Birmingham High School - Piper Yearbook (Birmingham, MI)

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was something inexorably cruel about that face now as I looked at it, and I was about to speak when I heard a sound behind me. I half turned. Loo Yin stood there,more lovely than ever- She seemed like a character from some old print, with her skin like old ivory and her costume of lavender satin. But I perceived something more. She seemed surprised to see me. In her eyes were mirrored fear and horror. In a moment she had recovered and walking swiftly to us, she emptied the contents of both our teacups into the teapot almost before I noticed and taking it in her hands, dashed it against the wall. Fascinated, I watched the amber liquid spread in an ever-widening stain on the silken-covered wall. ' I instinctively turned my eyes to Loo Chung's face. Surely he would say something, offer some explanation? Loo Yin had crouched,sobbing, before the mo- tionless figure of her father who sat as ever, staring straight ahead. A cruel, little smile seemed to play about his lips, but perhaps it was my imagination. Loo Yin raised her lovely head and turned her tear-stained face toward me. Those eyes sought my face as if searching for something she could not find, for I am afraid she saw only bewilderment. Though she wept helplessly,it seemed to me that there was no remorse in her cries--only fear and despair. She kept murmuring over and over, 'I have killed him, oh, I have killed him!n She had repeated it many times before I seemed to grasp its full significance and was aroused into action. No wonder that he had not spoken! I listened fearfully at Loo Chung's chest. Yes, there was There was no doubt about itg the old man was dead and had been since he had first sipped the tea. Poison, and quick working too. Loo Yin was still sobbing, but I pleaded with her to tell me was hard to describe my feelings. I felt a strange sadness,for Loo my friend5nevertheless,my sentiments were not entirely against Loo it is as condemning a sin to kill one's own parent as in any other somehow I felt that the girl was justified. how I did not know. The girl was incoherent in her grief. Until sometime later, I no heartbeat. dead probably her story. It Chung hadbeen Yin. In China country, but was unable to piece together her story as she told it to me. From what I gathered, however, this was what had happened: - 1 Loo Yin at birth had been betrothed, as is the custom in China,to a wealthy Chinese boy,the scion of one of the oldest families in Peking.It was Loo Chung's wish that by their marriage they would unite the two housesgmuch as he loved his daughter, he did not intend to be defeated in his purpose. But Loo Yin had been sent to America to be educated and having prevailed and the her And ing upon her father to let her stay longer than he wished, grew to love independence of the Western world.She told me that only then did narrowness and backwardness of her life as it would be if she marriage and consequent self-effacement as the wife of a Chinese she had fallen in love,desperately,with a young Chinese student, in America and also as unwilling to return to his own land. They wished to the freedom she realize returned to gentleman. also study- marry secretly, but Loo Yin felt that it was her duty to go to her father and appeal to him first. She knew he would doubtless never be reconciled to the fact that she had married against his wishes, but she thought that he would not be so C continued on page 64 J 10

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'isa Anabel Dahlquist '35 A faint, blue stem of incense arose from the carved jade burner on the little lacquered table at my right. It was fragrant sandalwood, butuit annoyed me, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat on the floor. was I to sit here all day gazing at old Loo Chung? I knew not why he had called me hereg I suspected it was because he wished to give me counsel. Though I had lived in China for two years in my capacity of foreign correspondent for the New York Gazette, he still took a particular delight in summoning me into his presence at regular intervals for this purpose. Old Loo Chung prided himself that I usually took his advice, too. As a matter of fact, he was a wise old fellow, and he served excellent tea of a particularly rare brand. The old Chinese was a stickler for custom, how- ever. He must always sip his tea first, remarking at length on the relative mer- its and virtues of Chinese tea above that of all other countriesgand then I must taste mine and also deliver a discourse on its rare excellency. But today,after his customary connoisseur's sip, his eyes still stared past me, perhaps at the silken curtained window behind me which overlooked one of the numerous courtyards of the house of Loo. I wished fervently that he would speak soon, but I knew that he sometimes sat thus in silence for minutes at a time. I was more uncomfortable today than usual,and I am afraid my impatience was rather obvious. I had a very special date for dinner and the fights at five with the niece of the American consul, and I was eager to be off. I wanted to speak, but to thus disturb his silence would be unpardonable. I really valued his friendship, and I knew beneath that veneer of unbending formality he cherished no small amount of affection for me. Old Loo Chung had never had a song but only a beautiful young girl of twenty whom he loved above all else in this world. I never saw her much, and I knew little about her except that sne had been well-educated in American schools. Her name was Loc Yin. I thought briefly how queer it must be for a young girl to live with a stiff old gentleman like Loo Chung. He insisted on scrupulous observance of the customs of his ancestorsg a rather formal, dull existence for her. Perhaps that was why she appeared to me to be tragic and pre-occupied. My gaze wandered about the room, again taking in the familiar objects. They had always held a strange fascination for me.Somehow I felt out of place in this room. There were small relics of ancient workmanshipg floor coverings of hand- some, hand-woven carpets worth a fortuneg on the table near me a handful of old Chinese piasters, black with age: Most of it appeared never to have been touch- ed. I recovered from my reflections because of that irritating smell again, and I turned my eyes to Loo Chung. His face,the color of parchment, on which a thou- sand wrinkles had been etched in perfect symmetry,was as calm as ever and in ex- actly the same position. The robe of fuchsia damask with embroidery of gold dra- gons which hung in rich folds about his thin form and the little black cap which concealed only the top of his head made him resemble a statue of Buddha.There 9

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Gonversalion Kirk Martin '36 Wherever people are gathered--conversation will certainly be present.Every- one oonverses,from the neighborhood pest who buttonholes you on your way home to inform you of his latest golfing achievements to the feminine diplomats of the afternoon bridge club, where the important question of how Mrs. Haughty New Cas- tle will wear her hair this fall is tossed from tongue to tongue. ' At any social gathering one invariably comes upon conversation. when the planned program of the evening is interrupted or finished, someone is bound to bring up the weather. This is a very conventional opener, since there must be weather, be it good,bad, or just ln between. Mr. Jones will now tell his exper- ience at sea in a tidal wave,and after being duly discussedxin its past,present, and future stages,the weather will be put away on the conversational shelf until the need for its presence is felt once more. Unfortunately this will leave many a poor soul with a particularly juicy contribution on his or her tongue, and a cheated feeling in his or her breast. This state of distress soon passes, however, as the half opened mouth, the faintly wild glitter in the eyes, and the contorted facial features--all denoting readiness for instant action signify. The human breakfast is always a subject sure to find a 1ng's conversation. The gentleman know that a cup of black coffee and to be exact--suffice as his regular place in the even- on your left feels that all present should a slice or two of well toasted toast--burned morning repast.The fat woman across the room absolutely abhors grapefruitg but since it is on her diet, she supposes she will have to endure the abominable variety of the citrus family for a few weeks, at least. The timid creature with the goatee enjoys ham and eggs, he informs the rest, while the auditor, Mr.Figger, likes his eggs boiled just three minutes, no more and no less. Pancakes and oatmeal are favorites with many, and will always find a warm defender. Polit1cs,the unemployment situation, the bridge tournament,the quintuplets, and the latest---and longest---books will each take a turn at bat. the conversational Then suddenly all will be silent. The information at hand is exhausted, and the very existence of the conversation is threatened. The experienced host will recognise this fact, and if resourceful, will immediately bring up a new topic. The camel furnishes ideal subject matter for just this occasion. The camel is--as are whales and submarines--one of those topics about which everyone knows and about which no one knows anything definite. Try it some spark of interest glint in the eyes of those assembled. The shyly states that she somewhere read that a camel's humps beest's instinctive habit of sleeping on its back. The man on time. Notice the small blond woman are formed by the her right politely but firmly assures her this is wrong.'The humps,' he insists magnlf1cently,N are an outgrowth of the mother camel's method of carrying her young.9 A voice from the depths of an easy chair scornfully condemns the statement made by the bald headed man that camels can go for sixteen days without water. Meanwhile,the aud- itor ls musing to himself in a very loud voice on whether it is figs or dried prunes with which he associates the camel, or is it a dromedary of which he is thinking? f continued on page 65 I ll