Marywood Academy - Veritas Yearbook (Grand Rapids, MI)

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v 1 r X ss 1 I 111111 A s 5 . 1l li 1: .1 I 1 i ,A A THE CHARACTER IN FICTION VVHICH I LIKE BEST There are a great many characters in the vast world of literature, interesting, admirable, enticing, but the one which most impressed me, and which I will always remember, is l3assonio's Portia. Perhaps it was because I was a Freshman. High school seemed to me the most wonderful thing one could imagine, and when finally we studied a Shakespearian play, I was entranced. Through the whole Merchant of Venice, Portia was my idol. I admired her clever- ness, her conformity to her father's wishes, her leadership, and most of all her masterful 1 action in the court scene. I-ler pleading with Shylock, her own self reliance, her C011- ' fidence in womanly persuasion, and the using of the quibble only as a last resort all impressed me. Yes, that quibble in itself was a charm. Was not she to be admired as she slowly advanced to the prostrate Antonio before his ruthless murderer? VVith her noble head elevated, and with a look of triumph yet of pity in her eye, could anyone but idolize her? - Yet the lwercy Speech more than any other affected me. lllemorizing that was indeed a joy, but hearing it given, as I afterward did in the play was the greatest Q pleasure. 1 I also enjoyed her clever management of the ring affair, and heartily laughed at 1 poor l3assonio's chagrin. ' I did not treat her as a great Shakespearian critic. To me she embodied all that was noble, beautiful and womanly, in a word all that an ideal should possess. I have now read other plays of Shakespeare, I have read poems, novels and romances, but Portia in The fllerrlzant of Vmzirc will always be that lasting idol which I once, as a little Freshman, worshipped. --EUGENIA SCHMITZ, ,27. DESCRIPFI IVE SKI: l CHES 13, -xi- fil A RISING ACTION . A heavy, drowsy stupor spreading over the whole body enveloping it in a thick veil -of semi-consciousness, a faint realization that all is not as it should be, but still an E utter inability to compel the mind to fathom the enigma, a desire to drown the thought of work and worry in delicious forgetfulness-these terminate in the woeful coming of .ll that voice of doom which sounds ominously and pitilessly from the foot of the stairs- df Get up! It's seven o'clock. , -IVIARY MILLER, '26. 251 an as ea eil DAVID COPPERFIELD Because he is not too good, too ideal to be true, because he has the weaknesses and faults of the average human being and because he is not too far above us to make us feel a fraternal affection for him, David Copperfield has always been, is, and always Q 1 will be my favorite character in fiction. I have never been able to sympathize with 1 these hopelessly perfect people who are flung at us mercilessly by the majority of authors. They give me an inferiority complex. People think that this book is long drawn out, gl but I do not find it so. I lived this through, and loved it well enough to read it again and again- -BLANCHE LE PAGE, ,27. il til 51.111 .14 1 L 1 9 2 6 1 ' 5 Page F any

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X' if R I 'I' A S A SPRING REVERIE A soft, drowsy whistle, and then a throbbing, melodious song colored with the whole earnest soul of the tiny feathered songster burst forth upon the clear air. Gentle breezes, like angels' breath tenderly kiss the sleeping buttercups, and gently open the chalices of molten gold, so lately closed in peaceful repose. Tiny lambs frolic to and fro on the verdant meadows. The bubbling laughter of the cool, sparkling brooklet awakens another member of this rustic society, and Jack curls out his leaves and ascends to his pulpit. Far above his head, faint tints of azure softly merge into purple and along the horizon, a ruddy glow lights the heavens. Slowly the rose- crowned Goddess of Dawn is lifting the heavy mantle of darkness and the sun's fiery steeds foaming and bristling dart forth with the jewel-studded chariot of Apollo. Here I am enjoying one of the most beautiful sights of nature,-but did I say Apollo? Yes. New visions arise before me. I seem to stand upon the Capitoline Hill in sunny Italy. Above me are olive groves laden with choicest fruits. I tear myself away from all this beauty, and in the distance I behold Rome in all its glory. The Forum is dese1'ted, except for a few merchants, but to me it is peopled with throngs, arrayed in togas, speaking, selling, trading, Caesar and Cicero bowing to the expectant people. Farther on are the famous Baths, resplendent in luxury, and as my eye travels onward I behold the Coliseum. That vast structure is now crumbling ruins but in my glowing imagination it is crowded with Romans spell-bound by some gladiatorial feat or gazing with blood-thirsty eyes upon the dying martyrs. The Christians to the Lions -rings on the clear air, and there with eyes raised toward heaven those valiant heroes of Christ meet their death. Again it is a chariot race, stupendous, spectacular, glowing with interest and excitement. Then, as I turn my gaze farther I behold the Appian VVay, the Claudian Aqueduct and the other marvels of the Ancient World, and of Rome, the city of the seven hills. VVhat thoughts they bring to my mind. What hours I could spend in contemplation! But alas! I find myself at a little American countryside brought back to stern reality. --EUGENIA SCHMITZ, '27. MY FAVORITE CHARACTER I believe I have found my favorite character in a book just recently read. The book was The Crisis and the character-Stephen Brice. He is to my mind, truly an ideal. A man of principle, possessing those sterling qualities that make up the char- acter of a true gentleman. Not a too-good-to-be-true character that is hardly ever found, but an honest-to-goodness one that occasionally one meets in his everyday life. Loyalty to God and country, fine feeling of fellowship and respect for womanhood are among the most prominent of his characteristics. Accompanying these we find a delightful, tingling sense of humor. Never once does a shadow of fear cross the reader's mind that he will show the least streak of cowardice. Whenever he steps into the chapter you feel as though you are reading something worth while. And I attribute all these qualities and virtues to the fact that he set up his ideal and with steadfast determination gradually perfected his character towards that ideal, none other than our own Abraham Ilincoln. --LOYOLA KIRCHHOFF, '27. 1926 at Pug Thirty nine

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X' If I-1 I 'I' .X S THE NATIVE AMERICAN He stood erect, his arms folded across his magnificent chest, upon one of the numberless crags, that formed the perilous path into the canyon. His age I could not determine. He was no mere boy and yet he was not aged, but in between he might be of any age. His tar black hair was held away from his face by a band of beadwork. His eyes were brown, his cheek bones high, and his face was lean and bronzed. I could not say there was no expression in his eyes, but somehow it eluded me. I could not seem to fathom that expression. Those eyes seemed to take in nothing, and yet not miss one single thing, and to me they resembled nothing more than the eyes of an Egyptian Sphinx. He looked relentless, and he had been taught that revenge was a virtue, yet I believe he could be tender, almost merciful at times. I-Ie was an Indian, who, heeding the call of his ancestral blood, had returned to live on the frontiers taken from the Indians. Flight of time prevented me from finding out, of what he was thinking, for almost immediately, as he stood there motionless, night dropped its shades into the lowest depths of the canyon. -HELEN MCKENNA, '26. 'Ili' 'Wk SSS THE SLONV DEATH OF DAY lVhat a wonderful camera is the mind. This sensitized plate takes pictures that could never be painted nor be expressed by the most eloquent orators. The picture that was developed in my mind this evening as I sat in my garden was the slow death of day. Could anything be more inspiring! I was sitting in a rustic chair, under an enormous elm, facing the direct west. Slowly and timidly to the measure of God's hand, approached the twilight. The sky changed from an excessive azure, to a royal purple in the southwest, and in the direct west, black were the trees outlined against the dandelion sky in which the sun lingered. Then as a ball of fire, the sun descended from its throne, and as it sank beyond the horizon, blood red rays blushed across the sky. Gradually, but surely, a transfiguration took place. The sky seemed to be an ocean of outflowing radiance. Then, as if a curtain had been dropped before my eyes, shutting out the celestial beauty, darkness descended. I felt a tone of sadness, a touch of melancholy, and I was beckoned to an unreal world, a land of dreams, to wait for the glories of the coming dawn. -LYLA MoN'rRoY, '2 8. MIDNIGHT When Dame Time pauses for breath at the stroke of twelve, all the world hearkens to her weary sigh. Her mantle of black over-spreads the earth and hides the sun in its peaceful folds. It is midnight-the hour of quiet. Yet, not for all does midnight suggest tranquility. To the anxious mother, awaiting a son's or daughter's arrival from sogie party, midnight only means anxiety and worry to the maternal heart. To the I . . . . a orer, this ghostly hour brings rest and sleepg but to the student, it only enhances his wildest night-mares of tomorrow's exams or today's rebuff. Midnight favors the h . teac er, in bestowing sweet dreams of her duties well done For the poor sufferin invalid, midnight only marks the beginning of another day of writhing and piain. Yet, twelve o'clock and all is well? -IUILDRED RONAN, '26, '1926 Page Forty-one