Atwood Hammond High School - Post Yearbook (Atwood, IL)

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PJSRFKCJTION K. Lu 71635 (OWNED BV A. L. BLISS AND F. L. IIENINOER) The acknowledged Prince of Brood Sow Sires.” The undisputed king- of easy feeders. The most uniform breeder on earth. A few choice sows due to farrow June, July and August Perfection E. L. litters for sale privately. Can supply you with Poland Chinas of most any other popular breeding. Prices reasonable. Also have for sale FARM HORSES, CORD WOOD and WHITE OAK FENCE POSTS. Glad to have visitors any time at the OKAW STOCK FARM a miles west of Tuscola—2 miles south of Ficklin—2 miles north of Bourbon. For information address, . L. BLISS, Tuscola, ir.r..

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TWO GLORIES TRANSLATED BY BEN TOMUNSON STUDENT OF U. OF I. One day when the celebrated Flemish painter, Peter Paul Rubens, was going through the churches of Madrid, accompanied by his famous pupils, he entered the church of a humble monastery, of which tradition has not handed down the name. The famous artist found little or nothing to admire in that poor, ruined church, and was already going on, railing, as was his custom, against the bad taste of the monks of New Castile, when he noticed a certain picture half hidden in the shadows of the ugly chapel, approached it, and gave an exclamation of astonishment. His pupils surrounded him in a moment and asked: What have you found. Master?” Look!” said Rubens, pointing, as his only reply, to the canvas before him. The pupils were as overcome with wonder as the painter of the “Descent from the Cross. The picture represented the “Death of a Monk.” Very young and of a beauty which neither penance nor suffering had been able to efface, he was stretched on the tiles of his cell, with his eyes already veiled by death. One hand was extended and clasped a death-skull, while with the other he pressed to his heart a crucifix ot copper and wood. In the background of the canvas was seen painted another picture, which was represented as hanging near the bed from which the monk was supposed to have arisen, in order to die with greater humility on the hard ground. That second picture represented a dead girl, young and beautiful, placed on her bier and surrounded by funeral tapers and ric i. black hangings. No one could contemplate those two scenes, the one contained in the other, without understanding that they mutually completed and explained each other. An unfortunate love, a dead hope, a disillusionment of life, an eternal oblivion of the world; this is the mysterious poem that is drawn from the two ascetic dramas locked up in that canvas. Moreover, the color, the drawing, the composition, all revealed a genius of the first order. Master, who can have painted this magniBcent picture?” aske l the pupil , who had already approached the painting. “In this corner there hail been a name written,” rjplied the artist, “but a few months ago it was erased. As to the picture, it is not more than thirty nor less than twenty years old. “But the artist— The artist, according to the merit of the picture, might be Velasquez, Zurbaran, Ribera, or the young Murillo, with whom I am so charmed. But Velasquez does not feel in this manner. Neither is it Zurbaran, if attention is paid to the color and to the manner of seeing the subject. Still less should it be attributed to Murillo or to Ribera; the former is more tender and the latter more sombre, and besides the style belongs t » lhe school neither of the one nor of the other. Iu short. I do n t know the author of this painting, and I would even swear that I have never seen any of his works. 1 go still farther; I believe that the painter, unknown and perhaps even dead, who haft left the world such a marvel, ) 'longed to no school, and lias painted no other picture except this, nor could he have painted another that could h ive approach id it in m rit. This is a work of pure inspiration, a. personal experience, a reflection o. the soul, a fragment of his life .... But .... what an idea! Do you wish to know who is the author of this picture? Tnen it is this very dead man whom you s e in it!”

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genius, it is not in order that this soul may be consumed in solitude, but that it may fultil its sublime missiotn of illuminating the souls of other men. Tell me the name of the monastery in which this great artist is hiding, and I will go to seek him and return him to the world. Oh! what lame I expect for him! “Hut . . . and if lie refuses? asked the Prior timidly. If he refuses, I will go to the Pope, with whose friendship 1 am honored, and the Pope will convince him better than I. The Pope! exclaimed the Prior. “Yes, father: the Pope. repeated Rubens. Be assured that I would not tell you the name of this painter even if I remembered it! Know that I will not tell you in what monastery he has taken refuge! Very well, father: the King and the Pope will force you to tell it, replied Rubens exasperated. ”1 will see to the matter myself. Oh! you shall not do it!” exclaimed the monk. You would do great wrong. Take away the picture, if you wish, but leave him in j»eace who lias found rest. I speak to you in the name of God. I knew, 1 loved, I consoled. 1 redeemed. 1 saved from the waves of passion and misfortune, shipwrecked and dying, this great man, as you say, this blind unfortunate mortal, as I call him. Yesterday he had forgotten God and himself; today he is near the supreme happiness -glory. Do you know anything better than that for which he is striving? With what right do vou wish to revive in his soul the fatuous fires of earthly vanities, when in his heart burns the inextinguishable liaine of charity? Do you believe that this man, before leaving the world, before renouncing richts, fame, power, youth, love, all that makes mortals vain, did not undergo a fierce struggle with bis heart? Can you uot guess the disappointment and bitterness that he experienced with the knowledge of the falseness of tilings human? And do you wish to bring him back to the struggle when he has already conquered? - But this is to renounce immortality! cried Rubens. It is to aspire to it. “And with what right do you interpose yourself between this man and the world? Let him speak and he shall d icide.” I do it with the right of an elder brother, of a master, of a father, all of which I atn. for him. I do it iu the name of God, I repeat. Respect him ... for the good of your soul. Thus speaking tlie monk covered his head with his hood and went away. “Let us go, said Rubens. I know what I have to do. Master, exclaimed one of the pupils, who, during the conversation, had been studying alternately the canvas and the monk, ‘do you not believe, as I do, that this old mouk resembles very much the young man who is dying in that picture? “Ah! it is true! exclaimed all. Take away the wrinkles and the beard and the thirty years that this picture shows, and you will see that the master was right when he said that this dead monk was at ouce the portrait and the work of a living monk. And now may I perish, if this living monk is not the Father Prior! In the meantime, Rubens, gloomy, shamed and deeply moved, watched the retreating figure of the old man who saluted him, before disappearing, by crossing bis arms over his breast. Yes ... it was he, stammered the artist. Let us go, lie added, turning to his pupils. That man was right. His glory is worth more than mine. Let him die in peace. And giving a last look at the canvas that had so greatly moved him, he left the church and directed his steps toward the palace where he was honored by a place at Their Majesties’ table. Three days later, Rubens returned entirely alone to the humble chapel, still desirous of contemplating the marvelous picture and even of speaking again with its presumed painter. But the painting was no longer in its place. Instead he found in the principle nave of the church a funeral bier placed on the ground and surrounded by all the brotherhood, who were celebrating the requiem mass, lie approached to look at the face of the dead man and saw that it was the Father Prior. “He was a great painter. said Rubens, as soon as surprise and grief had given place to other sentiments. “Now it is that he most resembles his work.