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

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26 THE LOYOLA ANNUAL “ ‘ What is it? ’ she says quick. “ ‘ YOU,’ he answers, steady and clear. ‘ If I risk my life for that man out there, who, God knows, I would sooner see die than come back here, it’s you, — or he stays there. “ She sorter starts and looks at him, as though she was dreaming. Then, givin’ a little laugh that was cut short in the middle and wasn’t good to hear, she says : “ ‘ Go ; anything, for he’ll die out there.’ Billy never said another word, but, turning on his heel, he goes up to where the logs is, and picking out a big one, jumps on and shoves her off. When he struck the first stretch of water he leaned for- ward like a circus-rider, swinging easily to the roll of the log. All this time Charlie, who had been looking and seeing what he had to do, waited until the log shot abreast, then jumped. He lit square on the log, but would have fallen off if Billy hadn’t grabbed him. Down they went until they struck the drop, then as their log dived, Billy picked Charlie up in his arms, jumped high and dropped as gracefully as a cat, on one of the logs that were floating in the pool. “Well, you oughter heard us holler! Billy never said a word, but with Charlie, who had fainted, lying in his arms like a big child, went up to where the girl was settin’ with tearless eyes and sweet face lookin’ at him. “ Layin’ the man down beside her he says, kinder sad : “ ‘ Take him, honey, he’s yours. For, as God is my Judge, I won’t deprive a girl of the man she loves, as you love him.’ With this he turns and starts up the river trail. “ ‘ Hey, boss,’ yells one of the men, ‘ aint you agoin’ to run this drive clar thro ? ’ “ ‘ To h — with the drive,’ says Billy. ‘ I’m tired, tired.’ “ Nor has horn, hair nor hoof mark been seen of him since.” Frederic C. Lee, ’10.

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THE LOYOLA ANNUAL 25 Billy had been doin’ a heap of thinkin’. There was the man that he would have done anything to get rid of, gotten rid of for him, as you might say, by Providence, and he didn’t know whether to get him off, or thank his stars that he hadn’t had to kill him. “ Well, it had been three days and we was still loafln around, trying to get up some means to rescue him without onnecessarily exposin’ ourselves. Charlie was about ‘ all in ;’ he had just enough life to stand up, and that was all. He tried to holler once or twice, but the water was too loud. ‘‘ Well, on the third day she came down. To tell the truth, she had been there most all the time, except when her people forced her to take some rest, and it was easy seen that she was clean gone on ‘ handsome ’ Charlie Morris, now more a skeleton than the good lookin’, reckless Irishman he had been a week before. There was Charlie a-layin’ there, more dead than alive, and the girl near crazy. She came down to where the men were settin’, her face white and drawn. She spoke, and her voice sounded like a rasp on iron. “ ‘What are you goin’ to do for Charlie? ’ she asks for the eleven hundredth time. They looks down and says nothing; they don’t like the fix. ‘ Aint you goin’ to get him? ’ she asks terse and quiet. No answer. “ ‘ Men, for God’s sake get him. Don’t let him die out there. Get him for me, for me. Oh, I love him and I’ll go crazy if you don’t get him off.’ “We don ' t like it, for when she asks for anything they generally go after it. Then, becomin’ scornful, she rips ' em up the back. “‘You call yourselves lumberjacks, but you aint; they don’t act like this when their chum is dying. Where’s Mr. Lacaque? He’ll go. Won’t you? As Bill come up from where he’s been down by the river, studying a whole lot. ‘ Y es,’ he says slow. ‘ I’ll go, but I got to have my price.’

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THE LOYOLA ANNUAL 27 Horace and xx egit tellers} ' HE advice of a classical writer may seem little adapted A to modern literature. Indeed there are few authors who would consider Horace a suitable teacher, although his “ Ars Poetica ’ contains principles of writing, nearly all of which are as applicable to the present day, as they were to the time when the masterpiece was written. It has been well said of this little work, that ‘‘ it is good taste reduced to principles.” V e find no rigid treatise upon the forms and art of poetry, no text-book on the intricacies of metre, but we peruse the careful, shrewd observations and opinions of a genius, the pre- cepts, taught by experience, of one of the greatest poets of the world. The poem is supposed to be a letter of advice to a father and his sons, about to enter the field of literature; com- mentators say it should be called the art of criticism, rather than the art of poetry. Pope has properly named his own treatis‘e, which is similar to it, an Essay on Criticism. The principles which Horace puts into verse, although handed down from Rome’s Augustan age, are not, like the crumbling pillars found in the ruins of the Eternal City, mere memorials of an empire, over the downfall of which many cen- turies have rolled. His sound advice reminds us of his own words, for it certainly “ wishes to be viewed in the light, and does not fear the sharp judgment of the critic.” It would be well if many writers of the present day model- led their w orks on his- teaching. To give an effect of color, “ often one or two purple patches,” says Horace, “ are tacked upon writings begun with a serious purpose and which prom- ised fine material.” The votaries of the purple patch system are very numerous at the present time — we catch glimpses of