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

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®0 % Iforget-JIU ot Forget-me-not, Forget-me-not, Sweet flower of radiant blue; Forget-me-not, Forget-me-not, Wkat voices speak through you? To move our hearts to earnest prayer We gaze upon your petals rare And hear the souls in purging flame Unceasing voice your blessed name, Forget-me-not. Forget Me not, Forget Me not, My yearning and my sighs For Love ' s return, at least in part, The Heart of Jesus cries. Forget thee, Lord? Ah! ne ' er again, My recreant soul responds, nor when A suffering soul imploringly In tearful accents pleads with me, Forget me not. — J. Marius Becchetti, ' 25 29

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had been a series of failures; let this last end the list. Life had lost its value. Besides, he thought, if the boy comes back, he will come with eyes opened; if he does not — his death will be upon another ' s head. I shall suffer, but not as she will. Days and months passed in the desolate household. Ivor had reached Russia and joined the forces. Detached pieces of correspondence passed the censors, but they told nothing of feelings or impressions; they were records of marches and battles and the holding of trenches. Then word came that all was over. The Little Father claimed one life; another was soon to follow. You have killed him! was all that Petrovitch said to his wife. He loved me little, but I would have given him all that I had. He did his duty, she replied. None can do more. But from that moment, heart-broken, she began to fail, and the end was drawing near. And her husband sat by her bedside unmoved by her misery. She had brought it upon herself by her foolishness. Let her pay the price. He was thinking more of the grave in Russia than of one soon to be opened for the dying woman. Little mattered it what became of her. She had been the bane of his life. But a sudden exclamation from the sufferer drew his attention. It was a cry of happiness and joy. He gazed bewildered, for the upraised eyes were bright, and the features seemed again the features of youth, and the outstretched arms expressed the yearning of her heart. Do you not see him? she cried. Our Ivor! Have you no welcome for his coming home? How tender his glance for both! Ivor — Ivor! and she passed away. The heart of Petrovitch was touched. The dead love was rekindled from its ashes. His gaze was earnest and long. The face upon the bed carried him back to early memories, and the darkness of intervening years seemed to roll up and disappear, and with it vanished the demon of hate. I too was to blame, he said, too centered in myself. May God forgive me. In the famine that followed in the wake of the war, the children of Moscow held one name in benediction. It was only a name, for their benefactor was far away, a broken-hearted man among the sheep-folds of Queensland. —J. Francis Good, ' 28. 2K

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W t plaster (genius of j mta Clara HEN Theocritus essayed the task of telling of the glories of Ptolemy he immediately encountered a difficulty, which he sets forth at the very beginning of his panegyric, by describing a wood-cutter who goes into a virgin forest on Mount Ida perplexed with choice as to which tree to cut first since they are all of equal magnificence. Ptolemy enjoyed so many glories that Theocritus knew not where to begin in the telling of them, and he says — . . . to what shall I give ' voice First of all the many blessed things With which the gods have graced the best of kings? And so it is in writing about Father Joseph Bayma, S. J. From the time of his birth in sunny Italy in 1816 to his death in 1892 at Santa Clara, California, he did so many and such diverse things, and he did them so well that it is almost discouraging to start selecting from them because just when one feels that he has made a fair choice, up pops something else that simply must be told. Philosopher and theologian, classicist and rhetorician, mathematician, physicist and astronomer, art- ist, architect, and musician — to which shall precedence be given? And hardest of all is to treat of his writings because, before it is possible to talk about a work, it is first necessary to know the work. But who really knows the works of Father Bayma? Who can fully appreciate them? Even in his own day, though the world bowed in admiration, few claimed to be able to fathom them. Copious are the commentaries with praise and reverence, inciting a desire to know more, but here they stop since none, though all offered homage, presumed to take it upon himself to be able to elucidate them. Father Bayma was a tall, well proportioned man of handsome and impressive appearance. In character he was gentle and kind, always loving and always loved, as only so noble a man can love and be loved. When he spoke one was not disappointed for his voice was rich and so- norous and in keeping with his stately presence. His dark grey eyes, which had gazed out so philosophically upon the passing of seventy-five years, ever retained the sparkle which matchless Italian skies had put there, and there dwelt in them a depth that could only have resulted from meditating upon the vastness of the African sands where he had spent some time as military chaplain, or the vaster ranges of science and religion which ever occupied his thoughts. He is best compared to the Venerable Bede, for he, too, was always reading, always writing, always teaching, always praying . In spite of his ceaseless labors and tremen- dous research his personality never lost a simplicity and humility that so strikingly impressed all who came in contact with him. 30