A Williams Anthology Part 5

"You're a liar. You lie."

The student, perceiving from Bill's descent to the vernacular of common men that his ire was roused, abjectly and unqualifiedly apologized.

"Well," said the orator, threateningly, "you'd better take that back.

I've sawed wood more'n thirty year, an' no man ever 'cused me o'

stealin'." Then gradually becoming good-natured, he added, "Crucifixin' yourself in the observatories of life in the gray dawn over your jewelry. No sir, I never stole nothin'. _You_ do. You'd steal if you wan't afraid to. Ottah!"

We regret to be obliged to chronicle one incident that would seem to indicate something of malevolence. The impartial historian, however, must not shrink from the full performance of his duty.

Another of the notables of this region, of sable lineage, called, on account of a peculiar propensity to split two-inch planks with his head, "Abe Bunter," not long since honored the students of this inst.i.tution with a series of calls for the purpose of soliciting money to purchase for himself a bovine, to replace one providentially taken from him. His success may he inferred from a remark let fall by Bill, accompanied by a demoniac chuckle:

"Say, old Abe Bunter's round with an inscription, an' he hain't got a cent."

Like all great men, Bill has his eccentricities. Fresh meat, and, indeed, meat of any kind except pork, he abominates. Beefsteak, especially, is an object of indescribable aversion. Untold wealth would not suffice to induce him to partake of it. This repugnance is due partly to a fear of being choked with bones, and partly to a scorn of its tenderness. The physical weaknesses of students he attributes entirely to their consuming so much of it. Viewed from his standpoint, perhaps students are effeminate, for he possesses the strength of bra.s.s, and an amount of endurance astonis.h.i.+ng to contemplate.

His ordinary working-hours are from six in the morning till six at night; but, when business presses, he rises, like the virtuous woman, while it is yet night, and brings down on his devoted head the anathemas of various students by commencing his day's sawing under their windows at the moderately early hour of one A.M. He is a living proof of the utter and irreclaimable falsity of the idiotic doggerel:

"Early to bed, and early to rise, Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise."

Last summer, however, during the heated term, he was obliged to come down to the limit of ordinary mortals, as he feared that the influence of the sun's rays would bring about a degeneration of the Ottah and Verdigres in the brain, and result in an explosion of the blood-veins.

By careful sanitary precautions he was enabled to avoid this fearful malady and preserve his physical well-being.

He can, and will, for the comparatively slight sum of twenty-five cents, hold his breath for five minutes. He, himself, a.s.serts that he can do it for seven minutes, but that the doctor advised him against doing so, as it might produce a fusion of the Ottahs.

His costume is at once serviceable and unique. It usually consists of from two to five s.h.i.+rts, and three pairs of pantaloons. He never was known to wear the same hat or pair of boots all day. Occasionally he dons a vest, and, at rare times, a coat. In stature he is below the medium height; nevertheless, his appearance is eminently imposing and prepossessing. His countenance is rather oblong, and wears an expression that is a singular mixture of profound gravity and fearful earnestness. His eyes resemble those of some species of fish, and are set under curiously wrinkled brows that nearly conceal them.... Such is Bill Pratt, honest, cheerful, and industrious, the maligner of no man. His st.u.r.dy figure long holds a place in the memory of every student; his photograph decorates every student's alb.u.m. Without him our college would be incomplete. Esteemed by all for his unfailing integrity and industry, laughed at by all for his oddities, he remains ever the same. We trust that the day is far distant when he will be among us no more, and when the college walls shall cease to echo his chaotic and ungovernable eloquence.

_Quarterly_, 1869.

ATTIS

ANON.

Fair Phrygian Attis, loved of Cybele, Fired with the service of her awful shrine, Had wandered far before his restless soul Along the gleaming sand-line of the beach.

At last he came to a deep shaded nook, Where giant trees thick wreathed with twisting vines Clomb the steep hills on every side but one, And rimmed the sky with a green fringe of leaves.

But toward the south wide open to the sh.o.r.e It seemed a lap, wherein the sun and sea Together lay warm in each other's smiles.

Down the steep sides a little babbling brook Leapt with low laughter, fleeing from itself, Then, wid'ning out into a lucid pool, Crept slowly seaward through low banks of fern.

Here, stretching his bare limbs upon the sward, He watched the water falling down the rocks.

His jetty hair, curled loosely on his head, Fell down upon his shoulders glistening white, The rounded symmetry of breast and limb, And the rich color of his sensuous lips Almost belied the down upon his cheek.

No uncouth garments hid his perfect form, Nor marred its grace, but, naked like the G.o.ds, The ruddy sunlight bathed him in its glow.

So, as the day sank down the golden west, And the long index shadows toward the east Seemed telling of the morn that was to rise, A band of nymphs came past him where he lay Half-hidden in the gra.s.s, and to the pool Rushed with sweet rivalry and little screams To feel the water cold around their limbs.

They saw him not, nor dreamed that mortal eyes In that lone glen were looking on their play.

Soon they pa.s.sed on, save one who near the bank Had lain to rest till sleep stole eyes and ears.

Then Attis rose and would have sought the shrine But when he saw the sleeper he stood still.

He was too young to know the power of love When mighty Cybele from his far home-- His home, which lay beyond the heaving sea, And which to think of even yet would bring The bitter tears into his dark-lashed eyes,-- Had brought him as a priest into her fane, And bound him by an oath of dreaded wrath To be hers only, hers forevermore.

But years had pa.s.sed since then, he was a man, And man's strong pa.s.sion drove into his cheek The ruby symbol of its first felt power, As leaning o'er he gazed upon the nymph.

She moved a little under the hot glance That burned from Attis' eyes upon her face, And seemed about to wake. Quick he drew back, Walking away a few steps towards the beach, Then turned to take one last look ere he went; She had not woke, her head lay on her arms, And her face looking toward him seemed to smile.

He could not go, he dared not longer stay, But stood and wished, and feared, and let his wish Conquer his fear; returning step by step Again he bent above her. Then, at last, The wrath of scorner Cybele forgot, He thought of nothing but his newfelt love.

Sudden she raised the lids, and her full eyes Looked straight upon him. Attis laid his hand Upon her arm to stay the flight he feared, Saying, "Fear not, 'tis only Attis, I, And 'tis my love that holds me here by thee."

She smiled back on him and her hand in his Thrilled with a touch that maddened through his veins; He bent down over her and all his soul Slid through his lips in one long burning kiss Which lovers only know.

Lo, Cybele, Her chariot, lion-drawn, grinding the sands, Stood awfully before them. Not a word Came from her lips, but her great angry eyes Dark with the wrath and vengeance of the G.o.ds Gloomed forth a hate no mortal could endure; Pale Attis looked in them but once, and then In frenzied madness fled along the sh.o.r.e.

_Quarterly_, 1871.

COLLEGE FRIENDs.h.i.+PS

CHARLES CUTHBERT HALL '72[1]

My other self, my bosom friend, Thy faithful arm in mine enwinding, Let us fare forth amid the trees, Each in the other comfort finding.

For though our boyhood be so near, Yet have we tasted grief and fear.

I feel upon my heart the weight Of things unknown, the dread of living, And thou, dear friend, canst strengthen me By thy heart's wondrous gift of giving; So, when life's strangeness frighteneth me, In perfect trust I turn to thee.

Thou dost not scorn my foolish fear, Nor e'er upbraid my dreamy thinking; Thou dost not brand me with contempt Because of all my frequent shrinking.

Thou art a tower of strength to me, So let me walk awhile with thee.

Not all our hours are hours of dread: We know the hours of splendid hoping; When life's ongoing ways s.h.i.+ne clear, And vision takes the place of groping; In those Great Hours I seek for thee To walk amid the trees with me.

How hath G.o.d made our lives as one, Knitting our fortunes up together In comrades.h.i.+p that welcometh The clearing or the lowering weather-- The joy or pain--heart answering heart!

Are we not friends till Death us part?

Then mount with me the rugged hill And let our thoughts go seaward soaring, Until in fancy's ear there sound The chime of surf, the tempest's roaring; And, by the sun-glint on the sea, We trace the years that are to be.

My other self, why bound by death The compa.s.s of our friends.h.i.+p's reaching?

Why doubt the promptings of our hearts, Or falsify our spirits' teaching?

Must not the friends beneath the sod Still walk amid the trees of G.o.d?

1903.

_Literary Monthly_, 1909

[Footnote 1: Died 1908.]