Seattle University - Aegis Yearbook (Seattle, WA)

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T II E P A L E S T U A 26 “3ltt ttie at 3lholfi” THE clammy quietude was unshattered save for the muffled “crunch, crunch, crunch” of a pair of swiftly propelled snowshoes that were unwaveringly kept to the north. The undulating surface of Nature’s purest mantle was unbroken, unsullied, except where some desolate pine drooped its snow-decked shoulders in silent depression, and the whole gigantic perpetuity of white was bounded on every side by a grey, sullen horizon. And the snowshoes seemed propelled as tho some extraordinary motive spurred on the man that resolutely set his face to the chilling North. The occasional sighing groan of some idly wandering wind, Hie pale deathly blue of the Arctic sky seemed but to lighten his heart and hasten his footsteps, for now and then from his throat came a husky version of a French love song. He laughed and sang all the way along his weary trail. He was happy. But how could a man be happy in this desert waste—alone—with only the sound of his own voice to break the awful monotony of an eternal stillness? For twenty years Andre Dclac, the voyageur, had been in love. Not the artificial, shifting regard which is styled love in some higher society, but the steady, unending desire for one woman. Only she. They had been together, as children, in France. There, as boy and girl, they had spent life’s verdant, joyous springtime in that land of light hearts and smiling faces. It was there he had put the crudely fashioned ring of yellow grass upon her finger, with the boyishly earnest declaration that tho he lived a hundred years he would love her just the same. And she, his little girl, Jeanne, with cheeks as brilliant as a sun-kissed cherry, shyly at first, but with an unmistakable sense of certainty, vowed to be ever true. It had been but a childish fancy; but to Andre Dclac it was the foundation of his most precious Idol—Love. As he thought thus there would come into his eyes the faintly warm glow of the untroubled heart and his face unconsciously softened to the gentle insistence of childhood’s pleasant memories. Then, as a young man, he had left for America in search of love’s most essential assistant —wealth. Into the North he made his way; working when the opportunity presented itself. In two years he had saved enough to pay the passage of Jeanne and her father to Nome. From Nome to Illyuk they had followed a small team of six dogs, guided by an Indian who seemed stoically immune to the cold. There, in that little village, far from the touch or call of civilization, she made her home. His Idol of Love grew and grew, and often as they wandered together thru the shady depths of the forest or aimlessly along the river’s rugged bank, the aesthetic in them revolting at Nature’s wildly artistic moulding, he told her of his dreams, some strange—others impossible; but all centered about her, and the sun of Love’s bright summer dispelled every encroaching shadow. Six years ago he had left to begin the quest of the “stake” that was to carry them out into the land of sunshine and flowers, away from the frigid clutch of the “Land of Snows.” That “stake” to Andre Dclac meant the beginning of a new life—a period of sequestered joys that should drive from his heart forever the call of the voyageur. He had left her amid one of the wildest storms that ever ravaged the North. Down the mad, tumultous Yukon he sped on one

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SEATTLE COLLEGE ANNUAL 25 the social contract. In both systems, the state becomes a sort of deity, an aggregated idol or collective monster. To that new divinity, mankind is called upon to offer undivided homage. Here we have the cult of the state. Great men, viz., the leaders, who arc to disport themselves at everybody elsc’s expense, and the plebeians, nature’s misfits and botches, must all sweat and bleed for the state’s advancement. Naturally from such bewildering premises, we may deduct strange conclusions about war. But the abstruse speculations of Hobbes and Rousseau and the teachings of Catholicism are incompatible; theirs is a comfortless creed, a philosophy which conflicts with the consoling truths that buoy men up in their struggle to merely live, a system halting, narrow and shortsighted that seems to overlook or ignore man’s brotherhood and thr fatherhood of God. J. McKenna, ’15. CLOUDLAND Those fathomless depths of sky so blue, So near, so far, so fair to view. Were made by Him, whose power they show, Were made by Him for me and you; And they His handiwork declare, And to His greatness witness bear.— Thus human minds tho much they dare, Can never pierce those depths so fair. N.

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‘27 S E A T T L E C () L L E G E A iV N U A L of those raftlike makeshift steamers that ply between the few lonely windswept villages. There had been a wreck. His boat had crashed upon one of the many hidden rocks, which render that great Arctic river so dangerous to navigation. It was crumbled and was crushed like an egg thrown with youthful accuracy against the stalwart opposition of a cement wall. Out of the chaos that followed he drifted half-dead, wholly helpless, clinging to a bit of drift-wood which chance had directed into his desperately seeking fingers. At a point farther down the river he was rescued by two taciturn Indians, who by dint of ceaseless labor, and knowing hands, finally fanned anew the flame of life, which had dangerously smouldered within him. Apparently he alone, of all that happy, gold-seeking band of men, that had embarked upon the steamer, was saved. He had written to her during his convalescence—once; for in the North, where mails are slow and uncertain, and fingers crooked and gnarled with toil do not readily grasp the pen, writing is an uncommon practice. Six years he had labored; not the petty, irregular work of one who strives merely to gain enough to keep himself in existence, hut the feverish, furious toil of a man who is putting his very heart into the struggle. And always in his mind remained the picture of his Jeanne— and always rang in his ears, “I'll be true to you, Andre, tho I have to wait forever.” It was true his Idol of wealth had been shattered; but he had made enough that he might start his home and then—but he would find a way. Most of all, lie was coming home to her and so he was happy. Into the dark shadowy forest he plunged—up the steep hill, struggling along with a heart that beat faster with each succeeding step. The sun, finally beaten back in its daily battle with the shadows, began slowly to recede into a nest woven of its own golden beams, and the shadow of Andre Dclac began to lengthen and grow dim. Still he trudged on and on with no sign of abating. Far off in the purpling gloom a star emerged. Another! No—it was the first of the few lights that dimly twinkled out from the village of Illyuk. Unconsciously he increased his pace until now he fairly leaped along. His dream of six long, weary years was soon to be realized. Yes, he had labored long in the desert wastes and now—to the victor belonged the spoils. The town had been reached. Past the simple, unobtrusive little Catholic Church, that stood as a barrier against the iniquities of the outside civilization, he made his way. At last he reached the saloon and, recognizing the face of an old friend, entered. 'File place was hot. Clouds of blue smoke drifted lazily up from the bowls of a score of pipes, blackened by constant usage, and melted into the golden colored, madly leaping Hatnes of the great fireplace. He looked at the man he knew so well, but received in return only the casual, disinterested glance such as is given to the countless, drifting bands of miners that passed through every day. Finally, walking up to him, he touched him lightly on the shoulder and said: “It is I—Andre Dclac, don’t you remember?” In the other’s eyes came the light of subdued anger, as to one being rudely awakened in the midst of a pleasant dream; followed by a cursory glance of mistrust—“Dclac was drowned six years ago,” he answered shortly, half-turning as if to resume his fragrant smoke. 'Flic other’s fingers tightened on his sleeves and swiftly he told him his story. “Andre!—my old friend!,” into the other’s eyes at last came the glad light of the believer. “Come, let us drink once together and we’ll tell what has happened since we said ‘good-bye’ last.”