Shadowy creatures sightless glide Ocean's unguessed mysteries. The narrow sands stretch dim along the sea Full sixty miles from light to light; the wind Sweeps from the south where heaves the open ocean Henry Wyman Holmes. THE BREATH OF LIFE. As they reached the middle of the bridge the young man in the hanson flung the windows open like a prisoner wrenching out the last bar between himself and liberty. "Damn the damn doctors," said he, aloud, "they're too damn careful of me, by far." And he laughed. There was freshness and exhilaration in his laugh, as in the spring air that curved up the dimples all over the basin. "If there were only a shell in sight," he thought, "the river would be perfect. Wouldn't it be just heaven to heave on a bladeful of that water." He sank back against the cushions, pulling off his glove to take out his watch. Midway in the process he was delayed by watching his hand, which was white and thin. He felt the empty cups between his knuckles, wondering what had become of the pads of flesh that had been there. This started a long train of thought, the consideration of which did not cause him to smile as merrily as he had before. He forgot both to put the glove back on, and to look at the watch. The cab bounded easily up through Cambridgeport on its cushion tires. Not till they turned the corner in Massachusetts avenue that reveals Beck and Quincy away up the street did the pale young man's frown relax. Then all at once, his eyes brightened expectantly and the old expression of the escaping prisoner leaped back into them. The cabman opened his little trapdoor. "Where shall I leave you, sir?" he asked. "At the library gate, if you please," replied the passenger. But he be grudged the time for saying this, because the hansom was just turning to let his eager eyes take in the straight stretch up to the square. The asphalt avenue looked white and clean under the morning sun. The brick and stone of the fence flashed into the young man's wide eyes with a satisfactory freshness against the May green of grass and trees beyond. He got out and paid his fare. His watch said ten minutes before twelve; he accordingly started over toward Memorial. "The trees have no business to be so green," he thought, but upon further consideration he was constrained to admit that the date justified their color. In the little knot of · pipe-smokers waiting on the steps of Sever for the bell to ring, he saw no familiar faces, in spite of his close, scrutiny. It seemed to him that the steps of Memorial had been worn three inches lower since he ehad been away. In the transept, so dark and cool, he so felt the sudden sense of awe which sightseers feel that he took off his cap involuntarily. Then, smiling, he put it back upon his head. "My," he said to himself, "I act like a stranger." The man behind the glass, who gave him a yellow slip when he had signed on, was the first familiar person he had seen. At him the young man smiled pleasantly, and walked out into the transept again. They were just opening the doors. He hurried in with the few early lunchers who had been waiting. He walked eagerly up to his table, but no one had come in yet, and the waiter was new, large, and slow, and eyed the yellow slip with evident disfavor. On the paper which the waiter handed him, the young man wrote "J. Champlin, Jr.," and the numerals of his class in the small square corresponding. "And J. Champlin, Jr.," said he to himself, with a good deal of his eagerness gone, "doesn't seem to find the cordial welcome that he expected." Though he turned his head again to watch the crowd now pouring in, he seemed to know no one, and therefore turned back frowning to a plate of pallid soup. But then suddenly it was all different, for here were the whole crowd rushing in and grasping him by the hand. It was Jack this; and Jack that; and So glad to see you again, Jack; and Damn it, Jack, no one would think you'd been sick (a lie, as Jack well knew.) Here was Billy Frobisher, too, after Jack had become settled again, and the questions had been answered, and he was putting his spoon into that fine rich soup. It really was worth those few despondent moments when he had seemed so friendliness, to shake old Billy's hand. Did Jack know why Billy hadn't been in to see him at the hospital? He didn't? Then what a devil of a loafer he must have thought Billy was. Well, Billy had written to the doctors and the doctors wouldn't let any of the fellows come in. That was when they had really found out how ill he was, and had sent him the flowers. Yes, yes, the flowers; that was awfully good of Billy and the rest, said Jack. "And who's going to win the class race?" he asked. "I've seen the Globe for the last week, but it hasn't given the orders of any of the crews, or anything except which club class crews won the other day. The class race is today, isn't it?" "Yes," said Frobisher, "and the whole bunch are going on a tug we've got, and you'll have to come along. Well, why not?" "Doctor's orders," Jack replied. yet. I hate to miss that race, though." "I'm not to be out much for a week "Come on across, and we'll talk it over. If you wear an overcoat, I don't see what harm it will do you." "Nor I, Billy." Going through the yard they met more men, some of whom bowed; some called: "Hello, Jack, mighty glad to see you round again"; and others stopped to shake the thin right hand with a grip that made Jack glad to be with men again. "Nurses and doctors are all right," he confided to Frobisher, "but they don't take hold of you like that." In front of Weld they stopped. The clear light sifted down through the new foliage of the elms that the damp earth might draw it in as a sponge does liquid. Jack sniffed the fine air, and looked up at the tree tops, where a breeze stirred every now and then, sweeping one great bough across another. "Bully day to row," he said, pulling out the surplus cloth about his thighs to show how thin they had grown. "I wish I could have been out. It will be a year before I'm fit." "They miss you in the boat," said Billy Frobisher. "But don't kick. Jack, none of the fellows said much about it, but a while ago they felt bad enough, I'll tell you, when I wrote the doctor and he replied and said that he didn't think you'd pull through. It's enough for me that you're here again, Jack." They grasped hands. "Won't you come up, Billy?" asked Jack, as he turned toward the steps. "No, but I'll be back at two for you. Or-meet me at Leavitt's; that will be better. And don't forget the overcoat. We don't want you sick again." Jack opened the door of his room silently, and stepped in. When he had left it, there had been snow on the trees outside, and a fire in the grate. That seemed years ago. He drank in at a single deep draught all the familiar details, the Freshman crew photograph over the mantel, the medallions hanging over the pictures, those different little medals it had meant so much to him to win. He walked to the window and flung it away up, staring out into the yard with his eyes wide open and a line between his brows. "The doctor said that he didn't think you'd pull through,'" he said half aloud. "Didn't think I'd pull through? Why didn't they tell me? I knew it was a long hard sickness, but not to get well?" Yes, he could see it all now; he could tell just when he had been nearest death, immediately after the operation; he remembered so well what they had told him, and how skilfully they had concealed it. "Not pull through?" he said wonderingly. "If I hadn't pulled through, I wouldn't have seen this again." Not seen this again? But here he was. Yes, here! and he was seeing it all again, thank God! Springing from the window seat where he had dropped, he ran eagerly about the room, as though familiarizing himself with the well-known trophies; he wanted to finger each cup and medallion, to look at each picture, to handle each golf club, and tennis racket, and foil. At last he stopped before the crew picture above the mantel, which was covered with pipes, and photographs, and a thousand dear things. "Not to have seen it all again," he repeated soberly, and there were tears in his eyes. Samuel Alford. A VIKING SONG. Cold sweeps the wind from the outer sea, The foaming billows, the Daughters of Ran. Over the waste of the whirling waters I see their laughter, I hear their song, As the waves curl round them, the Sea King's daughters, And the maddened surges trample and throng. Long, too long, has the brown earth stayed me, Love of women and praise of men, Now I go (for the land betrayed me) Back to the wind-swept sea again. Lauriston Ward. |