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

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 ! ($ uturr Algoma Street View—Oshkosh Normal Industrial Building

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uturr “The Last Night” The moon sprang up above the eastern trees; The soft light paled against the ancient tower; The night was full of shadows; and the wind Whispered of mystic things. Alone I sat. Behind me, softly, motors came and went, Gleaming along the highway, then were gone. On nights like this, come dreams, and silent thoughts With faint forebodings. From a grassy knoll I watched the flickering shadows of the trees— Those grand old trees whose strength has been our pride For many years. The moonlight slanted down. Lighting dim lanes throughout the somber shade. As I looked, the campus teemed with life. Where all before was lonely loveliness. Stood mystic shapes and bodies luminous That peopled all the shades; they came and went— The ghosts of those who in the far-off days Called this their home. Perchance on moonlit nights. They must return to these historic walls. And wander underneath the ancient trees That towered o'er them since the school began. I listened, and a sound came welling up: A chant of praise, but faint and far away, Sung by the phantom voices. Thus they sang: “Farewell, old trees, farewell, for nevermore Shall we return to linger in your shade Or wander o’er the campus at your feet. Farewell, in sorrow, that the course of time Must take you from us; but farewell in joy, That o'er your bodies, on this hallowed ground, Shall rise a nobler, grander monument To mark the swift advancement of our school. Forward and upward. Let our souls rejoice, And you, old trees, be glad that in your death The hope of your creation is fulfilled. Silence everywhere; the song was done. Lo, all the singers vanished in a mist! The night wind sang a solemn melody To the moon sailing in the east. I'a«-

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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