Massachusetts College of Art and Design - Palette and Pen Yearbook (Boston, MA)

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YEMA Hadar was miserable. You would have been miserable, too, if you had been in Hadar’s place. True, it was cool in the shade of the huge date palm, but Hadar was hot inside — hot and bitter as the coffee bean in his mouth, which he shifted to make room for a sigh, a woeful sigh. Yema was only a mule, so he could not understand. The cool shade of the date palm filled his mulish heart with happiness, happiness as sweet as the tender grass blade in his mouth, which he shifted to make room for a sigh, a blissful sigh. And though it’s very sad to relate, Yema was the cause of Hadar’s misery. With the setting of the sun behind the mountain of Irak would come exciting preparations for the journey of the morrow. The Ameer Mundhir ibn Mundhir had decreed a festival at Hijaz, and everyone was going. That is, everyone but Hadar. Hadar had no horse. He had only Yema. Only by hard and fast riding on their beautiful Arabian steeds could the tribe of Nabajoth, to which Hadar belonged, hope to make Hijaz for the festival. Hadar sighed again and bit viciously on his coffee bean. A wonderful thing happened. A very marvelous, superextraordi- nary thing. You won’t believe it! Right before Hadar’s very eyes ap- peared a strange little brown man, who salaamed gracefully until his turban toppled. “Who are you?’’ asked Hadar, in a quivery, quakery voice. “I am the jinni of the coffee bean,” answered the little brown man. What is your wish, my master?”

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your head,” or in stentorian tones, “What was I saying before I so rudely interrupted myself?” But if those brave souls who invade the sanctum sanctorum need the courage of Theseus or the magic word of Gawaine the dragon slayer, there is recompense. Years of experience, vast stores of knowledge, — these the initiate of the spotlight, the laven- der gauze, and the rich brocades may take for themselves as largess. There are little tips about using one’s imagination intelligently, nuances of color in musical terms, and looking for beauty of shapes and values. We learn that the work must be “professional,” for “a good painting is finished from the start,” and as, with “fasting and prayer,” each student works beyond his power to excel the beauty and the brilliance, he knows that it must be “amusing.” Days, weeks, months, later, a seemingly offside remark becomes a thing of substance, something to build on as we perceive the meaning. “Go to it, Sal, I’ll hold your bonnet,” or “Whoop it up! Whoop it up!” startles us out of our lethargy. Then,“make it, make the shapes.” And again, as though inspired, “Why do you suppose an oasis is so beautiful? Isn’t it because it is surrounded by a desert?” Or else a touch on the arm and he says, “Step back here . . . .” Motioning toward your drawing, “Did you ever see such a gorgeous thing, so transcendentally beautiful? In the nature, I mean.” We’ve all been told that “you can’t get something for nothing,” and that “no man can serve two masters.” These and a hundred others mean “Notre VIeux” to us. FLORENCE WHITMORE

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Hadar was very much astonished, though you never would have guessed it. He looked just as though a coffee bean jinni was no novelty to him. “I wish to go to the festival at Hijaz on a beautiful white horse.” You never will believe this. I can’t believe it, and I was there. (Oh, hidden, of course, behind a gum tree.) Yema began to grow whiter and whiter. At first Hadar thought he must have eaten too much of the sweet grass, but then his tail began to grow. A long and beautiful tail it was, and quite an improvement, too. Strangest of all, Hadar gasped to see, right there on Yema’s shoulders were two little wings. They looked suspiciously like ostrich feathers, but Hadar didn’t mind. He liked ostriches well enough. As for the strange little man, he was gone. Hadar removed the coffee bean from his mouth and polished it. Then he put it in his upper left-hand inside pocket and mounted his beautiful horse. With a happy shout they were off. Yema’s nose pointed straight to Hijaz. And Hadar’s hand lovingly clutched his upper left-hand inside pocket. He was a very hap py boy. And Yema was a very blissful ex-mule. RUTH K. DOHERTY ??? I wonder As I’m torn asunder By this and that And under The spell of all this talk Of art and education. If someone hasn’t made A blunder In letting me study Here — I wonder. GERTRUDE MAXIM