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Vol. m September, 1951 No. 3 


Editorial Sister M. Dolorosa 

An Ocean Between Anne Wong 

Come Up a Little Higher, Friend Mary Walsh 


I, St. Ambrose Geraldine Biggs 

II, St. Augustine Mother Marie Magdaleen 

Abe Caufman, Rancher Sister Mary Jean 

Nukahiva Sister Mary Jean 

The Cerro Rico de Potosi Lea O'Donnell 

Preface Sister Patricia Margaret 

Name, Please? Anonymous 

Alumnae Echoes 

J. M. J. 


September 1951 marks the twenty-sixth anniversary of the opening 
of Mount St. Mary's and its twenty-first September on the Mount. The 
college has grown from its original combination of class rooms and 
residence hall to five buildings with Mary Chapel in their midst. The 
large waiting list of resident students is only one indication of the press- 
ing need for additional facilities. 

Our single, asphalted tennis and basket ball courts have multiplied, 
with a splendid swimming pool, as the physical education center. Our 
Mount denuded of much of its native flora, by ruthless bull-dozers which 
left us a shale strewn campus, has developed into a vivid flower garden, 
with trees and vines spreading their luxuriant verdancy every where. 

Three busses and a station wagon have succeeded our original 
twenty-five passenger bus, which, for day students who had not cars, 
offered transportation facilities. 

A spirit of loyal interest and cooperation has been welded in the 
hearts of our present students, of our alumnae, and of our faithful 
Mothers' Guild. For all these blessings we give thanks to God, His 
Mother, patroness ol the Mount, and to His Foster Father, patron of the 
Sisters of St. Joseph. 

With our Next number INTER NOS will be completing its third year 
of existence as a Quarterly periodical. It asks cooperation in the form 
of contributions from faculty members, alumnae, and students alike. Do 
not hesitate to send in articles; do not use the alibi, "I am not in 
'Creative Writing.' " INTER NOS may serve to disclose your latent 
talents, which else may perish, atrophied. 

A blessed and happy Scholastic Year to you all! 

Sister Dolorosa 

2 Inter Nos 

An Ocean Between 

By Anne Wong 

Under the June California sunshine, in the presence of dignitaries, 
families, and friends, I shall soon know the significance of a college 
graduation. The B. S. that is to follow my name will mean the cul- 
mination of four years transplanted from a peaceful Pacific island 
to a hilltop overlooking a vast city where the boundaries reach far 
beyond the focus of an eye. 

I have already begun to recall memories of my home in Hawaii, 
for it is there I must return when my college education has been 

The Hawaii I know is the w'orld of my childhood and of my youth 
— a land where one is born a Hawaiian and yet is not a native. Its 
people are genuinely American, governed by democratic precepts, 
and yet its culture, habits, and mode of life stem from ancient China 
and Japan, Portugal, the Philippines, and stately England. 

My father landed on Oahu from the Orient at the age of fifteen. 
My mother was born on the island. I grew up in an atmosphere in- 
fluenced by oriental culture, yet flavored with an appreciation of 
the many other cultures around me. My parents taught me their 
traditions concerning family life — I paid reverence to my grand- 
mother, honored by father and mother, and respected my older 
brothers and sisters. .-■..■ 

There were different-sounding names among my playmates — 
DeMello, Minami, Wong, Marks, Andrade, Candia, and Waters. Some 
had slant eyes, black hair and pug noses; others had fair skins, 
green eyes, and curly hair. Our similarity lay-only in the general 
use of a curious admixture of words and phrases of many languages 
which was known as "Pidgin English." Auxiliary verbs were in- 
variably lost, definite articles disregarded, inflections wrongly em- 
phasized, and questions asked in statements in a child's haste to 
know, "We going show today?" 

Rice was our main food at home, but mashed potatoes, poi, kim- 
chee, chorizes, fruit salads, and thick, well-done steaks appeared just 
as often on our dinner table. Easter Sunday brought gifts of hot 
freshly-baked Portuguese sweet bread from the neighbors, and 
whenever sushi was made next door, we were always certain to 
share a part of the tasty Japanese rice balls. A party was an oc- 
casion for festivity, and I found myself equally happy eating kalua 
pig at a luau, birds nest soup at a nine-course dinner, or ice cream 
and cake at a birthday celebration. 

There are Buddhist temples in Honolulu, where each year I 
stared curiously at the reverent-faced women bowing in adoration 

September 1951 «* 

before their idols. Some of these women were thought to possess 
a special power of healing, and I remember one who came to my 
bedside after I had nearly recovered from an illness and suddenly 
had fallen into a relapse. She sprinkled water about the room and 
then on me, in order to clean out the evil spirits. Perhaps she should 
have cast her sorcery upon the green mango I had unwittingly 
eaten that day! 

My mother made yearly visits to the Buddhist temple, and yet 
I was sent to a Catholic parochial school. With thoughts of St. 
Anthony's come a picture of a Maryknoll nun in steel-gray habit, 
trim, pbinted black veil, snugly fitting collar, and cape thrown 
across the shoulder on one side. Hers was a young face with friendly 
Irish eyes; I put my hand bashfully but easily into hers. 

One year after I began school, a new law was established concern- 
ing the age limit of school children. I was then too young for the 
first grade, and yet I had graduated with academic ceremony from 
kindergarten, the year before. It was a bewildered five-year-old that 
watched her friends file into the big building as she turned and 
trudged slowly back to the kindergarten cottage. 

Nine years followed at St. Anthony's with no more retarding. 
I learned to read, write, and pray; I learned American history, Ha- 
waiian history, and world history with only the normal amount 
of schblastic confusion. From the spirit of Maryknoll there was 
imparted to me a new friendliness for the missionaries, an admira- 
tion of their lives spent in strange surroundings, and even a love for 
the Irish, as was evident in our green and white uniforms and the 
paper shamrocks worn each year on St. Patrick's Day. 

My high school years were spent at Sacred Heart Academy, 
wearing the familiar blue serge pleated skirt, white middy blouse, 
and sailor tie. The traditional May procession, the living rosary, the 
symbolic virtues of Faith, Hope, and Charity, the resplendent Corpus 
Christi procession, and the replica grotto of Lourdes transformed 
the one block area of the academy into a miniature Europe where 
the traditions of old France were relived and reenacted under Ha- 
waiian skies. 

We paid tribute to Ma Mere on her feast day, as a tanned, black- 
haired first-grader placed a flower lei around her neck, curtsied and 
recited distinctly, "Une Heureuse Fete, Ma Mere." 

Celebrations were many on the island, for we shared each others 
customs. "May Day is Lei Day in Hawaii," and each year this was a 
special occasion to wear the floral wreaths. My mother favored us 
with a uniquely prepared dinner of delicacies on Chinese New Years, 
and my father helped us burn hundreds of firecrackers during the 
day. On the Fourth of July, we often joined the crowd that gathered 
at the beach to watch the glittering display of fireworks, sponsored 
annually by the city. 

4 Inter Nos 

I stood at attention whenever I sang "Hawaii Ponoi," and I was 
proud of my ancestry whenever I heard "Chi Lai." "The Star Span- 
gled Banner" made me grateful that I was truly a Chinese-Hawaiian- 
American. Perhaps I could also have included Irish and French! 

Hawaiian nights are meant for picnicking. The sand is soft and 
cool beneath your feet as you walk along the beach, and there is 
always a warm breeze that carries the smell of the ocean. The ruth- 
less waves of the sea break as they crash against the reef, and then 
swish peacefully into shore. The moon slides out from behind the 
clouds to point out the flash of a falling star, and suddenly you feel 
the joy of being alive. It's on nights such as these, over hot, glow- 
ing charcoals, that wieners taste best and roasted marshmallows 
are most delicious. 

In the summertime, mountain trails and valley streams lead hikers 
deep into green tropical forests, where primitive swimming pools 
are formed by the rocks of nature and filled by the steep plunge of 
the waterfalls. There the crisp, red mountain apples tantalize their 
pickers from thin, high trees along the streams, and small yellow 
rose apples hide behind leaves that hang far out of reach. 

I left my home one evening to come to the United States. There 
were many good-byes, thank yous, and I'11-be-sure-to-write prlomises. 
It seemed as though the whole airport was filled with just my 
friends, strumming ukelelis and wearing bright flower leis. They 
serenaded me with "Aloha Oe," and all of a sudden I didn't want 
to leave. 

The airplane that had been warming up suddenly roared, the 
loudspeaker blared out "all aboard," and the time had come. Three 
months past eighteen years old, inexperienced and suddenly afraid, 
I was about to begin a new adventure 2400 miles away. The fragrant 
odor of carnations and ginger and gardenias stifled me, and my 
stomach ached strangely. 

The world of my childhood and of my youth passed by as I boarded 
the huge four-engined Los Angeles-bound Constellation. 

Ten hours later, the plane circled high above an immense area of 
land, where tiny objects stretched out as far as the eye could reach. 
Seat belts were fastened, and slowly and steadily, we lost altitude as 
buildings and houses came into focus. The airfield lay just below 
us, and soon the big engine dropped its wheels and glided smoothly 
down the runway, coming to an easy stop in front of the airlines 

A sudden disappointment came over me as I stepped off the plane, 
for a sallow haze covered the sky, and in the faint sunlight, I 
squinted and my eyes began to water. This was the city of the 

In a matter of hours, my perspective had expanded many times, 

September 1951 5 

and for seventeen miles, I asked repeatedly, "Isn't this the town 
yet?" There were big six-lane highways, and I was accustomed to 
only four. In Honolulu, only a few buldings reached up to seven 
floors. The buildings I saw now were many times larger, and in- 
cluded fourteen floors. Automobiles whizzed by nonchalantly at 
fifty miles an hour, and I had boasted about my fast twenty-five 
miles an hour. 

I looked curiously at the street-car tracks, thinking, "My, what a 
backward city," for all the tracks in Honolulu had been removed 
many years before. My concern was for the people standing casu- 
ally in the middle of the street, and I wanted to tell them, "You'd 
better get out of the way or you'll get hit." Later I found out they 
were waiting for street cars and trolleys. 

That afternoon my head whirled as I tried to window-shop leisure- 
ly along Broadway St., but found my efforts in vain as the unassum- 
ing city crowd pushed me mercilessly in its pace. It was too much, 
too stimulating, and in a day I was worn out! 

The next week, I set out to discover life in a boarding school. The 
road leading to the college was steep, winding uphill and flexing 
right and left until one last abrupt grade br'ought in full view a lofty 
white tower modeled in graceful Spanish Renaissance architecture. 
It almost seemed like home, for there the sky was blue, and the sun 
on my back made me warm and complacent. The Pacific Ocean 
looked peaceful and endless in the distance, and the outline of an 
island in the far-off waters brought a refreshing nostalgia for the 
home I had left. 

This hilltop called "The Mount" has been the center of my four 
college years; here my life has been molded culturally, education- 
ally, socially, and spiritually. 

I have shared in a true brotherhood of man, for my associations 
include not only the cultures of the United States but also of Hun- 
gary, Japan, China, India, Ireland, South America, and Nigeria. I 
know also the meaning of Mexican and Negro, Italian and Jew. 

The friends I have found are true friends. Their homes have been 
mine; their joys have been my happiness, and their sorrows my sad- 
ness. There is a certain warmth when they shout a cheery "Hi 
Bimbo," and even "Hey Dummkopf" belies its intended esteem. 

A new tranquillity of heart has come to me within my college 
years, for I have realized the meaning of faith and become a part 
of that Faith which before was only a matter of curriculum to me. 
I know the joy of participating actively in the Holy Sacrifice, and 
for this I offer my daily thanks. 

The six buildings of the Mount are only few, yet each holds its 
wealth of significance. There is the residence hall, my home of four 
floors and seventy-five rooms, where the sound of gaity and laughter 

6 Inter Nos 

and youth is always present. The silence of the library provides 
many hours of enjoyment among the long, neat stacks which hold 
new and exiting adventures into the worlds of literature, science, 
music and art. 

I have spent many hours in the quiet of Mary Chapel, where from 
its high tower carillon bells chime the Angelus each day. Even the 
Sisters' convent is familiar to me, for it was only four years ago 
that I wandered unknowingly into the sacred cloister. 

My profession will take me again into the laboratory, but it will 
not hold the memories that have come with the first thrill of seeing 
life under a microscope, of distinguishing multicolored cells from 
one's own blood, and of watching the entrance of new life in the 
hatching of an incubated egg. 

There is refreshment in the peaceful solitude of nights. Only the 
deep hooting of the owl in the chapel tower and the distant howl of 
a coyote tell of activity on the mountainside. Sometimes the wind 
blows with an eerie wail, and at other times it cradles the soft 
branches of the tall eucalyptus trees. 

In the morning I awake with the whistling of the birds, and when 
the early sunlight streams through my window, there is no time to 
remain in bed. Soon the bulldozers begin to roar on the opposite 
hill, and another day has begun. 

Now that my college days are nearly ended, I stop to consider the 
things I have enjoyed that will no longer be part of my life when I 
leave Los Angeles. It will be strange not to be able to see a great 
opera when my earnest ambition is to hear the Metropolitan, which 
performances I have missed two years in succession. I will miss the 
excitement of seeing a ballet oniopening night, as when the Sadlers 
Welles left me breathless at the spectacle of beauty in synchroniza- 
tion; and I will miss hearing a great orchestra when many of my 
Friday afternoons have been spent at the Philharmonic. Stage plays 
and musicals have given me a love for the theater, and I will recall 
the suspense of "The Innocents" and the happy melodies of "South 
Pacific" and "Brigadoon." 

I have enjoyed many hours wandering through the great County 
Museum, and marveled at the exotic beauty of roses in bloom in 
Exposition Park. The giant telescope of the Griffith Park Observ- 
atory has brought me close to the moon and stars that I knew only 
from a far-away mountain top or a distant seashore. 

I remember the vacation trips — south to San Diego along the sce- 
nic California Coast Highway 101, and north to San Francisco 
through the precipitous Ridge Route and vast stretches of lonely 
farmlands. And I thrill again with the recollection of Arizona and 
the Grand Canyon — of a dream of travel realized in a first visit out 
of state. All the discomfort of nine hours of continuous travel 

September 1951 7 

vanshed, and it seemed as though a new world lay before me when 
I crossed the intangible boundary line from California into Arizona. 

I often wonder what it will be like when I am home again to stay. 
I have grown accustomed to many things that are too vivid to forget 
and too deeply -rooted to be uprooted. Four years are only few, and 
yet they have meant the formation of new ideas and ideals, likes and 
dislikes. They have produced a maturity more cosmopolitan, and a 
heart tempered by the activity of a continent that is immense and 
fiery and inviting. 

In a few months I shall return to the leisurely world of my child- 
hood and of my youth. I shall take with me the memories of a sec- 
ond world transplanted an ocean between, and indeed, it will be a 
third world that I shall be living in. 

"Come up a Little Higher, Friend" 

By Mary Walsh 

It was late Saturday afternoon and the shadows of evening were 
beginning to form, as Joe sat down to rest for a few minutes. It 
would soon be time to climb the winding stairs to ring the Angelus. 
Today Joe's back ached a little more than usual. Why couldn't he 
do as much, and work as hard as he had when he became janitor at 
St. Francis' more than twenty years ago? 

The beautiful Church of St. Francis was located in the best sec- 
tion of the city — best in the sense that it was a neighborhood of 
wealthy homes. The church, with its majestic spires and imported 
furnishings, was by far the m'ost elaborate in town, since it had been 
built by the generosity of its well-to-do parishioners. 

Joe, a short heavy-set Negro, was known as Jackson back in his 
Baptist days. But when Father Anthony baptized him, he took 
Joseph for his Christian name. 

As Joe watched the people, who had been to confession, leave the 
church, and saw their liveried chauffeurs helping them into their 
limousines, he thought how wonderful it must be to have money 
like they did, and be able to do so much good with it. There was 
Mr. Richards who had just given $5000 to enlarge St.. Anthony's 
shrine. And generous Mrs. Withers, a widow for fifteen years/ who 
was paying for the new gym for the school. When Mr. Potter's will 
was read last week, it was learned he had left $10,000 to the church. 

No, Joe wasn't envious of their riches. He didn't care if he had 
a dime in his pocket. It just seemed he didn't do anything for God 

8 Inter Nos 

like other people did. He was content if he had enough to eat each 
day and a place to sleep. These he had never been without since 
that day many years ago, when Providence had taken him to the 
rectory at St. Francis'. For months he had been unable to find work. 
Maybe the priests would give him a cup of coffee. Yes, he knew he 
was on the wrong side of the river, but he was desperate. 

Light-hearted Father Anthony had greeted him at the door, and 
before he left the rectory, Joe had been introduced to St. Francis of 
Assisi. That began Joe's conversion. Every day he came to work 
at the church and Father would spend a little time each afternoon 
telling him about how wonderful it was to be poor for the love of 
God. J'oe couldn't read or write, but he never tired listening to the 
monk's accounts of the poor little man of Assisi. At first it was hard 
to believe someone really cared enough to explain all these things 
to him. And to think someone could love to be poor! For the first 
time in his life Joe's heart was beginning to be at peace. 

The siren of a passing fire truck roused him from his reminiscing. 
As Joe started toward the church, he received a scornful look from 
a new comer in the parish, a Mr. Horton, who stood and stared at 
Joe as he entered the church. Joe didn't mind being stared at. He 
was used to that. Many times people had made remarks to him about 
being on the wrong side of town. Oh yes, they were good Catholics 
who made remarks and did the staring. But sometimes good Cath- 
olics forgot that Christ died for the Negro too. 

Having rung the Angelus, Joe slowly made his way down the 
stairs. As usual he stopped in for a few words with Our Lord before 
he started home. As he knelt there, in the dim light, he suddenly 
felt tired and old. He sort of dreaded the long walk home. 

"Thank you, Lord, for helping me today. I did my best to clean 
your house well, and I hope you are pleased. Good-by until to- 

As he stepped into the patio, Ioe heard Father Anthony call to 
him, "Joe, I don't know when I've seen the garden as beautiful. 
You've outdone yourself this year. Our Lady will certainly be pleased 
with those roses. They'll be blooming just in time for the May pro- 

In his simple way Joe explained how he pretended the church and 
grounds were the home of the Holy Family at Bethlehem and that 
he tried to keep things like They wbuld want them. 

"Goodnight, Father," he said as he started off. It was over four 
miles through town and across the river to Ioe's little shack. Throw- 
ing off his weariness, he walked along enjoying the sunset, as the 
pink and the orange clouds faded into the deeper hues of night. The 
cool evening breeze felt especially good. Joe hummed softly to him- 
self, and he felt at peace with the world. 

September 1951 9 

In the stillness of that night while Joe was sleeping, the Angel 
of Death came to conduct him to judgment. 

Oh, what grandeur and beauty as he passed the Gates of Heaven. 
In all his life Joe never imagined anything as wonderful. The judg- 
ment over, Joe was told he had merited Heaven and to find the 
place prepared for him. Such happiness filled his heart that he 
thought to himself, the lowest place here is too good for me. And as 
he headed in that direction, he heard a clear voice saying: 

"Come up a little higher, friend." 

As he followed his Guide, Joe noticed that he was passing up 
many souls. In fact he had just passed Mr. Potter. There must be 
some mistake. At last he said: "Pardon me, Lord, but isn't there some 
mistake. I didn't do anthing big in my life to deserve to be higher 
than these people." 

And the answer came: "Joe, it isn't the big things that deserve 
Heaven. Because you did all the little things well and for me, and 
because you had no hatred for those who mistreated you, yours is 
a greater reward." 

At last Joe knew the full meaning of Father Anthony's story of 
St. Francis. Such happiness! He settled himself in the place he 
would occupy for all eternity, while the beautiful words re-echoed 
in his heart: 

"Come up a little higher, friend." 


By Geraldine Biggs 

They say that the church laity of the United States is beginning 
to awaken at long last. We do not know how true this is in every 
church of our archdiocese of Los Angeles, but we do know that in 
some parishes a definite awakening is evident. What do we mean 
by the term "awakening?" It simply means that certain persons 
are no longer content to sit back in church and watch the rest of 
the parish go ahead With the ceremonies — answering the priest, 
singing the High Mass, or just following Mass with a missal. 

But this is not entirely a new event in the life of the church. 
During the centuries certain holy men have fought for the active 
participation of the laity in all the functions of Holy Mother the 

10 Inter Nos 

Church. Among these men was one Ambrose of Treves born around 
the year 335. 

It is said that when Ambrose was yet an infant, some bees settled 
in his mouth as if to gather honey there — a sign of his future great 
eloquence. This must not be taken seriously. It is a legend of Plato 
and others. 

When, in 374 Auxentius, bishop of Milan, died, Ambrose, then 
governor, was providentially chosen to succeed him as bishop. Some 
say it was through the voice of a child that this unexpected honor 
came to him, who was yet only a catachumen in the Church of 
God; but in any case it is clear that only a man specially gifted from 
Above could possibly have fulfilled the post so well. Yet we know 
that Ambrose tried in every way to avoid such a heavy responsibil- 
ity for which he was totally unprepared. He even protested to such 
a degree that he tried to ruin his own reputation. For example, we 
learn that he hired a woman of ill repute to enter his house in 
full view of the townspeople! But the people, knowing him for the 
honest and upright man he was, refused to be swayed from their 
opinion of him, as a worthy successor to the bishopric of Milan. And 
so, after seven or eight days of preparation, Ambrose was baptized 
and ordained. Then, after a further period of instruction, he was 
consecrated bishop. 

From the first moment of his great appointment, Ambrose was 
confronted with heretical doctrines. He therefore placed all his trust 
in a complete master of the scriptures. These he knew would be 
the main source of the truth contained in his famous orations 
against heresy. He quoted from the Bible profusely in a desire to 
impress upon his followers the beauty and truth of the life it en- 
visioned. His reliance on the scriptures afforded him much solace, 
no doubt, when he found it necessary to refute some heretical belief. 
For example, we see in his works a constant reference to certain 
scriptural passages which identify the soul of man as like to God. 
Most probably he was trying in this way to wipe out the Manichean 
heresy which taught its misguided believers that man was essen- 
tially evil. 

The bulk of Ambrose's teaching was oratorical, not written. As 
were the other great Latin fathers, he was primarily a preacher. 
We have various accounts of his splendid technique as a speaker. 
St. Augustine himself even went to Milan to hear the great bishop, 
(probably intending to compare him with Faustus), and came away 
most impressed. The seeds of doubt were already sown in Augustine 
and he had ceased to be a Manichee. After hearing Ambrose a few 
times he knew he had to change his way of life, and his beliefs. 

Ambrose showed also a fearless zeal when he braved the anger of 
the Empress Justina, by resisting her attempt to give one of the 
churches of Milan to the Arians. Again his steadfast adherence to 

September 1951 H 

the laws of the Church was manifetsed when he rebuked and led to 
penance the great Emperor Theodosius who had, in a moment of 
anger, cruelly punished an uprising of the inhabitants of Thes 

As a priest of God he was full of sympathy and charity, gentle and 
kind-hearted, yet inflexible in matters of principle. His great charac- 
ter is easily seen when we read of his comforting friendship with 
St. Monica whose sorrows he consoled. And then in 387 he had the 
great joy of finally admitting into the fold her son, St. Augustine, 
whose conversion one author has said, "was worth that of entire 

Aside from his work of preaching and counseling against the 
heretics St. Ambrose, when still a young man of about thirty-five 
years, had to fulfill the duties of a pastor. His flock was constantly 
being attacked by advocates of heretical theories, and, as a pastor, 
he ran into more than an average number of stumbling blocks. He 
realized that in order to keep his sheep from wandering he must 
make their part in their religion more attractive and more vital. He 
was not one who would only preach the laws of Holy Church and 
consider his pastoral obligations fulfilled; he believed in a strong, 
active lay participation in the liturgy — the practical parts of the 
Mass. And here we come to the whole point toward which we have 
been tending since the beginning of this paper. 

In his attitude towards lay participation in the Mass, St. Ambrose 
held the answer to many of our present day problems. His approach 
to the problem of the layman's passiveness at Church was perfectly 
practical. He was one of the first fathers of the Church to overrule 
the tendency of his time to regard to the singing of hymns in Church 
as a hangover from pagan times and practices. He even wrote verses 
for every great feast of the year, set them to music, and organized 
his diocese of Milan in such a way that congregational singing was 
the order of the day. We have stories telling how the saintly bishop 
strode up and down the aisle of the Church, beating time and sing- 
ing his hymns in a loud, clear voice, in order to teach his parishioners 
the correct way to assist at Mass. The popularity of these hymns 
was probably due to the fact that he avoided all strictly classical 
poetic forms, choosing a metre and language which ordinary people 
could understand and memorize easily. Yet in neither music nor 
text did Ambrose descend to the commonplace. The same may be 
said of all forms of pure chant. It is a song of the people at Mass — 
not a composition for the great artists of the concert stage. It is a 
song written for any and every voice, be it of man, woman, or child. 
That is the beauty of the chant, and St. Ambrose knew probably 
more than we moderns ever could how that beauty brings life to 
the parish church, whether the chant be Ambrosian or Gregorian. 

In 397, during the night of Saturday in holy week, Ambrose died, 

12 Inter Nos 

full of years and of honors, and is no w revered . by .the Church as 
one of her greatest doctors. ; ,, . ..,.,... 

"Behold a great priest, who in his days pleased God. There was 
not found the like to him, who kept the law of the most High." 

Gradual From The Mass of St. Ambrose. 

Brennan, Msgr. Robert E.; Pange Lingua^ Reflections on the Lit- 
urgy; The Tidings Press; Los Angeles; 1945. 

Lefebvre, Pom Caspar O.S.B.; St. Andrew Daily Missal; Abbey of 
St. Andre, Belgium; 1937. 

Lives of the Saints — 

Mannix, Sr. Mary Dolorosa, M.A.; . Sancti Ambrosii Oratio De 
Obitu Theodosii; Washington, D. C.; 1925. 


By Mother Marie Magdaleen '>.. 

Little did Monica suspect, on that November morning of the 
year 354-, that her first born child, whom she beheld with motherly 
pride, was to, be the son of deep sorrow and. many tears. Even less 
perhaps did she dream of her Augustine as the man whose name 
would stand out as the greatest of the Fathers of the. Latin Church, 
whose philosophical thought was to dominate the Western world 
for eight centuries, and whose genius, both as a philosopher; and 
as a theologian, would be admired throughout the world, until the 
end of time. Locked in the helplessness of infancy, were the God- 
given potentialities of a personality which might be compared to 
a many faceted jewel, each individual facet of which reflects rays 
of extraordinary brilliance. 

Augustine's interest in philosophy was awakened through the 
reading of Cicero's Hortensius. In it the author pointed out the 
superior value of the things of the mind over those of the body. 
Until then, the nineteen year old rhetorician had been interested 
chiefly in question of form and of elegance in speech, but with the 
reading of Hortensius, his mind was turned to the quest of truth, 
and it was this search for truth that marked the first step along the 
road which would finally bring him to the ultimate source of truth: 
God. Before reaching that end, however, Augustine walked many 
paths, which only drew him further away from that which he so 
earnestly sought. 

The teaching of the Manicheans seemed to offer a rational presen- 

September 1951 13 

tation of truth, in distinction from the doctrines of Christianity, 
which appeared to Augustine in many points, illogical, and even 
barbaric. His mind was unable to explain, the contradiction of a 
good God, Creator of the whole world on the one hand, and the exis- 
tence of evil and suffering on the other. Moreover, he could not con- 
ceive how there could be an immaterial reality, imperceptible to 
the senses. The Manichaeans seemed to; solve this problem in advo- 
cating a totally materialistic system, and in maintaining a dualistic 
theory, according to which there are two ultimate principles, a good 
principle, that of light, and a bad principle, that of darkness. These 
were two coeternal causes, always fighting each other for suprem- 
acy. The good things in the universe were the work of the principle 
of light, while all bad things resulted from the action of the prin- 
ciples, of darkness. This explained the life long strife in man, since 
the soul was composed of light and the body was the work of the 
evil principle. This system together with materialism appealed to 
Augustine, and instead of seeking philosophic wisdom in the writ- 
ing of the Greek and Latin philosphers, he hopefully turned to the 
teaching of Manichaeism. Conscious of his own passions and sen- 
sual desires, to which his will yielded time after time, he felt that 
he could now attribute them to an evil cause outside himself. Thus 
the Manichaean theories detached Augustine both morally and intel- 
lectually from the faith and rules of conduct of Christianity, which 
his holy mother had so earnestly impressed upon him in his child- 

Soon Augustine found out that the new religion which he had 
embraced did not satisfy him. He was troubled with difficulties 
which the Manichaeans could not answer, and when Faustus, a 
noted Manichaean Bishop, could not give him the intellectual 
satisfaction he sought, he was sorely disappointed, and his faith in 
Manichaeism was shaken. In his dispair he turned to the sieptic- 
ism of the New Academy. This system held that no-one could know 
anything with absolute certitude. This attitude recommended itself 
to Augustine, now that his belief in the Manichaean doctrines was 
destroyed. For practical reasons he remained a Manichaean nomin- 
ally, and still adhered to the materialistic theory, but he followed 
the Academics in their suspense of judgment, and their refusal' to 
assent to anything as absolutely true. Probably this period of skep- 
ticism did not last very long, since in the Confessions Augustine's 
references to it are very brief, he simply mentions the fact that 
he was attracted by skepticism for a time. 

It was then that he became acquainted with certain Latin trans- 
lations of Platonic works, probably some of the Enneads of Plo- 
tinus. In these Augustine met a radically different type of philosphy, 
totally opposed to the Manichaean materialism. Following Plato, 
Plotinus made a distinction between the world known to the senses, 
and the other which is known to the intellect. He held that the in- 
telligible world was the better and the more real. For him the prin- 

14 Inter Nos 

ciple object of knowledge was his own mind and the things which 
it contained. He tried also, to go above his own soul and find the 
One Great Reality upon which his mind depended for truth. Thus 
Neo-Platonism showed the way to God through the soul. This phil- 
osophy had a deep influence upon Augustine. In his Confessions, 
he acknowledges in regard to this: "Having read these books of the 
Platonists, and been advised therein to seek for incorporeal truth, 
I came to see intellectually Thy invisible things, through these 
things which are made." The reading of the Platonic works was an 
instrument in the intellectual conversion of Augustine, while his 
moral conversion was prepared by the sermons of Ambrose, which 
he attended first from mere curiosity and then from love of Am- 
brose's gift of oratory. He became interested in the Scriptures, the 
spiritual meaning of which he began to grasp, and he saw that 
there might be something good in Catholicism. With the aid of Neo- 
Platonism he also found a solution to the problem of evil. Plotinus 
simply suggested that evil was not a substance, but a non-being, 
a lack of absolute goodness, necessarily present in an imperfect 
world. In the New Testament Augustine found the same spiritual 
wisdom as in Plotinus, but in a greater degree. He came to under- 
stand that it is not enough to know truth in order to be wise, but 
that one has to live in conformity with that truth. That was a hard 
struggle for the passionate Augustine, but he was not used to doing 
things by halves, and under the impulse of grace, he gave a real 
assent to the words of Saint Paul, and was converted to Catholicism 
in the summer of 386. 

After this intellectual conversion followed a period of retirement 
and preparation for his baptism. A period also of philosophical dis- 
cussion and writing. It is remarkable, how almost all of Augustine's 
works, and they are ninety-three in number, date from the time 
after his conversion. Then his mind, finally illumined by the light 
of unchangeable truth, was ready to give to the world those treas- 
ures of thought which would serve as a guide of conduct, and as a 
shield against error in the centuries to come. "Contra Academicos," 
"De Beata Vita," "De Ordine," and the "Soliloquia" date from this 
period at Cassiciacum. Returning to Milan, Augustine wrote "De 
Immortalitate Animae." It is quite natural that in these works, 
Augustine manifested his affectionate attachment to Neo-Platon- 
ism, since it played such an important role in his conversion. Al- 
though Platonism permeates all of Augustine's early works, it must 
be noted that he does not make it a criterion to which Christian 
revelation is made to conform, but on thecontrary, Christian revela- 
tion is made the criterion for Neo-Platonism. In book III, chapter 20 
of his Confessions, Saint Augustine says: A two fold force impels 
us toward knowledge — the force of authority and the force of reason. 
In regard to Faith I am resolved never to deviate from the author- 
ity of Christ, for I find none more powerful. Meanwhile I am con- 
fident that I shall find among the Platonists what is not in opposi- 

September 1951 15 

tion to our Sacred Scriptures." Augustine was no exception in his 
predilection for Platonism: Plato was the favorite philosopher of 
almost all Christian thinkers of his day. Moreover, Augustine re- 
jected the Platonic practice of pagan and polytheistic worship, the 
belief in the pre-existence of souls, the theory of metempsychosis and 
the theory that the body is the prison for the punishment of the 
soul. He says that he first wrote "Contra Academicos," "for their 
arguments used to disquiet me." In his Retractions, he admits: "I 
was displeased by the praise with which I extolled Plato and Pla- 
tonic or Academic philosophy, far more than was fitting for irreli- 
gious men, for it is against their gross errors that Christian teach- 
ing must be especially defended. 

After his baptism Augustine wrote many treaties in defense of 
Christianity against the errors of the Donatists, the Manichaeans 
and the Pelagians. Important works of this period are: Contra Adi- 
mantum Manichaeum,, De Trinitate, Contra Cresconium gramma- 
ticum partis Donati, De Civitate Dei, and many others. In all of these 
works Saint Augustine does not play two parts, the part of the 
theologian and the part of philosopher who considers only the 
natural man, but he thought of man as the fallen and redeemed 
creature, who is able to attain truth, but who constantly needs 
God's grace in order to appropriate the truth that saves. Augus- 
tine wholly centers his idea of wisdom on the wisdom "par ex- 
cellence" — infused wisdom. In philosophy one should begin with 
faith, says Saint Augustine. "If you cannot understand, believe in 
order that you may understand." "The natural order is that author- 
ity should precede reason when we wish to learn anything." 

Although Augustine never sat down to develop an organized 
system of philosophy, as Saint Thomas did, we can nevertheless 
gather from his works an idea of his teachings on various topics 
which are the subjects of philosophical discussion. 

Saint Augustine holds that we gain knowledge of truths which 
are necessary, immutable and eternal, not from sense-experience, 
nor from our own minds, but that we are able to perceive such 
truths under the action of the Being who alone is necessary, change- 
less and eternal, God. Knowledge of God lends an illumination to 
the mind which makes it understand the creatures of God which our 
senses make known to us, since God contains in Himself the eternal 
models and patterns of all created things. He says that knowledge 
is an essential part of wisdom and therefore also of happiness. 
Against the skeptics Saint Augustine asserts that we can aquire 
certitude about certain things, he insists that the senses are reli- 
able, and that neither knowledge that we get from the senses, nor 
that which we acquire through reacon should be doubted. He shows 
the absurdity of skepticism in saying that everyone who recognizes 
that he is doubting, recognizes a truth which holds for certain, and 
this contradicts his own skeptical attitude. 

16 Inter Nos 

The existence of God is proven by Augustine from. the fact that 
the world is not in itself a reason for its existence, consequently 
there. must be a necessary immutable cause. He also speaks about 
the attributes of God, proving that God is one, all-perfect, infinite, 
eternal, simple. It is His infinite goodness, and not necessity that 
moved God to create the world. 

Concerning the human soul, he says that it is an immaterial prin- 
ciple, a substance in its own right, and not an emanation of the 
divine substance. The immateriality and substantiality of the soul, 
also assures its immortability. Moreover, the soul apprehends in- 
destructible truth, therefore it must itself be indestructible. The 
desire for perfect happiness, realizable only when loss of the per- 
fect good is. excluded, is another proof for the immortality of the 
soul. As to its origin, Augustine was never sure. He clearly held 
that the soul is created by God, but he did not know whether God 
creates each individual soul separately or created all souls in Adam's, 
so that they are inherited from the parents. 

Against the dualistic theory of the Manichaeans, he insisted that 
evil is not a positive being, but is the abuse of the free will of man. 
God does not cause, but only permits evil. 

In his moral theory Augustine asserts that the end of human con- 
duct is happiness. This happiness is not fully realizable in this 
world, since it consists in the possession of God both by the intellect 
through knowledge, and by the will through love. To reach this 
end of perfect happiness, man needs the divine help of grace, since 
with his own strength he is unable to love God. 

Although Saint Augustine's teachings are not completely free 
from error, due to his Platonic training, he is nevertheless the out- 
standing philosopher of the Patristic age. It may be said that he 
shifted, singlehanded, the intellectual center of gravity of the world; 
from. East . to West. Saint Thomas himself constantly used the 
authority of Saint Augustine in proving his arguments, and even 
in our own times Augustinian tradition still exercises its influence 
upon philosophical thought. 

September 1951 17 


By Sister Mai*y Jean, C.S.J., His Niece 

Abe Caufman was a silent man, 

Of silence born of solitary nights, 

Watching troubled herds, 

And riding, lonely, through the days. 

Of silence held when: breath was needed 

For stronger things than words. 

Deep set within his ■ countenance 

St em- featured, weathered, 

One met his eyes, surprised 

That eyes so fair a blue ....-.-. 

Should have found shelter there. ■ 
Abe Caufman's eyes were blue, 
Honest with the clarity of skies 
Unchallenged by the shafts of men 
Or by the haze of- crowded living. 
One could not escape his eyes. ■ ■■ 

His knowledge came the way ... < 

Of men who live ■■-, 

In close commune with nature, 

Whose unschooled minds 

Can solve and judge ■ , 

Beyond the learned document 

Or polished word. 
Abe Caufman was a man of intuition 
Who had grasped the ken 
Of Indian lore, and knew without the telling 
Place and time, and habitats 
Of beasts, and ways of men. 

Yet for being brusque, out-spoken 

Steeled to hide emotion,: ••* ,-..••■■ 

His was a kindness, a v ■ ,- - , 

Giving where- a need existed, 

A sincerity that , bridged ..■••■ 

The chasm of conventualities. 
As in his life, Abe Caufman's heart 
Had borne the brand of pioneer, of rancher,- 
And had followed rutted tracks, back into pines 
And to a pine-log cabin, ; . • - 
So in death, his ashes blow where once 
His feet, in ownership, had trod. 

He was unlettered in the ways of his Creator, 

And if his lips formed prayers, 

They sprang only from an innate sense 

18 Inter Nos 

That marks man but a creature 

Yet who can judge the tenor of a soul 

That grew unguided and apart from mission paths. 

He was a good man, just, 

And when he strode into eternity, 

Abe Caufman must have been 

Welcomed by his God. 


By Sister Mary Jean, C.S.J. 

Softly sleeps the summer morning, 
Burnished waters, slumbering lay 
In the silent cove beside the 
Sunny huts of Tai-O-Hae. 

High upon the hills abruptly 
Rising straight from out the sea, 
Lean the slender palm trees growing 
In a mass of greenery. 

Bashful streams in shy concealment 
Fleck the jaded mountain slopes. 
Sacred white bulls grazing by them 
Strain upon their pagan ropes. 

Tabernacled in the jungle 
Shade, the wee, white chapel lay, 
Where for half a century 
Brown-skinned men Jiave knelt to pray. 

Crumbling altars mingle into 
Dusky sands along the shore, 
Sands of sacrifice still blushing 
With the human blood they wore. 

Slim canoes of Nukahiva 
Glide about the tiny bay. 
Shark-infested waters lap the 
Sleepy shores of Tai-O-Hae. 

September 1951 19 

The Cerro Rico de Potosi 

By Lea O'Donnell 

On a Sunday morning in early spring I saw Potosi for the first 
time. Mother, Dad, and I walked to Mass over the quaint cobble- 
stone streets, too narrow for a car, but wide enough for the llamas 
with their packs. We saw no lawns or front yards, but only rows of 
white, green, yellow, pink, and blue houses rising from the curb- 

Ahead of us stood the miraculous Cathedral of Saint Marguerite. 

"Dad, why do they call this Cathedral 'miraculous'?" 

"Over a hundred years ago this town had a great flood which 
nearly destroyed it. As the waters rushed toward the Cathedral, they 
divided and passed by it leaving it untouched. The people here have 
a great reverence for the Cathedral and Saint Marguerite." 

'Those walls look as if centuries have battered them through. 
History peeks out from every corner of this old building." 

The great wooden door creaked as I grasped the ring to open it. 
We tip-toed down the aisle to the few pews reserved for the mana- 
gers and company people. I was afraid at any moment that we 
would all fall through the old wood floor. 

I could not keep my mind at attention during Mass. The "chola" 
across the aisle from me was having troubles with her curious niiia. 
The child with black pigtails whispered to her mother in Quichua 
about the pretty paper flowers in their miscellaneous bottles. She 
reached her dark little finger toward them. Above her the sun 
streamed in on the dying Christ. His spotless, white garment of 
linen and lace softened the cold wood. "Ite, Missa est." 

After Mass, we left the Cathedral and came out into a glory of 
color — the Indian women swishing along in azure blues and vibrant 
yellows, the men sauntering after in their gay red ponchos, and 
the children tangling in masses of pink and green. 

"The natives here as in other Spanish colonies of long ago have 
suffered a good deal. The struggle between the noble Spaniard and 
the ignoble Indian made the "Cerro" a hill of riches and blood." 
Dad's high forehead wrinkled as he mused, a thing he often did. 

"What's the matter Dad? Afraid the people will rise up again?" 

"No, Anne, I just wonder how I can help them. Why should 
they be the under-dogs all the time? Poor devils! I talked with 
Sister Bernardine and after I get acquainted with the mine, I'm 
going to have her take a look. A school and orphan's home and 
maybe even a small hospital would be a big improvement." 

20 Inter Nos 

Mother interrupted, "John, what are you going to do about a 

"I don't know, dear, why?" 

"Well, if one doesn't come soon, I'll have to take over the duties. 
Who will take care of the house? I don't know the servants, and 
you never can tell about them!" 

"I will take over, Mother. You can help when I get stuck." 
'Anne, you know nothing about a house and its management, 
much less the "gerencia," but I guess you will have to do." 

We came back to the house and had lunch. After that, Dad and 
I played a round of golf, about the only relaxing thing to do in Po- 
tosi. What a course! Eighteen holes of rock dunes and pebbles. My 
driver was a mass of chips and scratches after one round. 

The members of the Club were very interesting — Dr. Max from 
Zurich, Ramos do Santos from Argentina, Drs. Lillian and Arthur 
Wellinton of London. Geologists and scientists from all parts of 
the world came to study the Cerro and its mine possibilities — the 
treasure present. We were seated around a table watching the sun- 
set on the Cerro. The sky was an Irish lake and the Cerro a great 
earthy crown. The stars danced like snow crystals and the stones 
on the Hill were molten lumps of gold. .. . 

As my father talked with his fellow geologists, I watched the little 
"chico" who had caddied for us, leaning his weary body against the 
building, a few coins tinkled in his pocket each time he moved his, 
thin, dark figure. When the gentlemen made a movement to raise 
their well-fed bodies from the table, the deep brown eyes also raised 
and sparkled flints into the darkness. ... 

With the morning came my new duties as house supervisor. I 
went down into the kitchen after breakfast to meet the staff. As 
I walked in, Eufamie, our cook, was finishing the dishes. The room 
was spotless, everything in perfect order. I breathed a sigh of relief; 
we luckily had a "gem" of a servant. 

Eufamie was small, brown, and quick. She spoke little, only the 
most necessary Spanish. The rest was in Quichua to the other 
servants. When I talked to her, it was mostly in. sign language. 
As the last dish was dried, the butler and laundress brought in the 
large wicker baskets. 

"Buenos dias, senorita." • , .' 

"Buenos dias. Como se llama?" 

"Remunda, senorita." 

Surprised at such Spanish from an Indian girl, I kept on ques- 
tioning her. I began to feel that my work would neither be as hard 

September 1951 21 


nor as boring as I expected. To have someone of my own age to 
talk to was a real gift. 

"Remunda!" stilettoed Eufamie's voice. 

Her smiling eyes lowered and almost painfully, Remunda glided 
to the laundry basket. I paused a moment to glimpse Eufamie eyeing 
her daughter scornfully; I did not understand. 

In the three weeks that followed, my conversations with Remunda 
became long, enjoyable, and frequent. For a few days after my 
first meeting with her, the servants went about doing their work 
a little sloppily. However, we got along well and they improved; no 
doubt much to Remunda's influence. The fourth day after the staff 
meeting I saw Remunda on her way to the market place. I snatched 
a sweater, ran down the stairs, and caught up with her. 

"Hello there, Remunda. How are you?" 

"Good afternoon, senorita." She smiled slightly, a little fearfully. 

A few minutes passed. "You don't seem to want to talk to . . ." 

"Oh, senorita, it is not that. I like to talk to you, but I do not 
wish to cause you trouble. You see, my people are very simple and 
perhaps they seem strange to you. My mother and the other servants 
respect you and your parents. They feel your sincerity. However, 
my people wish it to be as always; the overseer and the slave you 
might say. They do not wish to be as equals. Thej^ resent it. You 
speak to me as a friend. It is not liked. 

"But why?" 

"When I was small, my mother and father were very poor, so 
mother sent me to a schoolteacher to help with the kitchen and 
odd, little jobs. The teacher, Senora Castellanos, was very good and 
paid well. I stayed with her until I was sixteen. We got along well, 
and as I was a curious child, the Senora spent much of her spare 
time with me. Her husband was dead and she had no one. I learned 
to read and write Spanish, and to do mathematics. She taught me 
history and geography, and art. 

I only wish I could have stayed longer, but when Mama came 
to see me she was angry with me. I did not see why, then, A little 
later we moved from Huanchaca to Potosi. My parents got good 
jobs here as the "gerencia" servants, and mother seemed pleased 
with me again," 

"Please go oh, Remunda." We were almost to the market place. 
I knew she might never finish if she did not, then. The opportunity 
to talk with her might not come for some time, and it would not 
be good policy tqldp so in the market place. 

"Well, senorita,' in the two years since we came to the Cerro I 
have realized many things' I could not see before. To have my 

22 Inter Nos 

mother so angry over nothing I could not understand, but when I 
listen to her speak to the people I know and I fear for you. The 
Quichua does not wish friendliness of the white man, personally. 
Senora Castellanos taught me white ways, for which I must bear 
the resentment of my parents, always. They believe that I should 
have rejected her efforts to teach me. If I ignore you, and keep 
to my own I will be accepted. Almost it is, now. My mother has 
worked for this acceptance. She will not let it pass! 

I was about to ask what she meant, but Remunda suddenly 
stepped away from me. We had reached the market. Everything 
was out in the open for inspection. The slant-eyed Indian women 
did the selling; they sat cross-legged behind their baskets, their 
white enamelled hats glistening in the afternoon sun, or stood with 
their butcher knives raised high, cutting the beef. A strong "Chica" 
hung a slab of meat on a great hook. The odor of fresh meat mingled 
with the pungent herbs, red margins of sleeping natives lined off 
the vegetable and fruit baskets. Wrangling children splashed across 
the scene, upsetting the mate stands. Innumerable and miscellaneous 
dogs and llamas defied life, there. 

I felt the pressure of the shriveled but dignified chola watching 
me, and as I turned toward her I saw our caddy standing near 
her. I smiled at him and was about to say, "Hello," when she said 
severely, "This, senorita, is not a place of play!" 

Eufamie knew nothing of my talk with Remunda, and she seemed 
to relax when I was around. Everything was done well; when we 
gave a dinner party in the middle of the following week, the house, 
table, and the food were all in perfect order. When Eufamie brought 
in the dessert, she was a reigning Inca Queen, resplendent in her 
Sunday best. Her strong lean hands crowned the table with the 
Alaska — it was her moment. It was not a culinary victory. Her eyes 
spoke, "La Americana will interfere no longer." 

It was so knowing, so calm. Eufamie had been much easier to 
get along with lately. She did as she was told and ran the staff 
smoothly. I did not understand the victorious expression in her 
glittering eyes. I forgot it soon enough in the charm of the evening. 

The following morning I went over the night's success, and I 
remembered I had not seen Remunda. Another girl from the town 
had come in to help the house staff. Wondering if she were ill, I 
went down into the kitchen before I left for a game of tennis. My 
shoes made no noise and as I pushed the door open I heard a 
familiar boyish voice say in broken Spanish, "The Americans always 
are playing or eating. The fat one is never at the mine. Always he 
is at the golf club. He pays well when he is alone. But he is new, 
soon he will pay little and expect more." The caddy turned as he 
heard the door creak; he scowled, jerked his head toward me, and 
under his breath murmured, "La Entremetida." 

September 1951 23 

So, I was named "the meddler." I tried to be as oblivious to the 
interplay as possible and asked for Remunda. 

"Si, senorita." Her voice had a pitiful, hopeless quality that was 
foreign to her nature. I beckoned her to follow me and we went 

I had expected Eufamie to cry out or get angry. She smiled as 
she had the night before. I went completely cold; a fever of fear 
began to inch its way within me. I knew something was wrong, 
and the fact was certain as I studied Remunda. 

She drew her hand through her already rumpled, black hair. Tear 
stains blotched her cheeks, and deep circles rimmed her sad eyes. 

"Oh, Remunda!" 

"Do not worry, Senorita. It is nothing. I am a little tired." 

"It's more than that. Why have you been crying? What is going 
on here, anyway? Is your mother trying to hurt you or force you 
into something? Remunda, forgive the questions, but I know there 
is something desperately wrong." 

"I can speak little, senorita, but I wish to say that I have found 
a true friend in you and I am grateful to you. My people are dear 
to me, but they, at times make no sense. My mother loves me dearly. 
This I know. And in believing so, she does the best for me and, as 
she sees it, her people. Do not blame her and forgive her." Lightly 
her trembling lips touched my cheek, and then she ran back into 
the "gerencia." 

The walk down that cobblestone street was as vivid to me as 
it had been my first day in Potosi. Clouds hung djown over the 
mountains, changing them from lavender to a melancholy blue. 
The house dulled in the light, and two llamas lay stubbornly in the 
middle of the street. The chinks in the Cathedral walls had grown 
larger, and as I pulled the door open the rust of the ring ground 
into my palm. Splinters of wood mixed in the dust covered floor. 

I knelt before the dying Christ. He looked so lonely on that cold 
Cross. I felt I had come to comfort Him instead to ask, as usual, 
for a favor. The sorrowful Face needed understanding, and I under- 
stood. My prayer poured out to the Kindred Soul, and with it came 
the feeling that a solution would come. I could not guess how, but 
that was in His Providence. I remained a short while longer to ask 
for guidance. 

It was about five o'clock when I came out into the cold air. It was 
a quiet night. An Indian or two slumped together at the far end of 
the ruined Cathedral walls. 

At home, dinner, too, was quiet. Dad was in a musing mood and 
said nothing. I thought a mill problem had come up and he was 

24 Inter Nos 

about to invent again. Mother was tired, and so was I. Eufamie, 
moving around the table importantly, was without the fire of the 
preceding dinner. The lines in her old-young face had deepened 
since morning. I guessed that she had had an argument with Re- 
munda. I hoped it had not been over me. 

It was such a slight thing — two or three conversations with Re- 
muncla, and her mother acted as though it were an international 
incident. I went to bed weary and tense. 

When I awoke the sun was high. I supposed I. had slept through 
the mine whistle, although I usually did not miss this. The whistle 
was my alarm clock. I dressed, and as I tied my .shoes, I looked 
out onto the sunlit brick roofs. It was as quiet as Sunday, 

Breakfast tasted very good that morning and I was feeling better. 
The day begot happy thoughts. Neither Mother nor Dad were in 
the house, which was not unusual. 

I settled down in the den for some reading. Soon after I had 
placed myself comfortably in a big easy chair, I heard a great com- 
motion outside, coming from the mine. The alarm bells hat not 
been rung so I knew no accident had occurred. 

. I went on reading, a line or two perhaps, when I heard our car 
stop. Dad called me to come out; my book slipped to the floor as 
I dashed out to see him. 

"Come along, young lady." 

In front of me, at the side of me, behind me were the noises I 
had heard. All the miners were in front of the gates mumbling, yell- 
ing, and singing. A little of everything — large signs or flags waved 
from the gallis frame. 

The faces were not hateful, but rather, annoyed. They wanted to 
be rid of something. Both men and women miners were there, 
crowding in on all sides. We moved slowly through the crowd to- 
ward a large, wooden platform. The people were cheering the 
speaker. It was the first real demonstration I had seen the natives 
wage. I became interested in the group and did not notice that we 
had stopped. 

Abruptly Dad said, "Get out, Anne!" I followed him up the 
rickety steps to the platform. Then I saw two middle-aged Indians, 
and Eufamie. 

By means of an interpreter, the foreman, I think, Eufamie 
talked to my father. But before that she talked to me, gesturing 
wildly with her hands and speaking a strange Spanish conglomer- 

"You, sefiorita, cause this. Entremetida! Remunda was Quichua 
once, then white. She is Quichua again! You no change. Your father 

September 1951 25 

good; he helps my people, but no meddle. You must talk. New 
ideas — not good." She rambled on. 

Dad negotiated with the foreman; Eufamie interrupted frequent- 
ly. Finally they reached an agreement. It was signed in front of 
all. Dad motioned to me to leave. The crowd remained to listen 
again to Eufamie. They seemed pleased. 

When we came into the house, mother came in and asked if the 
strike had been settled. 

"How did you know?" 

"I knew it last night, as did your father. I have been making 
arrangements for you, dear. You will leave for Santiago in four 
days. You'll only be at school a month ahead of time." 

"Mother! What are you talking about?" 

"Haven't you told her? You men are all alike. You wait till the 
last minute to do the unpleasant. Dear, your father has to concede 
to the demand of the Indians if he is to resume work, and the 
demand is that you leave. Eufamie leads her people with a great 
strength and perhaps wisdom. I don't know. She has convinced 
the people that you are bad for Remunda, and that if you convert 
her to your educated ways others will follow, 

1 " The workers respect your father, they get justice, and they are 
quite satisfied. They resent your friendliness on an equal basis. 
it is their way of life to be so. We must accept it." 

I did not see the logic of the proposal, but I began my prepara- 
tions for departure. I wanted to see Remunda again, but didn't dare 
ask about her. I did not see Eufamie while I was in the house, al- 
though the other servants moved about doing their work as usual. 

The day I was to leave was crisp and windy. All the scenes of 
Potosi were more impressive, of deeper coloring, and closer to me 
than I had realized. . 

My bags were loaded into the little car, and I climbed in. Mother 
and Dad were in front. They were going to leave me at the ferro- 
carril station. Prom the kitchen window, Eufamie's face peered 
out. It was the first time I had seen her since that day. Her face 
was expressionless . and ageless. She wrinkled her brow, pulled the 
curtain,- and as we pulled away I could see her polishing the silver. 

"Dad, do we have time to stop at the Cathedral?" 

"Just a second or two. The train comes in at 5:05." 

We stopped in front of the lovely old building. I stepped out, 
and went up the broken stone stairs. The rust and splinters, the 
dust, the dying Christ, the paper flowers in their old bottles, all 
these things I saw instantly and they made me think that every- 

26 Inter Nos 

thing we know remains the same. People always have the same 
nature and necessities — God, family, and the friendship of his fel- 
low man. Some day everyone would understand that. 

The Cathedral was dark. One stream of sunlight darted through 
a crack in the wall. When I got used to the dimness, I saw a slight 
figure praying in front of the Christ. The solution to her problem 
would come as it came for me. Remunda turned and smiled at me 
as I left the Cathedral. 


By Sister Patricia Margaret 

Lest in the compilation of original manuscripts this present 
work be unearthed by some Chaucerian student two thousand years 
hence, let me haste to inform the said student that this is not a 
historical document. Were Brusendorff to read it I should in all 
probability be barred from the Chaucerian Society. In his book, 
The Chaucer Traditions, he states Lewis as a probable son of 
Chaucer and Cecilia Champaigne. The emphasis seems to be on 
the word probable. At least I interpreted it thus. If it is only a prob- 
able assertion, why cannot I with a boldness akin to that of Sir 
Thopas himself make another probable assertion? Philippa was 
the wife of Chaucer. Chaucer himself wrote A TREATISE ON THE 
ASTROLABE for his "Litel Lowis my sone." So with blissful sim- 
plicity I make my assertion, and say that Lewis was a probable 
son of Chaucer and Philippa. That should explain my title of the 
present work. 

As to its purpose, I am endeavoring in this little treatise to speak 
of the humor of Chaucer in the Canterbury Tales. Of everything I 
read on humor (with all due apology to the Oxford and Webster 
Dictionaries, I found a paragraph from Emily Post most suitable. 

She says: 

The joy of joys is the person of light but unmalicious humor. 
What he says is of no moment. It is the twist he gives to it, the 
intonation, the personality he puts into his quip or retort or 
observation that delights his hearers, . . . 

Even this does not satisfy me. For what Chaucer said was of great 
moment. Even the quips and retorts are quoted today. But, enough! 
I shall let Philippa speak. However since I have kept her waiting 
this long, she will not mind my giving thanks to Walter W. Skeat 
for all the help he has so generously given me. Whenever I have 
quoted a part of the Canterbury Tales it has come from his admir- 

September 1951 27 

able The Student's Chaucer. Without it this would never have been 

S. P. M. 


Little Lewis, my son, 

Thy father hath returned but one month from Canterbury. Never- 
theless he worked night and day at his new book. Me thought the 
pilgrimage did him good, he lost the weight he had intended. Now, 
alas, with his new book on his mind he watches not his diet, and 
seemeth to gain more weight each day. 

As for myself, I dare not leave this place. Adam, your father's 
scribe tires so easily and I, the go-between, must put them both 
in good humor again. Sir John of Gaunt hath begged me to depart 
from here for a week or two in order to give you the pleasure at 
the sight of me. That noble man saith he feels to blame. 'Twas he 
who reckoned you would do well at Bath. Thy father and I are 
pleased with taking Sir John's caucel, for thy tutor, Magister N. 
Stroude (as your father insists that I call him) writes well con- 
cerning your health and work. 

Thy father hath gone to the Scriptorium, that wonderful copying 
firm, to see if he can hasten the work along. I asked him for mes- 
sages for you and he immediately went to his room and brought 
me back the second draft of his book. 

"I meant to write the lad," said he, "before I took on this book, 
but now I needs must occupy myself with this. Write down the 
passages that I have checked. 'Twill make him laugh. Mind you 
write them as I have them here. Thy gentle ways and lovingness 
might change the matter of my words. Tell him to be of good cheer. 
We shall come to Bath when this is over. Send him a pound or two. 
The boy is too intent. Stroude wrote that Lewis has mastered mjost 
of what I wrote on the Astrolabe. He needed some lightness in 
his veins." 

So, dear son, thy father hath left a great work on my hands. For 
how can I put down what is checked wthout explaining what has 
gone before and what comes behind. This book hath joined my 
heart to him anew, for it is thy father, Chaucer, through and 
through. Be sure to learn these parts. Methinks, though he will 
not say, that he likes them best, and since you are his son you will 
like them too. 

The book begins with such lovely words as only your father can 
write, that though it is not checked and will not make you 

28 Inter Nos 

smile, I must put them down. Besides 'twill do no harm. Geoffry 
talked constantly about the need for atmosphere. 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote 

The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote, 

And bathed every veyne in swich licour, 

Of which vertu engendred is the flour; 

And smale fowles maken melodye, 

That slepen al the night with open ye, 

(So priketh hem nature in hir corages): 

Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages . . . 

Was that not worth the writing? He then begins his tale. With 
such ability for dallying with sweet phrases, why does he always 
jump into the story? I know, I know, you both have told me time 
and time again. These works were writ for the tale and not the 
air. But to get on. He tells of his stay at the Tabard in Southwerk, 
the night before the pilgrimage got underway. There were twenty- 
nine in the company. Your father stops his tale to describe them. 
The first was a knight. I would I could write down the whole de- 
scription, but your father hath checked none of it, so I must close 
mine eyes. But patience, here is a morsel gay for you. 

With him ther was his sone, a yong Squyer, 

Alovyere, and a lusty bacheler, 

With lokkes crulle, as they were leyd in presse. 

Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. 

Of his stature he was of evene lengthe, 

And wonderly deliver, and greet of strengthe. 

Embrouded was he, as it were a mede 

Al ful of fre sche floures, whyte and rede. 

Singinge he was, or floytinge, al the day; 

He was as fresh as is the month of May. 

Cannot you hear your father in every line? He does so love the 
colors gay. They put one in fine humor but to read. List to these 
others, and guess the mood of your father when he wrote them. 

The Wyf of Bathe — 

. . . Hir coverchiefs ful fyne were of ground; 

I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound • 

That on a Sonday were upon hir heed. 

Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed, . . . 

The Miller — 

. . . His berd as any sowe or fox was reed, . . . 

... A whyte cote and a blew hood wered he. . ; •; 

September 1951 29 

A Reve — 

. . . This reve sat up-on a ful good stot, 
That was al pomely grey, and highte Scot. 
A long surcote of pers up-on he hade, 
And by his syde he bar a rusty blade. . . . 

A Somnour — 

. . . That hadde a fyr-reed cherubinnes face, . . . 

A Pardoner — 

. . . This pardoner had heer as yelow as wex, 

But smothe it heng, as dooth a strike of flex; . . . 

Of the merriness of color in his book I have written enough. Now 
to the matter of your father's words. I have but seven full days in 
which to tell you all. Noble Sir John of Gaunt hath offered to bring 
this to you with my love. Ah, read it well, dear son. It must a 
mother's love convey. I would I could but hear your voice, but not 
being so, hastily send word back by your father's dear patron. 
Write it yourself, dear. When your mother's heart is sore with long- 
ing for you, a stiff report from Magister N. Stroude in no way suf- 
ficeth me. Enough of me. These words that your father hath 
checked he did it so with much chuckling and slapping. Who could 
enjoy his humor more than himself? Where I would smile and you 
laugh merrily, your father roareth. This book hath done him good 
in that. Be certain to include your opinion of these passages. 

The Prioress — 

She was so charitable and so pitous, 

She wolde wepe, if that she saw o mous 

Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. 

Of smale houndes had she, that she fedde 

With roasted flesh, or milk and wastel-breed. . . . 

Methinks he thought of me in the writting. When but three years 
ago you ran in with that mous and I did weep. Not for the mous, 
but in fear lest in your glee you deposited the mous on me. 

This 'tis but the Prologue of his tale. While wending their way 
to Canterbury, each of the company told two tales going and two 
tales coming back. At the Tabard Inn the best teller of tales re- 
ceived a dinner. But dost thau think thy father will tell me who it 
was? Though it plagues me sore, I cannot find out. He only smiles 
and says, 

"Come now, Philippa, surely you can guess. No need for intel- 
ligence to discover this." 

At every meal I heard it so till I stopped guessing — but still he will 
not tell. Your father gave none of the tales to me, but of his plans 
I know, and tell it here. The merriest tales, I think were three. Not 

30 Inter Nos 

only I but others on this agree. The Wyf of Bath speaks 856 lines 
before she begins her tale. Adam, the scribe, seems to think this 
the best part. Your Magister N. Stroude would no doubt choose the 
Nonne Preestes Tale of the cock and a hen, Chauntecleer and Perte- 
lote. This Chauntecleer is no ordinary cock. He hath a learning 
equal to thy father's. For in his speech this learned fowl doth even 
quote the Gospels. For mine own part your father's lines about 
himself amused me most. Perhaps, I can coax Adam to give that 
page. Then you can judge the lines yourself. Wait here beloved, 
I shall see what I can do. . . . Success hat met me face to face and 
I have captured it. List to these words. You know full well in 
what he hath dipped his pen — from the translation of The Romaunt 
of the Rose — to the Troilus and Cresydel From his own telling how 
oft he hath read before the court of His Majesty, Richard II! How 
renowned he is esteemed by Sir John of Gaunt. Now list to this 
description of himself. 

. . . Til that our hoste japen tho began, 
And than at erst he loked up-on me, 
And se3'de thus, 'what man artow?' quod he; 
'Thau lokest as thou woldest finde an hare, 
For ever up-on the ground I see thee stare. 

Approshe neer, and loke up merily. 

Now war yow, sirs, and lat this man have place; 

He in the waast is shape as wel as I; . . . 

. . . 'Hoste,' quod I, 'ne beth nat yvel apayed, 

For other tale certes can I noon, 

But fof a ryme I lerned longe agoon.' 

Ah, Lewis, I could weep with mirth et each reading of these lines. 
The ryme the poor poet tells suiteth well the description of him. 
Even thee with but twelve years behind thee could write such 
poetry. The rhyme tells of a gallant knight, Sir Thopas by name, 
who goes out to hunt himself an elf-queen for a wife. Even thy father 
could not keep up the tale, but had the host object. Doth this end 
thy father's tale? Believe it not. Since the host will not him say the 
rhyme he telleth his in prose. By Saint Loy, I must obtain this 
whole part for thee. Mayhap thy father, if he heareth that it is 
thy wish to read the rest will send it to thee. As I have said twice 
'fore thy father hath had great fun with all these tales. Some of 
the others you have heard him tell at the table, Tis no wonder that 
this story hath kept him in such good humor. All things that plague 
him have been writ in this. 'Tis well that Mistress Bailey is his 
friend. His words of her though fun ring true. Mayhap, as Geoffrey 
saith to me, she shall be so pleased to be in the book that she shall 
not mind the words. 

'Tis now the sixth day since I began this epistle. Of late I have 
had a little dizziness, and so when it cometh upon me I have had 

September 1951 31 

to lay aside the quill. Worry not, beloved, 'tis nothing serious, but 
did delay the writing of this. Last night thy father came in, and 
read what I have writ. Methinks he was pleased for after it he 
mentioned going again to Bath to see you when the book is done. 
On the morrow, good Sir John shall come to fetch this letter to 
you. Sir John will pass two weeks there. So hasten the writing of 
thy message to me. 

May God vouch-safe to keep thee well. Be diligent in they les- 
sons, but in the midst of all keep thy mother Philippa in mind and 
close to thy heart even as she keepeth thee. 

Name, Please? 


Back in August of 1928 I was born, spanked into breathing, oiled, 
powdered, fed and dressed. Dad rushed the fifteen miles from the 
ranch to the hospital, his 1926 Model A knocking and chocking all 
the way. Hospitals weren't so scientifically cold and formal then, 
so Dad puffed up the stairs into Mother's room, kissed her, and 
picked up the bundle from the bed. 

"It's another girl, Joe." 

"So I see. Thought of a name yet, Marge?" 

Casually Mother answered, "No, not yet — at least, not definitely. 
Have you?" 

"Well, yes, sort of. Anyway I have an idea. How does the name 
Nora strike you?" asked Dad brightly. 

"Joseph Casey, not again! We settled that business of Nora last 
time," cried Mother looking grieved. 

"Gosh, Marge, take it easy, I just suggested it 'cause you said 
you hadn't thought of one. Anyway I think it's a nice name." 

"Joe, I will not have a child of mine named Nora. It sounds like — 
like — a cook in a cheap boarding house!" 

Dad laid me carefully on the bed again. Mother watched him, 
trying to follow his thoughts. 
"Hm? What, Marge?" 

"Joe, I have an idea." An over-hearty cheerfulness sounded in 
her voice. Dad looked up a bit suspiciously. "Let's name this one 
Lucinda Jane. Now, wait a minute, Joe," she hurried on, seeing 
he was on the brink of interrupting just as soon as he could 
breathe again. "I like Lucinda Jane. It's pretty and old fashioned 

32 Inter Nos 

sounding. Doesn't it make you think of magnolias and taffeta and 
mint juleps?" 

"Marge, I will not — magnolias! What next? Magnolias, mint 
juleps — I like Nora. It has a solid sound — none of your fancy stuff 
with Nora." 

At the end of the fifteen minute visiting time the nurse plucked 
Dad out of the argument, and propelled him to the hall. A friend 
as well as a nurse, she ordered him across the street to the cafe for 

Evening visiting hours brought Dad back, resolutely decided to 
"take a firm stand for Nora." The door to mother's room closed, 
aided by his foot; a chair squeaked its way over the varnished 
floor, and Dad began. 

"Marge, I don't understand you. Nora is a fine Christian name. 
Lots of fine people are named Nora. Look at Dan's wife — did she 
ever complain about the name?" Dad stopped in triumph. Nora 
was a close friend of Mother's, and had been so for years. Their 
friendship resulted in their meeting Dan and Joe Casey, and eventu- 
ally both girls married the Casey boys — Mother and Joe, Nora 
and Dan. The two couples baby-sat in turns, exchanged talk and 
work, and went out together whenever possible. Dad was certain 
that Mother would meekly agree, name the child — me — Nora, and 
be at least resigned if not pleased over Dad's choice. 

"Joe, I will not let you name this child Nora! Did I ever hear 
Nora Casey complain about her name? Did I! She hates it, Joe, 
absolutely hates it! Ask her tonight — go ahead — and see! Joe, the 
only reason you like the name has nothing to do with her. I know. 
News travels, not that I mind — but I do know. I know you had a 
girlfriend named Nora back in Ireland. I won't name my child 
that! So!" And mother viciously jabbed her pillow into fluffiness 
and turned her back on Dad. 

Did you ever see a balloon after someone had poked a pinhole 
into it? That was Dad. He slumped down in the chair, and just sat. 
"Joe, let's name the baby Lucinda Jane. I — ." 

Dad came to life spluttering. "No! That's ridiculous — it's not even 
a name. And don't tell me about your magnolias and mint juleps ! 
No child of mine is going to have that — that — so-called name. That's 
final!" And it was Dad's turn to look stern. 

The evening continued to be a repetition of the afternoon, with 
Dad holding forth for Nora, and Mother demanding Lucinda Jane. 
Came the next morning, and the doctor, to make out a birth cer- 
tificate. Mother's name, father's name, date, etc., were filled out 
easily. Then "Baby's name?" asked the doctor. 

"Lucinda Jane," answered Mother, and "Nora," replied Dad, each 
ignoring the other. 

September 1951 33 

The doctor looked up. "What was the name? I didn't under- 
stand you." 

"Lucinda Jane." 


"I take it you're not in accord? Why not just leave the given 
name blank, and you can fill it in later?" 

The suggestion appealed, and they agreed. The birth certificate 
was signed and witnessed. It read "(female) Casey." 

In time, of course, Dad and Mother compromised. They couldn't 
go on calling me "female" all my life. I became "Mary Lou," spelled 
in two words. The Mary was for Dad who admitted that the name 
was as solid and Christian as Nora; the Lou was Mother's addition, 
and privately she always thought of me as "Mary Lucinda." 

I grew, went to school, then into junior high school, and finally 
became a senior, facing graduation. Each year the senior class 
was asked to fill out forms for diplomas, indicating correct spelling 
of first, middle, and last names. I, with the rest of the class, filled 
out mine, and handed it in. 

Miss Janson closed the last class of the day with "Mary Lou, 
would you please stay for a minute?" 

I stayed. Miss Janson handed me the slip of paper, pointing with 
the tip of her pencil the "middle name" section. "Mary Lou, put 
your full middle name, please, Louise, or Lucille, or whatever it is." 

I started to explain, realizing she probably wouldn't understand 
anyway. Then, "Why not finish this once for all?" I thought. I 
stopped the explanation, and promised Miss Janson I'd bring the full 
name the next day. She looked at me oddly, but nodded. 

I skipped my homework that evening, and pulled out drawers, 
untied boxes, and opened trunks, looking for my birth certificate. 
I found it, with Mother's teaching credential, in a brown candy 
box. I carried it to Mother in the kitchen and proposed my plan — 
no objection there. Dad was reading in the living room, and told 
me to suit myself — it was my name after all. 

Out came the Underwood portable. I rolled the birth certificate 
in, adjusted the knob to the right position, and typed with great 
care "Marilou" spelled in one word; I penciled a line through 
"(female)" and typed it in the spot marked "sex?". I rolled the 
paper out — the job was done! I had named myself and typed my 
own birth certificate. 

Now, whenever someone remarks, "That's an odd way to spell 
"Mary Lou" I just answer, "Yes, isn't it? It's on my birth certificate 
like that, too." 

34 Inter Nos 

Alumnae Echoes 

There seems to be a frequently repeated question, which deserves 
at least a periodic study and answer. Alumnae Echoes affords one 
medium of approach, to the answer of "The Mount" to the question, 
"What contribution to Catholic Action is made by graduates, men 
and women, of our Catholic Colleges?" 

Mount St. Marys finds its most valuable contribution in the num- 
ber of Catholic marriages, contracted by its girls and the number 
of children whom husband and wife are striving to train accord- 
ing to the principles and ideals of the Catholic Church. Time and 
again, on the visits of our alumnae, their little ones demonstrate 
their faith. They know Whom they visit in the Chapel; they recog- 
nize a friend in the statue of Jesus' Mother; they kneel and offer 
these Friends their simple baby prayers. 

Contributing loyal young citizens to the Church, certainly is an 
important part of Catholic Action. As this is not the column in 
which to study other important services which many accomplish 
in both civic and parish affairs, we shall simply state, that notice 
of such services are appreciated by your college, and brief refer- 
ences to them will be welcomed by Alumnae Echoes. 

Apropos of the foregoing, the largest count of "Alumnae Children" 
numbers eight, then seven, six, five and down the line. 

Among recent announcements we find: 

To Betty Fluor Taylor a girl, Margaret Louise; to Mrs. Ora Mc- 
Donald Shay (Billy Geier) a girl, Melissa. 

Recent wedding invitations from Alumnae include that of Mary 
Elizabeth Harvey to Mr. Robbert Lillywhite; of Mary Jane Steven- 
son to Mr. Donald Robert Robinson; of Gloria Pedilla to 
Mr. Joseph Benedict Kelly; of Charlotte Aguiar to Mr. Francis 
Henry Seyer; of Nanette Teresi to Mr. Leo Larrinago; of Estelle 
Zengebot to Mr. Edwin Deptula. An announcement of the marriage 
of Natalie Rohe to Mr. William Joseph Russell, was received re- 
cently and the engagement of Mary Ann Cunningham to Mr. 
Michael Francis Reilly was announced on the evening of her gradu- 
ation day. All these are Catholic weddings. Uzoamaka Moneke, a 
member of the class of '51, was married to Mr. Benjamin Mbakwem 
by His Excellency Most Reverend J. Frances Mclntyre in the Arch- 
bishop's private chapel on the morning of June 27. The arrangement 
was graciously proposed by His Excellency as "Uzo" hails from 
far distant Nigeria. Uzo is the first Nigerian Catholic to graduate 
from a Catholic College. She hopes to become an apostle to her 
own people, among whom Catholics form a small minority. Her 
husband, a convert, has this same ambition. 

June 1951 35 

Mes. Wm. H. Limebrook (Mary Helen Emerson) has sent her 
temporary address, as Elliott Annex, Naval Training Center, San 
Diego, where Lt. Limebrook is, at present, stationed. 

Again members of the Class of '51 have added to "The Mount's" 
literary achievements, Teresa Hatsumi's Essay being classed in 
"Top honors" by the Atlantic Monthly, and Anne Wong's receiving 
a prize of $50.00 from the Cabrini Literary Guild. Teresa also re- 
ceived the prize of $100.00 given by Archbishop Mclntyre for the 
best paper contributed by a Senior, in the Apologetics contest. 

Emily Doll and Muriel Mahoney won the annual scholarships, 
also awarded by our Archbishop for graduate study in the field 
of Social Welfare. 

Eleanor Kelleher will register for graduate work at the Uni- 
versity of Washington, Washington, D. C. 

Virginia Senseri, with Mrs. Jack Kehoe (Peggy Perry) and hand- 
some little Emmett Kehoe, visited their Alma Mater during the 
summer. Virginia, a teacher in the Lawndale public school, reports 
Jean Leibert as on the same staff. 

Lillian May Evans, faithful to the Sisters of St. Joseph has en- 
rolled her daughter at St. Mary's Academy, for the fall term. Nellie 
Jansen has enrolled her niece. We hope that the next move of 
these two young ladies will be to Mount St. Marys. 

The Cummings Family of Westwood of which two daughters 
Mary and Pat are Alumnae, had the singular privilege of number- 
ing their brother John among the newly ordained priests, in June. 
Father Cummings said one of his first Masses in the College Chapel. 

Congratulations, necessarily late, though still in order are due 
Tillie Pellegrin Clem and her assistants for a unique and enjoy- 
able program on initiation night, when memories of early college 
days was the theme of a visualization. With Tillie at the micro- 
phone as historian, Helen Rumsey McCambridge featured the wom- 
an athlete of the gay '20's. Helen wore an "original" — black woolen 
pleated bloomers, black stockings, a visor, and carried her tennis 
racquet. Maria Mankiewiecz Kocieuski displayed the period evening 
dress, and its elaborate embroidered shawl. Maria curtsied and 
gestured a la mode of models of some decades past. Marie Flynn 
illustrated a male character in a dramatic cast. Plastered hair, high 
collar and stiff white shirt front topped a short skirt and black* 
stockings. Marie carried herself like a hero. Annetta McCann O'Mal- 
ley, still the fortunate possessor of that Fra Angelico head Of 
hair, and Bernice Long, blue eyed and blonde, closed the pageant 
in the character of two angels, not unlike those still seen in our 
Christmas tableaux. 

Needless to say Sister Ignatia played the part of wardrobe 

36 Inter Nos 

To Sister Celestine goes the credit of securing a charming mus- 
ical program, contributed by Dorothy Montague Cronin as vocalist, 
and her sister Gertrude Montague Benefiglio as her able accom- 
panist; both are still generous with their musical talents. Arlene 
Russie '51 gave several numbers from her recent vocal recital. 

Dear Members of Our Alumnae Association, 

Do you see Alumnae Echoes, which appear each quarter in 
Inter Nos? If so, do you enjoy them? If so, will you try to supply 
an "echo" occasionally? You know, these pages can not be made 
up of imaginary events. They must be founded on fact. Perhaps 
some of you would be interested in seeing in print an article bear- 
ing your name. We welcome such articles. 

If your inclination or talent lies outside the literary sphere, 
you may help Inter Nos by becoming a subscriber, or if one already, 
by interesting a friend. Lending your copy may effect this result. 
The mother of one of this year's seniors said to me, "I hope we do 
not have to stop receiving Inter Nos. We enjoy it so much." 

Two alumnae subscribed in June, bringing your number up to 
forty-eight, one tenth of your membership. The present issue is 
Vol. Ill, No. 3. 

Cordially yours, 

Sister Mary Dolorosa