Westmoorland College - Lupine Leaflet Yearbook (San Antonio, TX)

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14 LUPINE LEAFLET Well now, I done had dat fiddle ober fifty years. Marse Frank gib it to me when he come 'courtin' 'round here and took Miss Callie off. Den, hit ain't 'xactly mineg 'caze, Marse Frank, he tole me, when he was here ten years ago, dat some day he was gwine ter come back fer 'Old Strad'. But den l reckon he ain't eber comin' back no mo' now. How much would you gib me fer it? Nic, I like you better than these other negroes around here, and I realize that you are getting old and won't be able to work any more. lf you won't let them know how much I give you, l'll pay one hundred dollars for your old fiddle. Then you'll not have to worry about clothes and food any more. The old darkey sat there stunned, amazed. He had never had a hundred dollars in his life. He could not realize that there was so much money in the world for him. Marse Hinton, you don't really mean it, you wouldn't gib me a hundred dollars for dis ole fiddle, would you? But, den, dis am the only friend what's left meg and we's been here together more'n fifty years. Marse Frank might come back some dayg den held be mad at Nic for not keeping his 'Old Strad'. Let's wait three mo' months, an' if he ain't done come by dat time, de fiddle am yours. Thus it was agreed that Uncle Nic would sell his violin to Hinton at the end of three months. Every evening since then he had taken it out on the porch, and as he sat there, he would mumble the same old story to it, over and over again. At last the evening came for Hinton to take it away, and Uncle Nic was telling his story for the last time. A little negro girl, coming home late, called out to him, Whar was you gwine de other day when you passed our house on yo' way to de mill? l ain't done seed you 'till you'se slam out o' sight. Uncle Nic was not in a mood to answer foolish, questions, he was bidding fare- well to his only friend. 'l wuz gwiue whur I wuz gwineg dat's whur l was gwine , was his rather sharp reply. Just then he caught sight of Hinton at the gate. Dar you is, Marse Hinton, come right in. Ole Nic was out here in de cool biddin' farewell to his fiddle. Hit sorter seems like losing one ob de family to let dis ole' friend go. Hit have been mah only friend for many years now, and, Marse Frank, he ainit come for it yitg I guess I might as well let you hah it. But, Marse Hinton, l wants to play just a few mo' tunes before you takes hit away. Ole Nic ain't young no mo', and hit's mighty hard to say good-bye to :Old Strad'. lf I didn't need that money most awfully bad, I wouldn't let you nor no other white man take mah old fiddle. Again the old negro began to play. His whole soul seemed to be in his music. Every emotion was expressed beautifully, the notes rose and fell with the feelings of an aching heart, as weary as the weeping willows from years of faithful service. Hin- ton sat on the steps, fingering a roll of bills. He did not see that tears were rolling down the old darkey's face, he was not conscious that he was hearing a masterpieceg that of an old darlcey's soul bidding farewell to its last companion. Both were too absorbed in his own thoughts to see the tall, stately man who stood at the gate. He had been there for some time, but he was too moved by the peculiar beauty of the magic music to speak. He stood there thinking of the beautiful, little bride he had taken from here so long ago, and of the love old Nic had for Little Sunshine. He stroked his grey beard with one hand, and hastily brushed away a tear with the other. Then he laughed softly. . Uncle Nic dropped the violin to the floor with a bang. He almost fell over Hin- ton as he stumbled clown the steps and out to the gate. There were millions of men in the world, but only one had that peculiar, musical ring in his laugh. Uncle Nic recognized it instantly. De Lord save mah soul , cried the old darkey exultantly, if hit ain't Marse Frank !

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LUPINE LEAFLET 13 Old Strad I Ruby Baugh Uncle Nic's little cabin was almost hidden in a great cluster of weeping willow trees. There was never a more beautiful picture than it formed on this particular evening. The sun was sinking slowly behind the hills, and it threw a mystic, bewitch- ing light down the little path that led to the doorway. There, in his low rocking chair, on the corner of his tiny porch, Uncle Nic sat, and talked softly to his dog or to himself. An artist would have called the picture Evening, The little hut, so old that the logs were falling apart, seemed to belong with the snowy locks of Uncle Nic, even the dog at his feet was old and bony, the weeping willow seemed bowed and weary from years of service. Across his lap, Uncle Nic held a violin, he was stroking it tenderly as a little girl strokes her cat, and he .was mumbling sweet words of fare- well to it. We done been together des here fifty years, an' mo', but de time am come for us to part. Dere ain't eber been a day passd but what ole Nic has played dese here strings, and he knows ebery tune by heart. lt's done been many a year since Marse Frank gibed you to me to keep 'till he come back. I guess he aiift comin' back no mo' now. He done took mah pretty Little Sunshine away from here when she was young and as tender as a flower, and he brung her back, nigh on ter ten years ago, dead. 1 knowed when he come a courtin, 'round here, dat it would end like dat. Miss Callie warn't eber meant for no rough-neck, white man like him. She made dis here whole plantation dance to her music, and nothin' ain't gone right since Nlarse Frank took her away. He tole me dat he'd come again some day, and take you away, but des here ten years is done passed, and 1 ain't seed hair nor hide ob dat low-down white man yit. I guess he won't eber come no mo'. Nlah poor, pretty Little Sunshine! She loved him so. But youse gwine ter make ole Nick rich. Den he can hab a sho nuff nice tomb-stone put on his Nlarindy's grave, and de cabin fixed, too, meybe. One hundred dollars, you is to fetch me, more'n l'se eber had before in all my life. Dis ole cabin won't be de same with you gone away, but, den, I ain't able to pick no mo' cotton, and l has to hab something to keep me in mah ole age. Youse de only friend dat's left me since mah Marindy died dese twenty years ago. All dese long winter days and evenings, l'se tole dese here strings all dat troubled ole Nic's heart, and dey has always understood. Since l'se too ole to go to de Lord's house on Sundays, I plays de Sabath hymns and sez mah prayers at home. l don't know how l'se gwine ter lib on without you, ole fiddle, but a hundred dollars will keep me till I dief' Two big tears stood in the old darkey's eyes as he talked to the violin, then he tucked it under his chin and began to play softly. Twilight shadows were silently stealing over the plantation. There was not a sound to be heard except Uncle Nic's music. The notes were of a particular clearness and sweetness. For years Uncle Nic's music had been praised for miles around. No one knew that the instrument he used was a Stradivarius, no one except Nlr, Frank and Howard Hinton, the new manager of the plantation. It was he who was to give Uncle Nic a hundred dollars for the almost priceless instrument. Hinton had been on the plantation but a few days before he heard Uncle Nic playing, and he went down to the little cabin to listen. When the old negro had finished, Hinton asked him what kind of a violin he was playing. De Lord only knows, Marse Frank called it 'Old Strad' . Now if you know what dat is? 'Old Strad' did you say? Let me see it, Nic. He examined the violin carefully. Yes, it was really a Stradivarius. He knew that the old negro did not know the worth of the instrument, and he decided to buy it from him. How would you like to sell this old fiddle, Uncle Nic?

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LUPINE LEAFLET 15 On Wasting Time IJ El El Elizabeth Regent This is the first day of spring. When the sun came up this morning with such a glittering, gay glory, I thought- The world is so full of a number of things , but now I feel altogether different. I am sitting in the study hallg there is much on my mind, but I fear there is very little in it. It is a pity to be burdened with so much work when all outdoors is calling, Come out and play with me. But it is not for me to play. Within the next fifteen hours I must prepare an essay, a short history of the Irish Government, and cram for a quiz on the Types of Thinking . I can't seem to concentrate tho'. What good does the study of psy- chology do one, if one does not apply it? Psychologists say that looking off in the distance for a moment rests the eyes and, also, puts the mind in a concentrated state. On looking out the window, I see budding trees, baby shoots of grass, and a sprite little red bird, who dares me to count ten and make a wish before he decides to hop or fly away. Why was mankind not born with an education even as this saucy fellow? Now I must study. This history assignment reads: The Success of Bismarck's Ministry -due March second. What utter disrespect! I wonder what Ben Milam, Bowie, and Houston would think if they could return from their chambers in the Silent Hall of Death, and find me pursuing my labors when all the other students of Texas are to.pay respect to these heroes by putting aside all work on Independence Day? This desk and seat aren't very comfortable. I wonder if the girl who occupied this place last year was an industrious student? Yes, yes, I remember she was on the Honor Roll. I must study, too, so that when years come upon me, I will find pouring over books but an irksome task. Who was that who said something about spring and fancy? I don't seem to be able to learn much history. I know what I'll do. I'll stop studying history and write an essay. Anyone ought to be able to write a theme on a beautiful day like this. Here is the list of subjects under this inviting looking magazine. None of the titles seem to harmonize with my feelings. I do not have the in- centive to write On Wearing New Shoes , for I have on an exceedingly old pairg it would be a burlesque for me to attempt On Being Small , when one has overdrawn, it would not be pleasant even to think about The Excitement of Having a Bank Ac- count. Was that the gong? Horrors! 'and that awful quotation about 'ta spent hour pricks my conscience. I must find a subject for my essay tho'. Here- On Wasting Time -I think that applies to me. I hope I can be included in An Apology for Idlers. l am still puzzled over that saying about spring and fancy. Oh, I remember now- In the spring a young man's fancy Lightly turns to thoughts of--- fAnd a young woman's, too, for that matterlj CLWIIIZIO O Mental Lazmess EI El El Evelyn Leonard The psychologist, who said people are born mentally lazy, struck the right chord. I think I must be growing lazier every day in every way. When I went to grade school, l did apply myself a little, but now. When our teacher told us we should put two