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

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With Apologies to Rip Thomas Crowe. OR fully two hours I must have battled with the brush and Manzanita, when suddenly I emerged on the edge of a clearing in the center of which stood an old, weather- beaten, dilapidated house of the two-story-and-attic variety. Now I, even as you yourself, have seen a goodly number of houses in my day, but neither of us, I feel sure, has ever had the misfortune of gazing upon a dwelling more forlorn than that one of the wilderness. Ragged, worm-eaten, out-at-the-elbows — I could not wonder at the signs of desolation about it. No one could have tarried long within its walls without experiencing the primi- tive impulse to betake himself again to the wild, nomadic life of his distant an- cestors. Contemplating it, the most hardened Movie fan would cease to search for a solution to the world-old enigma, Why g — I mean boys — leave home. He would have known. From these remarks it may be inferred that the old house did not promise much as a hospice. The inference is eminently cor- rect. Still, it had four walls and I was cold. Please do not say that that sen- tence lacks unity. The fault is only ap- parent. There was really a close con- nection between the existence of those walls and the thermal — or non-thermal — condition of my person. You see, there was a chilly March wind blowing — blowing right through the rents my clothing had received as a result of the struggle I had had with the under- growth. The walls, however unprepos- sessing their appearance, might prove a barrier to the breeze. Behold the connection. So I approached and looked about for some means of entrance. ' Twas in vain. All the doors on the first floor, and the windows too, were locked. I kicked and pulled and twisted and jerked and — well, yes, I did swear a little, but all to no purpose ; there sim- ply was no getting into that house. And all this time, mind you, I continued to be cold. In fact, to be very, very cold. jWhat was I to do? Here it was late afternoon and I had been journeying since sun-up. An attempt to retrace my steps might result in my being fro- zen. Heavens ! Death in that trackless wild! I began to recall stories I had heard of wanderers being frozen in Alaskan snows. Would the same fate be mine? Would some thoughtless youth in years to come take up my 11

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Two Pictures DREAMED a dream of yesterday- Was it glorious or grand? — Only a blood-stained soldier lay In tKe mud of No-man ' s land. Weirdly in the inky sky, A watcKing vulture wheeled. Its prey— the brave boy left to die On the ghastly battle-jield. Another picture— Ah ! ' Tv?as fair- To my conjured vision came; I saw a hero meet to wear His country ' s badge of fame. About him surged the cheering throng, But nearer to him pressed His Mother, her heart a song For the medals on his breast. I wonder oft, throughout the day, Which played the nobler part; The victor, or the vulture ' s prey With shrapnel in his heart. MARTIN M MURPHY 10

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12 THE REDWOOD skull and murmur the immortal lines — Alas! poor Yorick! Or perchance that highly ornamental part of my be- ing would aid the meditations of some lonely anchoret when he should think of death. But hold ! I was from fighting stock ! I w:ould not yield to the grim conqueror without a struggle ! Onward I plunged — pardon me, I should have said on- ward I intended to plunge. What real- ly happened was, that I plunged down- ward — straight downward and splash ! into a pool of water. I didn ' t Avait to recover from my surprise before re- gaining my feet. A perfect sub-con- scious reaction brought me into that po- sition in something less than a tenth of a second. How often I had heard that water was wet without adverting to the fact ! And how clearly and how vivid- ly I realized that fact now ! That par- ticular pool of water, anyhow, was very, very wet and moreover, very, very cold. I began feeling about for some egress and my hands came into contact with what seemed to be a door. I pushed, and entered upon darkness — darkness deep and dire, darkness some- what akin to that which Moses caused to descend upon the banks of the Nile. There followed much groping about and considerable shin-bruising, to be rewarded finally by stumbling — I speak literally — by stumbling upon a pair of stairs. Cautiously I ascended. Cautiously I pushed open another door and found myself on the first floor of the old building. Now for a stove! From room to room I went in search, but the only thing I found was disap- pointment. Save for an objectionable odor, frequent cobwebs and multitud- inous spiders those rooms contained nothing. Up I went to the second story. Alas ! Not to mention Alack ! It was the first story all over again only much worse. I began to tremble from more than the cold. Ye gods! Was there no way of driving the chill from my system? Once again those visions of a lonely grave, or bleaching bones — my bones — arose to torture me. I went to a win- dow and gazed out. The wind was howling about the house like a lost soul and the branches of the trees danced sadly in accompaniment to that melan- choly dirge. Should I again brave the elements and die nobly, battling to the last? Or should I stay where I was and await the — Ha! I jumped two feet. Ha! Ha! I jumped three. What cheer? I glanced up quickly. Framed in a small square aperture in the ceiling di- rectly above me, was a head. A very hairy head, the locks like those of some great hero. From the head two eyes gazed at me with a questioning expres- sion. Then the lid of one eye solemnly descended and a hand appeared beck- oning me to come up. Come up ! Did he think I was going to fly up? Even as the question formed itself in my