Oregon emerald. (Eugene, Or.) 1909-1920, December 09, 1916, Image 6

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    The Oregon Spirit
A magazine supplement to the Oregon Emerald; published by the stud
ant body with funds gained by the Rabindranath Tagore lecture for the ex
pression of literary effort.
jr" — ■■ ■■
The amount of literary ability in the University un
doubtedly calls for some additional means of publication. The
plan of issuing a magazine supplement to the Emerald
Seems to be a good method of trying out the real demand
amongst the students for some form of publication. I sin
cerely hope that the effort may prove in every way success
ful. I am convinced that there is much literary talent
amongst the students which needs only an opportunity of ex
pression to develop rapidly. —P. L. Campbell.
The University of Oregon is not a great educational in
stitution whose influence and power extends over a vast ter
ritory. If we are to be more fair than loyal we must admit it.
One of those things for which our University is best
known in the college world is its enthusiasm, the fire with
which it embues its students, the fight with which it fills its
teams, the loyalty with which it inspires its faculty. It is this
thing we call the Spirit. The thing that is coming to be
known over the whole country as the Oregon Spirit; Other
colleges envy us it. It is one of our most potent strengths—
our prestige.
Of late years the fame of this Spirit has spread. We
must uphold it. We must keep it before us at all times.
This little supplement has been named the Oregon Spirit
in honor of that something which means our Alma Mater to
us, which is strength more than the weight of numbers or of
brawn. That something which is the soul of our college life.
We know that our little magazine is hopelessly unworthy
of the name it bears but we hope you will stand with us
in trying to raise it as near that great height as possible—
and also in trying to lift the real Oregon Spirit until it is im
possible to emulate.
The Speer-ut has noticed signs advertising student
meetings and activities of various kinds tacked to the historic
tree that stands before the entrance to Deady hall. This tree
has long been famous in Oregon tradition as the place where
the students gather and pass between classes. It has held
the names of all the Friars that have ever been chosen. Be
neath it the men and women of Oregon have walked since the
University’s foundation.
There are bulletin boards for the signs and notices.
Green of youth and grey of age,
The crimson of noble bload
That has flown most straight from
the ancestor
First formed of the Eden-mud.
Green of grass and green of leaves,
Gray of temples showing through,
Trailing ivy from the eaves, *“
Red as blood bled-new.
Oregon is a fostering mother
Bearing the earth her men.
The story is old, oft re-written,
And I tell but the story again.
Hear the singing ’cro... the lawn,
Men’s voices, loving Oregon.
Soul of the years O where, where,
Are the dreams of my childhood
days ?
And the castles I built in innocent
And the ships I sailed on an unknown
And the joys of life as they seemed
to be-*
O where, where, where!
Soul of the years O where, where,
Is the love I used to know?
Has it gone with thee to an unknown
Has the ship of hope its sails enfurled
Shall I find it waiting on white sei-J
curled ?
O where, where, where!
“Four gr^, walls and your grey tow
ers,” \
Ivy and the seal.
Memories of long past hours,
Always that appeal
Which lingers round the steps and
Those sounds which still repeat,
The tread along the halls and floors
Of a generation’s feet.
He sits engrossed before bis evening
The light of shrouded globes and
green eye-shade
His face in sickly crescent gloom
have laid,—
No jester ever wore grotesquer mask.
He sits while night turns out un
heeded reels,
No sound but crash of paper vicious
The clack of keys to nervous leaping
And all around the roll of groaning
Released at last, his lonely way is
Past alleys, dark-mouthed, past un
iighted shops,
Oafes where waiters on soiled table
Loll sleepily against the dying trade.
A prisoner through half his daily
By shades drawn down he puts him
self away
From -all the other mounting, calling
From luring dawn; to sleep—if so he
No more to see theisplotching of the
On morning lawns, or hear the nasal
Of early grocery-boys at garden wall,
Or mass bells breaking far and faitly
And all for this: that men in business
And ladies sweetly groomed in negli
The news of all the world by quickest
May have at breakfast with their eggs
and toast.
Even as You and I.
(ouo o3ial uio.ij panurjuoQ)
hiui. A long silence ensued—broken o
n'ly by the croaking of the frogs along
the river. Hector feasted his eyes on
the fair Cleone. The fair Cleone gazed
pensively at the ground.
“IIow dear and sweet and good she
looks,’’ thought Hector the l’oet. “She
is the most beautiful girl in the
world.’’ He leaned toward her, as
though drawn by an irresistible spell—
"Stop!’’ said Hector the t’ynic
harshly. “She is a woman and there
fore full of guile. Even now, as she
sits there, she is laughing in secret
and wondering how long it will he be
fore you succumb to her pensive pose.”
“You are too harsh," protested Hec
tor the Poet, “Perhaps she is really
sorry that 1 am going. Perhaps—’’
"Perhaps fiddlesticks!” snapped the
Cynic savagely. “Don’t take any
Even as he communed thus with
himself, his arm—-quite accidentally of
course—-slipped from the back of the
seat and rested softly about the
shoulders of the fair Cleone. This gal
vanized her into instant action. She
buried her face in his shoulder with a
stifled sob. Hector crushed her to him
—what else ould he do? Even the
Cynic agreed that it was the only
thins to do.
Just as she was about to turn her
young lips to his—bashfully, trustingly
—another couple “hove into view.”
With lingering and longing they tore
themselves apart.
“Suffering cats!” swore the Toet to
himself, “The Fates are against us.”
“Saved your life,” said the Cynic.
“Another moment and you would have
been lost. Let that be a warning to
The other ouple hurried by and
were lost in the shadows but Hector
the Cynic would not allow the old po
sition to be resumed.
“See,” begged the poet. “She longs
to have me clasp her to my bosom.”
“Even so." gloated the Cynic. “She
thought she had started something.
Itut we will fool her. She has met
her master at last.”
The moon climbed high and higher
into the sky. The fair Cleone con
tinued to gaze pensively at the ground
while they talked “sweet nothing” in
whispers. All her aTtt were of no
avail. Hector refused to be ensnared
again. At last she rose and said
softly and sadly:
“It is late. Let us go home.”
On the steps of the veranda where
the climbing roses hung about her and
formed a frame for her wan face and
corn-silk hair—Cleone turned to say
goodbye. Ah. those wistfully sad
boodgyea! Down through all (be ages
lovers have met and loved and part
I ed but the goodbye® remain as poign
antly sweet as ever. She stood on
! the step above him so that she was
j level with his eyes, and said, softly
and simply:
j “Goodbye, Hector.”. .
j He took both her hands in his and
! her red lips were very close. Hector
the Poet would have given the world
to h-ave crushed her to him and
pressed her smooth cheek against his
I —but the Cynig was firm:
“Don’t kiss her—if you do you are
^ lost. She is only a flirt.”
j So he lifted his hat and turned
I away. He had gone but a few steps
when Cleone’s voice came to him—
: softly, like an Aeolian harp played
from afar. . . “Hector •”
He was back beside her instantly.
She was leaning against tbo veranda
post half hidden by the climbing roses.
The Poet would have taken her into
his arms but the Cynic said firmly:
“Wait—wait, and be on guard for
some fresh attempt!”
“Hector,” said Cleone, twisting har
hands in her dress and blushing a lit
tle, while her eyes were like stars.
. . . “Hector—aren’t—aren’t you go
ing to kiss me goodbye,”
She fell, an armful of soft lovliness,
into his arms. The Cynic was fur
ious :
“You’ve got to kiss her now, but
keep a good grip upon yourself. Don’t
give way to any footiskmenss about
loving her or any of that sentimental
“But I do love her!” protested the
Poet. “And I’m going to tell her so!”
"You don’t love her and you know
you don’t!” said the Cynic savagely—
but his voice was faint.
“I do—I do!” cried the Poet joy
ously. He felt that he was gaining
the upper hand. “I do love her, and
I don’t care who knows it!”
Hector would have been lost, for
‘ the Cynic was -waging a losing battle.
Who could have discriminated with
Cleone in his arms? But someone un
latched the French windows behind
them—it was the house mother and
the hour was late. ... so he kissed
her once more and fled.
“Saved!” gloated the Cynic, who
had revived again. The Poet made
no reply. He was in a daze.
“Ruth, have you seen my collection
of photographs?” said Cleone, as she
and her friend were running "them
selves on the beach. “I have entitled
it: ‘Fools one meets at a co-ed
Ruth sat up suddenly.
“I’ll bet you didn’t get Hector’s.’*
“He’s too wise.”
“No, I would have got him to prom
ise it -only the old lady butted in and
queeTed the whole thing. I’ll get him
yet, though—next term, perhaps,”
and she waved her parasol at a youth
coming up the beach. . ,