Page 77 - 1940

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of man by a curved shell of sheer crystal. One cry, one cry alone might shatter its perfection and bring it down in millions of glittering slivers about one's ears, so beautiful was the night.
In the many little houses mothers were tucking little children in, fathers were reading in the other room, and history was repeating itself in its monotonous way. The old man eased out of his chair and shuffled to the door, paused a minute, and then disappeared into the inner sanctum.
Suddenly, far across the shallow slopes of the middle hill a loud voice rang clear, but the polished ebony did not quiver nor did the crystal dome of heaven break into millions of splinters. All was hushed, and slowly, ever so slowly, a black shadow crawled over the frozen crests of the three hills and approached menacingly the small village. An ominous shadow made up of rows on rows of wee dark creatures. On ward and onward they came and then abruptly stopped, and the air was heavy with noise, loud, sharp noise that uttered from countless, long, steel barrels that they carried under their arms. The pine trees may have whispered, but no one heard; the sky was still as lovely, but no one saw. Terror and destruction—only these were left, only these were real! Man, restless man, like a dog running in circles, was destroying something that he had taken years to build and would take centuries to restore, and had lost raw material, human raw material that he could never, never
replace. The lonely old bard died that night, shot through the heart, perhaps by just one stray bullet; yet when the life blood stops, the tree dies and man has lost for the world one more who wasted his life, as some might say, living harmoniously with his Creator. So life goes on, but we must remember that if we chop down too many trees, gnarled trees, there’s bound to be a flood.
R. F., '40.
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