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

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THE REDWOOD 17 perpetuate the fame of Marsh, the youth of brilliant promise who would some day be a great doctor and save hundreds of lives? Must he give up Ray, his pride, his only hope? Ah no, — no, he could not. Then the awfulness of his situation overwhelmed him. He staggered to the window and sank to his knees like one in a deadly stupor. For minutes that seemed years he knelt and prayed — prayed for the answer to his question, too deeply hidden for mortal mind to fathom. At length, slowly, painfully, like an old, old man, he arose. The fragrant Egyptian breeze softly kissed his blanched cheek. He heaved a deep sigh and his broad shoulders straight- ened. A new spirit seemed to enter his tired body. His eye was steady and cool and sure. His teeth were set. At last all doubt had fled. With firm, strong hand he grasped the jar of antitoxin, and his case of instruments, and walked with unhesi- tating step into the children ' s room. There was no longer any question in his mind. Only one path lay before him now. Marsh had chosen. flfworjj JOHN WALSH O Memory ! Thaumaturgus of the soul ! Thou wondrous Wizard, passing human ken ! Who with thy magic wand dost mould at will And summon back to pulsing life again Lost forms and features, vocal sounds and scenes, Consigned long since to dark Oblivion ' s tomb ! Thus all our yesterdays and to-days May friendly meet, and each bid each Good Morrow. ' With what rare gifts and powers our soul is dowered By Him, the Primal Cause, our bounteous God, Who generous gives us to enjoy at once A two-fold life — the present and the past ! Wkat grateful sentiments should stir the human heart !

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16 THE REDWOOD words of Mahommed Selim, The Black Death has all but fled. In the great register to-day there is recorded but one death. Abdul, the tent-maker, alone has gone to the gardens of Al- lah. Marsh had now stumbled from the room. His senses were swimming, and he was choking with emotion. It ' s true — true, he cried, wildly. A devilish ungodly spectre had en- tered his house. The Black Death had stricken his two children. He dragged himself to his office and sank limply into a chair. Then, with a superhuman effort he straightened himself. The antitoxin must be injected with- in an hour, or both his children — yes, his own children, sweet little Dolly and sturdy Ray— were doomed to a certain and speedy death. Another thought came now, and plunged him from black despair into the deepest hell. Pate was strangling him. He had but one jar of antitoxin, and he could save but one life. The other must be sacrificed! He gazed far out over the broaden- ing desert. Everything seemed to be at peace. Ah! peace, he said, slow- ly, bitterly. Everything is at peace. How he felt the mocking irony of those words ! The happy songs of the tired fellaheen carried by the freshening breeze and mingling with the musical wash of the Nile, floated through the casement, modulated, softened, sweet- ened. Far off on the parched desert he could see the dimly outlined Sphinx with its eternal question. How vividly it pictured his own plight ! He pressed his cold palm to his burning forehead, and whispered softly, God help me to answer my question. Vaguely he felt there was no answer. He was groping in a dungeon. He looked up at the heavens and saw black clouds brooding low like the shadow of impending doom. Suddenly he seemed to behold two great clouds break asun- der and drift slowly apart. And what was that behind? Great God! A hearse black as death ! A mountainous hearse moving slowly, mournfully along the sky lanes. A dim, sombre hearse, its plumes waving weirdly in the whispering breeze ! In that hearse, the figment of his disordered imagination, yet how real, how persistent, one of his own chil- dren would surely lie. There was no escape. The Black Death was no re- specter of persons. He had but one jar of antitoxin — enough to save one life. Yes, he must choose either the boy or the girl. And now his dying wife ' s words came back to him with sudden, vivid force : And you will care for little Dolly always, and love her more than your own life? Yes, he had answered, huskily. Could he break his promise now? Then he must save Dolly and let Ray die? Ray, his boy, the heir to the family name, the sturdy lad who would

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Oil}? 3falhj nf Uar JAMES R. ENRIGHT •L HE crimson lust for battle, the stinging goad of Kate, %J$ TKe clashing of accoutrements, the cry for blood unsate — Y The fleeting cause, the grim effect, a toll of lives will bring, And millions leave to fight and die for freedom and their king. The cannons roar, and shrapnel shrieks, for Retribution ' s sake; But Death, the Spectre terrible, his ceaseless tax will take ! The inhumanity of man makes countless thousands mourn, The seething strife of battlefields leaves souls destr oyed and torn — A host of voices, wet with tears, are calling for their dead, But a nation ' s honor called them, too, and they obeyed in dread. A nation ' s honor? Mo, ' tis Mars! the god of battle grim — The honor, glory, fame and blood — all, all are claimed by him! This cruel King is hailed by men, though strewn about his feet, The souls of countless thousands no satisfaction meet. The mightiest engine here on earth — what is it to a fly ? The world, the sun, the universe, a human soul can ' t buy. Can book-learned skill, or mortal man make life in any way? Can honor, fame and glory, then, a single life repay? A nation ' s bloody victory is but a paltry thing, If it cannot restore the lives it used to glut this King. 18