Page 64 - Hartridge 1934

Some Place
I know I was there. I heard and felt everything, heard the soft lapping of the water on the rock shores, the deep voices of the fishermen, and the creaking and the scratching of the sail as it was hoisted, felt the cool breeze blow against my face. The sails were fluttering in the wind, looking strangely white against the water, which was sparkling
and shining with life. Gradually the boats faded, and little by little they become part of the blueness of the sea.
This was a queer place, quiet and calm, but somehow very beautiful. The streets were cobbled, and the houses weatherbeaten. There were gorse covered fields, stout oaks, and green slim pines, where the birds lived peacefully. Everything was still but for the humming of the crickets in the coarse grass. Then the hills—they dropped gently to
the sea, the fishing village was nestled at their base, and on their slopes the little boys watched their flocks of goats and sheep. The young shepherds whistled softly to them­ selves except for a few foolish ones, who sighed and wished they might see the world. The rest were happy just to be dreamers, for they loved their home with its mountains, fields, and sea. I wouldn’t wish to seek my fortune if I could stay there. I liked to hear the jolting ox-carts rattle over the cobbles, to hear the crickets chirp, and to see the fishing boats.
A bright bonfire—I saw it, I must have seen it. Around it dance the young and old. The young danced tirelessly, the old—well, their breath came with gasps but their eyes shone. The shepherd boys played their sad songs; the mariners shouted their rollicking chanties. Later, when the fire grew dimmer and there were only a few glowing embers, the folk departed silently, leaving a young shepherd to look at the stars and wonder why they were so bright. They were bonfires, too, he thought, the bonfires of heaven. He
listened—and I, too, listened—to the croaking of the frogs. The breeze was again blow- ing against my face. I stirred softly and opened my eyes. I felt sad, for suddenly it was
all gone. Some day—well, perhaps some day I shall be able to go back.
K. H., ’36.
The Alice Rosamond Pardee Prize
The Alice Rosamond Pardee Prize in English, which is a gift of books amounting to over fifty dollars from Mr. and Mrs. Frank Pardee, in memory of their daughter Alice,
was won last May by Camilla Hayward.
PAGE SIXTY-TWO