Ricker Classical Institute - Aquilo Yearbook (Houlton, ME)

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- 'Q-Q... I Pwr . if It I or 'l 'tx t il All xii XI rx -1,1 ' Q Xy 5 X, l ff ' L af Z, 1 5-A f 7, I f MOUNTAIN BREEZES The great moon was slowly sinking below: the western hills. Here and there a star twinkled and faded into nothingness. An owl. 'hooted and flew into the great pine tree on the clear- ing, as the breeze gently swayed the firry branches to and fro. At the foot of this giant pine and' near a steep incline stood a tiny cabin. Uip the trail to the cabin door there stumbled a boy of some seventeen years. He was hatless and the dark curls lay on his brow in a hopeless mass. His feet, which were bare, were cut and bleeding from the num- erous sharp rocks over which they had trod. His ragged overalls hung limp- ly from his shoulders, while the much patched shirt was nearly in shreds. He was panting as one who had run a long race: and what a race it was- a race with death. He stumbled to the door and throwing his 'whole weight against it, flung it open and burst into the little room. It was nearly empty. A tiny stove stood in one corner, a table in the center, two broken chairs on one side and in the other corner was a small cot. On the bed lay a woman, not young, not old, though her face, still showing the traces of her girlhood beauty, bore marks of suffering and care which had proven too much for the thin weak shoulders to endure, Mother-I Mother! cried the boy as he flung himself beside the bed. I'm here and I had to come alone. Here he broke into hard sobbing and buried his face in the ragged coverlid. My little Peter, my poor little Peter! Don't grieve so, dear. It would do no good for old Mrs. Deering to come at all Peter, and her fingers, weak and trembling, stroked his curly head as it lay quivering at her side. Peter! She spoke again and this time the boy raised his head. You muslt listen to Mother for she 'is very tired and soon must go to her rest. You must do just as I say, Peter. If anything should happen to me, you must promise that you will not stay here. You mustn't, dear. It isn't meant that you should. Some day you will be famous, I know it. Oh! my poor little Peter, it will be hard for you when I am gone. We've

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The Aquilo Page Twenty-f ive able words to express yourself. In case one line of thought runs down, you can always use that old standby, however. Many's the time--but I must go on. As a last resort you can use another of my little devices for theme writing, which, in mathematics, is known as The Trial and' Error Method. Take a sizable dictionary and opening pages, pick out words at random until you have around two or two hundred and fifty words. Then connect them, iby the judicious use of however, yet etc., so that in the end you have a finished theme. In case you cannot connect them try again. Patience, as philosophers have also pointed out, will overcome all obstacles. And that, dear reader, is my im- proved method for writing themes. Later, I intend to ferret out and solve some of the other problems that con- front my fellow students. Just now I do not have time. I must study my Wooley's Handbook of Composition for tomorrow. sf va: V Na 0 653' M' X 7 N ! 4040 agffli cvgX iQ, X ' X Q i mifmpizi 4k!ff760 q i!-pil: Q ,mil tilt, Ex I

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The Xlguiiii Page Twenty-seven been so happy, you and I, even since Daddy went. Oh, if Daddy were only here! I have prayed that he would return before this dreadful disease could conquer me, but now it is too late! It is up to you to go and find him, Peter, him and his violin. Why, it was with that violin that he taught me to love him, Peter, in those happy summer days so long ago. He had been so good to you and me, Peter. Then he went to the city to get the copyright on his song, and to make a real home for us. A real 'home, with furniture and dishes and beautiful T19-Tlgihgs. But it is too late, Peter, for that. When I am gone- But Mother, Mother, cried Peter wildly. You're not going Daddy may come any day. No, Peter, I am going to die. You know it. I know it. And you must take your violin and go to the city and find Daddy. Take the money in the purple pitcher on the s-helf. And, Peter, she raised herself and kissed his flushed cheek. N-ever forget how mother loved her boy, and that she wants him to be a fine man some day. Peter, it's getting very dark, play 'Mountain Breezes, Peter, Play- 'Mountain-Breezes! With tears raining down his face, Peter took his violin and softly played Mountain Breezes which was his father's favorite composition. To the strains of the song which had meant all the happiness in her life, the soul of Rose Douglas sto-le quietly from its tired body to take its rest in the heavenly mansions above. . 41 ll Ill to die! For -weeks little Peter, strong in his eighteen years of vigorous you-th and secure in the search for 'his beloved father, wandered the streets of the great city of Charleston. His face lost its ruddy glow and became thin and gaunt from lack of care. His only shelter was a deserted wood- cutter's hut on the edge of the city. Here he returned every night, cold, hungry, sick at heart. He usually made enough by playing his violin to keep the spark of life glimmering in his half-starved body, and the tinier spark of hope glowing in his soul. It was Thanksgiving eve. The boy stood on the corner mid the whirl of snowflakes as they tumbled to the ground. His fingers were cold and numb and his stomach was aching with emptiness. He started to go across the main thoroughfare. .Sud- denly everything went black and he fell into a heap in the middle of the street. When he awoke he found himself in a warm room and the face of a kindly woman was bending over his. He soon found that he had just CSCRP' ed being killed by the chauffeur of Dr. Van Buren, who 'was bringing the famous physician from a consultation to his home. Seeing the plight of the boy, the kindly doctor ordered him brought to his own home. During his convalescence, Peter Douglas so warmed the hearts of the childless doctor and his wife that they adopted him for their own. They soon learned of his peculiar talent on the violin and after several years of study, the name of Douglas became famous all over the south for his wonderful music on the old instrument. Audiences thrilled to the old classics as they swung out in their beauty by the magical touch of this young musician. It was neither the classics nor the popular music which won for him the most praise, but the simple composi- tion taught him by his father, years before. In no other composition was the young musician able to so portray the feelings of his very soul, and to put in the notes of harmony, the agony and' yearnings of his heart, For all these years the search for his father had been 'his one thought and ambition. With the aid of his foster father, he had made every effort but to no avail. Time passed and one day he accom- panied the doctor to the great hospital and while the great man attended a