St Ignatius College - Ignatian Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

Page 17 text:

Big 69112 7.3251 Bunk HE last sheet fluttered from the typewriter. I slipped the cover tenderly over the faith- ' ' 1. l ll a ful machine, filled my pipe, and lounged deep in an easy-chair. On the back of an old envelope I figured my probable royal- ties. The book undoubtedly would be a seller, as I had written it with an eye to please the cranky bookreader. I would have it attractively illustrated in col- ors by Marcus Angelou and Mons, Bouvierf' Of course the first four or live editions would have to go to editors for reviews, and to personal friends. I would have also to spend about a thousand dollars or so to secure special reading space in the best magazines, but nevertheless I couldn' t see how I could fail to make a couple of thousand to put away for a rainy day. As I was thus figuring, the clock in the hall was just booming the hour of twelve. This was unusualg as the sole mission of this clock seemed to be to gather dust as an excuse for stopping. With the dying of the bell I distinctly heard a rustle among the papers upon my desk and a faint smoke issued from the typewrtiten sheets. My heart mounted to my throat. The thought that my masterpiece was going up in smoke overwhelmed me. With superhu- man effort I summoned all my remaining nerve force and was about to rush to the desk to save the story when I was halted by a new horror, for the vapor was taking human shape. With blanched face and protruding eyes I watched the object grow from whirling smoke into the form of a six- foot man. Clearer and clearer grew the phantom. Detail after detail became visible until the colorings of the gar- ments showed and the stalwart hero of my romance stood

Page 16 text:

Glnntentment EACE is the cry from the mariner's heart, When bestormed on the trackless expanse Of fathomless waters where no friendly mart Stands a bulwark to grim death's advance. Peace cries the Thracian in fury of war, For peace prays the Parthian boldg But it never was shaped by an artisan's lore, Nor bartered for purple or gold. For the cares of the mind are not driven away By the sweep of a king's stately traing And a jewel bedecked and a smiling array Cannot solace a soul's secret pain. Why for the baubles of life do We slave, And bandy with Vanishing time, If burdened with riches we sink in a grave, While seeking a halcyon clime? Worry can compass a brass armored ship, Can outdistance the Heetest of steedsg And noiseless and thicker than mist it will slip Into castles and strongholds of greed. Ah! blessed is he and peaceful his days, Who frets not of his frugal boardg But smiles with content as the sun's parting rays Gild the hovel that claims him its lord. Chas. B. Lafferty.

Page 18 text:

16 IGNATIAN before me. His dress of velvet and lace, once the product of studied extravagance, was tattered and stained with blood. His breeches were worn and muddy, and he was in his stocking feet, with toes protruding from the worn silken hose. For only an instant he stood on the littered desk. Then the black eyes glowing in the firelight saw me, and after muttering something to himself, he leaped lightly to the floor, his features swollen with rage, and his handsome face contorted with scorn and wrath. You uncharitable dog, he screamed. You dime novel writer. By the nine gods of Sycorax, I have you where I want you now. Thus speaking my hero wrenched his blade from its scabbard, the steel still dripping with the blood of the villain killed in the last chapter only a few minutes before. I had barely time to put the heavy table between us before he was upon me. Snatching a baseball bat from the decorated walls of my study I determined that he would not force me to yield without a spirited combat. With eyes riveted upon our weapons we lurched from one end of the room to the other, knocking the furniture right and left. Unfortunately, I had created him the best swordsman in the world, and he had the best of me for awhile, wounding me once in the hand by a low thrust. But he was no match against me with his cutting exclama- tions, for I did not put in his head all that I knew. Al- though I am a poor swordsman at best, having only read in my youth a small book containing the Art of Fencing, I could recall from memory his exact mode of fighting, and was able to keep his point -well away from the 57-carat diamond in my shirt front. O shag-ear'd villain, he panted, but you can fight pretty well for a never-shall-be writer. You will try no