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THE MAROON TIGER
pun, I wish to call it militant pacifism.
To conclude then the writer feels that farm
tenants both white and Negro must be able to
marshall the forces at their command with due
consideration for all concerned and drive out the
money grabbers making sure that the tables are
not only kicked over but rendered eternally use
less. Looking through the eye glass to a full life
here on earth. That they don’t have it now is an
accepted fact. But why ? How are they to get it ?
The writer is now in the midst of his last year
in college. After finishing high school the question
was whether or not he should attend college and
after some sober deliberation decided upon a col
lege career. He thought that college would help
to develop him into a well rounded man. Not simp
ly that he would aquire a wealth of book
knowledge, but that there might be some improve
ment upon his knowledge and appreciation of the
higher things. He wanted his life to become
broader so that he might develop a finer appreci
ation of himself, of things aesthetic, and certain
ly of his fellowman. He sought to acquire that
certain fineness essential to a well rounded man.
The writer holds the above to be about the
same causes which impel others to seek a college
education, and so it is that he cannot help but
view with alarm the growing tendency on the
part of Morehouse students, in assembly gather
ed, to “boo” speakers, keep up a continuous buzz
ing and at times to almost refuse cooperation of
any type with those in charge of chapel services. A
striking example of this tendency was shown a
few days ago during the music hour program
when the students treated the speaker so rudely
as to cause a certain professor to inquire as to the
causes thereof. Let us, as students, refrain from
such actions calculated to embarrass those in
charge and make our chapel services intelligent
ly appreciated.
MY PAL, CORRINE
By Velma N. King
My dearest girl pal has gone. Some where down
those vast, bright distances ahead, that tall, viva
cious figure goes trudging on.... with the
shadow erased forever from her laughing lips and
eager eyes.
Brave Corrine, whom I knew so long, yet knew
so little! Twenty-two years of life. .. .what a lot
she got out of it! What a lot she put in it! And
sleeping, already her brow lifted toward the next
adventure. God grant you get it, dear, endlessly,
joyously.
As for the child, it did not live. God beckoned
its tiny soul return to Him.
Corrine’s child. I can not even guess what bit
terness she must have felt when first life’s normal
processes took a new turn.... then that secret,
gnawing fear of one’s own cowardice that
restlessness. I knew it at once. Those desperate,
haunted eyes told me. That placid countenance
and dumb grief.
Corrine did not want a child. No unmarried girl
can use a child. It meant giving up her freedom.
There would be no more rides through the coun
try for us... . she at the wheel driving like mad,
and I shouting to her to go faster pass the
Buick. . . .dont let the Chevie by. . . .The dreary,
rainy afternoons that usually found us at the
movie munching peanuts and candies were all ov
er. Our heated discussions on marriage, religion,
bridge, fudge-making ended so abruptly! With
whom would I share my confidences now? To
whom would I send my best Christmas present?
Our similar party frocks-my-novels, her novels-
my-love-notes, her love notes. Life was glorious
to her and she made life glorious for me.
Was it Love that trapped Corrine? Perhaps it
was, but not that Christ-like partnership her
mother knew. Hers was the love of a glutton’s
snatch. It was the love of continuous sacrifice,
and she succumbed to the most dangerous of hu
man adventures.
How did she stand the pain? How do any of
them stand the pain? She would have no doctor,
and she never complained. There was no brooding
or instability, and she w r aived all excitement. I
often wondered if she did not become rebellious
and be tempted to vagrant impulses. I couldn’t
bear to think of it, yet she could bear to have it,
and there were other alternatives.
Few saw the babe. None wanted to. I didn’t.
They brought her body home on Saturday and
placed it in the back study-room. I went in all
alone. There she lay in the white dress she loved
best with the red rose at the throat. A little, teas
ing smile rested at the corner of her mouth. One
eyebrow was lifted triumphantly. That same face
fair and sweet, not sapped like a withered flower
on a broken stem.
Gone! So young! So soon! So unprepared!
Tears streamed down my face. “Corrine, I
whispered, are you glad its all over, pal?” An
answer came from somewhere. “Pal, my mistake is
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