Poetrij ^ ^ Book Reviews
iCiterary g>fttion—pbteb by Serena fflabeett
Vigil
She is sleeping, sleeping, sleeping...
(Pretty sister,
Your vigil I’m keeping).
The wind is moaiiiug, moaning,
moaning. . .
On chill windows
1 hear it groaning.
The leaves are falling, falling, fall
ing. . .
From half-naked trees
Where sleepy birds are calling.
The clock is ticking, ticking, tick
ing. . .
Out in the hall
The nurse’s heels arc clicking.
Hurt silence is weeping, weeping,
weeping. . .
But sister makes no sound,
She is sleeping, . . . sleeping.
—Harriet A. McLeod.
Hill House at Night
We sit by the fire.
There is no talk . . .
What could we know but hay and
cows—and rain that hangs
On purple mountains now?
A soul is being liberated:
This flame
A funeral pyre for some gaunt oak
or tapered pine
That pierced the sky one winter’s
night;
Chief mourners we, lost in an ecstasy
Of consummated life—new, and old,
and ever new.
Silence . . . the quintessence of
sound, draped thick in unfired
patterns
On white unbroken walls.
A rocker squeaks . . .
® Mumbles of work tomorrow . . . and
sleep-infested limbs seek icy
sheets.
Grandmother with her oaken crutch
banks up the fire,
And huffs out the oil-inhaling lamp.
—Constance Bordwell.
Francois Villon
By D. B. Wyndliain-Lewis
A panoramic view of the streets
of medieval Paris, with their motley
crowds of mingled nationalities, re
sounding with the cries of hawkers
and the tread of soldiers; a glimpse
of a mob of students of the old Uni
versity of Paris engaged in a street
brawl with the police, a brawl orig
in inati-ng in the stoiUing of tavern
signs by the students; a vagabond
journey through France with per
haps the most curious genius in his
tory—shell is the temper of “Fran
cois Villon,” by I). B. Wymlham
Lcwis, published by the Literary
Guild of America.
The reader is carried away by the
astonishing adventures of Villon,
“the genius of the tavern,” the stu
dent and tlu‘ poet, who, also listed
such things as burglary and man
slaughter among his accomplish
ments. Vow lie is in a Paris tavern,
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gloriously drunk, reeling off bizarre
ballads in the jargon of the Band
of the Coquille, a notorious gang of
outlaws of wliieh he was a member.
Now he is hurriedly fleeing from
the city following the stabbing of
one Philip C'hermoye, and now re
turning to take part in the burglary
of the College of Navarre on Christ
mas eve, 14d6. Now he faces the
gallows at Paris, and when he can
already feel the hand of the hang
man on his throat he composes the
“Ballad of the Hanged,” probably
one of the mas texpressive poems
ever written.
The latter part of the book Wynd
ham-Lewis devotes to a discussion
and criticism of the poetry of Villon
and to an analysis of the emotions
which produced the verse. A num
ber of the more important poems
are quoted in full, both in the or
iginal and in translation.
A minor fault of the book is that
the author is too fond of his sub
ject. He is a great admirer of Vil
lon and frahkly excuses the poet for
many actions that seem to the reader
almost inexcusable.
—Wilfred Brown.
The Island
of Captain Sparrow
By S. Fowler Wright
I dropped iu on Her, announcing:
“I road ‘The Island of Captain
Sparrow
“Oh, did you? Like it?”
“Mm—well—not so much as ‘Del
uge,’ the novel lie wrote before.
Pretty good, though.”
“Well, tell about it.”
“Oh,” I said, sitting down,
“Wright has a grudge against our
modern civilization and he’s letting
the public know, after the way of
authors. Much better than hiring
halls and spreading pamphlets.”
“Oh, I know,” said She, “I like
my preaching diluted, too. Doesn’t
seem so didactic.”
“Well, to dilute his,” 1 went on,
“Wright has founded an unknown
island in the South Seas, surrounded
it with rocky cliffs, and populated
it with remnants of an ancient
Greek civilization, on the one side.
On the other there are the left-overs
and descendants of a band of de
graded sea-marauders deposited there
by one Captain Sparrow, who met
the iron arm of English law before
ho could return to enjoy the sover
eignity lie anticipated oit this island,
“What’s the disturbing agent in
this peaceful scene?”
“A man, of course. A man oi
our times, shipwrecked and drift
ing, discovers access to the interioi
of the island. Whereupon ho enters
and meets adventure and romance
He meets a girl, living in tile tree
tops. He finds she is a French gir
who has been shipwrecked on the
isle, and lias been living there two
years.”
“So romance comes into the Man’s
life, hm?”
“Oh, yes, and there’s excitement,
too. The island is inhabited by hy
brid human beings, or near-human
being3, a strange mixture of satyrs
and beasts. The girl is captured by
the hybrids, for the old chief of the
hybrids wants her to marry his son,
a frightful hairy brute. Well, the
Man rescues her in the nick of time,
and they both escape and take ref
uge over the boundary of the island
to the country inhabited by the rem
nants of the Greeks. There they
plan to form a new world for them
selves, patterned after the ancient
and forgotten simplicity and clear
ness of the Greek civilization.”
“1 see,” said She, “but I don’t
understand what happened to the
Greeks themselves.”
“They had all been killed off by
strange diseases brought by the
foreigners to the island, and since
they always kept their population at
a certain number by doing away
with old and decrepit people, the
sickness had made ravage among
them and soon reduced their popu
lation to nothing. The story is a
strange concoction, but has the lure
of the tropic, the weird, the strange
and the fantastic.”
“Quite a romantic setting,” She
remarked. But don’t you think the
man who wrote it seems almost in
I sincere?”
“Not at all. He’s cither possessed
of the kind of imagination that
j finds relief from its aversion for
the world in constructing impossible
situations of escape from it, or else
he consciously set about to point
out what he thinks are the weak
points of the life we live and to
suggest doing away with them. I
don’t know, not being burdened
with overmuch perspicacity.”
“Pefhaps he’s merely amusing
himself,” She suggested.
“Oh, it’s certainly more than that.
You feel as if he were attempting
something almost classical, for he
tells the story forcefully and vivid
ly and earnestly. And it may stimu
late some thinking, and that’s all
he could expect to do, of course.
All-Coast Football Team
EMERALD MCDONALD CONTEST
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Sometimes it takes violently reac
tionary ideas to start the slow pro
cesses of tlie constructive mind.”
“If I find time,” She begrudged
me, “to allow myself to be stimu
lated into fanatic fury over the
jangling hypocrisies of our times,
I’ll read the book. After all, if he
found life too fast to follow nowa
days, lie’s perfectly entitled to his
dreams of ancient peacefulness. I
bet they weren’t any more content
ed than we are—probably trying to
figure out how they could get from
place to place faster.”
—Elizabeth Timelier.
Song
I’d like to be a song
Wafted on air,
Sung to a lady
With gold in her hair.
—Kathleen Blakely.
Self-government is being urged at
the University of Idaho by Presi
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dent F. ,F. Kelly ms m moans of shift
ing the responsibility, as lie says, of
education from the shoulders of in
structors and others to the students
themselves.
London Man
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Smokers Here
London, England
doth December, 1921
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New Sunday Diversion
Offered To Students
Dramatic Director To Give
Readings in Alumni Hall
After dinner next Sunday, take a
good brisk walk and when you be
gin to feel like resting a, bit stop
at Alumni hall in the Woman’s
building. It will be more than
worth your while.
Mrs. Otillie Seybolt, head of the
drama department, will present
readings from some of the Irish
plays ami poetry which she likes
best. Mrs. Seybolt says she has no
real favorite, but she is very foml
of modern Irish literature.
Mrs. Seybolt’s rending will be
for the benefit of an informal group
of students and faculty members
who are interested in literature be
cause tliw like it. Who belongs to
this group? All those who wish to
belong. There are no officers; there
is no constitution; there are no dues;
there is no order of business. The
committee on free intellectual ac
tivity lias arranged all the details
of the Sunday afternoon reading
hour.
There will lie an announcement in
For Christmas
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tomorrow’s Emerald of tlio plays
and poems which Mrs. Seybolt has
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Football
(Continued from, Page One)
afternoon on Hayward field and the
students are invited to attend. This
week’s practice sessions will he the
last chance to view Oregon’s great
| est team in recent years in action.
The sessions promise planty of ac
tion ns there are about twenty men
fighting for the chance to accom
pany the regular eleven to Hawaii
i as substitutes. Twenty-two players
1 is the limit set for the trip and
; many of the men are "battling on
even terms for the trip.
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A pencil put Peary on top
of the world
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OTHER explorers had great personal
courage, unlimited energy and vision
untrammelled; and failed. But Peary had
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He had the grasp of every detail
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the pencil in his frost-cramped hand.
After each day’s march he calculated
a methodical course to make sure of
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To face each day’s reckoning as if it
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