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

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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 .

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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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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 23 ON A LOVE OF BOOKS. “The love of books is a love which requires neither justification, apology, nor defense” —Langford. When a man admits a love of books, he unconsciously shifts about for some excuse, some apology. Why? Why should a love of books require apology? I know not, yet he uncon- ciously makes excuses for this feeling. It is not altogether strange, however, that he should do this. The booklover has always been looked upon by the world at large with a smiling tolerance. To the man of the street the booklover is a rather queer person, more to be pitied than scorned. It is useless to defend this love to one who does not sympathize. He has never tasted the joys that come from perusal of a good book. He is outside the pale: his is the loss. I often think what a dull existence it must be for those who have no love of reading. Surely reading must have a great affect upon character. Show me the nar¬ row, biased, bigoted man and I will show you the unread man. But a man who has read widely and wisely will have a broader view of the world about him. The booklover’s world consists not of four drab walls. His world is a limit¬ less land of castles, knights, and ladies fair, of strange and different peoples. His world has no horizon, no limit, yet it is contained between two covers. It lies upon printed pages within a book. It seems impossible to describe the en¬ chantment of a book. I can only pity one who has never felt it. As years go by, I realize how I have been aided and enriched b y reading. To me a book is a gateway into a strange new land. One need only to swing back the cover to expose the wonders and glories of another people. It is my belief that a wider reading by the people of all nations would be a greater and more effective peace-insurance than the League of Nations. Every nation has its individuality and this individuality is expressed in its literature. If the people of every nation would read the books of others, they would gain an insight and understanding of the character of the countries. If they could feel with other peoples, the greatest cause of war would be eliminated,—misunder¬ standing. To prove the truth that reading brings understanding, I will quote a personal example. One of the most abused people of the world is the Negro race because it has practically no literature. I must confess that I had very little sympathy for the Negro. There is very little in our history of daily contacts to cause it. How¬ ever, I was advised to read “Up From Slavery” by Booker T. Washington, the great Negro educator. When I took up the book, I did so with very little inter¬ est or feeling for the Negro. When I set it down, I had a new view of the black man; I was won to the Negro cause. Lack of knowledge is the cause of the black man’s oppression, for who knowing his valiant fight against ignorance could but respect him? Take reading from an educational standpoint. In my mind our educational system will never be a complete success until it makes a booklover of every student. Let a teacher pick from her class those whom she considers brightest and they will be those who have read. They have the greatest background to work upon; they have the best means of working.