Original Voices from the Past

A Story

In the pleasant evening twilight,
When the earth throws off her mantle,
Bares her bosom to the breezes
Soft and cool from western oceans,
Then, as stars shine forth in heaven,
Gather round the happy children
Saying, “Mother, tell a story;
Something new and ‘really truly.’”
Mother smiles, and with a twinkle
Thus begins, in good old fashion:
“Once upon a time, my children
In the land of sand and sage-brush,
Land of horned toads and rabbits,
Land renowned as California—
There, in satisfied seclusion,
Lived a mother and her children.
Young she was, the children many,
Sometimes difficult to manage;
But she never lost her patience,
Always ruled with love and justice.
So went on the happy family
’Till the children, eight were numbered.
As they grew and played together,
(Also worked at stated seasons[)]
Oft the mother mused upon them,
How when they were men and women,
They would go forth from her, leaving
All her love and care behind them;
Go forth into toils and trials,
Meeting all life's sins and sorrows.
Sad she was when thinking on them,
But in contrast rose the prospect
Beautiful and bright before them,
Of a life of high endeavor,
Spent in making others better.
Then her thoughts were always joyful,
All this time the children flourished;
Wisely taught and firmly governed,
’Till the time was almost present
When the first should break the home-ties;
Set forth into earnest living.
Then the mother, firm repressing
Thoughts of sorrow at the parting,
Sent forth words of invitation
Saying, “Come and see my first-born
Venture forth upon his calling.
Come, and celebrate his going,
Wish him God speed and good fortune.’
So she gathered round her hearth-stone
Kinsfolk, friends, a goodly number.
It was in the month of roses,
June, of perfect days the giver,
Music filled the halls melodious,
Laughter echoed back to music;
All things joined to crown the occasion.
Last of all arose the first-born;
Told them of his noble purpose,
Said his words of parting briefly,
Heard, as in a dream, their wishes
That his journey might be prosperous;
Seized his satchel and departed.
Oft he turned back wistful glances,
Murmured as he saw them watching,
Fare thee well, my Alma Matter;
Farewell, brethren and sisters,
Now ’tis I who am departing;
Soon my foot-steps you will follow,
To the field of active service—
To the land of the Alumni.”

  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Quiet fell upon the children,
’Till the youngest, rousing, whispered,
“Wasn’t that Pomona College?”

                                        —’99.