Stadium High School - Tahoma Yearbook (Tacoma, WA)

Page 18 text:

I6 T H E 'T A I-I O M A She laid at the door a snowy sheet and the baby's quilt, so that on the long journey it take no injury from the cold, but out of the dark still came a wailing like a soul in pain. The widow lifted the latch and strained her eyes into the darkness. That the soul might pass freely, she faced the stinging wind and flung wide open the door. The night wasblack as a shroud, and far distant in the Channel the red lights of a Houndering ship flamed faintly. Out of the dark came a wailing like a soul in pain. I-Ieard you nothing, mother? questioned the widow, in the dark it cries for me. I-Ier mother sighed, and roused herself from the heaviness of sleep. Sorrow has made you dull, my daughter. Must you learn anew the scream of the wind-blown gull, or the cry of the hern ? Those were bl-own inland, long ago. That was never a bird's cry, mother, oh, hark, I hear it now I I-Ier mother soothed her with tender fingers, My daughter, dear daughter, be quiet, long ago has your lamb passed i11to the fold. 'Tis the smart of the tears you cannot shed, the ache of your breast where the babe would be feedingg the feel of your empty arms. I know, I know. Oh, daughter, 'tis only thatfi ' The widow put her mother aside. She cried, In Mary's name, let me go. For the peace of my soul, let me go. Something out there in the dark is calling me. She plunged into the biting night, and the wind-flung rain dashed fiercely in her face. And still there came a wailing. Under the lee of the shaken pier, where the twisted kelp was piled high and slimy, she found a little child. She wiped the brine from its face, and with a low cry laid it against her bosom. And as it fed, the touch of its cold little hands upon her bosom thrilled her heart strings. Then she came back to the warmth and light of the cabin, where her mother still nodded by the fire. At her breast cooed the stranger child, and her own on the cot was dead. H 'fMary, patron of mothers, what a bitter jest. she said drearily. Her eyes were dry of tears as she stared at the baby. Forgive rue, I! ' but I am not glad to save it. -Marvin MacLean 'HM

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THE TAHOMA i5 Out of the ark Cl-Trom an old English legendj , ER mother, worn-out, her mouth drooping steadily, slept in a corner. She sat huddled in a heap, herwhite 5 .A H A head nodding grotesquely over her knees. Exhaus- qll I tion had drained from her the last sap of vitality. 1 .7 But the widow oi the bedside where her dead child Q 1 Q lay swaddled in a sheet, only laughed mirthlessly 0 and listened. A gale was sweeping the Channel. HI lost my man in the sea, she said monotonously. My babe is dead. Be still. Xwhat more can you do to me? The candle glared and gutteredg on the wall the leaping iirelight Hung huge, fantastic shadows, The widow knelt, and to prevent them dropping open, she tied over the baby's jaws a linen kerchief. She opened the window at the top so that the soul might pass. It is time to sing the Passing Songfi she said. Her voice was flat and harsh with grief, like the whistling of the wind. It broke over the words: ' Mary take you now, You that suckled at my heart, Mary sooth your crib tonight - But when it came to the place where she must say to the soul De- part, her lips would not form the words. She bowed in dumb agony over the cot, and the dead, sweet face stared into hers, and the rain- drops pounded on the window. Out of the dark, above the plunge and thunder of the wind-hacked waves, came a wail like a soul in pain. The widow gazed out through the splashed window, but the glass was blinded by the rain. Did you hear nothing, mother? . Hush, daughter! It isthe child that waits to pass. The widow's eyes were big and eerieg they peered out of her white, weary face like sunken shadows. She sighed, and shook her head. NOP she said, perhaps it is a lamb in the Wind. For why should my babe cry out that was christened, innocent, and clean of sin P

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TI-IE. TAI-IOMA POETS Carmen is i si Night Pictures t THE night is come, and over field and town, A soothing veil by unseen hands is spread, And over all a hushing silence settles down, As if a soul were dead. F ar to the west the frowning mountain-tops, Tower boldly up against the starlit sl-:yy But safe among their crags, lone, undiscovered lakes Unruffled sleeping lie. I feel-that somewhere on the angry deep A ship is struggling in the storm to-nightg While in my cottage all is peace, and I am safe, And everything is bright. The night wears on, yet over field and town The darkness weighs upon the world like leadg And hour by hour the ghastly silence settles down As if a soul were dead. -Knute Anderson 'l2 Q3 Q5 M Romance IN this our age of humdrurn toil - Our speech is terse, our ways are plain, Our voices, unatuned to song, Give answer to the cry of gain. So blinded bards have sighed and saidi ' Old times are passed-Romance is dead.