Loyola University Maryland - Evergreen / Green and Gray Yearbook (Baltimore, MD)

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20 THE LOYOLA ANNUAL been hidden for many a day behind the curtain of Time. Somehow or other, a lump rises to the throat, a mist is dim- ming the eyes, a tear falls unnoticed on his cheek. The pass- ing years will take away his sorrows, will heal his wounds, in his happiness memory will again come. She will lead him back to the days of his sorrow. With delicate and tender hand she will touch again the old wounds, will lay bare the old sores and all unbidden a tear will drop from his sorrow-dimmed eyes. At all times and in all places memory comes. She passes with soft, silent tread, and with sympathetic loving touch she tints the years gone by. She calls us back to scenes in the dim recesses of an almost forgotten past; she leaves behind a perfume of old lavendar and rose, and, best of all, — a tear. Edward K. Hanlon, ’09. puff ! (A Triolet.) The smoke wreaths curled, Fantasies sped; King of a world ! The smoke wreaths curled, Care’s tent unfurled, — Age and love wed; The smoke wreaths curled; Fantasies sped. Edwin B. Kelly, ’10.

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THE LOYOLA ANNUAL 19 he sees again the friends whom he has forgotten in his affluence, the enemies whom he has crushed in his might. Then by a miracle of Time he regrets the age-sweetened past; a tear steals down his hardened cheek ; half ashamed and from force of habit, he brushes it away and returns to the present. Upon him who slaves in hunger and in rags impartial memory also attends. He travels back through the years of his toil to the days of his youth, to the days when his future was flooded with the sunlight of hope, to the days when he romped carefree and happy. He remembers the little childish troubles, which seemed to him so terrible, so dark; he re- members his games and his playmates, his quarrels and his loves. As when the dark waters of the ocean are lighted up by the moon, casting a silvery roadway over its softly-breath- ing depths, so over his dark life comes the silvery light of memory; unknown a tear falls; he, too, brushes it away and faces again a hopeless future. Memory steals alike on the hard-hearted and on the good. The man of evil habits looks back to the time when he knew no wrong, when his life was pure and spotless, when he knelt at his mother’s knees and lisped the sweet prayers of child- hood’s kingdom. Strange to say he does not sneer nor smile in scorn; it seems so natural, so peaceful, that he regrets the present, longing for the past. How many years have passed since those days, how many years of erring life; he bows his head in shame; he weeps. No! not idle tears for him. And over across the way the good man, too, looks back, perhaps upon a picture much the same. He too, weeps and blesses the memory that brought those tears, tears which give strength to persevere unto the end. Of course, he who sorrows for a loved one falls under memory’s spell. A face that has crumbled to dust once more comes up to view, once more he hears a voice that has long since gone silent. There are laid before him scenes that have

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THE LOYOLA ANNUAL 21 in fWcfeer ' (A Story.) Y es, sir, there are good men in plenty, and some of them are extra good. But, sir! You got to hunt a terrible long ways before you will run on another like Billy Lacaque, boss of the river, white water birler, handler of the bully boys from the Saranac. “ Billy was a man clear through from his caulked boots to the little, old felt hat that he used to stick on his head; and game ! why, say partner, he was so ‘ doggone ’ game, he didn’t know it! “ It all come about this way : Billy wanted the girl and wanted her bad, and at first it seemed like he was agoing to get her, too, but then ‘ handsome ’ Charlie Morris, sort of breezed in, and she sort of dealt Billy a cold deck, and turned her ’tentions all to Charlie. Billy aint say in’ nothing cause it aint his way to go clamorin’ around promiscuous like, sheddin’ his grievances on the public ear. You could see he was hard hit, though. “ That winter Smith and Fitzhugh, the greatest lumber- men north of the Great Lakes, having some ‘ eighties ’ to clear up on the little Red, had got together one of the finest logging crews that had ever been seen. Billy was foreman, and he did the choosin’, but old man Smith had come down and asked special to have Charlie put on the job, him being some con- nection or other. So Billy had him installed as barn boss. “ Well, all that winter it was the same old thing— work, work and then some more work, wrestling with the wilderness, fighting death in a thousand shapes. There was some got