Jean Butridge Bradley Van Deusen

Bradley Van Deusen

Family A U of Chicago Maroon Poetry Column
Growing Up a Bell and Van Deusen The Blind Alley - A Biography
You're in the Army Now Poetry Book - Old Soldiers' Drums
The New York Years
Jean's Poetry

Major Bradley Evans Bell Van Deusen
(5 Nov 1905, Canon City CO)
(23 Sep 1955, San Antonio TX)
+ Jean Butridge(27 Aug 1934, NYC)
(19 Mar 1911, Chicago IL)
(10 Feb 1984, Boston MA)

Growing Up a Bell and Van Deusen
Growing up in Colorado
Bradley was born on the 11th of May in 1905 in the Colorado frontier town of Canon City. His father, Jack Bell, was a large handsome man in a cowboy hat, who didn't look all that sure of how to hold his baby boy. As it turned out, he wasn't that good at holding a wife either, and Bradley's parents divorced when the boy was four years old.

Jack Bell was a gambler down to his finger tips. A mining engineer, he went west with a useful profession and a hope to strike it rich. And he did. Over and over again. And in between, he went bust. His name was a familiar one in the mining communities from Alaska to Mexico, and he was a pioneer in all the big mining camps. He was one of the first in the rare metals fields of vanadium, sarnotite and carnotite, was one of the pioneers of Goldfield and Rawhide, and was on the staff of John Hays Hammond's silver mine in Cripple Creek. That last story included a gunfight at the bottom of the mine. Appropriately enough, Jack Bell would eventually die of a gunshot.

The first known mention of Jack Bell and Catharine is on Aug 24, 1905, when they returned from a 14 month trip through Arizona and Mexico in a covered wagon. Along on the trip was eight year old Catherine, from a previous marriage of Catharine's, who was noted to have ridden a horse for 4000 miles. Strangely enough, the article doesn't mention their baby, Bradley Evans Bell, who should have been born in Canon City by then, but dated baby pictures confirm Bradley's approximate birth date.

Catharine and Jack purchased a newspaper in Canon City, the Canon City Cannon. This must have been a tough change for a man used to travel, excitement and taking chances, because it wasn't that long before Jack Bell took some chances with his marriage. While off on a vacation, he arranged for Western Union wires to be sent back every day. Unfortunately for his plan, they were delivered as a batch on the day he got back.

On June 11, 1909, the marriage was over.

After that date, the only thing firmly known about Jack Bell is that he cowrote an article with the famous cowboy poet, Arthur Chapman.

As for Catharine and her two children, they moved to Denver and settled in to a new life. Just over two years later, Catharine remarried Robert M. Van Deusen. They both worked for the state of Colorado in Denver, and eventually bought a property in Granby Colorado that became known as The Van Deusen Ranch.

It's difficult enough to research around the turn of the century, and Bradley's upbringing just made it worse. Most of the confusions over his birth date stem from his lying about his age to join the army. Although Bradley and his sister Catharine both used the name of Van Deusen, his legal name was Bradley Evans Bell, and it wasn't until after his marriage, in 1934, that Bradley legally changed his name to Bradley TenEyck Van Deusen. The property now lies beneath a dam created lake.

Childhood pictures of the boy show him as relatively well-to-do and happy. The family home was a log cabin with a large library and a fairly standard collection of pets. Catharine's father, Brig.General Henry L. Burnett, had been one of the special judge advocates at the Lincoln Assassination, and Bradley was frequently to be found, when not dressed as a cowboy, in small military uniforms.

Bradley was close to his mother and corresponded with her until her death in 1934. Catharine had been raised by her grandparents after the death of her mother, and was 24 when her great grandmother, Sarah Gibson, the widow of one of the richest men in western New York, died. Catharine's memories of her upbringing were strong enough that her obituary included the fact that she was descended from Sarah's husband, Henry B. Gibson of Canandaigua NY.

The outdoor life suited young Bradley but, as he grew, he found himself in conflict with his stepfather and the boy, in the tradition of both General Burnett and Henry B. Gibson, ran away from home.

You're in the Army Now
Because so many of the military records held by the government burned in a large fire, Bradley's military career has to be pieced together from multiple sources. He shipped out of San Francisco Presidio for Manila in 1924, at the age of 19, as part of the occupation force following the Phillipine insurrection. He was also stationed in China, and returned to the Presidio in 1926. In 1927 he was based in New York at Ft. Slocum, a small island close to New Rochelle. By 1928, he had been assigned as an instructor in the Military Sciences Department of the University of Chicago ROTC. Yes, Virginia, there really was a University of Chicago Cavalry. Their horses were stabled west of the campus near Cottage Grove, and there were discussions about the young men wearing their spurs to dances. It was at the University of Chicago that Bradley met Jean.

They married in 1934 and spent most of the next 10 years in New York, with a slight detour to Manesquan New Jersey to conceive a daughter. During that time, Bradley worked mostly as an ROTC rifle instructor at schools such as Xavier and New York University. With Jean's encouragement, he took the exams and moved up in rank. He was proud of his rank, proud of his responsibilities, and proud of his work.

The New York Years
The happiest years of Bradley's life were those that he spent in the service. Like many another man, the army had been Bradley's life. He was bred to it and he loved it. And he loved teaching young men. There was a romance and natural drama to the life of a warrior who imagined dying someday beneath a foreign sky. Even if they dreamed on the streets of New York City, where the likeliest death would come from being run over by an automobile.

Bradley lived huge. He and his friends drank, emoted and loved life with every fibre of their being. He had very close friendships with men he had known from the beginning of his military career. Their lives would weave apart and back together and it was all part of the life of the warrior.

Wherever Bradley went, he was able to create a circle around himself of people who could enjoy life as intensely as he could, himself. During his time at the University of Chicago, it was the clan that formed around his newspaper column, The Whistler, with himself as The Blind Tiger. In New York, it was a literary circle in Greenwich Village that partied out of his apartment. It was a life that he loved. Unfortunately, it was not a life that his wife could love.

When Bradley met Jean, he was 23 years old and she was barely 17. His character was already formed and hers was not. She was an artist and a dreamer, passive by temperament and free only in her mind. He was the fire that attracted, though her common sense told her to beware being burned. From almost the beginning of the column in which Tiger courted her, she held herself back. But she had become, for father, the personification of the romance for which he lived. He courted her passionately and, in the end, she pushed away her fears of being overwhelmed by this larger- than-life man and secretly eloped during a visit to New York. It took her four months to have the courage to tell her parents what she had done.

Many of Jean's qualities were as bright as father made them in his mind. Like him, her mind was clear and sharp and reached far beyond the common run of thought. She was as kind and as good, as principled and as caring as he imagined her to be. Her laughter was as quicksilver as her mind and, even today, it's hard to remember her voice without the laughter that constantly underlaid it. But what she wasn't was a lady on a pedestal. She was as passionately a mother as father was a husband. Father brought her negligees and took her to nightclubs. What Jean wanted were groceries and an evening without his circle of friends dominating her home. She could do without the drama. For Bradley, life was drama.

Throughout the entire ten years of their marriage they never fought. They should have, of course, but they didn't. Perhaps if Jean had been less passive, she could have made Bradley see her needs. But even when he knew he had done something she didn't like, it was still life on the stage. He would take out his military sword and threaten to fall on it. Her part in the play was to take the sword away.

One day she reached her limit, and took herself away. There was no warning. As they stood on the platform waiting for the train that he thought was taking her for a visit to her parents, something in her attitude suddenly made him nervous and he begged her not to go. But she had made the decision and she wouldn't turn back. Though Bradley didn't know it then, his marriage was over.

The Blind Tiger's Poetry Column in
the University of Chicago The Daily Maroon

Private [Bradley] TenEyck Van Deusen had left home early and lied about his age to join the army. He told the army that he'd been born in 1903, but the photographs of him as an infant are all dated 1905. As an army private he was posted to the University of Chicago Cavalry, which stabled its horses in Washington Park, near to sculpture Lorado Taft's statue of Time. Father's job was to teach the cavalry cadets (who were reminded not to wear spurs to the dances) to shoot. This was in the days when the University of Chicago still had a football team, and father was considered an outstanding athlete.

The outstanding of these military athletes is one T. Van Deusen, Private who was light heavyweight boxing champion of the Phillipine Department and China in 1924 and 1925 -- Captain of the Fort Mills swimming team in Orient games at Manila in 1925 -- Captain of the Presidio of San Francisco swimming team in 1926 -- Right Tackle on the Jefferson Barracks football team in 1926 -- Captain and Left Half of the Ft. Slocum N.Y. Team in 1927 -- and fought professionally under the long time of "Tiger Bell" in 1926-17.

Though he had not attended college, father was already widely traveled and had been writing poetry for a number of years. He discovered the University of Chicago newspaper staff of The Maroon in a "temporary" wooden building near Rockefellar Chapel (I had my Humanities class there in 1962), where they were trolling for new blood. As the "older" man of 25 (really 23), father plunked down at a typewriter and began a poetry column, through which he met, and courted, my mother. The column was called "The Whistler," and father styled himself "The Blind Tiger."

University of Chicago - The Daily Maroon
October 18, 1828

The Convent of the Guns

Our clean curved mouths are cold and dead.
Our polished skin is marred.
Our tawny thighs are thick with dirt,
Dinted, cut, and scarred;
Our day is done! But once!
Our open mouths blazed Deaths' caress
Our tongues with steel were tipped!
Ah! Bitter spinsters were we then
As we slashed and cut and ripped;
Our youth was filled with lovers
All laughing, joyous boys
Who stroked our slim, proud beauty
Their latest, deadly toys.
Then clean and fresh and polished
We went forth with the Dead
The living, lovely happy lads
Whose last touch, dyed us red.
But supplanted like all harlots
By the newer fresher one
We turned to rest and quiet
As our kind have always done,
With a printed tag about our throats
To inform our lovers' sons
We're an Ordanance Exhibition
The Convent of the Guns!

El Tigre.

University of Chicago Daily Maroon
November 7, 1928

Outcast men of the world are we,
Sunk in the depths of iniquity
Detested by all and loved by none.
A blot on the face of the kindly sun.
Men of training and breeding and birth
Who knew full well what the game was worth
Who played their hands -- and lost --
-- and then
Lost themselves from the world of men.

We hid ourselves in the Island world
Where the flashing coils of the "Snake" are curled
We sought the depths to hide our shame.
The "thing" we had made of an honored name.
We swam the Bay in the early dawn
But the Shark came not, and we lived on.
We sought the end in the bolo's steel
But hearts wounds live, while flesh wounds heal.

We went unarmed to the Moro's "jil"
But they called us "mad" and they would not kill.
And the Padre came with his tale of Grace
But we knew better, and laughed in his face.

We twined our hearts in a woman's hair
Then tried to forget in the din and glare
Of a "tienda down on the opal bay
Where many men come and some men stay.

We lost ourselves in the Army then,
Our identity merely "Enlisted Men"
But in the dusk, when the shadows start to crawl
In their weird, wild dance on the barracks wall
A ghastly pageant that comes to stir
Our memory again to what we were
And we bow our heads and stifle a cry
For we don't know how and we'll never know why.

El Tigre.

beside car

University of Chicago Daily Maroon
November 23, 1928

The final word (once more) has been said on the subject of "Our Women." To those few to whom satirical comment is not completely unknown this poem has been affectionately dedicated. The results of the various diatribes are as usual, negative. Wherefore this poem so delightfully nil is distinctly apropos. The subject is closed.



A war-worn warrior
And a beautiful girl
Met in the darkness
Where black banners furl.

She was lovely
Her heart was warm.
He sought quiet
Out of the storm.

He said, "Love
Your heart's like jade
The green of quiet
Of a Virgin maid...

My hands are spatulate
Designed to caress
To mold tall columns
White limbs to press..."

She said, "Lover
I know you of old
In my dreams you're younger.
Not bitter or old...

My love's a warrior
Straight limbed and tall
With the pride of a peacock
On a marble wall....

You're bent and bitter.
Sword-scarred and worn
My love's a boy
White limbs untorn.

What would you have of me
Ghost of my love...
Dark bodied jungle beast
Tearing a dove."

"Girl," said the warrior
In ironed bodied might
You've lain beside me
In the star stabbed night

You've known my glories
Laughed at my fears
Why do you turn from me
In blinding tears.

Shall I cast my altar
Into the mere?
You are my Host of Hosts
Why should you fear?

Immaculate you came here
Virgin you go
My love's dreams' love
This you should know.

Your fresh mouth to mine, Love
Your body mine to press;
Close your eyes, so, Love
Dream Loves' caress.

By hands and mouth I build here
A dream to buoy on...
Something to cherish
When you are gone.

I shall know Beauty
Before I come to die
With bleeding, gaping mouth upturned
To a brazen, ghastly sky..."

The Girl said, "Warrior!
You have known Death
Hot, bright moments
And panting breath.

If I trust my visions
To you for a toy
It shall bring you happiness

But what of the boy?

Your ribbons tell of glory
Your eyes tell of pain.
Swordsman I come to you
Leave me without stain!"


What matters future, past
Or Gods above...
Two in the darkness
Have found Love...

The Blind Alley, A Biography Written During the University of Chicago Days
The Blind Alley
by Louis H. Engel
Daily Maroon - Jan 18, 1929

I've known a lot of funny guys in my time, but one of the queerest eggs that has ever annexed himself to this notorious aggregation known as The Daily Maroon staff can be seen on exhibition any afternoon after 4 on the home floor.

He calls himself the Blind Tiger; others have called him many other things. He insists that his legal name is Ten Eyck Van Deusen, which you may or may not be able to swallow. Anyway, that's the monicker they have on the Military Department payroll, and under that title he draws sufficient filthy lucre to keep the walls of his stomach apart. Presumably he draws pay "for services rendered." Just what those services entail I have never been able to discover. His chief occupation seems to be sitting on his khaki and gazing at the eighteen inch roller on the M.S. typewriter.

Only the good Lord knows where he came from or where he's likely to go. (The one question is as problematical as the other.) I don't know but what the Lord Himself may have lost track of this boy at some stage of the game, for from the stories he tells he's batted around all over Hell and gone. Occasionally I pick up a snatch of the travelogue. I've never been able to weave them into any kind of a consistent story. I might question the Tiger sometime, but I probably couldn't get any satisfaction out of him. You see, one of his most delightful characteristics is his inconsistency.

There was one night when we went to the Hamburger joint down on the corner of 61st and Cottage Grove. We were down at the printer's working on the Christmas edition and along about 2 in the morning we felt the pangs of hunger and hied ourselves down to the aforementioned hole in the wall where we hopped up on the stools, like the little men we were, and ordered our scuttles of coffee. The Tiger was blue. Talked rather incoherently about lots of things. Something about being gassed in the war and spending a few months in a base hospital. Somewhere or other China rang into the story. It seems as though when the war ended he enlisted for the Phillipine service, and when he got through with that he went over and showed the Chinese rebels how to handle a rifle. That episode ended with an escape from beneath an executioner's axe -- a rather juicy detail.

Someplace along the line England and the University of Illinois play a part. The Tiger's getting along in years, you see, but from the way he acts at times you might think he was a Freshman. That indictment, though might hold true of anyone over in our local menagerie.

But back to the Tiger. (He sometimes travels under the name of the Stumble Bum, too.) He's been around. Ask him to tell you about any of the dives in Rangoon, Singapore, Shanghai, or some other romantic port. Of course, I can't check his stories, for I've never been east of Indiana or west of the Mississippi, but he tells them with such realistic touches that one can't help believing him.

The Tiger is something more than an adventurer. He's an aesthete -- if you can imagine such a thing as an aesthetic ex-prize fighter. He claims intimacy with some of the literary lights of our American Bohemia and has written poetry himself. He's got a knapsack full of verse and pictures (You really out to see some of his photos. They've been snapped in every quarter of the globe and they include pictures of everything from the Hula queen to hizzoner himself in football togs.)

You really ought to meet the Tiger. Come along some afternoon. We'll even oblige you with a respectable song or two, for the Tiger and I harmonize after a fashion when the rest of the inmates don't object too strenuously. "The Long, Long Trail" is our favorite, but we'll prepare other numbers on request.

Old Soldiers' Drums, 1933

The year before father married mother, father published a book of poetry which I spent decades of my life trying unsuccessfully to find. And then, one day, I was twiddling the computer and did a computer search of a variation of my last name - Van Dusen, instead of Van Deusen. And there it was. "Old Soldiers' Drums," by TenEyck Van Dusen. I was physically shaking when I put in the order to buy the book.

It was all that I'd hoped it would be, and the dedication blew me away.

A few years ago the morning mail brought to the editorial offices of OUR ARMY a somewhat bedraggled issue envelope postmarked from one of the smaller Army posts on the Canadian border. TenEyck Van Dusen, soldier and poet, had submitted his first work to us. Since that time an intermittent series of poems have come to us from the busy pen of this soldier.

Corporal Van Dusen's work has been distinguished by a wide knowledge of verse form, an excellent word sense and a deep understanding of his subject matter.

The pen of this soldier is facile. Whether he sees the argot of the modern soldier to reveal the man beneath the brass buttons as in "Incident" or whirls into colorful metaphysics as in "Told in the Squadroom" he is always able - often beautiful and often satirical.

Although Corporal Van Dusen's work is little known beyond the Service, it has received due measure of appreciation from Army men. Colonel Shaw, former Commanding Officer of the Second Infantry, used "The Regimental Patch" as a frontispiece to his "History of the Second Infantry": the Second Corps Area Ordinance Exhibit used his "Painted Lady" in their booklet, service newspapers and the open columns of OUR ARMY have known appreciative comment.

Corporal Van Dusen is an outstanding military poet. Perhaps in time he may become a great poet. The best wishes of Our Army go with him.

G. A. Harter

The Painted Lady

The Painted Lady

I sing my song with a painted mouth
And staccato, blazing breath;
The Jezebel of the Armies,
The Painted Lady of Death!

Born in the flow of the molten steel,
Baptised in flaming oil,
Cursed by the world ere I saw the light
And went forth to my toil;
Pride of my many lovers
My deep-voiced, fighting men.
Caressed as my kisses took their toll
From my steel ringed, concrete den:
Faithless and lovely always
Denying my love in his need,
Giving myself to the strongest hand
While my cast off lovers bleed.
My curious task is ended,
And couched on a wooden bed
I lie and gaze on the passing throng
And muse on my lovers - dead.

I sing my song with a painted mouth
And staccato, blazing breath:
The Jezebel of the Armies,
The Painted Lady of Death!



Hey, Doc'! Pardon, Sir, I meant Major.
They say the Kid was hurt last night.
You know, my Bud', the battler?
Slim, blonde, puts out a fight?
I heard the Corpsmen talkin'
They said the Kid was bad.
Jesus, Sir! You'd tell a fella -
The Kid's all I ever had!
He's dead! Never knew what hit him?
A wreck? Why, Sir, the Major's wrong!
The Kid came in last evenin'
An' Gawd knows that ain't long!
An' just because my leg is broke
He wuz kiddin' me to death ...
To ... death ... my budedy's dead then ...
It kinda takes my breath.
Where is he, Doc'? The Post Morgue?
That little house of stone?
Get me outa here, Sir, I'm goin'
The Kid's in there alone!
Sure I know my leg is busted
But, Hell, Man, I can crawl!
I don't want nobody with me
I can guide along the wall!

Take that 'hypo' outa here, Sergeant!
Why ... Major ... that ain't fair ...
I ran with the Kid a week ago.
Had him shapin' pretty fair.
This goddam morphine gets me ...
Kid! Lay off that dame in red!
You can't mix dames and battlin'
An' ya can't win fights in bed!
Roll in-under that left a' his
Then pivot up an' hook!
Don't let'm box but fight him!
This guy fights by the book!

I'm gettin' punch drunk - damn this morphine -
It starts buzzin' in my head!
Hey, Kid! Kid! Why sparrin' pardner,
They told me you was dead!

Old Soldiers' Drums

Old Soldiers' Drums

I'm just too old for drilling
I can't hike anymore;
So I'm bound for the soldiers' graveyard
Behind an office door.
They sing - "Old soldiers never die."
We don't; we live on crumbs -
The shrilling, splendid bugles
An' the thunder of the drums!

I won't do Guard in a snowstorm
An' I won't hafta go an' fire;
It's just messin' around an office
An' waiting to retire.
"Approved per First Indorsement ..."
An' through the window comes
The music of a Guardmount
An' the cadenced, throbbin' drums!

Twenty-three and a butt in the Doughboys;
Why, I've hiked a million miles!
But they said my age couldn't stand it
An' they detailed me to the files!
This work is nice for some men
Who can take it as it comes.
But you know their hearts ain't achin'
For the pullin', poundin' drums!

D.S. 1/4C. an' a non-combatant!
When there's guys tha'd give their life
To piddle around an office
An' go home at night to the wife.
But I'll get back to formation;
There's a day that always comes:
An' I'll ride on a painted cassion
With the muffled, sobbin' drums!

Carving Leather


Chicago Sketches
Jean Audrey Butridge

Water view
Chicago rising greyly in the wet mist. Moment at dusk when buildings are silver sword thrusts of slim shadow. Lights flashing like crystal beads on the dark suede walls of the Carbon and Carbide Building. The rain stops suddenly ... a gold-rose sifts through the grey haze melting gradually into the sharper outlines of night, quick night in Chicago. The Lake boils up threateningly, then slips quietly back thru the reflections of the Navy Pier lights. The city is cut by a white-beamed revolution of the Lindberg Beacon, imperially slanting the sky. Michigan Avenue is a steep precipice spotted with brilliance, overhanging the sparkling plain of Lake Michigan. Randolph Street blares into State and the swarming theatre crowds ... smart women in Chincilla wraps...eager expectancy of newsboy faces, hoarsely proclaiming significiant incoherencies ... thin lines of chattering Elevated couples bordering the block of the State and Lake for "Frankenstein" ... a twisted-face beggar cursing the First-Nighters slighting for "Lysistrata" ... a dance band throbing faintly up from the street-opened grilled door of the Morrison Hotel. The display windows of Marshall Fields are mysteriously shrouded in dark brocade drapes ... a cheap lingerie shop is glamourously edifying in the dim glare cast back from the street ... "L" trains reeling overhead ... down Wacker Drive ... homeless ones wandering aimlessly with small bundles loosely grasped ... dirt-caked sidewalks ...tattered newspapers ... whining handmeouters ... crowds hurrying thru the night for a lake trip ... Vina Delmar characters, and three Indian princes "seeing the other side of life" in the company of three University of Chicago female students (not "co-eds").

Across the bridge of the Chicago River is the white purity of Wrigley Tower, gorgeous edifice conceived thru chewing gum ... hoary dignity of the modern Gothic Tribune Building ... blue exotic glow from the splendid Medinah Temple ... good-taste serenity of the Drake Hotel ... the amber lighted Water Tower, castle structure Water Tower Saks-Fifth Avenue ... the blocked mass sequence of the new Palmolive Building ... widened boulevard verging into the quiet elegance of the Gold Coast ... close clipping of the Bohemian district ... sordidness and street fights ... the Dill Pickles Club ... the "Hole in the Wall."

Down the alley into a greenish atmosphere of blatant music, unescorted girls, sickly murals of wisp- shouldered, big hipped motifs ... penciled innuendos ... smartly groomed couples slumming ... pseudo- intelligentsia and honest souls striving for expression among the fifty-cent emotionalism ... "Jack", the one authentic bopo, proudly exhibited to expose his blue eyes and the brown, his general uncouth dress and sweet-faced, submissive quizzicalness, for a polite dance with a curiosity seeker in black velvet and Peacock pearls. Socialist, communist, sensualist, atheist, and a German exchange student with dreams in his eyes...Poets, fools, idealists, heatedly and boredly discussing themselves. A wave of half-grudge interest ... the floor clears slowly ... green lights change to reddened lamps ...into the dim circle moves a girl in a flame gown ... she snaps into a dance ... the audience calls directions ... she mechanically responds. She finishes and drifts indifferently into the arms of one of the men as the couples return to trudging the ragtag renderings of the sullen band. One becomes tired and leaves early, missing the rotten-fruit fight sensationally recounted in the morning newspaper.

The theater crowds have deserted the Loop ... cars go sparsely and slowly ... the air is clean and crisp from the Lake ... the air is fresh and smooth ... the Lake is cool and quiet ... Chicago moves in a slow rhythm...the lights, thick as in daytime, taper down the drive ... southward ... the Lagoon is a soft ribbon of dull caught metal ... the fog settles thinly ... Chicago ... blurred ... subtle steel grey values ... Chicago

Slender city within a city, sheltered by the Greek stability of Fields Museum, bordered by the Olympic chin of the Stadium ... whimsical modernity of a new Water view classicism ... steeped value contrast, in arrogant competition to the austere Ancient neighbors ... verve of adaptation of modern style to individual nation interpretation ... the curved roof of the Golden Temple of Jehol, transplanted from the Lama period of Chinese architecture ... its red lacquer and gilt in juxtaposition to the rectangular clean lines of the Hall of Science ... illumination of blue and scarlet banked lights in solid mass ... carillon sounding full, richly rounded, from the tower of the Hall of Science mingle with gong crashes of the Golden Temple ... Beyond the great ramp is the Administration Building ... broad block of white and grey...triangles from cornice to pylon in scarlet toothed rows ... facade decoration of two Herculean figures in aluminum low relief represent Science and Industry, symbolized in smooth disks and Water view simplified line of gears and wheels ... the high ceiling is laid upon the windowed walls ... aluminum corner piers are reflected in the polished black, rubber floor...the Travel and Transport Building with its "breathing" dome supported by cables ... like a skein of fine lines in taut diagonals from the diamond edged panels of walls, multi-numbered ... visitors within shouting inanities to discard the echoes reverberate weirdly ... the Electrical Group is a pattern of whites, reds, and yellows in striking contrasts, accented by gold, silver and blue in bold geometric design ... sculptured decoration of fifty foot square reliefs, symbolizing Man's struggle with Nature ... Half builded fragments give body to dreams of massed cypress trees and golden gardens, slim splendors of illuminated fountains, curving scarfs of jeweled color ... all is a brave palette of brillaint hued pattern in areas of infinite sweep and sleek delineation ... of a bacchanal in repose...At day, the tawdy becomes apparent, the carnival atmospher of "Rides" equipment, refreshment stands, and cheap foll the public wheels of chance, fifteen cent admission and "amusements" ... from a tall diving platform, a blindfolded swimmer leaps into a pool ... a small blimp, affectionately known as the "Captive Balloon", despite a wild adventure over the city during one windy day, slides up its cable with a cargo of dollararide passengers ... the replica of Ft. Dearborn is bleak in the sunlight; deserted as tho' its pioneer inhabitants had been massacred but lately, and the stockade left empty and unguarded ... it stands aloof, almost tragic ... an emotion of far away passion and conquest, father to the sophisticated poise which surrounds it ... as the sunlight fades the barnlike appearance of the Fair buildings give place to an overtone of subtle mystery, loosing its transient quality ... night gives a lie to daytimes' impermanence ... colors flood on ... the illumination is a mad splendor on the heroic constructions ... Chicago exults in her offering ... the nations thrill to the World's Fair ... little boys are peeping thru the crevices of the imposing weed wall ... the activity of the grounds becom more and more fevered ... the little boys are seeing a city rise ... magnificent ingenuity ... the World's Fair is the beat of many hammers ... Progress ...

Federal building

University of Chicago Daily Maroon
December 6, 1928

You bid me come
And feel your strength?
You bid me come
To wonder at your beauty

Why should I worship at your feet--
When I have known the
Sacred fragrance
Of your hair.

--Princesse Dorothy


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