Milford High School - Oak Lily and Ivy Yearbook (Milford, MA)

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 21 CARESSANT. Far across the sea in a little town of Wales lived a family many y ears ago. It was a good family,—respected by all the neighboring countryside, for these were good honest people, obtaining from the soil of their small farm such means of living as two strong and healthy people could. Their little dwelling far from the other farms was situated on a slope facing the West, and behind, a long arm of the nearby forest stretched around as if to protect the little house on the slope. The lives of the man and his wife were wrapped up in this little cottage of which they were very proud, and especially in the tiny baby girl who slept in the cradle by the window. The fourth member of the family was “Caressant”—of the famous race of shepherds which have slowly but surely died away, but whose name will ever live in story, standing for all that is beautiful, loyal, and noble. He was a handsome dog, truly worthy of his noble ancestry, with those wonderful appeal¬ ing eyes which hold in their depths a soul of undying loyalty to the “Master.” Hardly less affection did Caressant hold for the Mistress and the wee person in the cradle. For did not the Master love the Mistress? This alone insured the eternal love and loyalty of the dog. Then, too, both the Master and the Mistress loved that tiny person in the cradle—so Caressant loved her as only a dog can, for jealousy was something far below the dignity and honor of his ancestry. All day the Master and the Mistress worked in the fields. They were not far away, but the house was out of sight since the fields lay behind the narrow neck of woodland. Occasionally when the Master and the Mistress went away and had released him from watching the sheep in the nearby pasture, Caressant was al¬ lowed to stand guard by the cradle. He deemed this a great honor, but usually it was necessary for him to remain on the hillside watching the sheep when the Master and Mistress were away. All the morning and through the long hot afternoons the man and his wife toiled in the fields for the little one asleep in the little house, but when the twi¬ light shadows began to fall they would return to the little house on the slope, weary from their long day’s work but happy with the prospect of the long sum¬ mer’s evening around the doorway with Caressant at their feet and the baby for whom they made wondrous plans asleep in the cradle. What matter if the wolves from the big forest howled about the little house and the wind shook the rafters? They were blissfully happy in the cosy room where nothing could harm them. Then came the time when there was not enough food in the big forests for the wild creatures living there. The wolves came more frequently to the little house on the slope to howl in the evening, and Caressant had to double his watch over the flock in the pasture. Then one day, in the late afternoon when before long the evening shadows were already lengthening about the little home, a lean, gray wolf, hardly more than a shadow, crept across the field to the little house and after several fruit¬ less attempts finally pushed open the screen-door at the back of the house. Oh, little babe, sleeping so peacefully in your cradle, could you but sense your peril, and call to your aid the beautiful shepherd! Out in the pasture where the flock was feeding so peacefully, Caressant, as he faithfully watched his charges, knew something was wrong. His instinct told him that; yet had not the Master told him again and again not to leave the sheep? And the Master could not be disobeyed! And yet ever more persistently his in-

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20 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. This briefly is the summary of the first novel, which aims, as Richardson himself declared, to give religious and moral instruction. In an age when pub¬ lic and domestic morality were very lax, he thought it his duty to teach Christian tenets as he understood them. The critic declares: “Unlearned he discovered what for a quarter of a century Europe had been looking for, not knowing pre¬ cisely what it wanted, a form of literature that should adequately present its life as it was, united with an ideal of life as it ought to be.” Notwithstanding the fact that Richardson’s novels are of considerable length, many people of different ages have delighted in reading them. Cross in “The Development of the English Novel,” after commenting on the custom in Richardson’s time of reading novels aloud in the family circle, says: “When some pathetic passage was reached, the members of the family would re¬ tire to separate apartments to weep ; and after composing themselves, they would return to the fireside to hear the reading proceed.” An anecdote is told to show how his novel “Pamela” affected even larger groups:— “In a certain village a blacksmith was fortunate enough to procure a copy of Richardson’s first novel ‘Pamela.’ Every evening sitting on his anvil he read it to large audiences. At length when happy fortune brought the hero and hero¬ ine ' together to live happily ever after,—according to approved rules,—the con¬ gregation was so delighted that they procured the keys and actually set the parish bells ringing.” The following was dedicated to ‘.‘the unknown Author of the Beautiful Piece ‘Pamela’ ” : “Blessed be thy powerful pen, where e’er thou art, Thou skilled great moulder of the master’d heart! Where hast thou lain conceal’d? or why thought fit At this dire period, to unveil thy wit? Sweet Pamela! forever blooming maid! Thou dear enlivening (yet immortal) shade, Why are thy beauties flashed upon the blind! What thought thy fluttering sex might learn from thee, That merit forms a rank above degree. That pride too conscious falls from every claim, While humble sweetness climbs beyond its aim.” This dedication was written because when Richardson first gave “Pamela” to the world he published it anonymously. This was perhaps, the most beauti¬ ful dedication to him, for when he died he was buried beside his first wife in the church of St. Bride and only a large stone records the fact that Samuel Rich¬ ardson, the “Father of the English Novel” lies beneath it. To him the world owes tribute for having discovered the novel, which has become a valuable re¬ corder of modern life. One of the best statements I have found in regard to the novel in general is as follows: “The art of novel embraces every sort of mental interest. Among those who regard novel writing as man’s work, and the noblest of arts—among those of fine natural endowments who approach it with sincerity and their full strength—shall be found the best writers of the English language at present living. It is not too much to say that contemporaries have written some of the best novels in our tongue. Fielding and Richardson had a different field to play upon, and art has developed so enormously, that the novel as written in England and America challenges the finest intellects and greatest artists of the time. The very fire of life glows in this art, and its possibilities are beyond all prediction, for fiction is the greatest educational force in the modern world.” Esther Gagliardi, 1923.

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22 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. stinct told him that he must not delay—that he alone could turn away a tragedy in the little home. Finally, greatly troubled and trying to decide what the Master would have him do, he started for the house. Surely the Master loved the wee baby in the cradle far more than the wooly flock on the hillside. In a moment Caressant had reached the house—but alas! Poor dog, you are too late! The baby has been dragged from the cradle and the cruel fangs of the wolf have completed their terrible crime. As Caressant rushed into the room the wolf turned savagely upon him but Caressant was quick, and his avenging teeth sank deep into the throat of the murderer. The dog and the wolf fought fiercely, and Caressant received a cruel gash in his own throat, but on his side was right and revenge, and finally Cares¬ sant was the conqueror, but not, however, until they had fought their way out of the house at the back door. Then leaving the dead wolf on the ground at the foot of the steps, Cares¬ sant went back into the house and lay down beside the body of the little baby to defend it until the Master and the Mistress should come home. Surely the Master would understand and say he had done right to leave the flock, that he might try to save the wee person whom the Master loved so much. Yes indeed, the Master would understand—he had always understood before. Before long as the first shadows stole across the slope the man and wife came, ar m in arm, through the path in the woods. They were tired and foot-sore as usual but happy, for they sensed no danger. This evening for some reason perhaps to see the sunset, perhaps to see if all were well with the flock on the hillside—I know not why—they entered the house by the front door. What a sight met them! On the floor their baby covered with blood and very still—and, ah yes, with his beautiful coat smeared with blood—Caressant. With a cry the mother snatched her child—but the Master gazed horrified at Caressant and seeing the blood on the baby and on the dog, believed Caressant to be the murderer. Oh, Master! Can you not read the truth in those eyes turned so trustingly to you? Can you not fulfill the confidence in the depths of those eyes that the Master will understand? But the Master takes his gun. He has not read the message, and so still trusting and faithful unto death, Caressant lies dead by the hand of his Master, beside the baby for whom he fought so bravely. When the man dragged the body of his faithful dog out the back door, he saw the dead wolf. Then the truth overwhelmed him, and he sank down beside the body of Caressant and sobbed as strong men scarcely ever sob. Oh that he had read the meaning in the eyes of this friend, or at least trusted him a little longer until the truth was known. To-day there are two mounds side by side on the slope facing the west; and, erected by the Master and his neighbors, there stands in everlasting memory of Caressant, a beautiful monument thirty feet high of fine marble, and on it is en¬ graved the story which I have told to you. Mary Comolli, 1923 .