Rambler, Vol. V, Issue 2

              The
Rambler
December, 1931
I?
The
Rambler
# December, 1931
The Christmas Fire—H. O’Sullivan............................................ ^
Scott Entertains at Abbotsford—W. Rinaldi............................. ^
A Blue Symphony—C. Buchanan................................................ ^2
Marilda’s Mystery—M. DiDonna................................................
Life—C. Collins........................... .................................................
Falling Snow—F. McNamara................. .................................... 19
Truant—M. Trimble ...................................................................
Yuletide—H. O’Sullivan............................................................... 21
God’s Jewel—E. Finkell...............................................................
Waiting—M. Boland ..................................... ..............................
Quest—K. Allen ........................... ; ............ ...............................
The Military Abilities of Joan of Arc—M. Lynch................... 36
Youth—C. McCormick ................................................................ ^
My Poem—C. Langey................................................................... ^
Twilight—C. Buchanan ...............................................................
Editorial—C. Buchanan ........................................................... •
Christmas—E. Finkell ................................................................. ^
Anything P'orgotten—M. Horan.................................................. 45
The Poor—M. Hanrahan.................................. .......................... 46
A Pleasurable Duty—H. Rhodes................................................ 47
Loyalty—H. Doran ..................................................................... 49
A Plea—M. MacDonald............................................................... 50
Social ............................................... ......... ....................................
The Christmas Play.................................................................51
Alumnae Reunion.................................................................. 52
Una Conversazione—I. DeLucia................................................. 53
News ................... ........................................................................ 54
Saint Therese......................................... *........................... 54
Lectures ................................................................................. 55
Clubs ..................................................................................... 56
Aliciam .................................................................................. 56
Classical Notes .................................................................... 57
“Shadows” ............................................................................. 58
Rocethia ................................................................................. 58
Glee C lu b ............................................................................... 59
Spanish C lu b ......................................................................... 59
Mathematics Club ................................................................. 60
Ramblings ..................................................................................... 62
The Never Fail Defective Agency—Scoop and Snoop---- 62
The Old Wooden Sidewalk—H. Doran............................... 64
The Short Screech Course—M. Balser. , . ......................... 65
Life—IV. R in a ld i ................................................................. 65
A Title Story—C. Langey.................................................... 66
Poetree—W, Rinaldi ............................................................ 67
Stray Thoughts From Freshmen Themes......................... 68
Cross Word Puzzle................................................................ 69
TABLE OF CONTENTS page
THE RAMBLER
Vol. V DECEMBER, 1931 No. 2
THE CHRISTMAS FIRE
Yuletide Fire is
Warmer
Brighter
Than the flames
Leaping o’er the hearth.
Yuletide Fire
Can ne’er
Be quenched
Like the material flames
On our own hearths.
Yuletide Fire
Burns
Eternally
In the heart of God,
The fire was first kindled
In a lowly stable
On Christmas day.
—H. O’Sullivan.
RRM.
SCOTT ENTERTAINS AT ABBOTSFORD
It was a cool August morning in 1817. Mr. and Mrs. Walter
Scott were seated on a long divan on their spacious veranda,
alternately reading and chatting. Behind them, the window of
the study was open, and now and then, Miss Miller’s voice could
be heard, asking the children questions, and drilling them when
the work Avas especially difficult. Mutual understanding, loyalty,
and trust had sprung up between the governess and the Scott
children. Indeed, she Was practically domesticated with them
and, as Scott often said, no boarding school could ever do for
his children what Miss Miller with her excellent moral and
religious principles, was doing.
School was now ovef for the day, and one by one, the Scott
children ran out to enjoy the cool morning air, with their par­ents.
What fine youngsters they were! Charlotte was eighteen
and the other three; there was a difference of two years between,
Walter and Anne, also between Anne and Charles. They had
scarcely sat down when a message came for Scott, It was a let­ter
of introduction written by Campbell for Washington Irving,
and the letter was accompanied by a card upon which Irving
asked Scott if it Avould be convenient to have him call in the
course of the morning. Scott was, of course, delighted, as he
anticipated the genius of the author of “The Knickerbocker
History of New York.”
Minutes dragged into hours of waiting, and then Scott’s
patience was crowned with success, as Irving’s chaise could at
last be heard rumbling up the road to Abbotsford. Its noise
must have disturbed the usual quiet of the mansion for, at its
approach, out sallied the warden of the castle, a black greyhound,
and, leaping' on one. of the blocks of stone, he began a furious
barking. This alarm brought out the whole garrison of dogs,
all open-mouthed and vociferous. Then the lord of the castle
himself came limping down the gravel path, supporting himself
on a stout walking stick, yet moving rapidly and vigorously.
By his side, jogged along a large iron grey staghound of most
grave demeanor, who took no part in the clamour of the canine
rabble, but seemed to consider himself bound by the dignity of
4 T H E R A M B L E R
the house to give Irving a courteous reception. Even before
Scott reached' the gate, he called out in a hearty tone and wel­comed
Irving to Abbotsford. Then, having reached the chaise,
he grasped the visitor’s hand v^rarmly and said,
“Come, drive down, drive down to the house! You’re just
in time for lunch, and afterwards you shall see all the wonders
of the Abbey.”
Irving tried to excuse himself for lunch saying that he had
already eaten.
“Hoot man,” cried Scott, “a ride in the morning in the keen
air of the Scotch hills is warrant enough for a second lunch.”
And so, Irving was whirled into the dining room, and soon
found himself seated at table with the Scott family feeling quite
at home, and greatly appreciating his very cordial welcome. He
had thought of merely making an hour’s visit, but he soon found
he was not to be let oflf so lightly.
“You must not think our neighborhood is to be read in the
morning like a newspaper,” said Scott. “It takes a day or two
for an observant traveler who has a relish for auld-world trump­ery.
After lunch, you shall make your visit to Melrose Abbey.
I shall be unable to accompany you, as I have some household
affairs to attend to. but I will put you in charge of my son
Charles, and he and my friend, Johnnie Bower, will tell you the
whole truth about it, and a great deal more that you are not
called upon to believe—unless you are a true and ‘nothing
doubting’ antiquary. When you come back, I ’ll take you for
a ramble around the neighborhood. Tomorrow, we’ll take a
look at the Yarrow, and drive over to Dryburgh Abbey which
is a fine old ruin, well worth your seeing.”
“Those plans sound very attractive but I am afraid that I
cannot stay one minute over eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
said Irving smiling.
“But why must you be in such a hurry to get back to London?”
queried Scott, somewhat disappointed.
“I promised to be at the office at a certain time to sign some
important papers, and so you see, I really must leave at eight.
THE RAMB L ER 5
However, we can see and talk much in the time which is allotted g||K
to me/’ ™
Afte.r lunch, while Scott wrote a chapter of “Rob Roy,” Irv­ing
under Charles’ guidance saw Melrose Abbey, and conversed
with old Bower, the showman of the ruins, who was eager to
enlighten any of the Sheriff’s friends.
“He’ll come here sometimes,” said Johnnie, “with great folks
in his company, and first I ’ll know of it, it is his voice calling
out, ‘Johnnie, Johnnie,’ and when I go out to him, I ’m sure to
be greeted with a joke or a pleasant word. Just think of him
doin’ that, and he’s so smart, and has such awfu’ knowledge o’
hist’ry.”
On his return from the Abbey, Irving found Scott ready for
a ramble. As they prepared to go, every dog in the establish­ment
turned out to attend them. There was the old staghound,
Maida, and Hamlet, the black greyhound, a wild thoughtless
youngster, not quite arrived at the age of discretion, and Finette,
a beautiful setter, with soft silky hair, long ears, and a mild eye
—the parlor favorite. Many times, as they walked along, Scott
would pause in conversation to notice the dogs and to speak to
them as though they were rational companions, and indeed, there
was a vast amount of rationality in these faithful attendants—
an intelligence probably derived from their close intimacy with
him. About Maida, who was older, not as friendly and more
formal than the others, Scott said,
“I make no doubt that when he is alone with these dogs, he
throws formality aside, and plays the boy as much as they, but
he is ashamed to do so in our company, and seems to say, ‘Ha,
be done with your nonsense—what would the laird and the other
gentleman think of me if I gave way to such foolery?”
They had now reached the top of the high hill, commanding
an extensive view of the surrounding landscape.
“Now,” said Scott, “I have brought you, like the pilgrim in
‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ to the top of the Delectable Mountains,
that I may show you all the goodly regions hereabouts.” A y
Irving gazed for a time with mute surprise—one might almost
6 T H E RA MB L E R
say, with disappointment. He beheld a mere succession of grey,
waving hills, line beyond line, as far as the eye could reach,
monotonous in aspect, and extremely destitute of trees, and yet,
when he thought of the magic wand of poetry and romance which
Scott had waved over the whole of it, it had greater charm for
him than any scenery in England. Scott, too, loved the naked-looking
hills, and that morning, as he gazed at them with Irving,
he said,
“When I have been for some time in the rich scenery about
Edinburgh, which is like ornamented garden land, I begin to
wish myself back again among my own honest grey hills and if
I did not see the heather at least once a year, I think I should die!”
These last words were said with an honest warmth accom­panied
by a thump on the ground with his staff, by way of
emphasis, to show that his heart was in his speech.
“Not that I do not like wooded scenery such as you have in
America,” added Scott after a moment’s reflection. “I once saw
an immense stick of lumber just landed from your native coun-
® | t r y . It must have been an enormous tree when it stood in native
^ ^ s o i l at its full height. I gazed at it with admiration, it seemed
like one of those gigantic oblesks which are brought over from
Egypt to shame the pigmy monuments and antiquities of
Europe, and in fact, those vast Indians before the intrusion of
the white man, are the monuments and antiquities of your
country.”
Here the conversation turned upon Campbell’s' poem of Ger­trude
of Wyoming as illustrative of the poetic materials fur­nished
by American scenery. Scott cited several passages of it
with great delight.
“What a pity it is.” said he, “that Campbell does not write
more often to give full sweep to his genius. He has wings that
would bear him to the skies, and he does, now and then, spread
them grandly. Imt folds them up again and resumes his perch
as though he were afraid to launch away. You’ve heard that
^ ^ ‘coming events cast their shadows before,’ continued Scott medi-
Wtatively, “well, the fact is, Campbell is, in a manner, a l)ug-bear
himself. The brightness of his early success is a detriment to
TH E R A M BL E R 7
his further efforts. He is afraid of the shadow that his own fame
casts before.”
“Speaking of fame reminds me of Jane Austen,” cried Wash­ington
Irving, suddenly. “Did you know that she died the day
before yesterday?”
“Really? That’s too bad, because I think that had she lived
longer, she would have written many more master-pieces like
her ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ ‘Sense and Sensibility,’ and the
others.”
“Oh yes, undoubtedly,” agreed Irving, “her style is very pleas­ing,
don’t you think?”
“She certainly can write anything which suggests sentimen­tality
to perfection. Men like us can write the big ‘bow-wow’
stuff, but it takes her to tell the finer things,” said Scott, whole
heartedly.
Here they were interrupted by the arrival of Charlotte and
Anne, who had gone out in search of wild flowers. As they
bounded nearer, not unlike sprightly fawns, Irving could not
help but be reminded of Scott’s own description of his children
in the introduction of one of the cantos of “Marmion.”
“My imps though hardy, bold and wild
As best befits the mountain child.”
Together, the four went back to the Scott home where a cool
supper awaited their return. After their most enjoyable meal,
Miss Miller and the children went outdoors to frolic with the
dogs; Mrs. Scott took out her embroidery and began working on
it, and the two men withdrew to Scott’s den.
“Quite a bit has been said lately about Lord Byron’s ‘Child
Harold,’ ” said Irving, after a pause. “Many people like him and
many do not, and now. I ’m wondering just what you think of
him and his work.”
Scott puffed a little on his pipe, thought a moment, and finally
said,
8 T H E R A M B L E R
#
“It is, I think, a very clever poem, but it gives no good symp­toms
of the writer’s heart on morals. Although there is a cau­tion
against it in the preface, you cannot, for your soul, avoid
concluding that the author, as he gives an account of his travels,
is also giving an account of his character. Now, really, this is
too bad; vice ought to be a little more modest, and it must
require impudence at least equal to the noble Lord s other
powers to calm sympathy for the ennui arising from its being
tired of his assailers and paramours. Yet for all of this,
concluded Scott, “the book is good, and may rank its author
with our first poets.”
“Your judgment is, I think, not rash or unsound,” said Irving.
“In fact, I feel quite the same way about Lord Byron, and even,
to a certain extent about Shelley, who is, to my mind, an arch­angel,
but unfortunately, a damaged one. You remember his
marriage to Harriette Westbrooke about seven years ago. Well,
after he became separated from her, she committed suicide, and
he fell in love with Mary Godwin, daughter of William Godwin,
who was the writer of ‘Political Justice.’ ”
“I heard something about that affair. Did they ever marry ?”
asked Scott, with interest.
“No, they didn’t, and the ironical part of the story is that
although Mr. Godwin, in his book, was the advocate of trial
marriage and the abolition of convention, yet when Shelley and
his daughter, Mary, followed his advice to perfection by hvmg
together without going through the conventional marriage cere­mony.
Godwin was white with rage. Rather a contradiction,
don’t you think?”
“Yes, it surely was,” agreed Scott. “And yet, for all of his
turbulent life, Shelley writes, and writes well, too. I think his
latest work is ‘Alastor.’ By the way, have you heard of any­thing
being published in America these days?”
“Well,” answered Irving after a moment, “I know of one
work which came out just a few days ago, but I cannot tell you
anything about it. as I haven’t read it. It is called, ‘The Life
and Character of Patrick Henry.’ William Wirt is its author.
I intend to get a copy as soon as I can.”
THE R AMB L ER 9
Both men sat and smoked for awhile in silence and then Irv­ing
asked Scott what he was writing at present.
“I am hard at work these days on ‘Rob Roy,’ but it is mov­ing
along quite slowly,” replied Scott. “You see, I suffer severe
pain at times and when the spasms come, I cannot work for I
am in agony. Sometimes I wish I were dead rather than suffer
so diabolically. Unless I have very many more bad attacks
however, I expect to have ‘Rob Roy’ ready for publication next
year, and with it, shall most likely be published my ‘Heart of
Midlothian,’ which is nearly finished. Do you intend to have
anything published soon?”
“To tell you the truth,” said Irving, "I am working on quite a
number of very short tales, and these, I intend to combine to
form a sort of Sketch Book. I have also planned another book
but—
“Great Caesar’s Ghost! Just look at what time it is! Where
did our evening go? It seemed just a moment ago that we sat
down to talk and now it is already one o’clock in the morning.
If we do not soon go to bed, we’ll be dead tired in the morning.”
And so, they went to their rooms, but only one of them slept.
The idea of being under the roof of Scott, of being on the Bor­ders
on the Tweed; in the very center of that region which had,
for some time past, been the favorite scene of romantic fiction;
and, above all the recollections of the ramble he had taken, the
company in which he had taken it, and the conversation which
had passed, all fermented in his mind, and drove sleep from
Irving’s pillow.
On the following morning, the sun darted his beams from
over the hills through the low lattice of his window. He arose
at an early hour, and looked out between the branches of eglan­tine
which overhung the casement. To his surprise, Scott was
already up and forth, seated on a fragment of stone, and appear­ing
very much like a man of leisure, who had nothing to do but
bask in the sunshine and amuse himself. Irving soon dressed
himself, and went down to join Scott.
10 T H E R A MB L E R
THE R AMB L ER 11
Arm in arm, they went to the dining-room for breakfast. All
during the meal, Mr, and Mrs. Scott expressed their wish that
Irving’s visit might be prolonged a few days.
It was now time for Irving to leave. The entire Scott house­hold,
not excluding Miss Miller and all the dogs, accompanied
him to the door of the chaise. It was hard for him to leave
Abbotsford, for he had learned to love it in the few hours which
he had spent there. As he bade them all farewell, the chaise
rumbled on leaving indelible memories in its wake. Finally,
before turning the bend at the end of the road, he looked back
again and bade them one last, long “adieu.”
—^Wilhelmina Rinaldi, ’33.
A BLUE SYMPHONY ®
Why do you always wear light blue
And look so beautifully new?
As if from out a picture frame
A sweet old-fashioned maiden came.
As if from somewhere in the past
Our one dream girl has come at last.
As if the sky let fall its blue
And wrapped it round the form of you.
As if a live forget-me-not
Stepped from out our garden plot.
As if a little blue bird darts
From heaven to our open hearts.
, 1
As if all blue in one great whirl
Was gathered into one sweet girl.
Oh, if I could only look like you,
I ’d always, always wear light blue.
—Carolyn F. Buchanan.
12 THE RAMB L ER
i)
MARILDA’S MYSTERY
THE R AMB L ER 13
"Rain, rain, nothing but rain! Oh, how I wish the sun would
come out and stop this maddening pitter-patter! What a night
to be travelling alone to a strange place! Four years away
from home is facing me now. Here’s hoping nothing awful
happens meanwhile! The newspapers tell of such terrible
things happening to College girls these days. What chance has
a poor freshman?*'
Marilda sighed deeply as she closed the book she had been
reading all day in a vain attempt to forget that little group in
the station—Daddy bravely waving good-bye; Mother pretend­ing
to wipe coal-dust from her eye with her dainty crepe hand­kerchief;
Ted and Tommy, the twins, grinning rather ominously
as the train pulled out. Books are always good companions;
at least, good books are. This was one Uncle Ed had given her
last Christmas', she’d never taken it out of the holly-decked box
until she started in search of something to read on the train.
“Thrilling tales, I must admit,” mused Marilda. “Wouldn’t
be a bad idea to give the book to Edna for Christmas; she’d
enjoy the stories, and besides, this depression is bad on the
purse.”
The train slowed down—stopped. Marilda collected her bag­gage,
walked down the aisle, abstractedly thanked the conduc­tor
who assisted her down the steps. No welcoming group
heralded her arrival. She brushed away the tears that came as
she recalled Mother, Dad, Ted, Tom. The rain continued to
pelt. “Alone—alone—you’re all alone” seemed to be the melody
the drops were chanting in a melancholy fashion. She looked
up at the smoke-stained grey stone building she was entering.
I t looked so gloomy. The girl shuddered involuntarily,
“Taxi, Miss?” called a driver.
At that moment, a flash of lightning flooded the place with
brightness. Marilda saw the face of the taxi-man—dark, scowl­ing,
sinister, Should she hire him?
“Bad night, Miss. Cars are scarce , .
“Very well. This address please/’ she said uncertainly as
she handed him a card.
Slowly the automobile went down the dark, narrow passage
way behind the station. Then it sputtered up a steep hill.
Criss-crossing through other streets, they soon reached a park.
The trees stood darkly outlined before them. Curved roads
turned and twisted until the girl's head reeled. The driver spoke
not a word.
Finally street lights again appeared. Marilda was relieved.
The taxi was spinning along a smooth asphalt pavement when a
terrific flash of lightning pierced the sky. The thunder roared
for fully three minutes, it seemed. Then—blackness! Yet the
car continued to travel at a slow rate of speed.
“Looks like lightning hit a dynamo in the power-house,” said
the chauffeur, breaking the silence. They rode on, the head­lights
making brilliant paths before them in the inky darkness.
“I wonder if he’s taking me to the right place,” thought
Marilda. “Suppose—”
They seemed to be crawling now.
“Are you sure you’re going in the right direction?” she ven­tured
at length.
“Sure, Miss. It won’t be long now.”
The car stopped. The driver opened the door, announced his
fee, pocketed it, laid Marilda’s baggage on the sidewalk, re-en­tered
the car and drove off.
Marilda stood unable to see one step ahead of her. After a
moment’s indecision she lifted the satchel and hat-box, and
picked uncertain steps across the sidewalk toward a huge, bulky
mass which she concluded must be the building. Cautiously
she crept along until her toe stubbed itself against an obstacle.
“A step,” she decided. One, two—and then a landing—more
steps—a door which finally opened after much fumbling with
the knob.
Inside the building the darkness was augmented. Silence—
the silence of the tomb! ‘
14 T H E R A M B L E R
«
m
THE R AMB L ER 15
Then suddenly, music—faint, far away, mysterious. It came
from above. She travelled to the left hoping to reach the source
of the melodious outpouring. Her progress was stopped by
steps. Marilda began to mount them. Up—up—up—The music
ceased. The girl came to a dead stop as a voice sounded in her
ears.
“De profundis clamavi ad Te, Domine.” She listened. As
her knowledge of High School Latin came to her rescue, she
found herself translating: “Out of the depths I have cried to
Thee, O Lord—”
Terrified, she remained motionless. The voice continued in
melancholy tones, then ceased. Marilda thought she heard foot­steps.
Ere long no sound broke the stillness.
Marilda continued to mount stairs until she stood before what
was evidently a double door; for she saw through the glass a
red lamp burning. It beckoned her on like a beacon-light!
She opened the door, took two or three steps in the direction of
the light. Her relief was beyond the power of words to describe.
A light—at last! Then, there was a flicker—the light went out.
“Dear Lord, help me!” cried the distracted Miss—and raced
madly down the staircase. “The place is haunted!”
Down—down—down she fled. Was there no final landing?
Yes, at last, there were no more stairs. Gropingly she held her
hand out before her for protection. It touched something cold—
like glass; then her fingers rubbed against a feathery object,
next—. A shriek! Marilda had felt the form of a skeleton
figure! Frantically she withdrew the hand which to her felt
clammy, moist, then actually wet. It was wet! That was blood
flowing from her finger.
To get away from the spot was the girl’s one desire. She
turned to the left, opened a door, stumbled on—on—knocking
against hundreds of pieces of furniture, tables, chairs—a door
blocked her progress. She opened it and went on. A long cor­ridor
she was travelling now. Was there an end to it? Finally
another door. Cautiously it was opened and a sudden chill
came over the girl. The air grew colder and colder. It seemed
that a blanket of ice was wrapping itself around her. The
16 T H E RA MB L E R
atmosphere of an iceberg could not have frozen her more.
Marilda put her cold hand out and it touched a knob. She pulled
it. As she thrust out her already freezing hand, cold ice met
her touch. The ice was like a magnet; it drew and drew the
hand, until finally Marilda was powerless to withdraw it. Even­tually,
power of motion returned. The fingers released were
feeling a long, slimy object!
: A scream tore at her frozen and parched throat. Even the
scream was filled with icy terror, but it broke the spell and
Marilda found strength to tear herself away from the spot and dash
through a doorway.
Another left turn, another door—a hot, musty, subway-like
odor! A subterraneous passage leading—to where? She put
out her right hand and touched a wall; without moving she
extended her left arm and her fingers felt another wall; she
raised her hand and could feel mammoth pipes just above her
head. Slowly, slowly she groped along. Suddenly, there was
a sensation of motion nearby. Was that a low growl she heard ? A j
Something raced past her, striking Her knees as it went; she
gasped. A second form followed the first, rubbing violently
against her side. An inhuman shriek came from the girl’s
throat ; she was slipping, slipping into—the—blackness.
t
Marilda had fainted.
' How long afterward she regained consciousness, she never
knew. Unsteadily, she arose to her feet and tottered forward
a few steps.
Before her lay—Hades? A roaring, blazing sea of fire met
her gaze.
“My God,” slie prayed, “have mercy on me! I must have
died of fright. Yet I am not being consumed—”
> Hypnotized, she stood, her eyes fastened, as it were, to the
flames. Gradually, however, she became able to move, and
stepped aside—again, toward the left.
A long flight of stairs was before her—the first thing she had
seen in years, she thought. The ruddy flames lighted them up.
Where did they lead? Maybe from Regions of Fire to Heaven.
So she would go up.
“Golden stairs—golden stairs,” she kept repeating to herself.
These did not seem very brilliant, but then her eyes, unaccus­tomed
to light as they were, might be deceived.
Marilda reached the top. No heavenly radiance dazzled her
eyes. Nought was visible save the dim outlines of a chair into
which the girl dropped.
“What are you doing here ?" questioned a masculine voice.
“Huh? What—what did you say?” Marilda sleepily
responded.
“Are you a freshman?” asked the man.
“I was—but I don’t know what I am now.” She wondered
why St. Peter was interested in the particular class to which
she belonged.
“Why don’t you go over to breakfast ? The girls are on their
way to the dining-hall now!”
“Dining-hall? Better take me, Saint—Mr.—Mr.— ; afraid I
don’t know the way. I ’m a stranger here, Saint—Mr.—”
“Clancy is the name. Miss. I ’m the engineer.”
Later, Marilda was relating her adventures to a group of
Juniors. Gales of laughter came from their direction.
“Ah! Marilda! The chanting came from the chapel. The
nuns were at night prayers, and were reciting the ‘De Pro-fundis.’
The organ had been playing just before they started.
The red light you saw was the sanctuary lamp. It was out
because I saw Sister fixing it this morning.”
“The lights were out all over the city, you know; lightning
flashes burned out a dynamo at the main plant,” put in another
Junior. “We couldn’t study last night, either.”
THE RAMB L ER 17
18 T H E R A M B L E R
“Why, Marilda, you must have gotten into the Zoology cages,
out there at the foot of the front stairs, and then into the frigid-aire,”
hastily added Marjorie. “And the skeleton is a real skeleton;
we have many skeletons of birds out there.”
“But something must have been alive in there and bitten me
’—else why the blood on my hand?” asked Marilda, still a little
tinconvinced.
“Oh, n o !” said Frances. “The glass has b?en broken in one
case; we’ll show you later. You ran your fingers over the edge,
that’s all.”
“After running away from there, since you stayed on this
floor^. you must have dashed through this dining-hall, and
knocked against the chairs and tables.”
“But the icebergs?”
“Why, you travelled right on to the refrigerators; there are
three big ones in the store rooms; the pipes in them are always
covered with ice; and it’s freezing there! And I suppose
tomorrow’s fishes were on the shelf; they’re slimy, to be sure.”
“Then you made for the underground tunnel,” chimed ’ in
Agatha. “It begins right at the store-room dpor. It does smell
musty because it’s built right under the campus.”
“But, girls, really I did meet something alive in there.” .
“Surely; Risk and Dane, the big dogs, are often, down there.
Then you travelled on until you came to the huge boilers. I
saw them once in action, and the flames terrified me. I medi­tated
on Hell for a week after.”
“No intiation for you, Marilda,” added Irene as the girls,
leaving the dining-hall, joined a final chorus of laughter.
“You’ve had yours, already. We’ll tell the Sophs to be easy on
you.”
“Do, girls,” said Marilda, gratefully. “And now,” she added,
“who’ll lend me some writing paper so that I can send word to
Mother and Dad that I ‘arrived safe’! And how! Then I ’ll
send Uncle Ed my opinion of a doting relative who gives his
darling niece a book of Gothic tales for Christmas. That book
I read on the train was hectic. ‘Mysteries of Udolpho/
‘Haunted and Haunters’—one was worse than the other! 1
got myself mixed up with Emily, the heroine, I guess/'
Their voices trailed off in the distance.
“Lucky you, to have half your readings done for the Novel
course . . . Junior or Senior year . . . welcome . . »
Saint Rose.”
—Marietta DiDonna, ’32.
THE R AMB L ER 19
LIF£
Life is a bubble, shining with irridescent hues one minute, and'
disappearing the next;
Life is a mirror, reflecting our real selves, glittering in honor,
or wallowing in dirt;
Life is a flower, standing upright in glory, then decaying slowly*
on a withered stem.
—Catherine Collins.
FALLING SNOW
1
4
I
If there be silence tonight
I t’s the stilltiess of awe
In the falling snow.
If there be murmuring tonight
I t’s the whispering of the flakes
“Peace—Peace on earth.”
—F. McNamara.
20 T H E R A M B L E R
TRUANT i
The god of Winds walked along the way,
Tired and weary was he that day.
His task nearly finished, he loosed his hold
And a tiny zephyr slipped from tfte fold.
She leaped into a leafy tree,
Filling its branches with childish glee.
Her god and master missed her not,
For she was a tiny, tiny tot.
Adventure stood before her eyes,
This truant child of cerulean skies;
What it held she did not know;
Time, himself, alone would show.
All day long she romped and played, gfc.
But with the night she grew afraid
And wished the dawn had never broke.
When she had made her first bold stroke.
She longed to be in the broad, stout sack,
And wished indeed that she were back,
To jump and play with every breeze
That will one day fan the forest trees.
The god of Winds walked along the way;
Tired and weary was he that day.
His task nearly finished, he loosed his hold
And a tiny zephyr slipped into the fold.
—Mary Trimble.
T H E R A M B L E R 21
# YULETIDE
#
#
As I in hoary winter’s night
Stood shivering in the snow
Surprised I was with sudden
heat
Which made my heart to
glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye
To view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning
bright
Did in the air appear;
Tho scorched with excessive
heat;
Such floods of tears did
shed
As though His floods would quench His flames
Which with His tears were bred:
“Alas!” quoth He, *‘but newly born
In fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts
Or feel my fire but I.
“My faultless breast the furnace is;
The fuel wounding thorns;
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke;
The ashes, shames, and scorns";
The fuel Justice layeth on,
And Mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought
Are men’s defiled souls:
For which, as now on fire I am
To work them to their good.
So will I melt into a bath.
To wash them in my blood.”
With this He vanished out of sight
And swiftly shrunk away.
And straight I called unto mind
That it was Christmas Day.
22 TH E R AM B LER
The Yule fire of which I write is warmer than flames leaping
on any hearth. It will burn forever in Jesus Christ, for it was
born in Bethlehem on the birthday of our Saviour.
No one knows the exact date of our sweet Saviour’s birthday.
We know the date of the Pharoah’s birth, of Constantine, of
great worldly kings, and are content to forget them. Jesus
Christ labored among us, loved us, soothed us, desiring to be
written down in our hearts because of our love for Him. And
so out of love for Jesus a new calendar was made. Love remem­bers
the things that are told of His coming—the angelic visita­tion,
the journey to Bethlehem, His birth in a lowly stable,
angels, a star at night, and then wise men! The story has a
sweetness and simplicity in it which no one, not even a poer,
can attempt to tell.
Down, down through the ages, people have knelt in adoration
at the birthday of their Infant King! We have carols trans­lated
from the Latin, French carols, Spanish poems of the
twelfth and thirteenth centuries in our possession. The immor­tal
Shakespeare did not forget to refer to the hallowed season—
Christmas time—in “Hamlet” when he says:
Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated
The birds of dawning singeth all night long;
And then they say no spirit dare stir abroad,
The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm.
So hallowed and so gracious is the time.”
The great bard of Avon here expresses this opinion: so holy
is the Christmas season that spirits may not present themselves
on the earth at that time. Spirits always disappear at cock­crow,
the dawn signal; but at the season of the year in which
the Saviour’s birth is celebrated, the cock, “the bird of dawning,”
sings all night long, so that bodiless beings may not walk the
earth at all.
One would naturally expect poets to write of Christ’s nativity
during the preceding Reformation, but who would suppose that
men could write with fervid devotion after the English Refor­mation?
m
m
T H E R A M BL E R 23
Henry VIII, because according to the laws of the Roman
Catholic church, was unable to secure a divorce from his lawful
wife, in order to marry Anne Boleyn, a maid in waiting at the
court, had Parliament pass a series of laws declaring him to be
“the only supreme head on earth of the Church of England.”
He inflicted, moreover, the penalty of treason upon anyone who
should deriy the King’s ecclesiastical authority. Imagine, if
you can, the consternation! Immediately Luther, Calvin, and
others, instead of adhering to the true church of God, organized
churches to suit their own convenience. After Henry VIII
came his son, Edward VI—Then Mary followed—turbulent
reigns! Now comes the last daughter of Henry—Elizabeth with
her Protestant rule! In (spite of all the religious disputes and
factions the influence of the Yule fire was still felt—Robert
Southwell of the Society of Jesus, wrote his immortal “Burning
Babe” quoted above. “The Nativity of Christ” is another
example of his welcome to the Saviour.
Richard Crashaw, a convert, tells us the story of a hymn sung
by the shepherds “In the Holy Nativity of our Lord God.”
These Shepherds tell us that the gloom of the night filled the
very place where sweet Jesus lay. Day, however, rose out of
the Divine Eyes of the Babe of Bethlehem in this very darkness.
For this Tiny Stranger the world has prepared a cold, bare
manger, freezing, noisy breezes—a bitter welcome. They
watch—
“I saw the curled drops, soft and slow.
Come hovering o’er the place’s head;
Off’ring their whitest sheets of snow
To furnish the fair Infant’s bed
‘Forbear,’ said I, ‘be not too bold
Your fleece is white but ’tis too cold.’ ”
Then they behold their Infant King nestle in his Mother’s
arms and go to sleep. In full chorus they sing—
“Welcome all wonders in one night!
Eternity shut in a span
Summer in winter, day in night
Heaven in earth and God in man.
Great little One, whose all embracing birth
Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to earth.”
«
24 T H E R A M B L E R
The simple shepherds filled with joyous emotions burst forth—
“To thee meek Majesty, soft King
Of simple graces and sweet tones!
Each of us his lamb will bring,
Each his pair of silvered doves
Till burnt at last in fire of thy fair eyes
Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!”
Robert Herrick, a minister, has written poems that are known
by many of us: “Corinna’s Going a Maying” and “To Daffo­dils/’
©espite the fact that the subject matter, at first glance,
seems Hght, the reader discovers that a very sage bit of philo­sophy
is given in each poem. “Our life is short and our days
riih’ us* fa«t away as does the sun”—Life is so transitory that
it is scarcely begun when it is ended. We are not surprised,
then, at'his wise suggestions in “A Child’s Present to His Child
SaYioUh” He entreats us to give to God our best gifts—
“But poor thbu art and known to be
Even as moneyless as He
Lastly if thou canst win a kiss ^
From those millifluous lips of His
Then never take a second one
To spoil the first impression.”
Henry Vaughn in “Christ’s Nativity” wishes to become a bird,
a star—above the road of sin! He begs to be made pure—
“And let once more by mystic birth
The Lord of Life be born in earth.”
As his contemporary Crashaw told us in “The Holy Nativity
of our Lord God,” so Vaughri in his piece “The Shepherds”
tells us that the brilliance of God’s face dispelled the gloom of
night—Night became Day!
'Milton, the great Puritan poet remembered God in a great
many poems—“Paradise Lost,” “Paradise Regained,” and many
others—He portrayed in these, God in His Omnipotence. “On
the Morning of Christ’s Nativity” is a direct contrast for it pic­tures
God in His Infancy. He, like Crashaw, tells us, that the
earth was unfruitful, raw, bitter cold on Christ’s birthday. It
wasn’t a season for Nature to “wanton with the sun, her lusty w
paramour^—
#
T H E RA MB L E R 25
“Only with speeches fair
She waves the gentle air,
j To hide her guilty front with innocent snow
And on her naked shame
Pollute with sinful blame
The saintly veil of maiden white to throw:
Confounded that her Maker’s eyes
Should look so near upon her foul deformities.”
The still, deep night—the winds—stars—all barkened. Why ?
The reign of peace began upon the earth. The radiant; sun hid
his head because his light was so dim in the face of God.. Poor,
ignorant, shepherds! They thought only of; commonplace
things! They didn’t realize that the Deliverer of Mankind had
come upon the earth! Suddenly! these simple men. heard
melodies of immortal tone, divinelyi swelling voice! . Behold!
They listen enraptured! The air is clear. Each heavenly strain
is prolonged—Cherubim and Seraphim carol “Gloria in Excelsis
Deo” while Nature begins to believe that her rule will soon be
end^d for she knows that “such harmony alone could hol4 all
hej^ven and earth in happier union.” If the earth resounded f,QX
apy length of time with these glorious sounds, all vapity an(^
sin .would pass away and leave us rejoicing everlastingly with
God.
The eighteenth century was the least productive of poems on
Christ’s birth. The Yule fire never goes out, remember—and
so Charles Wesley gives us “Christmas Carol”—
“Hark the Herald Angels sing.
Glory to the New Born King.”
There is no new theme in this work but the love of God is
there—fervent, sincere, personal.
Isaac Watts, a non-conformist minister gave us “A Cradle
Hymn”—in which he compares the soft downy bed of a little
child living at the time of the poem, with the coarse hard man­ger
of the Divine Babe.
George MacDonald produced a poem “That Holy Thing/’ an
eloquent lyric of the birth of Jesus—
26 T H E R A M B L E R
“O Son of Man, to right my lot
Naught but Thy presence can avail,
Yet on the roads thy wheels are not,
Nor on the sea thy sail!”
“Out of the shadow” by Michael Fairless helps all those who
are sorrowful at Christmas tide.
John Donne, who wrote “The Indifferent,” “The Dream,”
“The Canonization,” wrote a ”Sonnet on the Nativity”~
“See it thou, my soul! with thy faith’s eye, now He
Which fills all place, yet none holds him, doth lie!
j , Was not His pity toward thee wondrous high
^ , That would have need to be pitied by thee?
Kiss Him, and with Him into Egypt go,
^ With His kind Mother who partakes thy woe.”
Then comes the nineteenth century bursting with glorious
’ ' poems of the Infant King!
You all know the man who wrote “Miles Standish,” “Hia-watha,”
and “Paul Revere’s Ride”—Henry Wadsworth Long-
‘ fellow, the best loved of American poets. In Spite of the first
“ tragedy of his life—the death of his young wife in 1831 and in
her burial in a far distant land, and the second tragedy of his
life—the accidental death of his second wifei he was not embit­tered.
Did he cry out against God ? . !.,-Ijeviwas willing to
bear his cross gallantly. He didn’t forget;.God, he welcomed
Him in his “Christmas Bells”—
“And in despair I bowed'my head
There is no peace on earth,” I said
“For hate is strong ' ' '
• ' And mocks the song
■ Of peace on earth, good will tp men!”
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep
; “God is not dead, nor doth He sleep! .'
The wrong shall fail ^ | /
, The right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men!”
T H E R A M B L E R 27
James Russell, the Dr. Johnson of the mid-century American
writers at the very height of his literary career remembered
Christ. The Yule fire burns at all times in all nations—America
has her poets now! They, too, are inspired by this eternal fire.
“A Christmas Carol” tells us that the Magi wondered at the
glory round his feet, the shepherds inquired as to the meaning
of the Christmas star—The answer was
“Today the Prince of Peace is born.”
Another thought prevalent in the poem is : If we too put
our trust in God and try to obey His laws we shall sing “Peace
on earth, good-will to men”—
“But they who do their souls no wrong
But keep at eve the faith of morn
Shall daily hear the angel song,
‘Today the Prince of Peace is born.'”
Women as well as men are inspired by the flame of Christmas
time—Christina Rossetti writes “Before the Paling of the Stars.”
“Before the paling of the stars
Before the winter morn
Before the earliest cockcrow
Jesus Christ was born:
Born in a stable
Cradled in a manger
In the world His hands had made
Bom a stranger.”
Mark the contrast between the unlimited power of God and
the Infancy of the King. Miss Rossetti asks us to kneel with
Joseph “bent and hoary,” and with Mary “maid,” with the
angels and saints, and “Hail the King of glory.”
“I fled Him down the nights and down the days,
I fled Him down the arches of the years.”
Ah! what comes to your mind? Yes, of course—"The Hound
of Heaven” by Francis Thompson. This man was born in 1859,
in the county of Lancashire—Preston, England, the son of two
converts to the Roman Cathodic faith. He entered college
desiring to become a priest but because of his dreaminess and
impracticality, his superiors suggested that he would be wiser
28 T H E R A M B L E R
m in following a different career. Thompson returned home,
intensely disappointed! He tried going to medical college, but
left soon after entering. Finally he ran away from home and
journeyed to London having decided to become a writer. Har­assed
man! His failure to become a priest constantly haunted
him. He sold matches in the streets, called cabs, earning what
little money he could. No money, no friends, he was reduced
to the most abject poverty! The editor of “Merry England,”
Wilfred Meynell received an anonymous poem “The Passion of
Mary.” He immediately recognized genius! When the poem
was published the editor put a notice at the end asking the
author to make himself known to Meynell himself. Hungry,
destitute, Thompson came to Meynell. In truth, the editor
rescued the poet from the very gutter! Both Wilfred Meynell
and his wife, Alice, became patrons of Francis Thompson. The
poetess became a Muse to Thompson. Her children undoubt­edly
inspired him to write his Christmas poem “A Child’s
Prayer.”^—
“Little Jesus, wast thou shy
Once, and just as small as I?
And what did it feel like to be
Out of heaven, and just like me?
Didst thou sometimes think of there
And ask where all the angels were?
I should think that I would cry
For my house all made of s k y !
; I would look about the air
And wonder where my angels were!
And at waking ’twould distress me—
Not an angel there to dress me!
Perhaps a little son of Alice Meynell had inspired him to ask
if sweet Jesus ever played “with stars for marbles” and “can
you see me through the wings of the angels—
And did thy Mother at the night
Kiss thee and fold the clothes in right?
And didst Thou feel quite good in bed '
Kissed and sweet, and thy prayers said ?”
#
T H E R A M B L E R 29
Thompson continued the prayer of the child, who asks the
King of Kings if He remembers all the little things that He
must have done during His Infancy—
“And He will smile, that children’s tongue
Hast not changed since Thou was young.”
There is a singularly beautiful “something” about the “Christ­mas
Carol” of May Probyn. Mr. Wilfred Meynell tells us that
the poetess, a convert, was confined to her rooms because of
illness at the time of publication—
“Lacking Samite and sable
Lacking silver and gold
The Prince Jesus in the poor stable
Slept and was three hours old.
Mary, the virgin mother, has cradled to rest, for the first time,
her Infant Son, her Lord God.
“Dilectus meus, mihi
Et ego Illicold
Small cheek against her cheek. He
Sleepeth, three hours old.”
Louise Imogen Guiney, an American poetess, was born at
Boston, Massachusetts in 186L After 1901 she went to Eng­land,
and lived there for a number of years. She was a true
poetess because her poetry shows us that she was conscious of
spiritual values even though it is not particularly imaginative—
She has written a naive carol in “The Five Carols for Christmas
Tide”—
“Vines branching stilly
Shade the open door.
In the House of Zion’s lily
Cleanly and poor.
Oh, brighter than wild laurel
The Babe bounds in her hand,
The King who for apparel
Hath but a swaddling band,
And sees her heavenlier smiling than stars in
His command.”
30 T H E R A M B L E R
She holds the Infant to her heart, rocking, caressing Him—the {^j^,
thought is expressed in equisite verse. Finally—
What shall inure Him
Unto the deadly dream,
When the Tetrarch shall abjure Him,
The thief blaspheme,
And the scribe and soldier jostle
About the shameful tree
And even an apostle
Demand to touch and see—
But she hath kissed her Flower where the
Where the wounds are to be.”
In her other carols. Miss Guiney tells us of the arrival of the
three Kings at the crib of the Babe. His answer to their gifts
is the “Laugh of a child and His arms open wide.”
The Yule fire continues to burn steadily through the nine­teenth
century whence the coming of Jesus brings every year
more and more powers.
The author of “Trees” was born in New Jersey in 1886—a
convert, teacher, journalist, soldier, sport! He went to Rutgers
College, and in 1906 was graduated from Columbia University.
His Catholic faith helped him a great deal to focus his gift of
poetry. His life was too short for full development, for the
hard taskmaster. War, called him, and shortly afterwards cut
off a half finished career. In his “Gates and Doors,” a ballad
of Christmas eve, Kilmer asks us to bless the hostler who opened
up the stable to the Holy Family and gave them food and a
resting place. That gentle hostler surely has a halo around his
head now!
“So let the gate swing open
However poor the yard
Lest weary people visit you
; And their passage barred.
Unlatch the door at midnight
And let your lanterns glow
Shine out to guide the traveller’s feet
To you across the snow.”
#
THE RAMB L ER 31
He continues to say—the hostler held Our Lady’s bridle,
aided her in little ways; so God has given him an everlasting
crown. The joyous hostler knelt to adore the Infant on Christ­mas
morn and what a reward was his—
“Oh, when Jesus, on His Mother’s lap
Gave him His to kiss”
Then the poet tells us to open our hearts to let God in, to
give welcome to the “humble and to the weary.” Then—
“Your shall be tomorrow
The cradle of a King”
Now we shall recall the poem of the author of “The Shep­herd,”
Alice Meynell, recognized as a genius who achieved an
exquisite distinction, hailed by Browning, Rossetti, Ruskin, and
others. The loving Mother, the helpful wife of Wilfred Mey­nell,
the muse of Thompson gives us “Christmas Night”—
“We do not find Him on the difficult earth,
In surging human-kind,
In ways of death or accidental birth,
Or in the “march of mind”
Nature, her nests, her prey, the fed, the caught
Hide Him so well, so well,
His steadfast secret there seems to our thought
; Life’s sadded miracle
^He’s but conjectured in man’s happiness, ;
Suspected in man’s tears
Or lurks beyond the long discouraged guess, ^ •
Grown fainter through the years
But, absent, absent now? Oh, what is this
Near as in child-birth bed
Laid on our sorrowful hearts close to a kiss?
A homeless childish head.”
Edward Arlington Robinson, of great renown, writes “Peace
on Earth”—He relates the story of Ichabad, a beggar with an
educated countenance who stops Robinson on Christmas eve,*
and tells him of his belief in God, in “Peace on Earth.” ;
He could have attacked the poet for money, in fact he could
be a much lower type of man, but he is merely a beggar who_
loves God in his own way, although it may be different from
other men’s ways. He declares that God loves him as well as
the rich man who gives him the money for which he begs—
“And since I have it, thanks to you
Don’t ask me what I mean to do,”
Said he, “Believe that even I
Would rather tell the truth than lie—
On Christmas eve, no matter why.”
Alfred Noyes, in one of the loveliest of his poems, has the
Fir Tree chant “Nowell, Nowell, Nowell!” for love is every­where
in the world on Christmas.
And so—the Christmas fire continues in Father Quirk’s
“Christmas”—
“Why is earth dressed in white?
With blossomy stars alight?
Why holy, shy, and gay?
’Tis her Communion Day.
Upon her aged breast
God’s lamkin soon shall rest
She lifts Him high again
For the straying souls of men”
Surely, some straying souls have returned to their little Lamb,
if they have perchance, read this pure verse!
Our well-known Gilbert K. Chesterton writes “The House of
Christmas” in which he speaks of the weak shakey stable of
the Infant, which, in reality, was stronger than the strongest
building of Rome. Why? The Saviour was in it. Men are
homeless until they return to God—
“To an open house in the evening
Home shall men come
To an older place than Eden
j And a taller town than Rome
; To the end of the ways of the wandering star
To the things that cannot be and that are.
To the place where God was homeless
* And all men are at home.”
32 T H E RA MB L E R
THE RAMB L E R 33
On, on may that Yuletide fire continue everlastingly as God
has ordained it. Someday when we enter God’s house we shall
have it for our own.
Father Carroll, the vice-president of Notre Dame gives us a’
white thought in
“Your Crib”
“Make of your heart a crypt to take them in
Against the winter’s cold on Christmas morn;
And keep your love all white and clean from sin
To wrap around the Babe when He is born
And hide your thoughts where they are shepherding
To leave their flocks and hasten where He lies
Your quickened pulse the song is welcoming;
The light upon the hills adoring eyes.
The holy flame continues—
Vachel Lindsay, the imminent poet who died a few days ago,
gave us a Christmas carol “Star of My Heart.” He entreats
the Star to lead him where Shepherds are, where dreamers are—
to the manger bed so that he might kiss His little haloed head—
Perhaps on this Christmas night, Vachel Lindsay will kiss the
Jesus’ little haloed head, will hear the angel’s Christmas carols,
maybe Lindsay will join them in his own inimitable way! Will
that Cherubim and Seraphim carol his “Star of My Heart” on
Christ’s birthday this year? Who knows? Perhaps—
—Helen O’Sullivan, ’33.
34 T H E R A M B L E R
GOD’S JEWEL
Waves,
Foam-flecked,
Tossing,
Earth-bound
Swells,
Man cleaves thy depths.
Seeking shells.
Shells—thy rainbow-tinted, swirled sides
Enclose a cherished jewel of man’s,
The Pearl.
Sicy,
White-veiled . ,
Azure,
Boundless
Span
Hiding a God who came
Seeking man.
Man! What are thou? A heavenly-moulded
Mortal case holding God’s blood-won jewel,
Your soul.
—Betty Finkell, ’33.
WAITING
I wait
Until the sun shall be
No more.
Darkness ? Ah no!
I shall bask in
The brilliance of a Divine Smile,
The golden rays of celestial glory,
I shall warm my frozen heart
At the furnace
Of Eternal Love.
—M. Boland, ’34.
T H E R A M B L E R 35
QUEST
I searched for happiness the whole world wide,
Along a greening country lane in spring;
I looked for it by every riverside,
In rushing woodland brooks that wind and sing.
I almost found it in a shadowed dell,
I missed it by a lapping silver pool,
I thought I had it near a chapel bell—
Its breath was soft, and fragrant—sweet, and cool
I gave it up, after a long, long while.
Weary from futile search in every land,
Then found (oh, how ironical your smile)
I held it in the hollow of my hand.
—Kathryn Allen, ’33.
THE MILITARY ABILITIES OF JOAN OF ARC
This year observes the quincentennial anniversary of the birth of
Saint Joan of Arc—The Maid of Domremy who led the French to
Victory at Orleans and was burned at the stake at Roven.
“I am her general, she my captain is,
And I unworthy even her pet to kiss,
Which angles tend, lest that they go amiss.
She hath no love unto this trade of war;
Its cruelties but drive her spirit far;
And yet she guides the battle like a star!”
People are ever ready to recognize the rich and great, but few are
ready to acknowledge the abilities of the poor, Joan of Arc
possessed every military ability—and yet so many sought everywhere
to find data to minimize the genius of her endeavours.
For five years had strange “Voices” been whispering to the Maid
of France, reminding her to do her duty, to lead the French to
victory. Finally, Joan could not withstand her internal struggles any
longer. She gathered about her a straggling army and marched
forward to the Dauphin’s castle. When she had finally satisfied the
clerical judges, the Dauphin gave her h\s permission to carry out
her plans.
Joan, clad in a white suit of armor, carr}'*^'!;^ a banner in her hand,
and girded with a sword long hidden in the chapel of Ste. Catherine-de-
Fierbois, rode forth leading an enthusiastic army to Orleans,
that she might relieve the soldiers there. The Catholic people in the
country surrounding Orleans were gradually degenerating into
paganism,—and it was Joan's problem combined with the aid of her
soliders and those at Orleans to bring that part of the country back
into Faith and to drive out the invading, pagan English. The Holy
Sepulchre needed to be delivered from the Saracens. Unlike ordi­nary
marches, Joan's was influenced by religion. The clergy
marched in advance singing hymns and religious chants especially
“Veni Creator Spiritus" much as the Crusaders did of old.
The greatest quality necessary for military leadership is good,
common, sound sense—and what military leader ever possessed more
36 T H E R A M B L E R
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THE RA MB L E R 37
common sense than the little Maid of Domremy? On common
sense Napoleon relates, “In war nothing should be left to the theorist,
but all depends on good sense.” Joan of Arc’s quick, clear precision
enabled her to grasp everything in a twinkling of an eye, whether it
was the placing of her army, the arrangement on the field, or the best
attack on the approaching enemy. With the insight of a true genius,
she saw every need and every weakness and was able to provide for
every need and to strengthen every weakness.
The Maid of France not only knew her own troops, but too, she
understood every action of her enemy. This great knowledge of all
connected with her own army and that of the enemy was given to
Joan by the Divine Inspirer. Joan, however, did not take dashing
chances at critical times, but took every caution against meeting
danger.
On April 29,^the Maid and her army rode into the beseiged city
of Orleans. In, the evening, she rode onto the battle field and ob­served
with irftense energy and precision though with ease and
freedom the siJrrounding country.
It was due alone to Joan’s quickness and decisiveness that the
battles of Orleans and Bathay were won. Confidence and super­natural
help made Joan of Arc a success. That strength is bred of
confidence is well said by the Roman poet, “Men are able to succeed
because they seem to be able.” Marshall Foch reported the follow­ing
in a telegram September 9, 1913, “My center is giving way, my
right is falling back; I cannot move; situation impossible; therefore
I attack” At another time he said, “Victory means will-power—
War is one form of power; force.” Who ever had more persever­ance
than the Maid of Domremy? Joan of Arc was the essence of
courage and possessed true religious sentiments. Her moral force
was gained from the “Voices.”
Smiling and courageous, this unusual girl faced her most vicious
enemy; modest and humble would she be even at the height of suc­cess.
Throughout every battle, she remained calm, controlled, self-possessed.
Confidence breeds confidence; courage breeds strength.
Through her gentleness and force of character, Joan encouraged
every soldier to do his best. Her unquenchable thirst for peace
instilled courage in the heart of every soldier..
38 T H E R A M B L E R
With a versatility of mind such as Joan possessed, she was able
to readily adapt, herself to the situations presented—no matter how
complicated, they were.
The Maid of -Orleans delighted in the regality of the battle field
with the soldieirs in shining armor, swords glittering in the sunlight
and spirited horses anxious for battle.
Her qualities as a leader cannot be over-estimated. She found
her army in, a camp at Tours—a drunken mass of loose-living men,
ihe generals being no better than the soldiers, and she molded these
into a virtuous, courageous, well-disciplined army. The peasant
and the noble.alike were eager to join her ranks—all were prepared
to drive the pagan English from their country.
The victories which ensued after the relief of Orleans prove the
genius of Joan of Arc in war. She was not the Commander-in-
Chief, but she had the directing of the entire army. To show the
foresight of the Maid one may cite the advice that she gave to the
Commander—to carry on the battle in open fields,—a method which
although used altogether today, was unheard of in her time.
Then the Dauphin was crowned, and for sometime political dis­orders
engaged all the interest of France. Discouragements began
to fall on the Maid; but her mission was not finished yet. All that
had been done for France had been done by her. She was a success
in all that she had undertaken. We wonder in stunned amazement
at the little, frail, seventeen-year-old peasant girl who led her men
to Fort St. Loup, captured i t ; then went on to the fort of Augustins;
captured that; then marched on to the fort of Tourelles where her
army fought a whole day, but was unable to take the fort until the
last ten minutes before sunset. Who can truthfully say that this
brilliant leader of the ages knew nothing of war—did nothing for
the good of France? Her knowledge of military affairs, it is true,
did not come from books and officers, but came from the First
Great Teacher, God, through the instrumentality of the “Voices”
that she heard before and during the war. Critics may say that
Joan knew nothing of military affairs, but military experts say and
will continue to say that the battles of Joan’s campaign rank among
the fifteen decisive battles of the world. Her victories during this
tiine encouraged and enabled the Dauphin to march on Paris and
drive the English from their last stronghold.
T H E R AMB L E R 39
Joan, throughout her campaign, showed a perfect knowledge of
strategy, and tactics, horsemanship and artillery. She knew all the
preliminary marches and movements of soldiers and could bring
them into action. Joan was a perfect horseman. Her ease withi
horses can be readily understood when we learn that she led her
collected army for one hundred and fifty leagues from her home
in Domremy to the castle of the Dauphin. A second example of
her ability is given in the meadow at the Dauphin’s castle where;
she tilted with the Duke d’Alencon and won his admiration as well
as his submission to her commands. Joan too, was a wonder in
artillery. Clad in shining armor, she would dash into the thickest
of the battle encouraging the soldiers and terrifying her enemy.
The Maid knew the importance of artillery and understood the use:
of it.
Of Joan, we can say with Andrew Lang, she was “A girl who
understood and employed—the essential ideas of the military zift,
namely, to concentrate quickly, to strike swiftly, to strike hard, to
strike at vital points, and “Valiances” to fight with invindbte
tenacity of purpose.”
We congratulate the members of the newly-organized French
Club for choosing as their patroness, Joan of Arc, a good daughter,
a better soldier—a great saint.
—Marjorie Lynch, ’32.
YOUTH
Youth is like the first snow
That flutters noiselessly to the earth,
Beautiful in its virginity and innocence,
Charming in its simplicity.
Youth is like a golden bird
That chases sunbeams in the blue infinity of the sky,
, Ignorant of all unhappiness,
Unmindful of earth’s heartaches.
Youth is like a fresh blown rose
'Fhat sends its perfumed prayer to its Maker,
Proud of its loveliness and bloom.
Forgetful of its finite nature.
Spotless snows darken and melt away;
Golden birds live but a day.
Roses once withered are plucked from the stem,
■ Where is the man who cherishes them ?
Bitter truth!
40 T H E R AMB L E R
Such is youth!
—Catherine N. McCormick, ’33.
MY POEM
(<
Some write poems about the lanes.
And brooks and sky and wide, wide planes.
And youth and laughter filled with joy,
A pretty girl or barefoot boy,
And bees and birds and blossoming trees
And ponds and lakes which silently freeze;
Or summer zephyrs in our hair
When all the e ^ h is warm and fair;
Or battlefields just strewn with dead
Of sobs and tears gray mothers shed.
But I write a poem with out much art
To sing the love of a Baby’s heart.
The heart of One who came to earth
To show us what a soul is worth;
So I write not of lanes and brooks and skies
But of light which glows in a Baby’s eyes.
—Cecile Langey, ’33.
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T H E R AMB L E R 41
TWILIGHT
Twilight,
Shades of pastel,
Soft blues,
Colorless greys.
Black!
Twilight, veiled goddess of the night!
Bedecking herself for nuptials with the black king. '
At first lighthearted with gay shades of pastel.
Now more seriously minded taking on the soft blues,
The colorless greys soon come as the fateful hour draws near,
Finally the black as the real importance floods her realization.
Twilight,
Refuge for lovers,
Fond memories,
Heartfelt goodbyes.
Sadness.
Twilight, goddess adorned in gown of gossamer!
Playfully masquerading as a refuge for lovers.
Calling forth from overflowing hearts their fond memories,
And as a mischievous sprite, listening to their heartfelt goodbyes.
Imposing sadness as she entreats her king to shade the light of the
world.
Twilight,
Time for rest,
Crackling fires,
Thoughtful loneliness.
Peace.
Twilight, goddess in grey dancing o’er the world!
Bringing to all men thankfulness for a time of rest.
Bearing to each hearth a sputtering crackling fire.
Weaving over all a web of thoughtful loneliness,
Leading her king to our hearts to bring peace till tomorrow dawns.
—Carolyn F. Buchanan, ’33.
4Z T H E R AMB L E R
THE RAMBLER
Published by the Students of the College of St. Rose
Vol. V December, 1931 No. 2
EDITORIAL STAFF
Carolyn F ales B u c h a n a n
Editor-in-Chief
' H arriette R hodes B etty F ink e l l
Literary Editor Business Manager
J eannett e F itzpatrick M arie M arkey
Society Editor News Editor
R ose B reslin
Assistant Business Manager
EDITORIAL
TljAiicurtaitt of yellow, red, gold and brown has risen slowly,
silowjly but surely, and is now removed from our intent gaze for
another year. We are sorry. Yes, we loathe to let disappear all
those joyous shades which bring a song to our hearts, a dance to
our feet, and a feeling of love to our whole being. There is some­thing
rather sad about it, isn’t there? We grieve for the leaves
departing from the loves of a summer romance and falling to the
ground; we sorrow for the more frail flowers which must so will­ingly
yield a place to those fortified by such strong colors as orange
and golden brown; a real pang pierces our hearts as we see those
beautiful leaves and flowers, once radiant in their colorful gowns„
now decayed and brown and trampled upon. But should we grieve
for them? No. They are happy. They have gone home. Now
that they have performed their duties during the summer and fait
spreading happiness, joy, gladness, they are content to rest on the
bosom of Mother Earth and sleep away their weariness.
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T H E R A M B L E R 43
But let us look forward and not backward! Don’t you love our
new backdrop? We are so glad that we could have a new setting
for the second act of our play. But, alas, it is merely a sample!
Our own backdrop could not possibly be finished because, as you
know, we had to present our play two days earlier than we had
planned. May I describe the original to you? Of course, it may
arrive but if it doesn’t, we should like to have you know what we
had designed.
It is a backdrop of softly falling snow, heaping upon the earth
at least several inches of whiteness. The more lofty of the flakes
have settled in deep rows on the branches of the trees, upon the
house tops, upon the church steeples. Now the wind, scampering,
twirling, and capering forward, has fashioned fantastic figures in
our everyday world, and has heaped up great peaks in every corner
and crevice.
An ideal back-drop, isn’t it? Yes, an ideal background for the
groups of chattering girls, bundled in furs dashing here and there,
who form the dramatis personae of this second act of our play.
Already the Spirit of Holiday has planted in each heart his tiny
imp of mischief. Such suppressed activity in the class-room! Such
restrained conduct at lecture time! Such unrestrained liberty after
class hours! But isn’t it thrilling to see the blush of happiness in
young cheeks, to know that real gladness lightens young hearts?
With such an enthusiastic, joyful, active cast we know our second
act will be a success. When the players heard that the performance
must go on two days earlier, everyone worked so intently to perfect
her part. Such honest attempts cannot go unrewarded!
Now once again, the Rambler, all bedecked in red and green and
looking very Christmas-y, wishes you a very happy and blessed
Christmas. We wish all kinds of happiness to everyone—to the
Faculty for all the happy times they have given us; to our parents
who endeavor always to strew our paths with happiness; to our
classmates with whom we are always happy.
Shall we ring down the curtain, now ? Oh, no, let us look a little
longer at the softly falling snow, at the fantastic figures, at the fur
clad girls. Let us not forget already the beautiful thoughts which
Christmas instills—thoughts of a tiny babe at Bethlehem, of a
44 T H E R A M B L E R
Holy Mother, of Wise Men and Angels. In the midst of the
jollity and merrymaking do not forget to steal a moment to thank
that tiny Babe for allowing you to be present at another of His
Birthdays.
Once more the theatre is empty, once more it is in darkness, once
more we are happy. It is Christmas. We look toward home and
loved ones and happiness. But through the darkness and the
silently falling snow we can still see the Holy Family, the fur clad
girls, the homecomings, the joyful reunions. It is Christmas.
—The Editor.
CHRISTMAS
Two pictures, one old, one new,
Of which the old is ever new.
Once upon a night long ago, soft, silently falling snow made
“frozen music” as it wrapped the storm-seared sides of earth in a
mantle whiter than ermine. From the silver-sprinkled sky, a bright
light dazzled the eager eyes of watchful shepherds, while their timid A
lambs drowsed under the downy cloaked pines. Angelic choirs
chorusing, “Peace on Earth,” joined earth’s orchestration of the
first winter piece, NoM. Near a small village, a star lamp leaned
and encircled in its light the world’s first sanctuary, a manger.
Within, on coarse, cold straw, a babe in swaddling clothes,—a King
slept. Christ, adored by beasts and shepherds; offered gifts by wise-men;
protected by humble Joseph, and loved by Virgin Mary. Thus
it was, long ago, when He was born.
Now the snow drifts no less musically, but its melody is muffled,
faded and unheeded by a hurrying world. It seems half reluctant to
leave its lofty realm, where it might be nearer Him that day. In
His house, another star, sparkling over a miniature crib, which
nestles near the altar, vies with the blood-red glow of the sanctuary
lamp. At the altar rail this blessed day, countless manger-hearts,
covered with the pure-white snow of grace offer not incense, gold
and myrrh, but fervent prayers from a heart in which glows and
burns love for Him. And as the white, white host melts into ^
each soul, God gives His gifts on this day of days—the gift of peace.
—Betty Finkell, ’33.
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ANYTHING FORGOTTEN?
Now that our Christmas list has been legibly, or perhaps illegibly,
scribbled and practically filled out, are we positive that no one has
been forgotten? Are we certain?
Since “yes” is the answer let us reflect on His gift? That we
know, should be the most important of all our presents since it is
His birthday which we commemorate. Without a doubt, we are
going to receive Him on that blessed morn, during the Holy Sacri­fice.
At the meeting of Savior and child what shall we offer Him?
It could be a novena of rosaries, or a triduum of litanies; it could
even be laborious rising to attend Mass for a few days before that
sacred Feast. No matter what our offering is, it will surely please
the Babe, provided it comes from our heart. But can’t we make it
more attractive ?
We surely noticed, at some time or another, the beaming face,
the gleaming eyes and the eager actions of a youngster who is about
to be presented with a parcel, tiny as it may be, but wrapped in a
most delightful fashion. Crude, handmade, and of litt’e value, the
article itself may be, but an air of elegance abounds—because of the
“trimmings.”
“Trimmings! We’ll make some, too. Our spiritual bouquet
would indeed be more attractive with tulle and ferns. Spiritual
Communions, extra Hail Marys, the Memorares, some ejaculatory
prayers—all of these are suitable materials from which the “trim­mings”
may be originated. Possibly we could slip in another flower
or two. . . . It is always pleasant to receive more than we antici­pate.
The Christmas season affords many such opportunities. When
the snow becomes ponderous and heavy on our weary feet, we’ll
not complain for this discomfort might be a petal or two of that
extra flower. When the cold bites those bundle-laden hands and
arms, we’ll smile. The pain endured will complete the corolla and
the smile will take care of the calyx. And when the wind scatters
our parcels and blows askew our Empress Eugenie, we breathe a
sigh of gratitude in thanksgiving for the good fortune of securing a
stem and leaves for the floral extra. The pistil and stamens. . . .
Ah! That exhausted feeling penetrating our entire body will serve
for the molding of those most essential portions.
Offering this heart fashioned bouquet we cannot but enjoy a
Merry as well as a Holy Christmas.
' T H E RA MB L E R 45
—Mary S. Honan.
46 T H E R AMB L E R
THE POOR
A PLEASURABLE DUTY
This admission, though harsh and painful, must be made!
Laggards, shirkers, indifferent or luke-warm students and, we
fear, even the type known since our Great War as “slackers”
are in our midst.
For some years each Junior Class has been working industri­ously
on the production of a really good student publication.
They have succeeded in all respects, save one. “The Rambler”
has not been enthusiastically received by the student body. How
can we make our appeal eloquent enough to convince that it is
to your profit to support us?
O
•,. The Christmas season is upon us once again. Bright holly, crisp
laurel, glittering tinsel and festive lights dazzle us as we hurry
through busy shops. Novel toys, heaped around a brightly orna­mental
Christmas tree fascinate eager children who stand in awe
before shop windows. There is something contagious about the
„ .spirit of this season. Children catch it first, grown-ups soon suc-qtinib
and all strive feverishly to participate in the joys of Christmas,
• To the minds of generous folk comes a disturbing thought—the
• realization that many will be deprived of the material joy of Christ­mas
because of chaotic economic conditions. Sympathy and Christ-like
charity will impel them to give cheerfully and liberally that the
les's fortunate may share their bounty. Yet among those to whom
success has brought wealth and material joys, there exists a group
iWhose Christmas will be devoid of spiritual significance. For them
' nO'Star will shine in the East, no angel’s carol will re-echo, no child
w^ll'be born in a manger. What generosity shall we lavish upon
i these poor? As we kneel in adoration at the crib on Christmas
i‘mdrn, we can whisper a prayer of thanksgiving that we are among ^
God’s rich, and a prayer of petition that another Christmas will
bring some of these poor to Bethlehem.
• —Mary E. Hanrahan,
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Can you not look ahea^? Can you not visualize.w^i^-t pleasure
3"our student publication can bring, even in a very-j feW years ?
As in the case of a rare book, each year that passes, renders it
more valuable. Certainly, you desire to retain contact with
your college days—the happiest days you, shall'-ieve!r know!
What coul(} be a more potent means than the pos^CBsion of an
unbroken series of your school paper? Even by icbsFlv'er'sation
you can not possibly recollect all the events artd/ mildstofies of
your student life as they would be presented to yott'rtierely by
perusing your back numbers of “The Rambler.” i '
Undoubtedly you have a little collection 6f ';Bl^'^lei:tefS, pic­tures
and such souvenirs that you have hoarded mer;er^ for the
purpose of browsing over now and then. Does it tlo't; bj-ing keen
pleasure to relive the experiences they suggest?' ^hep, $^cure
a never-failing source of pleasures to be re-lived'h^ l^eeping a
record of your years at St. Rose. , '
There are many compensations in supporting., .th^'i jWork of
your schoolmates which a r t not personal. They amomnf)alMiost
to a diity. Does .it occur to you that in the staff, thereiitfiay be
an embryo journalist or potential author whose failureuh'this
first venture might bring everlasting diffidence and; incompe­tence?
Would you be the means of making their ifitsfe ilabors
fruitless? ' ' . • • ::U\ ?*.■*..: • '*
Here you arie offered an oppojr^unity of showing your jioyalty
and'support for traditions How can ybii ignore
it? What person can woflc on and on without the encquifage-ment
of those about him ? ' . v
^ We call it a. duty—ydur subscribing to “The Rambler,” but
surely it will be ai pleasaht one and you mill weap a siifeaSle
reward in the, knowledge o/ having helped your school-mat6s.'
0'"- •
—Harriette Rhodes
LOYALTY
48 • T H E RA MB L E R
“In the years that are to follow
When we’re treading paths quite new,
Remember Alma Mater, that to you we’ll e’er be true."
Several years ago, a small, shy young lady became one of the
many students attending the College of Saint Rose. From that
day this girl was intellectually and morally trained so that she
might be properly prepared for her place in the world.
Interestingly and thoroughly she was instructed in the intrica­cies
of mathematics, the wonders of Psychology. That she
might be a true, loyal and patriotic citizen, familiar with the
land in which she lives and proud of it, she was taught the
history of her country from its birth. The necessity of perfect-
English both in the social and business world was stressed. A s
she progressed year by year, she went more deeply into her
subjects. She studied foreign languages to make her English
more finished. Higher arts and sciences were made clear and
the .love of the beautiful and of the artistic was encouraged.
Nothing was overlooked that would advance her in culture and
scholarship. Most important of all, this girl was made to know
her religion and to love and appreciate the faith into which she
had the honor of being born. During all the years she was
never once removed from the jatmosphere of refinement and
goodness which prevailed around her. Perhaps the young lady
did not realize, at first the benefits of all this. She may not
have appreciated then the excellent training and strength of
character which was being inculcated in her. But as the four
years progressed she began to be very proud of the college she
attended. She learned to value more than ever the splendid
teachers who were doing everything in their power for her.
The spiritual benefits which she derived did not go unnoticed.
The privilege of attending Benediction each week, the honor of
the presence of the Blessed Sacrament in the beautiful little
chapel of which the school boasted, were things not disregarded,
and the annual retreats were looked forward to. Everything
T H E R AMB L E R 49
was being done for the good of the girl’s soul as well as for her
mind.
When the girl was ready to graduate she realized to a higher
degree, what attending Saint Rose College meant to her; what
an effect it had had on her character. A refined deportment and
an interest in artistic and intellectual matters were hers. She
knew that her love and esteem for her Alma Mater would grow
with the years. The lovely companions with whom she had
become the best of friends would always be remembeted and
loved.
She found each day of her college life in itself a sufficient
reason for the development of loyalty. And as the years went
by there was never a more loyal, true graduate. Every improve­ment
in the school and its surroundings was noticed with inter­est.
In each activity of her graduating class she cooperated and
none of her teachers was forgotten. But especially was her
loyalty shown by her faithfulniess to all the principles instilled
in her while at college. Not once was she guilty of anything
that would dishonor her loved Saint Rose. Always she-was
a person to whom the school could point with pride. • ‘
This indeed was loyalty!
—Helen Doran, ’34.
A PLEA
The opportunity for spreading Christmas cheer came to the
College of Saint Rose in the form of a call for help from a needy
Albany parish. The appeal reached the bulletin board in the
following form:
Did you ever have a Christmas tree? Didn’t the presents on
the floor around the tree make your heart sing?
Christ has a Christmas tree too—the cross which overshad­owed
His boyhood and manhood, and glorified His resurrection.
What can we place at the foot of His tree except loving hearts?
Most of us have old mittens, an old coat, old shoes, a dress,
too small and hot worn any more. These things mean nothing
to you. They mean a warm body for some poor child. Have
a share in warming a body with your clothing and you will
have warmed a heart with your charity. Let us show the poor
that God is, looking for them and place their hearts among the
adorers at the foot of the cross. Remember, Christmas is
Christ’s birthday—not yours.
What we are asking for:
Old clothing.
Old school books.
Solid food—canned vegetables preferred.
White cloths for bandages.
The Sisters, generous as always, took the first step in answer­ing
the cry. It was announced that the faculty advisers
requested that any gifts which might be intended for them by
their classes- should be transferred from them to the poor people.
To receive the gifts of the students. Miss McCutcheon
appointed three, gjrls, Catherine Collins, Mary Shephardson and
Helen Keigher under the chairmanship of Mary McDonald.
The great heart, of Saint Rose answered the appeal with large
quantities of warpi .clothing, nourishing food and even a few
toys for the tin;y., ;Vinfortunate ones. May the kindness of the
faculty and the girls.,find its reward in the joy that will be theirs ^
this Christmas when they receive the blessings of the Happy W
Babe of Bethlehem.
50 T H E R AMB L E R
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SOCUL
TH E CHRISTMAS PLAY
T H E R AMB L E R 51
“Watchman, tell us of the night.” How oft has the tale been
told us, how oft has the scene been enfolded before u s ! But the
feeling with which it imbues us is ever new, ever awesome, ever
inspiring. The beauty and majesty of the simple tableau before
which we so reverently kneel on Christ’s birthday strengthens
that virtue in our hearts—love of our fellow men. What a pity
that the flame re-kindled every Christmas-tide in our souls, fails
to burn as brightly through the year. The time is, oh so brief--
and then what is left of that warm .glpw is just a flicker. To
bring more vividly to the minds of the students the imminence
of the coming blessed event, the great feast is depicted yearly,
through the medium of the Christmas play, given by the mem­bers
of “Shadows.” !' , .
Each twelfthmonth the world’s,,,sv/eetest story is retold—■
ever-varied in form. This year it is a Community Christmas
Choral—“The Star Gleams.” To/tHe gay, joyousness of the
carefree carollers of today is added the rusticity of tiie shep­herds,
the majesty of the kings, the^humility of Mary and Joseph,
the “Allelulias of the angels” and the shining light of love, '
The cast is as follows: • ' ^ •
Cherubs: D. Sheedy,.pi, Pfe'ston.
Angels: M. Reilly, A. Venhard, C. Fisher, M. Keeler, T.
Raync.
Joseph: C. Kavanagh. ,
Saint Anne : G. Wise, ,
Shepherds: M. Young, Lanahan, M. Honan. '
Three Kings: R. Callahan, H. Keigher, H. Frank.
Spirit of the Star: F. Flanagan.
Angel Chorus: . W. McCutcheon, M. Walsh, E. Fitzpatrick,
E. Leikhim, E. O’Connell, T. Reinmann, G. Schuyler,
M. Sherritt.
Carollers: Membet^ of “Shadows.”
52 T H E R AMB L E R
ALUMNAE REUNION
Two days are set aside each year to welcome the former
graduates of our College. This year, the student body of the
College had as their guests, the members of the Alumnae over
the week-end of December twelfth and thirteenth.
On Saturday morning, the Alumnae Basketball team contested
with the Varsity team. It was a truly spirited combat carried
on among enthusiastic cheers from the excited spectators. Our
Varsity team came out as victors with a score of 42-23.
A business meeting brought the Alumnae together in the
afternoon. This was followed by Benediction of the Blessed
Sacrament which was held in the chapel at five-forty.
The Senior Class of nineteen hundred thirty-two served lunch
to the visiting Alumnae and presented a play, “Three Girls
from School,” in the evening. The Freshmen also entertained
with a beautiful old-fashioned Minuet. Miss Julia McDaniel,
and Miss Agnes Bicak rendered vocal selections.
The closing of our week-end consisted of a Solemn High
Mass at eight o’clock Sunday morning. What an inspiring
sight it was to glance over the assembly in chapel this last day
and to see the Alumnae and the students in cap and gown wor­shiping
at the Altar of their Great Teacher under Whose guid­ance
their lives have been placed from infancy. The Choir sang
a very beautiful musical composition, “The Mass in Honor of
the Blessed Sacrament,” by M. Downey. The Freshmen were
received into the Sodality of the Blessed Virgin Mary and a
Communion Breakfast was given at which the Reverend Father
Roseman welcomed the new members of the Sodality and con­gratulated
the old members for their work accomplished during
the past years.
And now our joys of receiving our Alumnae again are over.
Each returns to her course in this busy life until next Decem­ber
when we shall all return to celebrate the ninth annual
Alumnae Reunion.
t
T H E R AMB L E R 53
UNA CONVERSAZIONE
O Bambino, is ti voglio
Perche tu sei il mio amor,
Vieiii a me chi ti chiama
Con il cuor pien di dolor.
Ti abbraccio, o mio caro, ,
A1 mio petto di peccatti
E poi, O che bacio
Voglio, en tuo viso, darti!
O Gesu, di mia tristezza
Ti diro senza cessare,.
E colla tua dolcezza ^
Tu la cambiarai sin parlace.
Ma Cristo, ti posso udire:
“Dove hai stato il tempo
Che io ti volevo vedere
A1 altare del mio Dio?
Io ti chiamavo, e tu
Non mi iediste Perche?
Forse il sonno e pui
Che una preghiera a me?
Se ora quando tu mi chiami
Io mi faro il sordo
Como sentiresti tu? Dimmi-
Pieni di alegria or grado?”
O Gesu, non lo faro pui,
Non ti dimenticaro mai
Vieni a me, colla tua virtu
Io imparera assai assai.
-Irene DeLucia'.
NEWS
SAINT THERESE
54 T H E R AMB L E R
Much as we loved Saint Therese, our devotion to this dear
child Saint of God was increased by th6 Wonderful talk gfiven
us by the Reverend Albert Dolan, who made us feel as if Saint
Therese were really one of us, living in our time, and knowing
and understanding our feelings.
Saint Therese was born on September 30, 1873, at Alencon,
France, and had four sisters, Celine, Leottie, Marie, and Pauline.
When Therese was four and a half years old her mother died,
and it was the lot of Pauline to mother little Therese whose
mind thirsted for religious knowledge, and which tendencies
were encouraged by Pauline. Gifted with a tender heart,
Therese already felt for the poor and unfortunate and her self-denials
forecast the mission she was later to fulfill.
On April 9, 1888, Therese entered the Carmelite convent at
Lisieux, joining her sisters Pauline and Marie, and leaving
Celine, “the sweet echo of her own heart” to care for theii*
father, although she too desired to be a nun. Shortly after­wards,
Monsieur Martin died and Celine entered, LeOnie had
joined the Poor Clares, but later the Visitation nuns.
Father Dolan told us of his diflficulty, but finally his success
in speaking with the three sisters. He Was enraptured with the
charming voice of Pauline, and though Leonie was well on in
years, he thought her smile the irtost beautiful he had ever seen.
Marie, he said, Was always the liveliest of the sisters. They
told him of the great sufterings and self-denials of their sainted
sister. During the last five months of her life, her sufferings
were very great, but she welcomed them. Frequently she lifted
the veil of the future and in prophetic words laid bare her plan
for more souls. “After my death I shall let fall a shower of
roses. I shall spend my heaven doing good Upon earth.”
On September 29, 1897 the agony began and the “Victim of
I^ v e ” looked earnestly at the Crucifix “My God I love thee”—
her last words.
LECTURES
T H E R A M B L E R ^ 5 5
Last year we had the pleasure of hearing a series of lecturbs
presented by the Diocesan Guild for Catholic Truth in our
auditorium, and delivered by the most capable men of ,<pur faith.
These lectures are again being presented to the people of Albany
and to the Students of Saint Rose by the same organization. .
On Monday, November the twenty-third the Reverend Joseph
P. Kelly, Professor of Philosophy at the college, gave a lecture
on “Faith and Reason.” He told us, in a most excellent speech
that an act of faith despite all the clamorous objections of the
skeptics of today, is the most reasonable thing in the worlli.
The second lecture was given on Wednesday, December
second, by the Reverend John G. Hart, on “The Church and
Sacred Work.” He discussed the great work of the church from
the: beginning of her history in the field of charity and social
relief. ^ '
“The Papacy and the Modern World” was the topic discussed
on Wednesday, December 9 by the Reverend John E. Reidy of
Amsterdam. Our lecturer spoke of the early days of the church,
and of the life of the Papacy in the caticombs as benefiting man­kind
by its prayers for its persecutors, its teaching of the gospel
of love, its peristent attack on the false and obscene idolatries
of Greece and Rome, and its elevation of the ideal of Christian
womanhood. In the course of his lecture. Father Reidy said,
“Order came out of chaos wherever the strong, sustaining hand
of the Papacy was free to use the influence of the church.”
i
The Papacy today is just as much the protector, the defe^nder,
and the saviour of civilized society as it ever was.
CLUBS i
ALICIAM
56 T H E R AMB L E R
The second meeting of “Aliciam” was held Tuesday even­ing,
November twenty-fourth at Saint Rose Hall. The Thanks­giving
atmosphere pervaded our little group that night. It was
a cozy meeting, friends all excited over the holiday season and
day^of celebration only a short time away,
iThe members of our Faculty were our guests of honor and
members' of the Alumnae who hold membership in the society
al^o attended.
The program opened with a speech of welcome given by our
president. Miss O’Connell who introduced the speaker of the
evening and herself read a delightful paper on “The Life of
Alice Meynell," our literary patroness.
Miss Cassidy surveyed the works of Alice Meynell, stressing W
the subtlety of thought so characteristic of the works of the
poetess.
Miss McLoughlin entertained us with a review of the life and
works of Coventry Patmore whose delicate and lovely “Toys"
we shall never forget.
Miss Gantley reviewed the life and poetical contributions of r
our contemporary New England poet, Robert Frost. 8
Business matters were discussed and plans are being made
to have as our guest at some future date, Mr. Thomas Norville,
who will address the student body of the College on “Vachel
Lindsay.”
Another joyful evening came to a close as the members dis­persed
until our December meeting when more of our friends
will acquaint us with various notable literary personages and
their accomplishments. ^
CLASSICAL NOTES
Iphigenia in Tauris
T H E R AMB L E R 57
On Monday, January 11, Corona Eximia, the classical club
of the college will present a Greek drama entitled “Iphigenia iij
Tauris,” The cast will be comprised of the members of Corona
Eximia, who have all made every effort to make this one of the
best performances ever presented at the college. The proceeds
will be used to purchase equipment for the Latin classroom in
the new building, and, therefore, the club desires earnestly to
have the auditorium filled on the night of the play.
“Iphigenia” is a drama by the great Greek tragedian, ‘Euri­pides.
The play in the modern sense of the word, however, is
not a tragedy; but is a romantic drama beginning in a tragic
atmosphere but moving to a happy end. Odysseus and Aga­memnon
send for Iphigenia on the pretext that she is to marry
the famous young Greek hero, Achilles. When she arrived her
father took her, and was about to offer her to the goddess, Arte^
mis, when suddenly the goddess, herself, swept Iphigenia from
mortal eyes, and carried her to the land of Tauris to be 'het
priestess. In this country the heroine undergoes many agonies
until, having deceived the king of the Taurians, she sails' for
home once more with her brother, Orestes.
The Greek Chorus will provide a very interesting part of this
play. The girls have been faithfully rehearsing these difficult
parts for almost two months. Miss Agnes Bicak will be the
leader of this chorus, and the other members of this group are:
the Misses Gertrude Browning, Mary O’Connor, MarJoVie
Flynn, Jeanette Fitzpatrick, Betty Grattan, Julia Hickey,
Betty Finkell, Betty Roche, Mary Cahill, Helen Frank, Mary
Alice Casey, Kathryn Allen, Agatha Waters and Aline Smith,
The dramatis personae of the play is as follows:
Iphigenia—eldest daughter of Agemeninon, King of Argos;
supposed to have been sacrificed by him to Artemis at
Aulis ................................ ............................Carolyn Buchanan
58 T H E R A M B L E R
Orestes—her brother pursued by Furies for killing hiS
mother, Clytemnestra, who had murdered Agemem-non
.................. .....................................................Martha Wagner
Pylades—Prince of Phocis, friend to Orestes..........................
Annamae McGinis
Thoas—King of Tauris, a savage country beyond the Sym-plegades
...............................................................Vivian Privitali
A Herdsman............ ................................................. .Helen McGuirk
A Messenger................................................................Jane Petkovsek
The Goddess Athena..................................................Mary Hanrahan
Directed by Miss Marie Hamilton, *29
Dances under direction of Carolyn Buchanan, '33
We are sure that you will all enjoy this very interesting
drama. Do not allow the efforts of the girls to go unrewarded!
You can help make the play a success. Invite all your friends
and fill the auditorium on the night of January eleventh.
“SHADOWS”
On Monday evening, December seventh in the college audi­torium,
the freshnien who are interested in dramatics had the
opportunity to display their talent in the various fields of dra­matics;
tragedy, comedy and ‘ingenue’ parts. The occasion
was for the competitive trial for membership in “Shadows.”
Those who successfully passed the test were Glee Preston,
Dorothea Sheedy,'Eleanor Leikleim, Alice Vennard, Marjorie
Young, Margaret Walsh, Martha Sherritt, Mary Keeler, Helen
Keigher and Trusilla Rayno.
At the meeting of “Shadows” which followed the contest
Rose Lanahan was elected property manager from the Sopho­more
class and Eleanor Leikleim from the freshman class.
ROCETHIA
The first social event of Rocethia took place in Marian Hall
on Saturday evening, December 5. The members of the Musi-
T H E R AMB L E R 59
cal Club sponsored a bridge party which was well attended by
students of the various classes.
The prizes for high score were won by Helen O’Sullivan, ’33,
and Mary Erison, ’33. Marie Mackey, ’34, won the consolation
prize.
A second bridge party will be given shortly after Christmas.
Rocethia cordially invites members of the student body to attend
and thanks the girls who patronized the last party. Rocethia
also returns sincere thanks to those members who worked so
hard to make the affair a success.
GLEE CLUB
The newly organized Glee Club made its first public appear­ance
on Sunday morning, December 13. The occasion was the
reception of the Freshmen into the Sodality of the Blessed Vir­gin.
At the High Mass, celebrated by the Reverend Alexander
T. Roseman, the members of the Glee Club sang the Kyrie,
Credo, Sanctus, Benedictus and Agnus Dei from the Mass of
the Blessed Sacrament, arranged by M. E. Downey. The “Alma
Redemptoris Mater” of Marzo was sung at the Offertory. The
beautiful harmony of this Mass was enhanced by the sweetness
of the quality of the girls’ voices.
During the enrollment of the Freshmen, the members of the
Glee Club sang the Litany of the Blessed Virgin.
Many members of th6 alumnae were in attendance at the
services.
SPANISH CLUB
On Monday evening, November twenty-third, the Spanish
Club held its first regular meeting. By vote of the members,
it was decided to call the club “El Salon Madrileno.” Since
then, pins have been selectedAthe girls hope to have them for
the first meeting of the New/^ear.
60 T H E R AMB L E R
. Xt the November meeting, Kathryn Allen read a resume of
the address on “The Cleveland Plan of Teaching Modern Lan­guages,”
delivered by Dr. E. B. de Sauze at the Teachers Con­vention
in Schenectady. The entertainment was concluded with
a song by Irene DeLucia. Edith Gleason is arranging the
presentation of a parody of a cape-and-sword play by Calderon,
which promises to make the next meeting very enjoyable. In
January, Captain William Walker will give an illustrated lec­ture
on France and Spain for the French and Spanish Clubs
together. Because of his many trips abroad. Captain Walker
is familiar with the interesting customs of the nations, so that
we hope to derive useful knowledge as well as enjoyment from
his talk.
By these monthly meetings, it is hoped that “El Salon Madri-leno”
will accomplish its principal aims—to make the members
conversant with the language and customs of all Spanish-speak­ing
countries and to foster closer friendships among students
of Spanish at Saint Rose.
MATHEMATICS CLUB
On Friday, December eleventh, the Mathematics club came
into being. Its members are the Senior Mathematics Majors
and Minors. The club decided to direct all its activities toward
the attainment of three aims: 1. The broadening of general
knowledge of Mathematics by discussion of current problems.
2. The fostering of good fellowship among the members; 3.
The increase of pleasure in Mathematics. >
, The first problem which the club has attacked is a comparison
of Mathematical courses in Catholic and non-Catholic colleges
to see which one, if either offers the superior course, in general.
T H E R AMB L E R 61
The next meeting of the Mathematics club will take place on
Friday, January eighth.
The officers elected at this first meeting of the new organiza­tion
are as follows:
President—Monica Monnat
Vice-President—Mary McManus
Secretary—Mary E. McDonald
Treasurer—^Katherine Edwards
RAMBLINGS
“The Never-Fail Defective Agency”
Sees All—Knows All
Seems as though Winter with its icy pavements is here again.
Babe Bicak found that out last night, when she chipped off the
edge of the stone steps in front of St. Joseph’s Hall.
We hope that everyone noticed how artistically the chairs
were arranged on the stage last Wednesday night. For infor­mation
as to the newest ideas in Interior Decorating, send a
stamped, self-addressed envelope, in care of “The Never-Fail
Defective Agency,” to Norma Quenelle.
To prove that we see all and know all, we are able to tell
you, at this early date, two months before Prom, about the
dresses of some of the girls. Betty Finkell is wearing a Wrubel
model—an embroidered unbleached muslin, made very plain,
with long, slim lines. This very same model was worn by Marie
Dressier in her recent personal appearance tour. Through our
ingenuity we have discovered Betty’s accessories. Her shoes
will be white laced ones, extending half way up her leg. Her
jewelry will consist chiefly of bracelets. Betty Prior is wearing
a two-piece model of Scotch wool plaid, which differs from all
the other Prom dresses in that it is knee length. With this
Betty is wearing green brocaded sandals, and carrying an enor­mous
feather fan. Carolyn Buchanan is wearing a mouse grey
sateen evening frock and a black knit slip-on sweater, and high-heeled
felt slippers.
Last week we had the pleasure of seeing the St. Rose football
team in action. The line-up was as follows:
Freshmen: Margaret Clark, right halfback, left halfback,
quarterback, fullback; E. Frommer, D. Sheedy, M. Alexander,
A. Murphy, A. Lovejoy, M. Gunne, Captain. Sophomores:
Barbara Kelly, right halfback; C. Delaney, left halfback; E.
62 ‘ T H E R A M B L E R
1
#
T H E R AMB L E R 63
Kamph, quarterback; A. Harron, fullback; M. Markey, R. Kier-nan,
V. Roche, M. Fogarty, B. McCormick, Captain,
Because three players on the Freshman team were injured,
Margaret Clark, valiantly upheld their honor by playing the
entire backfield herself. Besides upholding their honor, she
also upheld B. Kelly and C. Delaney most of the time, when the
ball was in motion. But despite these difficulties, the Freshmen
finally defeated the Sophomores by the astounding score of
78-2. In the last minute of play there was some excitement,
because the referee, Sarah, would not recognize the tenth touch­down
of the Freshmen as being over the goal line. The dispute
was settled by Sister Alice Irene, who brought out the slide
rule and the argument ended there. Oh! We almost forgot to
mention the coaches of the two teams—Coach William for the
Freshmen, and Coach Clancy for the Sophs.
There was quite a bit of excitement not so long ago during
Novel class. According to William, who told Marietta about
it, there was a convict in the boiler house. When she looked
puzzled, he hastened to explain that steam was trying to escape.
We have finally found out the reason why Fran doesn’t say
“Hellosie” anymore when she answers the phone.
The Juniors have been selling chances on everything but a
steel plough. So we, the undersigned request our patient read­ers
to take a chance on it, so that we may buy fur coats for the
Figi Islanders and Frigidaires for the Eskimoes for Christmas.
Have you noticed the distressed look on Ag Waters’ face?
We thought she was worrying about exams, and she told us she
was—not about her own though, but about those at R. P. I. in
F'ebruary.
Harriette Rhodes isn’t a bit aggressive—so she told Sister
Bertin the other day in Psychology class, when her seat was
taken, and she was bashful about claiming it.
Mary DeVito startled the Italian class the other day, by ask­ing
Father Hunt if he thought that Pious was in hell.
“Pious who?” asked Father.
“Why, Pious Pilate, of course.”
“Who?”
“I mean Pontius Pious—oh no, Pontius Pilate.”
This concludes our report for the month of December. For
additional information about anyone or anything connected with
the College of St. Rose, apply to “The Never-Fail Defective
Agency.”
Scoop and Snoop.
64 T H E R A M B L E R
THE OLD WOODEN SIDEWALK
Apologies to Samuel Woodworth
How dear to these hearts are the scenes of our college,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The campus, the buildings, the class rooms of Knowledge!
And every loved spot which our ignorance knew!
The tall spreading trees, and the rock garden sweet.
The ledges, the flowers, the grapes, too, for jell.
The two dogs so friendly, e’er under our feet.
But alas for the sidewalk, that we knew so well—
The old wooden sidewalk, the dear wooden sidewalk,
How often the Freshmen scrubbed them, who can tell?
How sweet once again to be able to walk it.
As oft we traversed it before this sad d a y !
Not a new-fangled patch walk could tempt us to mock it,
That quaint bit of beauty that made us so gay.
But now, that it’s gone from our campus so dear.
The tears of regret do instinctively swell.
As fancy reverts to the earlier year
And sighs for the sidewalk that we knew so well—
The old wooden sidewalk, the dear wooden sidewalk.
The sidealk we flew o’er when we heard the bell.
—Helen Doran.
THE SHORT SCREECH COURSE
T H E R A M B L E R 65
The members of the faculty have recently received the follow­ing
protest from members of the Short Speech course. Miss
Mildred Baker was official spokesman.
For several weeks, the noise which is a result of the building
operations on our new science hall has been very annoying to
both the faculty and the students, although, I must admit, the
latter generally welcome these interruptions. But yesterday,
I was horrified when I read in the columns of the “Herald Tri­bune”
that noise is very detrimental to digestion. It lessens
the flow of saliva and decreases the amount of gastric juice.
Thus, according to Dr. Donald Laird, we all are on the way to
becoming victims of dyspepsia unless something is done about
it. The remedy, the scientists say, lies in the increased intake
of sweet foods. This fact has been proved by a series of experi­ments
with the students of Colgate University. I t is evident
then that our faculty must supply us with candy bars, ice cream
and cinnamon toast. Otherwise, the members of the faculty are
hardly in a position to demand doctor’s certificates for our fre­quent
attacks of indigestion !
LIFE
Life’s but a major course for graduation required,
Death's your final exam, heaven, the “laude” aspired,
But if your work you leave ’till the end to cram.
Beware of an “E” in your final exam!
—W. Rinaldi, ’33.
66 T H E R A M B L E R
A TITLE STORY
“The Man of Feeling” wept as he approached “The Castle of
Otranto.” And why was he weeping? For “Le Marte D’Ar-thur,”
of course.
There was quite a throng around the castle door. “Evelina”
depressed by the cares of “The Mysteries of Udolpho,” which
seemed to weigh her down, was among the people. “Euphues,”
was endeavoring to comfort her with a long treatise of “Nature
and Art.”
“The Expedition of Humphrey Clinker” had brought that
worthy young man up to the castle. He was relating to “Clar­issa
Harlowe” and to “The Unfortunate Traveller, Jack Wilton,”
“The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling,” which he knew very
well.
At length, the group was approached by “Oroonoko or the
“Royal Slave,” who announced to them that they would follow
“The Pilgrim’s Progress” until they reached Arcadia.
Along the route, the Adventurous “Caleb Williams” favor­ably
enlightened their journey by expounding on “The History
of Sanford and Merton,” “The Life and Opinions of Tristram
Shandy, Gent,” and “The Life, Adventures and Piracies of the
Famous Captain Singleton.”
WHien this venerable company reached “Arcadia,” they were
graciously received by the Countess of Pembroke, who kept
them in her house for the rest of their days.
—Cecile Langey.
POETREE
T H E R AMB L E R 67
I think that I shall never see
The day when I ’ll write poetry.
A poem with words so sweet and low
’Twould make your heart just overflow.
A poem that would ease all pain
And make the sick feel well again.
A poem different from the rest,
By God and all His angels blest.
Within whose stanzas with perfect rhyme
Is emotion, fancy, thought sublime.
Men like Kilmer write the poetry
But fools like me try parody.
—Wilhelmina Rinaldi, '33.
STRAY THOUGHTS FOR FRESHMAN THEMES
The shadow kept coming nearer until it fell on my open
window.
To most children the hours from 7 P. M. to 7 A. M., hold
many fears. I was one of them. My imagination pictured
people with knives ready to stab under the bed. I was told
that God was there in the night as well as the day.
Then the whistle blew and caused me to loose control of even
my breathing faculties.
Crash! Bang! I could stand the strain no longer and rush­ing
to the kitchen door I flung it open. My supposed burglar
was only a harmless mouse.
Lincoln’s hair was blowing in the breeze and his widely
separated eyes peered out from his shaggy eyebrows on the
crowd below him. Finally he left the veranda dejected, his
head on his chest.
68 T H E RA MB L E R
So, I understood that all living things are being killed, not
knowing the meaning of the word very clearly.
Petrarch had been given to me by my mother, on my ninth
birthday and having no brothers and sisters the dog became
my constant companion.
I served my friend a piece of cherry pie which had been
partly devoured at our dinner. Upon Mother’s return she
rather questioned the remaining bit of pie.
During his childhood Edison paddled newspapers.
The bat flew around and landed on another cornice. Then
the broom was used. After much trouble it was finally dis­lodged.
Then it fell to the floor and entangled its claws in the
carpet.
All my cousins and I would assemble in the great play room,
decorated in keeping with the celebration.
THE RAMBL ER 6 9
El n
s\ b
■ 7 y
Down
1. The best little college ma­gazine
in all the world.
2. What students do when a
hard class and a good
movie come at the same
time.
3. Where we spend our time
on Saturday morning until
noon.
4. The best college in the
world.
6. The Hungarian word for
“jello.”
9. Fr. for I.
10. Abb. for “Ladies Defense
of^-Prohibition.”
Across
5. A seven letter word mean­ing
“nothing.”
7. Roosevelt’s nickname.
8. The hardest course in St.
Rose.
9. Napoleon’s first wife’s first
name.
10. A cat has nine of these.
11. What we wish someone
would do for the new
'Science Building.
12. The most important event
of the year—it comes in
February.
70 THE RAMB L E R
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