University of Wisconsin Oshkosh - Quiver Yearbook (Oshkosh, WI)

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 be (Jpuinrr laughs her girlish laughter, and the moments after weeps her girlish tears. The spell of spring works in the flood” and the heart pulls at its tether in the magic warm spring weather, and it is hard right here on the Campus to keep up the daily routine. The blossoms beckon, the frogs challenge, the winds speak moaningly—the bees drone their psalms of peace— there is the spring rain of song from the birds. The scarlet tangcr and the blue-birds flit across through the oaks, the oriole hangs his nest on the outermost branch of the maple tree and softly sings. Here. Birdie. Here”—and you say to him— In some blithe moment was it nature’s choice to dower a bit of sunshine with a voice—or in some ancient garden-ages back—did some orange tulip flecked with black, yearning to heaven until its voice was heard, desire unspeakably to be a bird?” And the days drift on into May time when half the world a bridegroom is and half the world a bride.” Then comes the days when it is worth all a man can scrape or squander—first to idle, first to wander forth from trade, away from duty, revelling in all the beauty and glamor of the way.” The birds sing on—the bees go droning on and all nature bursts forth in bewildering beauty, and it is June. There are raging blizzards, rushing winds, gloomy skies, golden sun. and silent rain upon our little Campus—and we would not have it otherwise. We would not exchange this enchanting spot for one where everlasting spring abides—where the roses are blooming, where the Frost Spirit may not play his magic. Right here you can return thanks for each glad day. right here you can emulate the wise old woman who has come to the sage conclusion that almost any kind of weather is better than no weather at all. When the floods have reached high water mark—when the raindrops splash familiarly in your face, don’t get gloomy and speak evil against the weather, but instead learn this song, I pray, and sing it heartily as unto the Lord: “It isn’t raining rain on me “A health unto the happy. But fields of clover bloom, A fig lor him who frets. Where every buccaneering bee It is not raining rain. Can find a bed or room. It is raining violets.” E. F. W. Pane 7

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iEhr $ uiurr Spring on the Campus THOUGH the stage may seem too small for the setting of such a marvelous pageant, yet the miracle of the recurring seasons is repeated yearly on these few acres, and it is only by contrast with the other three, and especially with the winter, that spring can be fully enjoyed. Right here autumn touches the tree-tops and it is the time of “sad thoughts and sunny weather, sorrow, and the scarlet leaf.” Then you cry out with the poet, O be less beautiful or be more brief. Every year the rushing stormy winds of winter pass over it and December’s parting grip may be a month of purest snow softly enfolding every tree, every clinging vine, and autumn weed, till each one seems a thing of beauty fit for paradise.— plenty pretty enough to grow by the river that flows by the throne of God. Or the season may send the rain on every branch and bough, fasten it there with an icy breath—then scatter the gloomy clouds, bring back the sun, and the whole world flashes and gleams and sparkles, and it is no strange thing that in the midst of such a scene one should grow gracious and forgiving. One finds excuses for raging winds and drifting snow and stinging cold, if the same season which produces them will also bring forth the recompense, the one day of royal splendor. On this bit of land arc sunlight and moonlight, starlight and twilight; the rose burst of dawn and the pathos of the setting sun when the gates of glory swing apart to let the vision through. Night falls upon the Campus. The pale moonsickle seems to rest in the top of a bare oak tree, or later in the moon month the full orb comes up—the color of an old coin, and then the tree shadows fall distinct and clear on the fresh snow fields, and the picture is as perfect as no etcher on earth could make it. Gradually the winter gives way.—February lets in a bit of spring, reminding one that “under the snowdrifts the blossoms arc sleeping. dreaming their dreams of sunshine and June. Then the winds of March go roaring through the heavens piling high the clouds in fanciful forms and through the drifts peep patches of bewildering blue and the buds begin to swell, for as the Chinese proverb has it. “The flowers arc aware that spring is here ere man has found it out.” And so March nurses April’s violets till the coy April herself comes across the hillside, and it is the lambtime. the lark-time, the child-time of the year. and April dances on this very Campus, dances the dance of the spring time, making merry with herself and under these trees. She Pag 6

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Remembrances High Cliff View in Menomonie Park