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Show j A MOONLIGHT WOBD SONATA. It is a rarely beautiful July evening in Oregon. Heaven's thousand eyes the star twinkle merrily on all below, be-low, seeming to enjoy the gaiety of an occasional party Moating slowly down the Willamette. The moon advances pensively along her jeweled path and drops a translucent translu-cent ladder through the clear ether of the mighty ypace dividing us. The ladder of light seems to pierce the ailver-eres'ted ripples and lose itself in the mystery of the river depths. Over the water floats clear laughter, and the soft, yet piercing notes of a violin, accompanying a hum of human hu-man voices that gives warmth to the still, cold majesty of the scene. The white wings of a little treasure craft beat tvftly against the fresh evening breeze as though some great bird, wounded in its flight, had dropped struggling into the bed of the rive-The rive-The dusky bulk of a large oclun eteamer looma ever and anon on the vision, then fades into the cloudy background of the fir-covered mountains moun-tains as the moon rolls higher into the Heavens. Borne on the gentle wind, dewy with evening, the clear tinkle of a mandolin rolls over the tide, besoeak-mg. besoeak-mg. another band of water-rovers'. The .," I ... leaves of the overhandtng 'treee play hide and seek with the moonlight, tracing trac-ing fantastic figures on the water along the river marg'in. 1 Night draws her curtains of darknsss closer and clcssr as the moments fly by, and tho lights of the city gleam out like terrestrial stars, or as though all earth were one vast body of water, reflecting the roof cf the universe with its multitudinous beauties. Chirup! Chirup! sing the crickety in monotonous monoto-nous reiteration; swish! swish echoes the water, lapping the river banks'. Far down the stream, a line in the starlight, a little island, amidstream. j breaks the water's smooth flow. The ; lights of the hotel thereon gleam through the trees, calling to mind stories of Elys'ian islands, magnificent palaces dazzling in jewels, ar.i all those rose-colcred tales which delight one's youth and which the lulling balm i and caressing spirit of the night make 1 more and more real. Again the little : sailboat passes, returning home. Someone is singing Tosti's "Good-bye." ! The sr.ve.et. wailing cadence seems the keynote of the place and time. The voice dies in the distance. A s'lence i profound creeps over the sleeping cOty, unbroken save- by an occasional can'ne bark, which, echoing down the deserted i-treets. calls forth a multitude of answering an-swering barks. The lights of the island is-land disappear. The angel of c"iarknes:i seems to pause in his flight over th2 world and hover above the city. A hush settles over the land. The world sleeps. MYRA WOOD. Class '00. THE SUNSET GUN. As the last echoes1 of the sunset gun roll and reverberate along the western hills and die away off somewhere in those purple-tinted clcuus, we are ushered ush-ered into fancy'.'! domain, there to while away a pleasanc half hour or i iwo. The boom, boom of the gun, coming ' I to us through the hazy air, carries with ' I it -something like a farewell to the 1 I dying day. Ap this parting salute is ! fired from Fcrt Douglas, the temporary home of the soldiers, it awaken: a curious train of reflections, and we are borne on the swift wings of thought to some distant camping ground. It is night. In the va"t blue dome, the multitudinous stars come out, one by one. In imagination the eye wanders from tent. to tent, which, in the pale moonlight, moon-light, take the appearance of gigantic birds, spreading thedr white wings for flight. The words of the familiar old song, d-ear to every so! cider's heart, "Tenting on the Old Camp Ground," strike a few chords on memory's harp, j Perhaps, under alien skies, the pride of the household, the tlower of hiy native na-tive village. Is, tonlight, resting his weary head on his only pillow, the knapsack. Afar off the blue line of sky meets the bare, brown earth. Though no gay-voicecJ bells ring out the tidings, there is in the air that .something which speaks of the Yuletide. As the soldier gazes at the sentinel starq. visions of home, of his fond mother, and the happy circle around the blazing hearth, come to his mind. The.n he thinks of the vacant place in that loved group. Something glistens on his cheek. What ia it? Ah! the soldier's heart is not too brave for tears. With his rough, brown hand he brushes away j the shining drop. But in a moment I all is changed. The inspiring strains I of "The Starry Banner" are wafted to I him through the cjytance. Hia trusty gun is clasped in a warm er emorace; ne onrns wnn patriotism; the blood tingles within his veins and he is deteirmii ned that on the morrow-no morrow-no blot shall mar the pure surface of his country's Hag. But finally he is wrapped in the peaceful folds of sleep; his lips are curved in a happy simile. He is at heme once more; the yule-log is blazing on the hearth; great festoona of mistletoe and holly fall from the ceiling; rare rosins shed their perfume on the air, and all enjoy to the utmost that sweetest, purest blessing, the home-coming, the family reunion at Christmastide. But suddenly the notes of the reveille re-veille break upon his ear; he realizes with dumb pain that he is not at home, listening to the chant of Chrisitmas carol?, but is tenting cn a foreign camping ground, and that all these bright visions have been but a dream a soldier's dream. To what distant climes has the booming boom-ing of the sunset gun taken us! Let us, too. call back our thoughts that have strayed too far afield. The last glimmer of daylight has faded: the- purple tihades of evening have fallen over the land, and as- we gaze upward the words? of our Longfellow Long-fellow come unbidden to our lips: "Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, blossom the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels." an-gels." ANNA O'BRIEN, Class 1900. |