someone else to start something, carelessly spring a few witticisms chuckling joyfully all the while. You can always say: "To eat is human; to digest, divine," or "Taste makes waist." Something like that ought to make a hit. Well, the meal is about to begin; so hitch well up to the table, placing your arms in an advantageous position on either side of your plate. Watch your competitors carefully, and by all means don't let anyone get ahead of you. Be prepared to get immediately under way as soon as the first dish is brought on. Plunge into your cocktail with such enthusiasm as will leave no doubt about the vigor of your appetite. You can be pretty sure of getting soup next. There will be several spoons beside your plate. Since you never can remember which one to choose, just pick out a big one. A good loud soup-drinking noise is delightful; so be sure to imitate a sipping noise something like that of a leaky faucet. This will make everyone stare at you admiringly. If your soup is so hot that it burns you, gargle it in the back of your throat for a little while. This is really much better than to try to hide it in your napkin as some people do. Now we are ready for the main course. When starting in with a large plateful of good things (which you will undoubtedly have), discard the fork temporarily. You can hold a good deal more on the knife anyway. Expert knife handlers may require some home practice, but you will find your time well spent. Of course, you may use your fork and a piece of bread to clean up (Continued on Page 22) Page Six Flight By shirley poulton YEAH, she used to be Carrie Sternberg. Lived in a little oil refining town in western Wyoming. I used to live right across the street from her, but that was a long time ago. I'd forgotten all about her until we saw her tonight, but I knew her instantly. She's still got a small-town air about her. Did you notice it? There's an interesting story behind Carrie's leaving North Waco. It's the sort of story that makes one wonder about chance and the whole scheme of things. North Waco isn't much of a town. Its entire life is centered around the Morgan Oil Refinery. Most of the houses are cheap four-room frames constructed by the company for the refinery workers; the water supply isn't large enough to warrant the planting of many trees or lawns. So all you can see when you enter the town are those sun-baked gray frame houses squatting around the huge black chimneys and silver storage tanks of the refinery. And it isn't a clean town either. There is always a wind that carries the dust from the sand hills outside of town and the smoke from the refinery into the lives of the people of North Waco. My most vivid impression of the town is stringy gray curtains that hang at all the windows, for as Mrs. Sternberg always said, "No use to wash them, 'cause the soot and dust only dirties them again." You can see that it isn't much of a place to rear a young girl. There are no amusements except a filthy dance hall that nice girls don't go to, and a movie house that runs rainy films three nights a week. But Carrie always seemed perfectly satisfied with her life there. From the time she was fifteen, she worked at the soda fountain in the only drug store in town, and seemed very content with her station in life, despite the fact that she wasn't blessed with much beauty. But she had cheerful ways, and that's more than you can say for some of the glamour girls we saw tonight. It was because she seemed contented that people were startled when Carrie left North Waco so suddenly. (Continued on Page 8) Page Seven