Boston University College of Practical Arts and Letters - Sivad Yearbook (Boston, MA)

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ff s ,ji It may be that our philosopher at last borrowed M Cobbles behind. Turning a gentle curve in the road, he crossed a stone brid e d . H - d - i , 8 , H11 caught Sight of an a uring an uncertain woodland path. It might lead to the hilltop. it might end in a squirrels track. What did it matter to a philosopher who had stole , f the methodical, the conventional, the commonplace? A yellow throat san alinaway mm ing from a thicket. A butterfly on velvety wings fluttered by like a maidgn errY gift, message of happiness. . queen Wit 3 efCUfY,S Wings, for soon he left the Landscapes have a power of hidden meaning. Some seem to prophesy some to Com, memorateg some hold even a fateful atmosphere, while others again bfeafthe a Sense of blessedness. So it seemed to the philosopher on his way to a hilltop, for the joyful spirit of life held sway all about him. Expectancy was in the song of the birds, for they were happily building their nests. ' Now our philosopher has reached the hilltop, has seated himself on a lichenfcovered rock, and is gazing into the green valley. As it often happens on even a brilliant spring day, a sudden soft mist gently obscured the sun, and soon a pattering of raindrops on the leaves sounded like a dance of the water sprites. Another moment, and the sun, sparkling through the raindrops, caused a rainbow to span the sky. Very likely, because no one was looking, the philosopher shook his finger at the Circe of the sky. Had he not the philosof pher's stone, a cheerful temper, that turns to gold all it touches? ' The valley refreshed by the shower seemed greener, and the wild flowers made an exquisite mosaic of bloom. The philosopher reflected on the influence of beauty, its power to dispel the mists of life as the sun dispersed the raindrops. He thought of the men who, through their love and knowledge of the beautiful, would inspire generations to come, men who, even now, were learning in the solitude of green valleys and on hilltops how to draw others from sordidness to greatness in life, men like john Henry Newman and William Wordsworth, who had sought the hills, there to meditate freely. The living thoughts and images inspired by the solitude of the hilltop, or the depths of a green valley, have been carried in the hearts of their disciples. Perhaps the philosopher caught a glimpse of the still curledfup buds of mountain laurel as he rose from the lichenfcovered stone. beautiful, more gilt is beautiful today, but tomorrow, or the next day, something more perfect is coming, he mused. 209

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x- 4. l -1- - V is mi The windfsongs of the starlike firs, A robin's tune of glee, The friendly brookls confiding voice, Call irresistibly. ' Follow I would the sunfbright road That leads to heartls desire, Yet somehow, Duty, pointing far, Shows new dreams to acquire. HILLTOPS AND GREEN VALLEYS E might have described himself as a philosopher disguised as an idler. He 9 might have smiled whimsically and said that he was just anybody, taking a day off. He was, perhaps, only a L'Merry Andrewn into whose ear spring ff -T4 -' - 2 -f had piped a note or two, and he was off whistling a tune to his own thoughts which were of hilltops and green valleys. Whoever he was, to all appearances he was an idler walking the highway with his back to the town. So leisurely was his gait that the chimneys and steeples only slowly receded behind him. Had he chanced to turn, hesitating, the lure of the city might still have ensnared him, for a veritable Circe has her kingdom in the heart of a city, and her enchantments are often lifelong. Perhaps the stroller on the highway had already broken some chains of the enchantress. Certainly the philosopher had doffed his cap to the Circe of the city, and was still listening to the tune spring lightly played in his ear: A When Time lets slip ci little perfect liowr, Take it, for it will not come againfl E 208

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