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

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THE REDWOOD 13 The Prodigal A Reverie By Victor J. Martin. HEN Diego scaled the garden wall of Mission San Antonio de Padua, he little thought of any unhappiness, either in the dimness of the starlit plain or in the hidden years of his life. Yet never more would he talk with his friend Padre Jose Pedro, and the yucca, now like a fragrant fountain of silver in the moonlight, would bloom but once for him again. Diego was running away, leaving the mouldering walls and sagging tiles which had mothered him and from whose shadow he had never before ven- tured. Foolish boy ! He had heard of the gaiety of the city of San Francisco growing up beside Mission Dolores, and he longed to join in its pleasures and opportunities. Poor impotent Indian! Thus was he drawn into the struggle for wealth and apparent happiness. Years passed. California was now a great State; and San Francisco a large and wealthy city. But Diego in his old age found his portion bitter and unhappy. One evening as he made his way homeward from the city, he chanced to pass Mission Dolores, and weary he entered to rest. The interior was dark and quiet and the flickering of the sanctuary lamp brought unwonted peace to Diego ' s soid. He sat down near the holy water font, but no prayer came to his lips, for he was tired and had forgotten how to pray. Then, as he gazed at the altar, the sun, struggling through dull clouds threw a beam of russet light upon the statue of San Antonio of Padua. . . . In the morning the old man set out on his journey. The way was long and tedious, but an insatiable desire for peace put the strength of other years in his limbs. On the second day with slow and painful steps Diego entered the Santa Clara Valley. And here in the foothills lay the Mission of Santa Clara, with an olive garden, and lush grass to receive his tired body. But with his hand upon the bell at the gate, memories of San Antonio rose up in his mind, a vision invested with ineffable peace. The inspiration failed not. He bore his weariness, and did not ring. Evening came days later. Diego approached the Mission of San Antonio, a speck upon the dry, golden plain. The sun was lowering behind the Santa Lucia mountains, and its dull red glow filled the valleys of heaven with a delicate rose mist. The steps of the prodigal became slower as the distance lessened. He was failing and when he reached the broken facade and echo- ing gallery, death had dimmed his eyes. Diego saw only vague outlines in the soft light, and not the desolation of the abandoned place. The moon was now above the mountains, and the old man wept with joy. The parched vine upon the wall still bloomed, and the dead stalk of the yucca bore silver flowers as in the years of his youth. The fountain was dry. but Diego heard afar the gurgling ' of cool waters. He qui- etly sank to rest in the dark and ruined cloister. He was home forever!

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12 THE REDWOOD nous hillside, a sweet contest of dulcent elashings, united with that of the pastoral chorus of the fairest centuries of poetry, Theocritus yet remains pre- eminently enlaureled, the sincerest artist of the beautiful. While other poets have been allured by the charm of the subjective lyric expression, Theocritus has been content with careful colors to depict Nature faithfully. For a world, weary of too much philosophy, Milton composed his invocation to this poet: Return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales and bid them hither cast Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. But we are lingering too long upon those things from which the asphodel bloom of Theocritus does not wholly spring. Let us prescind from what mat- ter he sang, and what light he viewed nature in, and judge him rather on the downright sweetness of his tones, wherein lies largely the poetic merit. Here he does not fail : Sweet is the murmuring- whisper of yonder pine by the sources. Sweet, in truth, O sing-er: but not less mellow thy music. The Rainbow Builder By Thomas Higgins, ' 24. Pretty little sunbeam where were you When the rainy skies hung low? I was in the azure seeking all the while For the rarest tints to paint the great rainbow.

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14 THE REDWOOD An Empty Song By Paul D. Bean, ' 24. Evening findeth the wood Hollow and deep, Blue-paved with celandine In scented sleep. Water courseth here ' Mid roots most pale: From fall to fall she telleth A mountain tale. To her sole thread of song The wild wood listeth, Till down the drippling aisles Sweet morning misteth. Leaning larches old, Hearing this note Through years of crumbled wings, Have it by rote. Very old are the songs Of drear black rills, Harping upon the old Lifting of hills.