For e'en in song man still reveals
His ancient fear, a mournful knell;
Like one who dreams of home, but feels
The bonds of an old prison cell.
_Literary Monthly_, 1909.
ASHES OF DREAMS
PHILO CLARKE CALHOUN '10
Jane always called him the professor, a name which that individual
accepted without comment, as he did everything else. In fact, since he
had been possessed of titular rights, but two people had ignored
them--his mother and Mary. His mother had been dead--oh, a very long
time, and it was nineteen years and some months since Mary had
followed her. When Mary had died people said that Jane was coming to
live with the professor; Jane came, and now people said quite
unthinkingly that the professor lived with his sister. Jane was
high-minded, also strong-minded; her hair was very thin and very
straight, a fact for which she was sternly and devoutly thankful. Jane
was stern and devout in everything--even in cooking preserves. To the
professor, Jane had been surrounded by a sort of halo of preserves,
ever since he had recovered from his awe of her unapproachable
angularity as to allude to her before admiring play-mates as the "old
maid.
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