Loyola College - Review Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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wx УШР aa E: LOYOLA COLLEGE REVIEW 81 but the light at his desk—something that reminds one with a thrill of a wolf stealing upon its prey.—Then he turned about swiftly, as a knock sounded upon the door. Triumph was in his voice, as he cried:— “Come in Then he cursed in deep disappointment. It was not the foe he had expected to do away with. It was his own lieutenant, Pete Trilby, and on Pete's sallow face sat disaster. The enemy had escaped !—Dick raged, and poured his anger upon Pete. Every instant he became more violent. Suddenly the disease that had crept on so slowly through years of debauchery clutched the “Boss” in its unbreakable bonds; he cringed as Death’s chilly fingers touched his bloated body.—In the clear consciousness of that horrible hour, all the teaching and warnings of his boyhood came back to buffet him. And, in his fear of death and hell, he clamored for the priest. Pete at first refused,—‘‘He’ll not keep secret what you tell, and then the gang is done for.” —“In God's name, Pete, did I ever do you dirt? You'll be dying yourself some day; don't go back on me now. — With a sneer, Pete went to the 'phone and told Father Gray that Dick Sage was dying and was calling for the priest. For a full minute after pulling down the hook, Father Gray stood there. He still, mechanically, held the receiver in his hand, thinking, puzzled. Was it a trap?— But it might really be that this soul, about to appear before an angry God, was call- ing to him for priestly comforting. His duty was clear. Pete was waiting for him in the outer office of the deserted building.—''You're as good ав dead if you go in there. Не has about ten minutes at most to live; but if he talks into your dirty ear for even ten seconds, I'll kill you dead. You’ll learn too much about us; you know too much al- ready. So take your choice.” Father Gray was very pale. But he answered nothing to Pete’s threats, ex- cept to look at him scornfully, went in to the dyin g man and closed the door behind him.—When the terrible burden of sin had been declared, and he had closed the eyes of the dead man—those eyes whose last gaze fell on the Crucifix in the confessor’s hands—Father Gray knelt a few moments longer in prayer; then stood erect and walked slowly to the door. After all, it was just a threat, and he had never been afraid of a bully. As he opened the door and stood in the full glare of the electric light, a shot rang out and he fell. Then Pete set fire to the house and, with his pockets filled with much that he valued, walked away to assume the reins of government. CECIL MCNAUGHTON, ’25. 25%

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80 LOYOLA COLLEGE REVIEW Anto Seven Times? I had said, I cannot pardon —But, in sleep, Before me came the glib-tongued, sinuous friend Who had sold my friendship. Him I would not lend Help, as he struggled in the sea, nor weep When he sank.—Appeared then, walking o'er the deep, A thorn-crowned Man Who, sighing, down did bend To raise my traitor-brother. . . . Now, to end My hate, He speaks while to His feet I creep; When Herod wrapped Me in the fool's white cloak I bent My patient head, caressed the shame Nor spake. Тһе soldier's spittle, the buffet's smart Found My cheek passionless as winter oak Storm-whipped.—And, on My blood-red Cross, not blame But mercy gushed out when they pierced My Heart. Selfishness When the burning mass had cooled down, and the firemen had begun to clear away the ruins, they found two human bodies. One was easily recognized as the huge frame of Dick Sage, political “Boss”: all were amazed when forced to admit that the other corpse must be that of the man whom Dick had fought tooth and nail for ten years, and who had fought back brave- Iy,——Father Gray, the parish priest. Ж ж ж ж ж ж ж He was still dictating in his loud, harsh voice when five o'clock struck, and he con- tinued for some twenty minutes more. Then, That's all,” he snarled. The little stenographer quickly, but timidly, cleared away her papers and departed. He was left alone, impatiently awaiting a friend. Dick Sage appeared to be prospering. Everything in the office glittered—from the pendant chandeliers to the fire-tongs, from the rows of studs on the leather- covered chairs to the queerly-shaped paper-knife in his hand, whose edge, as he tested it carefully, seemed unusually keen. Everything seemed the hugest and brightest money could buy,—even the flaming ruby in his cravat and the dia- mond on his left hand. But all these trappings could not dis- guise the man,—a blustering bully who frightened cowards. Could his mother have come down from. Heaven into this hole, she would easily have recognized the worthless son who had left her so long D. MICHAEL, ’22 ago. The poor widow had drudged many years, by daylight and dim candle, to send him to college and to make a man of him. But he was always lazy and heartless, and, after causing her many a heartache, had at last run away from home, taking with him the small sum she had saved. Never after did he seek news of her, nor did he know that she had died soon after his flight, wasted away by a mother’s love for a thief. Twenty years later he appeared sudden- ly in this western city, boasting that he was a self-made man. Sad was the tale,— and skilfully he told it—of the penniless orphan thrown on the cold world. How he had become wealthy was not told; but he spoke vaguely of lucky chances and daring ventures,—an inspiring example of how the sturdy and true ever climb! And now he is a man of power, a ward- leader of a political party. But he appears far from happy. As minute after minute passes without an arrival, the scowl darkens and the malevo- lent eyes almost disappear between bushy eyebrows and flabby cheeks. The scar that cuts the under-lip and disappears be- neath the chin is now livid, now flaring red. At length he throws the paper-knife upon the desk with a curse, and begins to pace the room with long strides, noiselessly on the thick carpet. There is something un- canny in the swift, silent movement in the darkened room—for he has turned off all T

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32 LOYOLA COLLEGE REVIEW STUDY HALL Sjaunts Into Pers Libre Thought is the bane of Poetry.” Futurists. Regret A withering rose, with langour-laden head, Close by the grave of red Miranda, sent my blood like frenzied fire In current dire Along my rusty veins,—like molten shot Swift-hurled from Hiram Maxim’s maxim guns. Then bellowed Thought :— “My ox-eyed Mandy shuns “Her Willie?—What? “My trembling fawn, with fear-impelled tread, “To darkness ran?—O sot! “Is Mandy dead? The rose—oh, strange reply—upon the sward Let fall a single petal. This—Mandy’s gift —DT1l hoard In grandma's iron, spoutless kettle Upon the top shelf in my dusty den.— O me! O Rose! O Mandy! When? Oh, When? Despair I thought a voice called me to work On the cloud-hills of the sky; But now there’s weariness and a grey mist; ` With a half-stifled cry I swoon.— Perhaps,—in my madness— ’T was only a noise that I heard. Then all the waters of earth will never revive me,— Oh, damnation on the thought. Disappointment One day I walked into my garden, But of flowers there were none! Then a numbness settled on my heart And a fever in my brain. I beat on my brain with mad clenched ist,— The perfume had gone from my garden !— Why should my life have perfume? I shall fondle its carrots and parsnips And become lost in a maze of regrets. For obvious reasons, the author prefers to hide his identity beneath the ample folds of his modesty.