The Andrean1950C O N T E N T S

Articles PageJames Zuill "Island Politics" 3Hall Downes "Noxentown Pond" 6Stuart Bracken "South Rampart Street" 10

FictionTom Patton "Weighing In" 8Walter Fielding "Pamela's Beard" 11Caleb Boggs "Snake Story" 12Mac Hickin "I'll Get That 'Coon Yet" 13

PoetryDavid Harned "Innocent" 15Roger Redden "Todd's Wharf" 14Richard Leonard "Autumn" 5Walter Fielding "Ode to a Mountain" 9

T H E A N D R E A Nis published by

THE ST. ANDREW'S SCHOOL PUBLICATIONS

ROGER REDDEN, Editor-in-Chief LYNDON CLAY, Associate Editor

BARRY REGISTER, Business Manager

AN EDITORIAL

For quite a number of years The Andrean has been the step-child of the SAS

Publications; few people have read it and fewer have worked on it. Some of the fault

lies with the editors of The Andrean and some lies in the student body. In the first

place, The Andrean has gotten into the habit of appearing on Commencement Day when

no one is thinking of anything short of summer vacation and when an all-out attempt

to rid oneself of everything remotely connected with the school has seized each student.

Another fault is the fact that The Andrean always manages to come out on the same

day as the yearbook, which gets a disproportionate share of all Publication's interest.

Likewise, The Andrean, "high-brow" of the SAS journals, is overshadowed by The

Cardinal, the term newspaper that has wide distribution as its ally. The faults of the

students are the standard ones for all the Publications—lack of effort in contribution

and vague criticism without any attempt to improve. The same group of boys puts out

The Andrean year after year, allowing for replacements for the 6th Formers, and the

same indolent bunch hands out the criticism.

This year's Andrean staff is hoping that it can clear up some of its failings with

this issue. The stories and articles have been chosen from a wide range of interest fields

with the hope that at least three or more of the selections will interest every boy. Even

the Saturday Evening Post can't please all of its readers with all of its articles. In addi-

tion to this attempt to reduce the esoteric side of The Andrean, we have also attempted

to get our magazine out soon enough to let the students read some of the stories before

throwing the thing away. We, the editors feel that we have fulfilled our part and we

hope that you, our readers, will not eradicate our efforts.

ISLAND POLITICS

On a Spring afternoon in 1948, in King's Square in the town of St. Georges inBermuda, a large crowd of coloured people was assembled. They were assembled to

hear the result of the parish election which had been held that day to elect representa-tives to the Colonial Parliament. This coloured crowd was particularly interested inthe return of a Doctor Gordon, the leader of the coloured people, the fighter for theincrease of their rights. The members of this crowd were happy; they joked, threw diceand played pranks on each other, for they were sure of Dr. Gordon's election.

Dr. Gordon had planned on himself and his confederates winning sixteen seats inthe Bermuda Parliament of thirty-six seats. Towards this end, he and his confederateshad campaigned vigorously in four parishes: Paget, Hamilton, St. Georges and South-ampton, hoping to gain the four seats of each. He had asked every coloured voter toturn out and vote for the coloured man's rights. Yet so far events had lost all the seatsin Paget and Hamilton.

Now, however, in spite of the fact that three white men had already taken seats

for St. Georges, the crowd was confident; they were sure that Dr. Gordon would win.Then, from a window of the town hall at one side of the square, a man gave a signal.

Immediately, the crowd fell silent; the signal meant that Dr. Gordon had lost. Aftera short interval, the victor, another coloured man named Burch, descended the town-

hall steps escorted by two policemen. The crowd broke out in a storm of noise; jeers,

insults, jibes were thrown at the successful candidate. Burch, unruffled, walked quietly

and with dignity to his car, where he turned and, as if to defy the crowd, lit a ciga-

rette. Then he stepped into his car and drove away. On the following day the results

of the Southampton election were announced and Dr. Gordon's party had lost again.

A riot broke out but it was quickly subdued by a strong force of alert policemen. Thusthe party for coloured rights lost its greatest bid for power, and the white ruling class

was firmly seated until the election in 1953.

What was the cause of the defeat of Dr. Gordon and his party? How did the small

ruling class keep the coloured majority in submission once again? There were fivereasons for this fact: Bermuda's restricted franchise, plural voting, newly installed

women's suffrage, public opinion about Gordon and the unity of the whites in their

resolve to defeat Gordon.

Bermuda's restricted franchise has existed since her colonizing, but it is maintained

still to keep Bermuda's rulers in power. To vote in a parish one must own land worth

sixty pounds according to the parish books. In the spring of 1948 Bermuda's land infla-tion was at its worst. Not only was land selling for well over twice its assessmentvalue, but much land was owned by rich white families who wouldn't sell. Since fewcoloured people had enough money to pay for high priced land, and since those thatdid or already had land didn't as a rule vote for Gordon, he started with a highhandicap in every parish.

Although Gordon had this handicap, it wasn't enough to defeat him. Plural votingwas necessary. Since Bermuda's franchise is founded on land, and since voting is doneparochially, a person having land in more than one parish has a vote in each parishwhere he has land. Since the average white ruler has two votes and many people haveas many as five, an even larger white bloc voted against Gordon. Furthermore, therewas no coloured counter to this; practically no coloured voter has two votes.

In 1944 the vote was given to Bermudian women landholders, and this helped tobring down Gordon's party. There are a large number of rich white Bermuda womenwho hold land in one or more parishes, but there are very few coloured women land-holders. Thus Dr. Gordon was still further handicapped.

But all this might have been overruled had it not been for public opinion of Dr.Gordon. All rich white people and most moderate coloured people felt quite sure thatDr. Gordon was a scoundrel. In the St. Georges bye-election in which he became a

member of Parliament, there had been one white man running against him. On the

night before the election day the white man received several threats. One man threat-

ened to blow up his house; another, to kill him unless he withdrew from the election.

The white man withdrew, and Gordon took the uncontested seat. Later on, Gordon

had gone around the island holding meetings at which he would tell his plans. At the

end of the meeting a Gordon follower would rise and make a motion. Dr. Gordon

would ask for dissenting votes. Of course he well knew that every member of the

coloured audience was too meek to get up before the hall and state his objections.

Consequently at each meeting there were no objections. The Gordon men would

then count the people in the hall and put them down as agreeing with the motion

unanimously. At the end of the series of meetings he took the total of assenting

votes and went to London to get a Royal Commission to extend the franchise. The

governour of Bermuda, Admiral Sir Ralph Leatham, sent the true facts about the

petition to London in order that the Colonial office might not be misinformed. Had the

Colonial office sent Gordon away without anything, he might have had a better chance

in the election, but, instead, Mr. Creech-Jones completely ignored the governour's mes-

sage and gave Dr. Gordon an order to the Colonial Parliament to review the island'ssocial structure and amend it where it was unjust. Still later, and just before the elec-tion, a prominent Bermudian attempted to foreclose a mortgage on Dr. Gordon's housethat was long overdue. Dr. Gordon at the next meeting of his Bermuda Industrial Union,spoke of this as an attempt to victimize him, Dr. Gordon. Immediately, the amountrequired was collected from the union members, and the mortgage was paid off. Bysuch actions, Dr. Gordon aroused the suspicions of moderate coloured people as to hishonesty, and he completely convinced the white people about his aims. They felt surethat he would stop at nothing to gain his personal ambitions.

This effect on the whites was the final contributing factor to his defeat. More thanever now, they were alert to the danger to their supremacy. Each, privately and indi-vidually, resolved in his heart that Gordon must be defeated. Now they were notagainst the coloured people; they were against Dr. Gordon. Many coloured candidates,such as Burch, stood up to Dr. Gordon and received both white and coloured votes.The whites would vote coloured, if their votes and the moderate coloured votes werethe only thing to beat Gordon.

Thus the Gordon Party, through the suspicions of the people and the power ofthe white ruling class, went to defeat.

James Zuill

AUTUMN

The thoughtful scholar scoops holesAs he shuffles in the crisp leaves,While he and the treeShow the emptiness of autumn.

Richard Leonard

NOXENTOWN PONDThe average Saint Andrean is vaguely aware of an indefinitely limited body of

water whose banks lie close to the school buildings. If he is something of a naturalist,

he may discover that it is called Noxentown Pond and that it produces from time to

time great quantities of dead fish and seaweed of a sort that presents a serious obstacle

to the crew program. Beyond that he is ignorant. Certainly he is ignorant of the fact

that the pond constitutes an area of great historical, biological, and paleontological

interest.

Many hundreds of years before St. Andrews' School's arrival on the scene—how

many hundreds of years is not known with any certainty—the inhabitants of the Noxen-town Pond area were the Lenni Lenape, the "original," or "real," men and the Nanti-

cokes. Both Indian tribes were members of the Algonkian family and lived by farming

and fishing. At the time of the white man's arrival these tribes were rapidly being killedoff and driven out by the invading, warlike Iroquois. Many of their stone points, spear

heads, arrow heads, and other artifacts are still to be found in the vicinity of the pond.

The first historical mention of the white settler comes in 1669 when William Tompetitioned Governor Nicholas of New York for permission to settle in this vicinity.

Permission having been granted, Tom and a few Finnish settlers began to make theirhome in the area that now lies on the pond. The infiltration, however, was not great for

in 1683 only 40 taxable persons were living in Noxentown Hundred.

Larger settlements began to arise around 1740. At this time several mills were in

operation and ships sailed up the Appoquinimink (which is reputed to mean "woundedduck" and is variously spelled "Appoquinimy" and "Quinquinium") to carry products

to and from the mills. A few years later Thomas Noxen, or Noxon, from whom the lake

derived its name, built a mill on the pond and added to the colony a brew and malt

house. Around this time and under the direction of Noxen various annual fairs wereheld to which thousands of people came from all over the Middle Eastern States. The

dam, over which we see Caesar Rodney riding his horse in the picture over the Vorhees'

table in the St. Andrew's dining room, was certainly built before the revolutionarywar.1 Sometime near the Revolutionary period an inn was built, which stood until torn

down in 1885.

The naturalistic St. Andrean mentioned above has noticed the mat of sea weed that

covers the pond every spring term. He will not know perhaps that because of this weed

1Tbe actual date of the dam's construction appears lost to research. However, there is no reason to supposethat the present dam is not the original construction. (Ed.)

we call the Noxentown a pond and not a lake. A pond, by definition, is a body of

water shallow enough to permit vegetation to reach the surface at all places within its

body. He is also probably not aware that the "sea weed" is not sea weed at all. People

originally thought that the Noxentown weed was actual sea weed brought in on the nets

of fisherman. Scientifically speaking the weed is Potamogeton crispus (river-geton,

crinkle edge) and definitely does not have its origins in the sea. Potamogeton grows to

the height of 7 or 8 feet and then breaks off from its stalk. It reaches its unpleasant

peak during June and early July.

It is this same sea weed that is largely responsible for the prolific life that abounds

in Noxentown pond to the delight of the biologist. The weed supports many smaller

animals, which in turn support larger animals. It also supplies protection to the young

and immature aquatic forms that hide among its fronds.

Among the many fishes found in Noxentown Pond are chain pickrel, yellow perch,

and large and small mouth bass. Not native to the pond are alewife and eels, who

make their appearance in the Noxentown in the course of their long migrations from

their marine habitats. The alewife, a type of herring, is apparently unable to adjust

itself to the lack of minerals in fresh water and dies, dotting the shores of the pond

with the previously mentioned odorous carcasses.

We know something of the prehistoric animals that dwelt in the region. At the

end of Noxentown Pond on the bank opposite from the school is an abandoned gold

mine. Amateur prospectors should know that the mining venture was given up as being

unprofitable, but the dirt thrown out of the excavation is rich in fossils. Fossilized

brachiopods and mollusks dating from 55 million years back are relatively common finds.

As to the future history of Noxentown Pond, we can say with a fair degree ofcertainty that it will have none. It has been decreasing in depth for some time and

before long (geologically speaking) it will be little more than a fresh water marsh.

Silt from the high banks is constantly being washed down into the pond. This rich

silt supports vigorous vegetation, and as one layer of vegetation dies, enriching the

incoming silt to support another layer, the pond becomes more shallow.

Hall Downes

WEIGHING IN

"Only three pounds to go! Zeez, I'm thirsty. I guess just a little swig of waterwon't hurt me. Then I'll be O.K. No, I'd better not."

"Throw me that lemon, Al," I muttered dejectedly. "Judas, it tastes like a half-ripepersimmon, but at least it's wet. Say, I want to borrow your sweatshirt, there. I won'tgrub it up either."

"Oh well, the weighing in is an hour from now, so I might as well finish squeezingthe juice out of me," I was thinking morosely. "Uh, it's hard to get off this bed. I guessthere isn't much guts left in me after this week of practice." I slipped off the bed easilyin order not to scrape my mat burns again, and made for the shower room.

My lips were beginning to puff up and crack from the dryness, and my skin waslike fish scales. Tip-toeing across the wet floor I could feel the chills shoot down myspine and into my shaking knees. Stepping carefully over the tile floor, I went downthe line of showers, flicking them on. The steam began to billow out and thicken theplace with its clammy vapor. I pulled on the other sweatshirt, and wrapped my damp,icy bathrobe closely about me.

Now I could feel the cold sweat dripping from my neck and trickling in an irritat-ing stream down my ribs. I finished my pushups and staggered to my feet, peering outthrough the gathering mist.

"Oh, hi, is that you Jim?" I weakly sputtered. "I can't see a bloomin' thing throughthis soup."

"Yeah, 's' me, Tom. Say, are you wrestling tomorrow?""Hell! I sure hope so," I replied. "I'm almost killing myself losing weight. Only

a couple of more pounds to shake lose though—maybe not that much by now. Youknow, it's my first shot at varsity wrestling and I've just gotta make it after all thestarving and running I've been doing lately. You see, I'm really looking forward toathletics for the first time."

"Well," said Jim skeptically, "I felt the same way at first, too. I heard it wouldmake a man out of me, and I'd get a free course in body building. But, I'll tell you,I really got tired of grubbin' around on a mat for almost two hours a day. I quit thatsport after my first year. Anyway, work squad is really the racket. All you have toknow is how to loaf and look like you're working."

"What do you want anyway?" I replied testily. "You don't get everything on aplatter. Some day you'll find out what you missed. Well, come out and watch me to-morrow. I'll need the support."

I turned back in to the suffocating fog, feeling somewhat bewildered. "Let me see,a few more jumping-jacks and I'll be about right. Oh, brother, it's like Hades in here.

I guess I've made it anyway. Besides it's almost time to weigh in."I pulled my bathrobe close around me and started towards the infirmary. My feet

no longer responded to what I told them, but automatically plodded one in front of theother. "Oh, one flight of steps, and I'm there." I leaned against the rail and began topull myself up step by step." Whew, here I am."

"Oh hello, Crusher; did you make your weight?" I asked."Just barely," Crusher answered. "I really feel terrific now. I can eat a regular

meal and not starve my poor old belly. Think of those steaks we'll get tomorrow, hey.Hell, the hardest part of the week is over anyway. The part I don't like is the every-day practice. What's comin' up is the glory, so I'll get a good night's sleep. Say, you'reweighing in too, I guess? Oh, it's your first match, too, isn't it Tom? Well, good luck!"

"Thanks," I replied feeling much better. "Hey, let me on those scales there, bub!"I bellowed proudly. Let's see now—141 . . . 140 . . . 139 ...

"Rah, boy, get off those scales."I turned completely round and asked, "Sir, what's the matter?""Oh, boy, I forgot to tell you," he replied quite unconcernedly. "There's no one for

you to wrestle tomorrow, so you needn't get into your duds—I might be able to use younext week, though. Hey, sonny, what's wrong? Are you sick?"

Tom Patton

ODE TO A MOUNTAIN

O Katahdin, mighty majesty,Five thousand odd feet'high,Great monument of natureHeads upward toward the sky;

Above your rugged timber lineYour granite head held high,So great a mighty masterpieceThat never you may die;

Aging rivers come and go,And glaciers melt away,And endless ages past you moveYou are as night and day.

Walter Fielding

SOUTH RAMPART STREET

If one were to place, side by side, every main street in every large American city,

they would all look alike. The movie theatres, the department stores, and the drug

stores all look the same. Last summer I saw many main streets that looked similar

except for one. That exception was New Orleans' South Rampart Street. This unusual

thoroughfare runs South from St. Charles Avenue, past Union Station, down to the

muddy Mississippi River. There are no fancy movie theatres or stores on this street.

Instead, wholesale clothing stores and pawn shops line its sides for blocks. There is a

bar on almost every street corner and many in between. The bars are full of negroes

who remain leaning against a bar for hours on end. A worn jukebox in one corner

blares out Rampart Street's own Dixieland Jazz classic, the "South Rampart Street

Parade." The coloured men tap out its beat on the unswept floor while talking to the

women next to them. Rhythm dominates the entire scene inside and outside of the

bars. The cheap dance halls nearby ring with Dixieland music. The shoe shine boys

sing mournful spirituals as they work on their customers. The negro women sing as

they work and play. Even the young hum as they dart between the passersby.

Last summer on one hot day I happened to be walking along Rampart Street, when

I heard a few rhythmic clicks as I passed a lone negro. I was curious and I happened

to look at the coloured man's face. He was jet black with a set of teeth that almost

shone as he smiled at me. I nearly stopped to talk with this friendly man but I was at

a loss for words. After I had walked a few more steps, I turned around and discovered

the origin of the mysterious clicking noise. It seemed that this man had steel taps on

the heels of his brown suede shoes, and as each one passed he could find rhythm in his

hollow footsteps. This negro was probably waiting to pick up his girl and in order to

pass time he clicked out in a more lively tempo the footsteps of the passerby. I will

always remember that incident, and, as I look back, that one man seemed to typify the

entire mode of life of South Rampart Street. He was easygoing, friendly, and most of

all, a man brimming with an intensity for rhythm. Rampart Street lived from day to

day with the songs and rhythmic beats of its negro population and with such an air

about it, South Rampart was entirely different from any other main street in America.

Stuart Bracken

10

PAMOLA'S BEARD

The following story was told to me around a campfire on Maine's tallest peak,Mt. Katahdin. The tale itself had as its setting this same Mt. Katahdin. The charactersinvolved were Roy Dudley, ex-forest ranger on the mountain and Pamola. Roy reallydid exist. He was killed only a few years ago in an accident. Pamola is likewise veryreal in the hearts and minds of all who have that wonderful gift, imagination. To theIndians of the terrain, Pamola was God, guardian, and demon of Katahdin, and eventoday no Indian will willingly venture near his cave. Pamola had the head and body ofa moose and the feet and tail of the devil. It was Pamela's job to roll the moon acrossthe Knife Edge of Katahdin each night. Roy and Pamola were bosom comrades whospent a good deal of time talking together. Pamola had one thing which he treasuredmore than anything else in the world, his beard. He used to sit at the mouth of hiscave on the side of the mountain and let his thirty feet of beard dangle over the boul-ders for all to see and admire. There he'd sit and comb his beard with a pine tree. Roywould sit on Pamela's lap and smoke his pipe while they talked. Pamola used to watchRoy as he blew great smoke rings and admire his pipe.

One day as Roy was going to town for provisions, he asked his friend if there wasanything that he could get for him. Pamola said there was. He wondered if Roy couldget him a pipe. Now getting a pipe large enough for his friend confronted Roy with a

problem at first, but he agreed to do his best. He went to the brewery and procured the

biggest barrel available. Then he bought twenty feet of steel pipe at the hardware store

and eighteen bails of hay for tobacco and returned to Katahdin. Roy fitted the stem to

the pipe and with much effort hauled it up to Pamola, who was delighted. Pamola filled

his new pipe, lit it, and leaned back against a rock, Roy climbed up on Pamela's knee

and lit his own pipe.

It wasn't long before billows of smoke came issuing from Pamela's pipe, and heseemed to be enjoying it immensely. Then something happened. A big spark from

Pamela's pipe landed on his beard and caught fire. With one tremendous leap he landed

in Chimney Pond, a quarter of a mile away where he sat with the burnt stub of his

beard hissing in the water. Roy picked himself up and hurried to his friend's side, but

it was too late, the beard was gone. Pamola was so ashamed to show himself without his

beard, that he hid away in his cave, and no matter what Roy said he wouldn't come out.Night was drawing nigh and it was almost time for Pamola to roll the moon

{Continued on page 15}

11

"SNAKE STORY'One bright summer afternoon I decided to do the chores around the farm. I saved

for last the chore of gathering the eggs because of the enjoyment I got from annoy-ing the chickens.

When my other jobs had been completed, I began to make my way through thevegetable garden to the hen house. I spoke casually, in my carefree manner, to the sowand her litter as I passed them. I also struck up a conversation with my pony, who waspasturing in the green meadow.

After I had entered the chicken house, I, carefully following detailed instructions,locked the door behind me so the fifteen or twenty chickens of my grandfather's wouldnot escape into the garden. There were about ten nests, each fully supplied with a bedof straw. Hampered by my size, I was unable to see into the nests; but I could reach inthem and search for the eggs with my hands. I had gathered eight eggs when I came tothe last nest. In hopes of reaching a goal of ten eggs, I eagerly poked my hands into thenest. I felt something which I could not remember having felt before. My curiosity wasaroused, and I placed a crate beneath the nest so that I might be able to observe thisstrange thing. Finally, having gained a place of observation, I saw that it was a snake!Before I could realize what I was doing, I found myself at the door, fumbling withthe lock. It seemed like eternity before I was on my way to the house. I even disre-garded the customary talk with my animal friends.

Having entered the house, I quickly sought my grandmother and blurted the storyout to her. After she gave me consolation, she suggested that we return to the henhouse to see what the snake was doing. Thoughts of the chickens engaged in a fiercebattle with the snake flashed through my mind. Before starting the return journey, Imade diligent plans concerning our approach to the .scene and also armed myself witha "high-powered" water pistol and a "BB" gun. The attack was on.

I was greatly bothered by my grandmother's approach to the battle ground, as Ihad planned a different course. When we came in sight of the hen house, a suddenrealization came over me that I had left the hen house door open and that the chickenswere in Grandfather's garden.

As Grandmother entered the house, I dauntlessly clutched her apron in my hand.Silently and with a bit of reverence, I pointed out the nest. Grandmother casually walkedover to it and looked for the snake. Search as she would, she could not find any snakeor any sign of one. Dejected and with a sigh of relief, I begain to pick up the eggs thathad not broken in my rush to the door, while Grandmother began to herd the chickensback in from the garden.

/. Caleb Boggs

12

"I'LL GET THAT 'COON YET'Sometimes I think my younger brother, Randy, is the most patient and hopeful

little fellow in the world. Not long after school opened this fall Randy decided that

he would like to have a 'coonskin cap with a long tail hanging down the back. My

father told him the only way he could get a raccoon was to catch one. As a consequence,

Randy received a few small steel traps for his birthday and soon learned how to set

them, though he was so small he usually had to jump on the traps in order to do it.

It wasn't long before he had them all set up and down the bank of a small stream

which flows through a valley about a half mile from our house, and in no time he

learned to place them inconspicuously near the watering holes and burrows of small

animals. Randy got up faithfully every morning at six o'clock and went out with his

dog, Eight Ball, to inspect the traps. The first thing he caught was a rabbit very much

alive and kicking, which he lugged home and presented to my father; Randy was

extremely disgusted with the whole affair because he wanted a 'coon, not a rabbit.

Since that first day Randy has brought home many species of wild life, which range

in variety from the neighbor's ducks to opossums, and one time he even caught Eight

Ball!

As the Winter wore on, the days became colder and shorter, but Randy was always

up and out to look at those traps even though it was so dark he had to use a flashlight.

He has not caught a 'coon yet, but he is still trying. In every letter that I get from homethere is always some comment on Randy's trapping exploits. I don't know how long he

will keep it up—that is, how long after he catches his first 'coon.

Mac Hickin

13

TODD'S WHARF

These rotten, moss-covered pilings,Lairs for catfish and eels,These sun-bleached cross ties,Honeycombed with insect dwellings,These mementos of bygone days,Roosts for herons and kingfishers, now,They have stories to tell...

They could speak of Colonial brigs,Of fast clipper ships,Of British gunboats,Of low, freight-carrying side-wheelers,

And of gaily adorned show boats.

They could speak of gentlemen in cutaways,And their hoop-skirted ladies,Of straw hatted farm boys,Guiding crab lines with their toes,Of half naked blacks,

Laughing and dancingBy the bales of cotton and tobacco.

Now the grimy oil bargesAnd the dusty, diesel powered fertilizer carriersParade by, unnoticing,Their wakes insolently lashing the pilings,Disturbing only the turtles basking in the mid-day sun.The only boat that ever stops nowIs the old flivver launch ofThe local fisherman who seins for shad and herringIn the spring and fall.

But these rotten pilings, they have stories to tell . . .Roger Redden

14

PAMOLA'S BEARD (Continued from page 11}

across the Knife Edge. Roy pleaded with him and told him that the moon would bestuck if he didn't roll it across, but Pamela wouldn't budge.

The night passed and the moon remained stuck on the Knife Edge. A month passed,then two, but still the moon remained unmoved. All this time Pamola sat in his cavebrooding over his loss, but slowly his beard grew back. By the time winter had set in,his beard was fully restored, and again Pamola ventured from his cave.

One night as he sat watching the mountain, Roy called up to him and said that he'dbetter start the moon rolling again. After having been at leisure for so long Pamolahad stored up a lot of excess strength. With a mighty push he sent the moon whizzingaround the world, and had he not slowed it down on its tenth time around, the moonmight still be going at break-neck speed.

Walter Fielding

INNOCENT

Doors surrender to a rampant flood of eyesand a raging sea of hungry crieseager to watch Law irrefutably debasethis mannequin in mock disgraceand weave the insidious warp and woofof its blind and obdurate proof.

»

Eyes that were kindly,Voices that were friendlynow hold only a justice flameand a insatiable blame.Eyes that were people, now only eyes;Cries that were friends, now only cries;for the deed that was imputedcould not be refuted:and condemned for an imaginary sin,off goes this sad little mannequin.

David Harned

15

ABOUT OUR CONTRIBUTORSJAMES ZUILL, a native Bermudian, leaves St. Andrew's this year forHarvard. He serves currently as chairman of the Debating Society, inwhich capacity he has apparently gained the dispassionate attitudes thathe brings to bear in this Andrean on the stormy Dr. Gordon problem.

HALL DOWNES, a fifth former, is president of the Science Club. Al-though he has explored at considerable hazard the ancient mill at the endof the lake, his chief interest in Noxentown Pond appears to be the biolo-gist's fascination with the infinite variety of parasites that inhabit theviscera of the pond's frogs.

STUART BRACKEN, who graduates this year, is a varsity oarsman. Theexperiences that enabled him to write "South Rampart Street" were gath-ered last summer during his employment in the oil fields of Louisiana.

TOM PATTON, a fifth former, varies literary activities with duty as avarsity baseball player. In addition to contributing to The Andrean, heedits the current yearbook. Two years as a member of the wrestling squadhave given him the insight necessary to write "Weighing-In."

WALTER FIELDING, although only in the fourth form, is already an oldcontributor to The Andrean, That his current tall tale of the Maine woodsinvolves a standing still of a celestial body is not to be taken as an indica-tion that the editors are attempting to corroborate Dr. ImmanuelVelikovsky's theories.

CALEB BOGGS, another fourth form contributor, in this issue helps todispel the popular notion that the Delaware scene provides no literaryraw material.

MAC HICKIN, who also represents fourth .form literary talent, is pres-ently serving as form president. His tenacious younger brother, portrayedin this issue, exists in fact as well as fiction.

DAVID HARNED, a sixth form stalwart of publications, has served aseditor of the Cardinal and The Criss Cross and as an associate-editor ofThe Andrean. A fiction contributor last year, he turns now to poetry in"Innocent."

ROGER REDDEN turns from editorial chores to a poem in which heeulogizes a section of the country with which his name is occasionallyassociated—the Eastern Shore of Maryland.

DICK LEONARD, captain of crew, follows the tradition of succinctutterance set by former Baltimore contributors in his short poem,"Autumn."

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