University of Santa Clara - Redwood Yearbook (Santa Clara, CA)

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12 THE REDWOOD I WAS sitting at my desk, wondering I if the playlet I had just completed would be a success, when Peters poked his head in the doorway and said, Take a walk to the Ob? Don ' t mind if i do, I replied, pro- posing to follow. I had taken the walk many times before along the cement path, past the shrine of the Sacred Heart, encircled with its network of beautiful clinging roses, through the opening in the grand old adobe wall, that spoke dumb language of the things that were, emerg- ing into the vineyard that was soon to bear the luscious grapes, on to the shriue of the patron saint of the college, St. Joseph. I paused a moment in this rest- ful spot, that the creepers sheltered from the glare of the noonday sun, and I wondered if we of the world would ever know how many outpourings of the heart the good Fathers of this great old Mission College of Santa Clara had sent up before the image of this great saint to the throne of God, asking that their boys would go out into the world be- yond these walls, bearing with them the impress of their teachings, that the world with all its pomp and splendor, would not be able to efface. The babble of voices brought me to earth again and in a few strides I was at the Obser- vatory in the midst of five or six of the graduating class of nineteen hundred and nine. Hey, fire that hop over here, Malt- man, was the fi rst salutation that greeted my ears, and a sack of Bull Durham shot across space into the hands of the speaker. The clouds of smoke soon told me that the hop had gone the round, and between the puffs they all seemed anxious to talk of their coming departure. They all tried to speak at once and tell how glad they would be when they had passed out of the college into the world to struggle for victory, and their youthful faces lit up with excitement at the thought. I sat down on the ground a little dis- tance from the group and tried to draw, in my imagination, the characters for a play that I hope some day to write. But somehow my thoughts kept wander- ing to that little band of beginners, so I gave up the play as a bad job, and wondered how the world would treat the boys who were about to embark on its troubled waters. Gee! It will feel good to be outside the ten foot fence and to know that we don ' t have to come back! ejaculated one of the boys. How about me? said another. I have been here all my life. Will it feel good? Well, I guess! What are you going to do, Maurice, when you get through? was the next question that drifted my way. The young fellow in question twisted a blade of grass around his finger, bit off the end, smiled a quiet knowing smile. I don ' t care a cent as long as I don ' t

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THE REDWOOD 11 pile of bank notes on the table. There, my boy, he explained, there ' s your purse of 550! You ' ve made my for- tune to-day, I owe you everything. Fred brushed aside their congratula- tions and picked the roll of bank notes from the table. From the roll he drew a £ 2 note and proffered it to the Lord. Lord Everleigh, I owe you some- thing. Do you remember two years ago, turning a poor woman out of a little cottage on your estate, because she could not at the time pay her rent? She was willing to pay and asked for a little time to raise the money. But you were too heartless and mean aud refused her one chance. Ah! I see you recollect. Lord Everleigh, that woman was my mother and now I ' ll pay for that two month ' s rent. Here, take this, it will cover the debt. And also remem- ber this. Lord Everleigh, that this after- noon you had the closest call to ruiu, God will ever send you. There were big odds against you. For Lord Ever- leigh, when I entered the race I was determined to ruin you. But, — well, — perhaps the horse ran away with me or perhaps a little spark of manliness rose in me and you were given another chance. Think it over well. Lord Everleigh. Good-afternoon. Everleigh stared at the boy amazed and marvelling. Then partly recover- ing himself, he tried to speak, but the boy was gone. He turned and stared at his wife in stupified surprise and amazement. Presently his eyes wandered vacantly to the bank-note which he had uncon- sciously taken from the boy. Mechani- cally he walked to a chair and sat with his head in his hands thinking hard. After a time he looked up. His face was very grave and lacked its accus- tomed color. Quietly he tore the bank- note he held in bis hand into tiny pieces, muttering half to himself, half aloud: It was a noble act and God knows it will not be in vain! Geo. S- de Lorimier, ' n.

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THE REDWOOD 13 have to do hard work. Everybody laughed and echoed the sentiment. The conversation took a turn and the kindness of the respective teachers was discussed to some length, when above the din I managed to hear: Well, I don ' t care what anybody says, as much as we have kicked about him, he has been a very fine Vice President, and nobody knows it better than we do. In the midst of this chatter, the bell rang and they all scampered oflF to class, swearing to catch the first train after the exercises or die in the attempt. I thought it very ungrateful of them to want to get away in such a hurry from a place that had been so much to them. So I determined to watch their depart- ure with interest. The exercises were over, and the orchestra had commenced to play Home, Sweet Home, when I slipped out to catch a glimpse of the boys of the senior class rushiug madly for their respective trains. I waited and watched in vain. For the greater number of students had bid their hurried farewells to the Fathers, hoping to see them next year, and had taken their departure. I was nervous and disappointed so I took a stroll from the garden to the campus, when, behold! emerging from the chapel, I saw what I thought at first glance to be a funeral procession, — but it was no other than the senior class. I followed them as they filed slowly into the garden and assembled around the shrine of the Sacred Heart. A moment of prayer and each wandered ofi to some favorite spot to take a loving look and say perhaps a last good-bye. These were the ungrateful, heartless boys that were going to catch the first train. I smiled. One by one they returned to the front door where some of the good Fathers were waiting to say good-bye and give them their last ad- vice and blessing. I stood by and and watched them take those silent farewells, but somehow the wind blew the water from the gardner ' s hose into my face and my sight was blurred. The evening shadows stole quietly over the garden, the Mission bells pealed out the Angelus, the clock in the tower struck six; and the doors closed behind the class of nineteen hundred and nine forever. I gazed after them and they had all turned instinctively to look up at the old clock that had ticked away so many pleasant hours. So shall it be till the end of time. The Mission bells will still ring out, the old clock in the tower still chime away the hours; but to the boys who have just left the shelter of the dear old Mission walls, these things will be but memories, — fond, sweet memories. Desmond B. Gallagher, ' 12.