And the Lord Said, ‘Let There
Be Firmament’ - Green Pastures
The return to McArthur court of spectacle plays pro
duced by the University theater is a welcome addition to
the theater season. The April 19 performance'of Marc
.Connelly’s “The Green Pastures,” under the direction of
-Horace W. Robinson, was a good experience for both the
audience, which appealed to appreciate the play, and the
•players, who benefited immeasurably by having the op
portunity of wor king in a play .of such mammoth propor
tions.
Much credit for a successful evening goes to the
Eugene high school a cappella choir under the direction of
Glenn Griffith. Spirituals were sung witli the precision of
a small group. The choir was especially useful in bridging
the darkness between the 18 scenes .
The attention to subtleties by the director was notice
.a'ole in several places, as the meeting of Adam and Eve.
Other fine scenes were the Pharoah’s court, “de Lawd’s”
renunciation of Israel, the ascension of Moses, Hezdrel’s
defense of the temple, and “de Lawd’s’’ debate with him
self about going back to visit the earth after renouncing
the chosen people.
The production was burdened with a slow pace, which
.would have been avoided to some extent if the actors
had picked up their cues quicker. Dramatic pauses some
times were unduly long.
The play lost some of its identity with the Negro and
seemed almost to be a story of poor Southern whites.
This was due to several reasons. Makeup appeai'ed so pale
in many cases that faces looked white. Lights drained
much of the color from the performers.
These shortcomings detracted but little from the total
production, however, which was excellent. The fact that
such an ambitious presentation was given at all is a
tribute to Horace VV. Robinson and his staff and students
o', the University theater. It is a very healthy sign when
. a group of this type is not content to be bound by the
many handicaps under which they work daily.
Additional praise is due the technical staff under
-Edwin L. Clark who constructed sets several blocks from
the stage and had to finish their work in a short space of
t me due to the need to use the court for other purposes
previous to the performance.—LeJeune W. Griffith.
Adhering to the generally accepted theory that the
arts reflect the times in which they appear and flourish,
many regard contemporary music as a vivid expression of
the ugly and chaotic elements in our lives today. This is
necessarily true, in part. But these people are ignoring
n:i equally, if not more important fact: this music is ex
pressive of man’s desire and seeking for a nobler, richer
life.
The Festival of Contemporary Music which will take
place at the University of Oregon in May is the first
event of its kind ever to be presented on this campus.
Modern music of the calibre of that which comprises this
festival is not heard often. It is to some extent in the
Fast, but then it is done chiefly in those universities that
are willing to meet the challenge of presenting this music
which ns yet boasts very little popular enthusiasm. Com
ic M'cial sponsors will not run the risk of using it for
their programs because the great majority of people do
i; t have sufficient understanding- to appreciate modern
■music. So the task and the opportunity of performing
c nteniporary music falls to the schools and universities.
Dr. Theodore Kratt, dean of the music school, has been
ci nsidering a festival such as this for several years. Last
■summer it was decided that it would take place this
soring; a committee was formed, headed by Dr. Arnold
F ston, to plan lor it. The purpose in having the festival
w is to achieve three ends, mainly.
The first was to present lesser known contemporary
music that is deserving of attention but that has not been
given sufficient hearings to establish its recognition in the
world of music.
The second purpose was to have the program repre
ss nt an over-all picture of modern music in its versatility
as shown by the contrasting styles of the compositions
included, and the various media of presentation, such as
choral works, songs, small ensemble works, band and
orchestra numbers.
The third purpose was to benefit the students, and
through them to further the development and continua
tion of modern music and its study.
it had been the original plan to present only American
music, but wise consideration on the part of the commit
tv led to the conclusion that that would make the festival
nationalistic in tone, whereas cultural affairs, to be most
beneficial, should be international in scope. Such com
pi sors as Bartok, Hindemith, and Stravinsky who have
Children of Cain . . .
Norman Weekly as Cain the Sixth and Marie
Di Loreto as Zeba from “The Green Pastures.”
A Study in Light face♦. ♦
Howdy, Stranger
Bill Hemingbeck has just written a book which is
destined to be the great American novel. It concerns the
life of honest, trusting country folk. Its title is “Howdy
Stranger,” and the plot goes something like this:
One lovely September evening, Jud Thizzle stood look
ing at the sunset over an acre of alfalfa, when a stranger
came walking up the dusty road. “Howdy, stranger,” said
Jud.
“Howdy,” said the stranger.
“Anything I can do fer ya stranger?”
“Yew could put me up for the night.”
The stranger stayed for a month. At the end of that
time, Jud’s girl was forced to leave town, for personal
reasons. Jud asked the stranger if he knew anything
about it. The stranger said no. Jud noticed he was wear
ing a lock of his girl’s hair.
The stranger stayed another month. At the end of that
time, Jud found his father dead in the stable, with a
pitchfork stuck through his heart. Jud asked the stranger
if he knew anything about it. The stranger said no. Jud
noticed he was wearing his father’s Elk tooth.
The stranger stayed another month. At the end of
that time, Jud and the stranger were eating supper alone.
(Jud’s mother had died mysteriously). Someone slurped
their soup. Jud asked the stranger if he knew anything
about it. The stranger said no.
"I know you are being,” said Jud. "I must ask you to
leave.”
The stranger left, taking the silverware with him.
One cold January evening, a month later, Jud Thizzle
stood looking at the sunset, over a field of wilted alfalfa,
when a strangercame walking up the dusty road'.
“Howdy, stranger, said Jud.
“Howdy," said the stranger.
"Anything I can do fer ya?”
“Yew could put me up fer the night.”
“Yew bet,” said Jud. “Strangers are always welcome
here." Warren Collier.
come to this country and contributed to its culture, are
rightfully represented in a festival like this.
The festival has many extremely interesting aspects.
One is the manner in which the music to be performed
was chosen: the committee wrote to composers and pub
lishers, asking them to submit works and manuscripts.
From the music submitted, that to be presented in the
festival was chosen. The result of the choices is that quite
an accurate cross-section of American music is repre
sented: both young composers like Bernstein, Fine, Kubic,
and Barber are programmed, as well as older men such
as Piston, Thompson, and Copland. Included are several
works that are yet unpublished, and which will be per
formed from the manuscripts.
Mary Margaret Dundore.
III Cl U AIM’A R EXT
i (ontiiiiietl from f'tii/e three)
it had been last night, resplendent in its coat of varnish.
He pictured it chalky, lustreless, filmed with a coating of
Essay on Essay
I am the part of you that thinks . . .
I am your voice . . .
Though dressed with a villainous name T
I am the music melted
From waxen dreams
That weaves the magic of words.
Don’t try to define me for
Myriads of men have tried and failed . . .
And tried again, . . . only to fail again.
Critics fix on me a false form
By telling you what I am not:
“It is not poetry,” they say . . .
(And yet, I call with a cadence that sings.)
“This thing cannot be biography,”
(But in me burn the souls of the masters.)
“And who would link this with narration?”
(Why then are my tales on the tongues
Of all peoples ?) ’ 1
America, I am like you:
Explainable in freedom.
Free as the stars . . . perhaps freer,
For they must burn out their
Light years in orbits . . .
While I trip along trails *
Lost in sands of the mind.
I am the “open_sesame”
For your treasure-house of thought . . .
With you, hand in hand,
We plod through quagmires of
Philosophy and abstract meditation ...
Then again, without signal or sign
We may hitch-hike with clouds qf
Along vast, transparent highways of dreams.
Call me Abracadabra . . .
Or Will-o’-the-wisp . . .
Or anything meaningfully meaningless,
But I will not hear you;
I will be dancing at the tip of your pencil . . .
Or pushing from your typewriter ribbon . . .
Oh perhaps, sleeping in chapters
Of old books.
Am I singing a song without sense ?
Have I failed to cross your threshold.
With a light in my hand ?
Then listen:
Do you keep a diary ?
(I am what you have written there . . .)
Do you thrill with reading the “Gettysburg Address?”
(I sit couched with the heart of Lincoln*in those words.)
Do you marvel at the wisdom of Solomon ?
(My wings have brought you his song . . .)
Do you believe in your own immortality?
(I have told you all you will know of it.)
Search no more for me
Because you will be wasting precious moments . . .
But use me as often as you like
For I will always be waiting
Somewhere in the palm of your hand.
A. Vance Beckwith
fine dust- and with the window behind it standing wide
open. "t*
“The window,” Old August moaned, “How could I for
get the window!”
The traffic light flipped to green and the old cabinet
maker lurched across the street onto the opposite side
walk. His trot became an erratic gallop. He was still
wheezing to himself.
“You’ve got to be there first. If Roscoe sees that table
you lose everything you gained, August. How can the boy
have faith in . . . old fool who makes . . . same mistakes
he does?”
The door of the shop was locked. As Old August
fumbled with the key, rattling his lunchbox in agitation,
he felt a great burden of worry disintegrate and fall from
him. He was in time. He could' re-sand the table, tell
Roscoe that he had decided they Should use a different
varnish, and they could still finish it in time for Anna.
He flung the door open and furrowed anxiously
through the shavings, still breathing heavily. Then, in the
center o£ the floor, he stopped so quickly he dropped his
lunchbox with a clatter. The table stood, just as it had
last night, shiny and unmarred as new glass. Old August’s
unbelieving eyes slid to the window behind the table. It
was closed, tight.
“That boy,” the old man breathed, “that pojke . .
He was remembering how Roscoe had wandered back
by the window in the dark last night, just before they had
left the shop.
Then Old August walked over to the workbench, and
leaning against it he began to laugh. He was still laugh
ing when Roscoe arrived, ten minutes late.