THE OFFICIAL MAGAZINE OF THE ALUMNI ASSOCIATION OF AMERICAN
RHODES SCHOLARS.
Published quarterly by George Banta, 454 Ahnaip St., Menasha, Wisconsin.
Edited by Frank Aydelotte. Copyright, 1917, by Alumni Association of
American Rhodes Scholars. Entered as second-class matter January 6, 1915,
at the postoffice at Menasha, Wisconsin, under the act of March 3, 1879.
OF AMERICAN RHODES SCHOLARS
W. W. THAYER
Concord, New Hampshire.
Secretary (by appointment)
FRANK AYDELOTTE
M. I. T., Cambridge, Mass.
Class Secretaries
'04, L. H. GIPSON Wabash College, Crawfordsville, Indiana.
'05, B. E. SCHMITT Western Reserve University, Cleveland, Ohio.
'07, R. M. SCOON
Princeton University,
Princeton, N. J.
'08, W. T. STOCKTON
Law Exchange,
Jacksonville, Fla.
'10, ELMER DAVIS
New York Times,
Times Square, New York.
'11, T. MEANS
16 Ash St., Cambridge, Mass.
'13, T. P. LOCKWOOD Exeter College, Oxford.
Oxford Secretary
C. H. GRAY
BY CHRISTOPHER MORLEY, '10, MARYLAND AND NEW COLLEGE
WE CALL her Mother, but no right of birth
Is ours to call her so, and we must prove
Our sonship in the spirit, not in books.
She does not shew her graciousness to all
Nor quickly yield her magic. Proud is she,
Reticent and proud and to be won.
And each must win her singly. Womanlike,
Different to different men she is revealed.
But having lived amid her pageantry
Until it grows a parcel of our life,
Lain by the river and known time stand still,
Watched the broad Cherwell meadows steeped in sun
And white Greek bodies bathing in the stream,
Heard Big Tom throbbing on a frosty night,
Haunted the gardens, seen the garden-wall
Ankle-deep in tulips as in flame,
And lain long evenings by the fluttering fire-
When every arch and spire and flower and stone
Has its familiar greeting; having laughed
And wept and prayed; and shrunk from every man
(Were he blood-brother even) to enjoy
Our utter silence-having done these things
Then timidly we touch her garment's hem.
And she will stoop, and take us to her heart.
Our Mother does not teach us, but she bids
Us teach ourselves, she watching motherly.
And now we know the reason of her tears
The fault was ours, had we but understood-
There are so many of us, changeling sons,
Who know her not, nor even care to know.
She feared we might not ever understand
The secrets that she is too proud to tell.
But we have found our sonship, and we know
That it was worth the search, although perhaps
She may perforce disgrace us because we
Have worshipped her not wisely but too well.
But in her heart of heart we know that she
Is glad, and when we asked her for the truth
The tears were gone, her face was motherhood
And tremulous with dawning of a smile.
And now the spring is on us--our last spring-
The bitter-sweet of March, with booming winds
And swifter-running waters, and the joy
Of daffodils in baskets in the Corn
Stabbing the grey with gold; and primroses
And almond-blossoms, like the cheeks of girls
Grown pinker in the wind; and all the earth
Braces her sinews for the coming year.
The ploughlands thrill, the very clods smell sweet
And Cotswold hill-slopes hear the cry of lambs.
Our Mother feels, and sends her sons away
The while she dresses her against the spring.
This spring our last, but we have heard men say
When we have lost her, then we love her best-
And glad to leave her, for men may not live
All Mother-sheltered from the striving days.
O dear grey city, island of our dreams,
The days are over when the London coach,
Topping the rise at Shotover, could see
(With sudden catch of breath) the level sun
Flame on the gilded vanes of Magdalen Tower
And silver rivers ribboning the grey.
For now, the fairy island that we love
Lies in a breaking surf of dingy red
And shoals and reefs of villas, all of brick-
Beyond them, rolling like the open sea,
Is green, green England, deepening into blue
And swept by Cotswold winds. The time will come
When memory will teach us what has meant
Most to our hearts, better than we know now.
The sordid suburbs, that we count mere loss,
May sound as sweet to an all-hearing ear
As organ-thunders throbbing at the panes.
Perhaps we may forget them, only see
St. Mary's spire and a high-riding moon
Or battlemented shadows on the lawn.
And we, your foster-sons from overseas,
(Who have our sonship, not by right of birth
But from another son, who full of dreams
Has made us yours even as he was yours)
Shall hear, far-flung across a dusty world,
Your music, and the chime of college bells.
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