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Page 31 text:
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THE LOYOLA ANNUAL 19 we are endeavoring to bring out is the fact that the careful perusal of one book is worth more than the careless reading of half a dozen; that “quality, not quantity,” is an adage which holds true in literature as well as in other branches of endeavor, or, in other and more concise words, that the author’s dream of an ideal reader is one who reads “multum non multa.” Ralph J. Sybert, ’i6. A 0ng of g pn«g Welcome, faery Spring-maid, Welcome, silver shower. Welcome, golden sunshine. Welcome, baby-flower. Gone the storms of winter, Gone the sluggish snow; Beauty walks the woodland. Zephyrs are ablow. Welcome, faery Spring-maid, Welcome, silver shower. Welcome, golden sunshine. Welcome, baby-flower. J. Bart Muth, ’i6.
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Page 32 text:
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20 THE LOYOLA ANNUAL Irurufliitt In IJPON the sunny slopes of a mountain town secluded in the Scottish Highlands, Stevenson spent his boyhood days. There it was among those silent vales and whispering forests that he set aglow the spark of genius which he kept bright through life with an ardent flame, only to be extin- guished in the far-away Southern seas. Like a flower he arose silently among the hills of Scotland, emitted a sweet aroma that can be inhaled by all his readers, and solitary he died on the distant island of Samoa. Prevented from mingling with other children by ill health, Stevenson in childhood developed a love for literature. Friends of his boyhood days were few, and even the truest found in him a listless companion. His disposition was such that it tinged even the gayest society with melancholy. But the days of boy- hood passed like shadows of a dream, and gradually merged into youth, the happiest period of his life. Travelers to Edin- burgh remarked that the indolent fellow with soft brown eyes seemed to have drunk the sunlight under Southern vines. Unlike other boys, Stevenson dreamed away his indolent young years. As a caged bird yearns to fly off into sunnier climes, the Scottish youth longed for distant lands. Wander- ing into a seaport town, he would watch the ships like specks in the ofling, blend into nothingness, and burning with a desire to be with them, would sit and weep on the sea-sprayed piers of Leith. Often, too, he would lean over the great brown bridge which connects the new town with the old and watch the trains smoking out from under him on a voyage to brighter skies. Stevenson was sent to college to continue in his father’s
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