Ricker Classical Institute - Aquilo Yearbook (Houlton, ME)

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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

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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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Page T-wenty-eight The Aquilo consultation, he went to the ward for special charity patients, and played to them. His beautiful music stirred their souls and made them hopeful again. Over in the corner sat a man of some fifty years. His face was strangely familiar in spite of its blank look. His face never changed its ex- pres-sion. He seemed to be seeing something far away which he wist- fully 'vcished to attain. Song after song brok-e the stillness of the room and at last as a fitting climax, the notes of Mountain Breezes floated clear and sweet. The still figure in the rocking chair moved slightly. Then rising to 'his feet, the man cried in a loud voice, Rosy, my little Rosy, I'm coming, dear. I'm coming. At the sound of his beloved mother's name, Peter stopped playing abruptly and sprang forward' to help the swooning man to his chair. As he did so a lock of hair fell back from the man's forehead and revealed a little heart-shaped scar so familiar to the heart of the boy, Peter, His father! The nurse in attendance readily told the story of the case. The man had been brought to them several years before, and as the result of his auto accident had lost his memory. He had been kept in the hospital under observation. The strains of the song, which had' meant so much to him, had proven a shock to his be- fogged -brain and brought memory and reason once more into being. Now father and son are happily re- united. Every summer they return for a few days to the little space under the old pine tree. With eyes dimmed with tears and their hearts filled with many a sad memory, they kneel in reverence by a tiny grave on the hillsidfeg and ,oftenltimes above the moaning of the pine they seem to hear the clear, sweet voice of Rose Douglas singing Mountain Breezes. And they return to their work with full hearts and a new hope in their lives, ever looking toward the day when Daddy and son may return to the waiting mother in a better world than this. Myra Stetson '32 GUILTY I am now on my bed in my room at the dormitory waiting for the officers to come and take me to prison. If they are coming I 'wish they would hurry up. It's perfectly awful to be kept .in suspense, especially when your nerves are worn to a frazzle and your brain is about ready to refuse to function any more. I suppose you are wondering what crime I have com- mitted that would send me to prison. Mine is a sad story. Although I ex- pect I am guilty of a most horrible murder, I feel no Hcompunctious visit- ings of nature. You think I am cruel and hard-hearted? Let me tell you the terrible experiences through which I have passed and you will sympathize with me. This afternoon I lay down on my bed to enjoy a de-lightful story of China called, See China With Me. I was enjoying my trip immensely and was just viewing the temple of Con- fucius at Peking when suddenly I was brought back to the dormitory with a dreadful jolt, by a blood-curdling scream on the stairs just outside my room. My first thought was that someone wasbeing killed by one of those cruel, starved-looking Chinamen of 'whom I had just been reading, so I jumped out of bed and hurried out to see if I could capture the murderer. Imagine my feelings when I saw two freshmen wrestling on the stairs, one of whom was screaming with all her might. After doing what I called a rather thorough job at settling their hash, I went back to bed and re- sumed my book, thinking that now I'd have a fine quiet afternoon. I did for the next ten minutes, during which time I passed through a shipwreck on the Yangtze River.