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

Page 26 text:

THE REDWOOD. NOCTURNE walked beneath the olives when the sun Hung low in a reddening u-est. And every leaf was trembling, till the ivirid Called, and they answered with cries and clapping of hands. And beckoning they bade that I look. Ihere! There! What wast they saw, what saw? I looked again. The sinking sun had bathed them all in blood. Blood ' neath the olives ! I knew when I gazed I blushed as I looked to be man amongst men, Blushed with the leaves. And when the branches tvere bent Like One praying, His face to the earth, His lips in the dust, Prayed and shuddered and wept, Prayed and was dumb, Prayed, and the rivers of life Left their red courses and strayed, L bent down my face in the red dust and wept. And the crickets far off cried. Peace, Peace and Good Will. And the olive-branches cried. Peace, Peace. I walked beneath the olives rvhen the sun Hung low in a reddening ivest. Thomas E. Percy-

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THE REDWOOD. terially decreasing. Mr. Churchill claims that the people of Ireland are paying taxes for the maintenance of a navy to protect her commerce, which, since Ireland has practically no commerce to protect, is to force them into paying unjust taxes. All the world is eagerly watching the outcome of the present demand for the repeal of the Act of Union of 1800. If the bill passes, and all indi- cations point to this favorable conclu- sion, England ' s act will be recognized and applauded by all just men anl all political leaders the world over. If she rejects the measure another era of political unrest will ensue in Ireland, to terminate either in a revolution or a conciliatory measure similar to the one we now have. As for the Irish, with the better- ment of their condition in view, they cherish the hope of Home Rule as a parent cherishes the successful career of a son, and in the same measure that one would desire to see a father ' s hope realized, let us hope for the happy issue of the Irish Home Rule Movement.

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THE REDWOOD. RETRIBUTION HAROLD R. McKINNON The eighteenth century was nearing its close with Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette on the throne. Affairs in France had come to such a pass that the entire nation felt the hour was at hand when either life or death had to be chosen by them, — the republic or a monarchy. It was the talk of the court, engrossed in all its luxury; it constituted the never ending prattle of the peasantry ; it was the daily theme of the lounger at the inn, and of the nobleman in the gay salons ; it was the hope of the oppressed, the terror of the royal officer. But interesting and important as it was to others, it was the one set pur- pose in the life of Monsieur Gabelle — Monsieur Gabelle in his dingy little tailor shop in one of the dingy little shacks of the village of St. Croix, out- side Paris, and it was the sole object, too, of the only other occupant of this stuffy unfrequnented chamber, for there was but one room. This per- son was none but Madame Gabelle herself — crafty, deceiving, and wicked, yet skillful and talented enough to be the more influential of the two. As for Monsieur Gabelle — he was short though heavily set and powerful of physique. His face, owing probab- ly to the treatment of his wife greatly resembled that of a scared wolf. He slunk around, — did not walk, and sel- dom seemed to notice anything. As a matter of fact, he didn ' t. He only thought. Except for the work which he performed for an occasional patron, this was his occupation. Even on the street (though seldom seen there), he was ever en- grossed with his own unpleasant thoughts. If one were asked to ex- plain the peculiar face of that Monsieur Gabelle, whose livelihood depended upon the patronage of a needy popu- lace, he would find it a difficult task. That ill-omened air of secrecy, how- ever, which the iron-jawed little man carried about him was in itself suf- ficient to ward off trifling company. That air of constant mqditation in- voluntarily refused interruption. As far as the village of St. Croix was con- cerned. Monsieur Gabelle could be briefly analyzed in the words of Du Bois, the gray haired old innkeeper who would explain him thus : Gabelle minds his business. We mind ours. For Monsieur ' s love of solitude there was, however, reason. In his earlier years he had been remarkable for skill with the sword, and in the dis sipated brawls which marked his younger days, he had often resorted to it. With the life of more than one of his drunken opponents upon his