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

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THE REDWOOD i3 Alike the winds that killed the tender plant, That thought that ' s in your mind predominant Will snatch you from me, as was the twining vine Torn from the tree, and you no more ' ll be mine. You long for light, for glory and for fame, And oft your words ambition will inflame Within my breast— but no!— I have to stay The same thr ough life ' s unhappy, weary day. Life, like the winds that left the tree alone, Impetuously will drag you from the throne That you have held while ruling o ' er my heart, . . . But after all— the best of friends must part. My Chata, list! I do not blame you, dear. For one like me who is below your sphere In all, can hope for naught— but that you may Remember me when you to Mary pray. Roberto Flood.

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12 THE REDWOOD The lonely tree once more fought all the day With the inclement winds—but soon the fray Came to an end,— the tender little tree. Was torn from out its feed with savage glee. Thus as the tree I spent a many day In fighting off this world, that wotald Y aylay My aching heart and drown it in the wave Of this vain life that seeketh to deprave. From year to year I fought my weary ■way Hoping to reach that land, where I ' ve heard say Eternal rest and quietude abide, Where I shall be forever by His side. So too, as did that frail and tender plant I found some rest when midnight zephyrs chant To Him that ruleth over all that sleep, To Him and Her who think of those who weep. He saw my prayer reflected in my tears And in my heart he read that many years I ' d sought this world in vain for some true friend Whose love for me would last unto the end. Behold! my dear, He sendeth you to me. Behold! the sinner ' s Comfort has heard my plea, For now my heart abides within your breast- But woe is me! for there ' twiil never rest.

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14 THE REDWOOD ALFRED WESTON ALFRED WESTON, a youth of three and twent}% sat in his draw- ing room, with his elbows on the table and his head resting heavily on his hands. He had been sadly pon- dering, for the past hour, how he was to break the dreadful news to his sick mother that his sister had perished with many others in a storm, while crossing the Atlantic on her way horae from a lour of Europe. He had kept the truth away trom his mother for many days, but the time had come when the daugh- ter was expected to return and soon the facts must come out for themselves. He was ia despair as to what course to adopt, but finally be decided to put off telling her for at least two days more. By that time she might be stronger. Mrs. Weston, a lady well ndvanced in years, had been quite ill for some time, although not dangerously so; but sud- denly on the day after Alfred had made his decision, her malady took a serious turn. Her fever rose to such a degree that at times she became delirious. To tell her now what had happened, was out of the question. Each day she sank lower and lower, and finally Alfred came to her room one morning to find she had completely lost the u.se of her eyes. It was only when this happened that she began to think more insistently about her daughter. Why doesn ' t Marion come? she would moan, and then motion Alfred to her side and talk to him of the girl. She is such a good girl, she would continue. Did you ever know any that was better, Al? And each time he would have to ad- rait that he never had. The fact was that he had by no means been a model young man, and most of — in fact all of his lady friends were in an entirely dif- ferent class from his sister. He began to ponder more and more on the past few years of his life, and when one day he received an invitation from one of the girls to a dinner party, he swore he would not have another thing to do with any of them, and that henceforth his life would be blameless aud straight. The next day when the doctor came from the sick-room his face was very sober and even sad. I ' m sorry, my boy, he said to Alfred. But there is absolutely no hope. She may possibly live two days more, — no longer. She is calling for your sister and is greatly distressed because she is not here. Do what you can, my boy, to make these two days of her life as light as possible. Make some excuse about the girl. It ' s a sad case. But I have made every possible ex- cuse already, doctor, and it does no good. What she wants is my sister, she wants to tell her something. What good are excuses? They will not satis- fy her. I ' ve g ' jt an idea, replied the doctor. Get someone to take the place of your sister. Remember your mother is