University Liggett School - Rivista Yearbook (Grosse Pointe Woods, MI)

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To Dust Returneth Mike wasn't dead, but the rats weren't quite sure. One scampered across his chest. The spark of remaining life frightened it away. That odor-it seemed to come from something close to his face. Its source had been evading him until his cheek recognized the substance against which it was resting as a filth-matted boot-heel. Gradually, for his mind moved slowly, he realized that underneath him and at right angles to him, was a man's leg. Regaining his power of movement to a slight extent, and curious to find out whether or not his comrade was dead, Mike inched his, hand slowly up the leg. It progressed as far as the thigh, and there his fingers encoun- tered a sticky splinter of bone. Hoping to discover the amount of life in his new-found friend, Mike pulled. Pain ran screaming through Mike's body... So this is how things were! Here he was, lying half submerged in a muddy ditch, unable to turn his eyes or face from -the sight of mud. Worse yet, his leg-he couldn't tell which one-was off. Oh, to have a glimpse of a blue sky filled with white, drifting clouds! Was he dying, or was he dead already? No, he couldn't be dead, for that one twist of pain had been no dream. Numbness crept slyly upon him. He seemed not only to be detached from his leg, but from his whole body. Only his mind was functioning. Silvia. What was she doing now? If she were only here to rub his hands and face! He was alone. Was she? Could she be thinking of him as he thought of her? He wanted to pray that she be kept safe, but Mike knew'not where God was. He did know that God was not in this forsaken crater of mud, but in some beautiful place far away. Maybe Beauty had been devoured by Evil, so God was gone too. Time did not seem to be an element. How long had he lain here? How long did each thought take? Was it seconds, minutes, hours, days, or even longer? Was it only a fancy that he seemed to be looking up at life, instead of back upon it? Perhaps. He had seen the zero plane coming toward him and kept his finger on the machine- gun button. Suddenly Mike's eyes had filled with blood, and his plane had begun to dive involuntarily. He had landed on the tree tops of an entangled jungle forest, and was thrown from the plane to the ground. He had struggled to his feet and had time to stumble only a few yards, when he had met a raging, distorted man charging forward with bayonet out-thrust. First had come a thundering blast very close to him, and then- nothing. Now this broken, bleeding remnant of what had once walked upright proudly on the face of the earth. Darkness seemed to be falling. But how queer! Not as night would fall, but as a black wall moving toward him. As it approached, it brought serenity and peace. Mike realized then, that this was It. This was the time to which all men came, and of which no man should be afraid. He had time for one word- Silvia . Mike was with her, and peace had come. The rat approached again, and sat on the chest of this shell of a man. Celia Chriftiansen, '43. 28

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Mine For the Taking t Henry Van Dyke once wrote: They lay stretched out before us in the level sunlight, the sharp peaks out- lined against the sky, the vast ridges of forest sinking smoothly towards the valleys, the deep hollows gathering purple shadows in their bosoms, and the little foothills tanding out in rounded promontories of brighter green from the darker mass behihd them. . They were all ours, from crested cliff to wooded base, the plumed sierras of lofty pines, the stately pillared forests of birch and beech, the tremulous thickets of silvery poplar, the bare peaks with their wide outlooks, and the cool vales resounding with the ceaseless song of little rivers-we knew and loved them all: they ministered peace and joy to usg they were all ours. I have had such a feeling, a feeling of owning the mountains-in fact the very moun- tains just mentioned. I have lived in them, climbed them, walked through their valleys, and breathed their clean mountain air. I first realized I owned them one summer's day as I neared the top of one of them. It seemed the nearer I got the stiffer the wind was. It swept the heat of the July day from my forehead and blew the tiredness from my muscles. It made me run, because I wanted to get on top and look back on what I had accomplished. The trail was steep, but I forgot about it in scrambling over the little rocks and in pulling myself over the big ones. When I arrived at the summit, I received a reward ten times the worth of my efforts. I loved the feel of the wind whipping through my hair-a wind so strong I had to lean against it to stand up-a wind that tore up my sleeves and made me shiver. I thrilled at the marvelous vista before me-row upon row of immutable mountains-each higher than the other until they parted the clouds. As I followed with my eyes these protean shapes casting their shadows on the mountain woodlands below, I took in the vast blue beyond them and the brilliant sun that seemed to have a certain calmness and smoothness in sending its steady beam to the greedy land. The whole scene. made me feel as if I would stop breathing. It seemed a if the sky would envelop me in its vastness and the moun- tains and the trees swallow me. I gazed at the opulent kingdom at my feet-a kingdom that tretched across the world and back. It was a world of adventure and romance. There were mountains to climb, paths through fairy-touched forests, icy-cold, refreshing moun- tain streams with their crystal clear pools that had been ground out of the rock through centuries of toil. There were rivers overflowing with thrilling rapids, swift currents, slow currents, water lilies sparkling in the sun, and an occasional unexpected plunge to their sandy depths. I have had these experiences. They are stamped indelibly in my memory. They are not to be forgotten, and when I think of them I live them again. I cherish them because of the glowing sensation I have when I realize by whom these wonders were created and given to me. I owned not only the mountains-I owned the world! It was mine for the taking. Ann Davila, '43. 27

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Did You Say Guestroom? Idle the room might lie for days, for weeks, at a time, but it had a gleaming luxury of welcome, of invitation, for the stranger who would succeed the last stranger in the delightful procession. Robert Lynd voices this in The Stranger's Room as the child's point of view, but what of the long line of guests that stayed in that room? What did they think, and what was their opinion on the subject? More than likely they suffered in silence and never dared speak their peace. Guestrooms go to extremes. For the most part they will fit into two distinct cate- gories: they're musty or fresh, drab or forcibly colorful, too fussy and frilly or absolutely wan. Can't anyone find the perfect medium? The hosts could start with the bed for instance. I've met some pretty uncomfortable ones in my day. By way of explanation, the two most common types are the board and mountainous ones. The board feels exactly like a piece of timber, and for your head is a pillow that closely resembles a cement sack. Saggy is a word that goes with the mat- tress filled with valleys, mountain ranges, and precipices left by former occupants. After a long hard day of travel, you sink into bed only to find your weary back suspended over an abyss formed by a person of much more stocky build than yourself. But the bed isn't the only thing you have to worry about. Millions of other little details are present just for the purpose of making you fret and fume. As you enter the room for the first time, all looks calm and serene. Little do you know that the window is going to stick, and the radiator will emit terrifying grumbles and grunts all through the wee small hours of the morning. You stand looking about you, taking mental notes. In spite of the fact you simply abhor baby blue wallpaper specked with white and yellow daisies, and the pink curtains are just too, too ghastly, you grit your teeth and politely remark to your hostess, What an interesting color scheme. As a malicious after-thought you quickly add, I always think a room expresses the owner's personality a bit, don't you agree? The fool-she fell for it! On she rambles in her own inimitable way. Oh, my dear, I'm so glad you like it. I did it all myself without one little speck of help from anyone. That's exactly what you thought at first but you didn't dare put it into words for fear she'd take offense. Finally your well meaning hostess announces that you have just ten more minutes to get ready for dinner, and flounces out of the room-leaving you to your own resources. Your own resources is the word for it. It doesn't take long for you to realize that there's no hand lotion, no soap in the basin, no kleenex, no wastebasket, and, horror of all horrors no hot water. Even if you did have a chance to wash your hands you'd have to wave them in the air to dry them. All the towels in sight are about half the size of a cocktail napkin. Mentally you restrain yourself and hurry to change clothes. Wouldn't you know it! Your slip strap always gives way at a time like this. Well, that can be remedied very easily by a safety pin. Now all you have to do is find one. You tear through the bureau drawers. All that greets your frantic eye is the mending, some Christmas wrappings and ribbons, and the extra supply of sheets, not to mention a pair of rubbers and a rag doll. Not a ign of a safety pin anywhere. A pin, a pin, my kingdom for a safety pin, you mutter as you tie a bulky knot in the offending member and dash down to dinner. A few hours later you again mount the stairs and enter the sacred portals. The bed has been turned down, and the window is open, you exclaim with joy. Immediately the 29