University of Missouri College of Engineering - Shamrock Yearbook (Columbia, MO)

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Slrggfock it K A X av written. I tried to catch you, but you traveled faster than I could. Will you forgive me? You will forgive me. She tried to go into the little cabin but he detained her. ' It is small-pox, he said and his voice was dead. I know-the man over there-the man that brought me-told me what that little red flag means. And I am glad -so glad that I came when I did-in time to go to him-as he is. And you- you-must forgive! She jerked away from him. The door opened and it closed behind her. A mo- ment later he heard a strange cryg the cry of a woman and the cry of a mang then he turned and walked slowly back into the forest. , It was growing dark when he started to go back, for he knew that he must go backg there was nothing else to do. As he had expected, the man that had brought her had fied with' his dog teamg leaving her there to face the red death. As he paused for a moment, the door opened and Mary stood there, looking at him. And then she came quickly out to him. Vainly did he try to keep the despair and heartbreak out of his face. She saw it, and there was a stranger and softer glow in her eyes as she took his hands in hers, and held them tight. He has been telling me about you, she said, I didn't know that there was a man in the whole world like you. I know what you have done, and what it has meant to you. Again she repeated softly, I didn't know that there was a man in the whole world like you. He bowed his head, his shoulders drooped. And then he felt the warm thrill of her lips against his hand, That night was the rnost terrible of all nights in that little cabin in the Great Silent. And it was a night Of wild storm outside. The Wi1'1dS howled out of the north, and the trees moaned and sighed in the screeching blasts, while in that lonely little cabin George and Mary and justice Given fought the great fight. During the intervals of that iight, when the wind went moaning down, they could hear the hunger howl of the wolves and the barking of the foxes, and Lewis thought of all of the years in which they had haunted Given, and wondered if some strange spirit was gathering them in now from out of the storm to see the end. For he knew that the end was near. It carne in a fierce blast of the blizzard that seemed to sway the walls of the cabin. He did not need to tell Mary. She saw, and fell down on her knees beside the cot. And Lewis, unused to prayer, stood back out of the light and deep in his heart thanked God-not that his friend was dead, but that Mary was there, kneeling, with her arms about the one that she had lost. He was not jealous. In his soul was a strange rejoicing, and deep grief. He waited, and at last she rose slowly. She swayed slightly, and reachedout her arms seeking him. He is gone, she whispered. He opened his arms. She lay in their shelter as the polar wind shrieked above them. He could feel the beating of her heart on his breast. And then she fell to sobbing, with her face close against him, and he rested his lips on her soft hair-and then the night grew suddenly still, and her throbbing died away, 1ike the crying of a child that has found the comfort of its mother's arms, 1 I

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ity ' f ' A-:-xfwf Given find that in his heart love had died for her. Twice he read that mes- sage and he envied the man. The thirty minutes were gone when he re-entered the cabin. Given was waiting for him. Have you read it? Lewis nodded. In those moments he did not trust himself to speak. Given understood. The Hush was deeper in his face, his eyesburned brighter with the feverg but of the two he was the calmerg and his voice was steady. I haven't much time, Lewis, he said, and he smiled faintly as he folded the pages of the letter. My head is crack- ing. B,ut I have thought it all out, and you have got to go back to her-and tell her that I am dead. It's the best thing. I love her, Lewis. God knows that it's been only my dreams of her that have kept me alive all these years. She wants me to come to her, but that's impossible. I'm an outlaw. The law won't excuse me for killing that thing. We'd have to hide-hide all of our lives. And some day they might get me. There's just one thing to do and that is go back and tell her that I am deadg and try to make her happy, if you can. For the first time George forgot his lbve for the woman. And he cried out, She wants to come to you, and he leaned towards Given, white-faced and clenching his hands. She wants to comef' he repeated, and the law won't find you. It's been seven ,years-and God knows that I will never say a word. It won't find you. And if it should, you can iight it out together, you and Mary. Given held out his hands, saying huskily, Now I know that I need have no fear in sending you back. You're a T enty-Five man, and you've got to go. She can't come to me. It would'kill her this life. Think of the winter here-madness- the yapping of, the foxes-- Given swayed and crumpled up on his cot. For many days he and Given fought the red death in the little cabin. It was a iight that he could never forget. One afternoon, to strengthen himself for the terrible night that was coming, he walked several milestback into the forest on his snowshoes. It was late afternoon when he returned with a haunch of caribou meat on his shoulder. Three hundred yards from the cabin something stopped him like a shot. He listened. From, ahead of him came the whining of dogs, the crack of a whip, a shout which he could not understand. He dropped his burden and sped on. At the south edge of the level he stopped again. Straight ahead of him was the cabin. A 'hundred yards to the right of him was a dog team and a driver. Be- tween the team and the cabin a hooded and coated figure was running in the di- rection of the danger signal. With a cry of warning he darted in pursuit. He overtook the figure at the cabin door. It turned-and he stared into the white, terror-stricken face of Mary Courtley. E Good God! he cried and that was all. ' She gripped him with both hands. H?e had never heard her voice as it was now. She answered the amazement and horror in his face. I sent you a letter, she cried, pant- ingly, and it didn't overtake you. ' As soon as 'you were gone, I knew that I must come-that' I must follow you- that I must speak the words that I had

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I -- 13' W T t5S ew. h The Man Who Didn't Succeed They sing of the men who build the mills And girdle the earth with steel, Who fill the hour and wield the power That molds the public weal. Honor to them that in honor do The work that the world must need, And yet in chief I hold a brief For the man who didn't succeed. 'Tis not to excuse the indolentg No plea for the down and out,' Nor specious rot condemning what The leaders are about. Merely to ask in a casual way Of those who chance to read, For fairer view, and kinder, too, Of the man who didn't succeed. His house is small, his table light, His family must endure The snubs and sneers of the buccaneers Whose debts fall onthe poor. T Yet his is a home and no hotel, His wife is a wife, indeed, There's nothing above his children's love To the man who didn't succeed. Admitting it's true that he did not make The most of his talents ten, He won no pelf nor raised himself At the cost of his fellow men. His hands are clean, his heart is white, His honor has been his creed- Now who are we to say that he Is the man who didn't succeed? -Peter Reed.