Oberlin College - Hi-O-Hi Yearbook (Oberlin, OH)

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QUIET MEETING. Stern were his eyes of Quaker gray While hers were soft and tblue, And in the meeting-house that day Amid the Friends, he looked her way To where the women sat alone. The gray eyes turned to'seek his owng All grave the blue-unconscious they Yet answered-and he knew. But WIIGII he met her at the door She spoke, who never dared before: 'Twas strange that when thee turned thy head The Spirit moved me too, she said. Margery Strong. IN HER EYES SO DEEP. In her eyes so deep there are secrets hid, That I try in vain to read. ' And the magic to lift each drooping lid Is surely my heart's great need. Yet I dream tl1c1'e's a love that will never sleep, In her eyes so deep. Could I read my fate in those eyes of blue, ' I'd happier be, I know. For I'm given to hope I would find them true, And with tender trust aglow. So I dream there 's a love that will never sleep, In her eyes so deep. When lifted at last they are filled with tears, Those wonderful, limpid eyes- Then away with my craven doubts and fears! They tell me I've won my prize, And I know there 's a love that will never' sleep In her eyes so deep. 1 Paul L 16 eaton Corbin

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that Ephram had escaped down the shallow Black River bed. His non-com- mittal relatives had doubtless thrown food, money and clothing over the bridge to him, for a belated farmer jogging along toward town that moonlit Saturday night had noticed a hulking young darkey leaning against the bridge supports and fancied he heard a swish of water and crackling of underbrush as if an animal were creeping along beneath the bridge. Twang accompanied a detective to the woods Sunday morning and there they met J eH prowling. llc disappeared shortly afterward before Twang raked out ligroiai the thick pine needles a hunting knife, its handle carved into a stag's ea . Two days passed. On the third day Ephram was taken. That evening Twang had been wandering suspiciously through the narrow side street just below the Great House. In cleaner, more respectable days before the wide fields were sold, it had been the quarters of Ilarthcourt negroes. The at- tention of the little, fat man was suddenly attracted to a figure that ap- peared on the top of the hill, vanishing quickly into the ruins. Twang at once crossed the road, climbed the hill and walked around the house to explore. A light was shining out from the tumble-down back door. It was easy to make out through the cracks two men seated, a lantern between them, in a great shadowy room. The one facing the door was lame Ephram. A quarter of an hour later twenty men quietly crept up the hill. The light was gone. They beat down the crazy door and ransacked grimly the littered old apartments. When they had discovered and handcuffed the sil- ent, cowering old negro they dragged him out into the yard. As they bound him to the gnarled trunk of a dry, dead apple tree they cried, Judge Lynch still lives ! This scene in all its barbarous accompaniments the morning papers detailed. A later edition reported thc arrest of Jefferson Platt, whose ser- vant the lame negro was. The sequel created scarcely less excitement. Ill the trial the most sensational evidence proceeded from Twang. It seems that young John Lester had met Jefferson Platt, accompanied by his servant, Ephram, in the Platt woods. They had come into a dispute over a Wild dove, which each claimed to have shot. Both were hotheaded. The quarrel, wax- lng in warmth, turned upon family matters, grew to a crisis. The older man pulled out his hunting-knife and struck at Lester, wounding him. An un- equal struggle gave the latter's gun to Platt, who fired and ran across lots to the Villa. The dazed negro scurried out into the road, saw Twang, and crept back through the woods to the barn. There fifteen' minutes later he Interviewed his master, who came out after his lantern. Obedient to the habit of long years, the old darkey began his tragic flight. After slipping down the Black River a few miles, he had returned and hidden himself in tihetfuins of the Great House. Platt had visited him the evening of his c ca 1. With the conviction of Jefferson Platt for the murder of John Lester the last remnant of passion seemed exhausted. Southern ideals have nar- rowed, their usefulness is impaired, their glory stained, but still some trace endures. For the passing of the spirit of a people demands struggle, educa- tion, time, perhaps because we see not to the close. 1 Ruth Mosher. 15

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at Taken for cz Comedy. ITH a final puff of eicasperation and a Jolt of retaliation for past grievances, the great engine came to a standstill in stall No. 4. Among the hurrying figures that thronged the platform before u the station Ted Townley, the rising newspaper artist, was threading his way to stall No. 4. His characteristic, swinging gait, a bit more brisk than usual, if that were possible, his fresh white stock, straw hat, and gen- eral summer-at-high-noon attire, no less than the expression about his dark eyes and set jaw, testified that he was fighting the good fight with the world and winning, also his manner testified that he was anticipating a great Pleasure, and that his conscience was perfectly clear on the subject. For the first time I now have a right to let myself care for her, and, what is more, to tell her that I do, and he braced his shoulders at the thought as men do who have left the city's dust and strife and reached the clearer atmospheres of the midslopes of the mountains. Farther up the platform, his blue eyes dreamy with some happy recol- lection, his much-worn and many-times-brushed suit and soft felt hat sug- gesting, by very force of contrast, the white sailors and smart iiannels usually displayed upon such head and shoulders as were his, stood Floyd Arnold, the young poet whose delicate and beautiful verses were beginning to be read and loved by the cultured few, but whose obscurity and unsuccess -as the world counts it-was assured for years if not for a lifetime. In his hand he held a small florist's box, and as the train pulled in he removed his hat as if performing a religious rite. Almost the first person to alight from the train was a woman, and in- stantly that slight figure in the long gray cloak and scooped gray hat with the violets stacked upon it, appeared, the steps of Townley, the newspaper artist, and those of Arnold, the unrecognized poetical genius, converged toward it as a center of gravity. The girl in gray swept a glance over the crowd, saw the two men almost simultaneously, and was proud of them. Launcelot and Galahad, she murmured, and then aloud, as Townley reached her first and lifted her from the last step of the car, Dear old Ted- die! Wrenching a gray glove from her right hand, she extended it to Arnold looked up at him, and said the one musical monosyllable Floyd! which made two men in passing turn their heads in her direction and deliver themselves of the following brilliant remarks: Deucedly sweet voice. 7 ' ' 1