Creative Expression

Creative Expression By Claude C. Cornwall MOST persons nowadays aspire to do original things. We admire, of course, the creative writers, poets and artists as they develop among our number, but this does not con- tent us. So the circle of those who wish to try their hand at original things is growing wider. Particularly is this true in our recreational expression, in the drama, in music, in the dance. Capitalizing on this idea, I attempted last summer on the Leviathan to secure the interest and ideas of everyone who wished to have his finger in the pie. So a program which was delightful for its originality was generally the happy result. On many a voyage we were entertained with dramatic sketches or musical comedy, written, rehearsed and produced enroute. And I have thought that a larger amount of pleasure was had during the re- hearsal and writing hours, while the act was taking form, than during its final presentation. Even the children enjoyed most the games which they made up themselves, and the delightful parties characteristic of every voyage were colored with originality. Vaulting over the large cage ball was a game invented on the boat by the youngsters and it was the most popular game at the children's play hour, all summer long. And not only were these original games delightful among the children who were playing, but they furnished interesting entertainment to the crowds who watched the groups, fascinated by their ingenuity. Imagine yourself among a thousand others, waiting anxiously each evening to see what new stunts have been created during the day within the groups you have seen rehearsing all afternoon in the various deck corners. The sun has gone down like a ball of fire buried in the placid sea. It is growing dark. Passengers are crowd- ing into deck chairs and benches or on the rigging and rails. At the piano, in the center of the group, the accompanist is playing an introduction to old, familiar songs. Word sheets are distributed and groups are calling for their favorite numbers. A man from the South wants Dixie. A harmonizing group calls for My Bonnie or Sweet Adeline. Then the director suggests, Sea Scout Chantey, Haul Away the Bowlin, and soon an atmosphere of happy hilarity is created. There are smiles just as broad as mine on the faces of everyone. "Now for the big show," shouts the director, and it is soon

402 IMPROVEMENT ERA evident that the afternoon's rehearsals have not been wasted. The actors are all ready, and they present their efforts under such titles as, "First Comes Last," "Knocker's Club," "Should she invite him in?" etc., but the climax is "The Sailor's Sweetheart." It seems that the sailor is supposed to have a sweetheart in every port. (This theory was tested by one of the passengers who asked a sailor if he had a sweetheart in every port. "No ma'am," he replied, we don't call at every port.") One of the sketches, called "A Lass from Alaska," written by a group from Oxford University and assisted by Miss Harwood of Boston, was a thriller. It was a motion picture production with dog teams drawing sleds (deck chairs) over the frozen northland. The avalanche (of pillows from the deck above) which buried the hero; the snowstorm (corn flakes) ; the rescue by the faithful dog; the discovery of gold; all lent a thrill only to be surpassed by the aeroplane scene, when the hero arrived (by rope from the mast) just in time to save his sweetheart from marrying the villain. The melody of Till We Meet Again rings clearly and har- moniously from a thousand voices, then Good Night Ladies and the Taps and a happy crowd wanders slowly back to staterooms, or to dance on the deck, or to look at the moon, lingering here and there to visit a bit with groups who were strangers a few days before but are now fast becoming good friends. They have learned the delights of creating their own recreation. To Fit the Scheme Sublime Things move on to their own due end; They do not move to mine. 'Tis I must alter, mould and bend To fit the scheme sublime. Life flows on to the open sea, I spar the billows dim — < My own a tempered oar must be That braves my bark to Him. Mesa, Arizona. BERTHA A. KLEINMAN