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

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Late Spring The Chronicle of a Tardy Romance. F. Buckley McGurrin HERE ' S a little Mor- mon town in Utah which we shall call Pleasantville . The name will do as well as any, and better, per- haps, than some, in that it exemplifies a tendency the Latter Day Saints had of making, in the names of their vil- lages, lasting thanksgivings. On hearing such names as Fruit- vale and Bountiful , one cannot but contrast the peaceful, prosperous vil- lages they designate with the arid des- ert from which they sprang, Minerva- like, through the instrumentality of pioneer brawn and sturdy faith, aug- mented by aptly-diverted streams of mountain water. It is an unobtrusive- ly religious idea, and for that reason, coupled with the fact that it is gener- ally effective, rather deserving of praise, don ' t you think? It resem- bles, on the whole, the prevalent religi- ous atmosphere in the small Mormon settlements — not especially apparent, but undeniably felt as a firm, reassur- ing foundation for the entire social structure. This is rather a significant fact, as it has some bearing on what follows. But, before I explain, let me ask you to accompany me to Pleasant- ville, the scene of our comedy. It will be not at all disagreeable, I assure you, although Pleasantville, even now, boasts nothing of paved streets and dairy lunches. It is just as simple and frank and inviting in its cool rusticity as it was twenty years back, when our little comedy was ori- ginally presented. Behind it tower the rugged heights of the Oquirrah moun- tains. In front, at the foot of a ten mile slope of grain fields, lies the blue of the Great Salt Lake. The streets are broad and honest, and bathed with cool shade from the soldierly poplars of Lombardy that flank them. They are dusty, these warm spring days, but delightfully soft under the horse, who pads along their shadow-flecked vistas, past the neat houses, generally of adobe bricks, softened by time and clinging vines, with hen-peopled yards behind picket fences. One is really grateful for the muf- fling dust, since it permits one to hear the tinkling and splashing and rushing of the cold mountain water that races through wooden flumes on each side of the street. And, of course, there ' s lots of lush grass along the foot-paths, and 25

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Alnlja CHARLES D. SOUTH QLOHA ! and welcome a thousand times over ! Aye, hail to each bay- wreathed and brine-spattered rover, Our eagles of triumph exultingly hover To gladden the breeze with our pennant supreme ! We said when you left us- --and now we ' re repeating The sentiment still in our jubilant greeting : Aloha---our love to you, parting or meeting ; Aloha our own College heroes---THE TEAM! Aloha, we sang when the Orient splendors Unrolled, like a curtain, to charm the defenders Of all the brave titles that Victory renders, When old Santa Clara ' s bright flag is agleam ! Aloha, we sang; and in multiple measure We sing it again with an infinite pleasure— Aloha, your glory shall swell the rich treasure That jewels the fame of our heroes— THE TEAM ! Aloha, attune to our joy-ringing chorus, In spirit, our Mother of Men stands before us ! The broad-streaming light of her faith shining o ' er us, She blesses her sons ' neath its radiant beam. Though distant Hawaii with laurels hath crowned you— To old Santa Clara what love ties have bound you— No wreath half so dear as the love all around you — No fame like the College acclaiming THE TEAM ! Aloha ! Aloha ! Though worlds may divide us, Let old Santa Clara ' s grand precepts abide us, And never our hearts with unfaithfulness chide us— And over our souls may her light ever stream ! Aloha ! and welcome, a thousand times over ! Aloha ! each bay-wreathed and brine-spattered rover ! Long, long o ' er the vale shall your memory hover ! Aloha ! our own college heroes— THE TEAM ! 24

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26 THE REDWOOD lots of peach blossoms that sprinkle them with fragrant snow, and lots of rosy-cheeked little Mormons tumbling through their garden gates. This all sounds not unattractive, does it? And at the time of which we write, it ' s spring in Pleasantville — late spring, when the season has shaken off its ear- ly timorousness and leans toward summer. Late spring, twenty years ago, was much the same as at present, and had a very similar effect upon the heart. That the above makes a terribly lengthy preamble I am perfectly aware. According to the modern, quick-action schedule for fiction, the villain should long since have stepped to the foot- lights and commenced his fiendish machination vers the heroine. But the matter isn ' t of such grave import; first, because the story is twenty years old — hopelessly antiquated — and hence has no need for haste ; secondly, be- cause there is no villain in the cast; and finally, because no one would ever regard Judith Mathews as a heroine. The only thing about Judith Mathews that chimed with peach blossoms and running water, was her eyes. They were large and gray. As for the rest — she had never been a Venus, and she was now thirty-five. Each of her thir- ty-five years had been spent within a five-mile radius of Pleasantville. The first ten were simply a long day, with a blue sky and white clouds like cas- tles, and the great blue salt lake danc- ing at the valley ' s feet. The second ten brought Judith considerable knowl- edge of various sorts and of varying degrees of desirability. Among other things she learned that she was not destined to become what is known as popular , and hence learned what it is to be lonely. Further, she learned at church that her duty as a good Saint was to marry and do her share in the great business of regeneration. Toward the close of that second span of years, Judith found herself possessed of a much wider and much more precious knowledge. It was a sweet knowledge, to be sure, but one which was to bring to her quiet soul a great deal of pain. She learned to lis- ten sympathetically to the rushing of the flume-water; she looked upon the holyhoks in her garden and saw in them something other than the tall, uncultured blossoms she had known. Which is one rather indirect way of saying that she knew love. To me, there is an element of tragedy in the story of Judith Mathews, for which her love affair was largely re- sponsible. The affair was tragic, be- cause, to all intents and purposes, it was deemed to be fruitless. The man was called Elmer — a sturdy, sun- burned son of Elder Johnson. No one could have accused him of trifling — he was not that sort. A bashful man has too volatile a conscience for the diversion. And this bashfulness of his is what furnished Judith with the tra- gic element to which I have referred. For while Elmer, because bashful, was