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Kansas University Weekly.
pers can be induced to forget their personal interests and to give themselves up to the one idea of turning out a creditable weekly. We propose
an unconditional consolidation of the three above mentioned publications.
Literacy.
Love's Duo.
The sun has sunk in swelling crimson waves,
The silent sighings of the gentle wind,
And from the east the full moon sways the night,
Breathes with a tender touch on the acacia flower,
And lingering long within the live-oak holt,
Ruffles at last the river's rippling flow.
The mock-bird's softened song comes sweetly through
The murmuring music of the waters bright,
And on the wide stream's beaming breast a boat
Drifts slowly down to the light notes of song,
As two it bears chant in sweet strains of love,
His oars trail lightly from the row-lock rings,
Her hands flash white the while they sweep the chords,
Her face upturned shows pale beneath the moon.
Then silence falls upon the chords and them
And soul and soul take up the hushed song.
ROBERT WILSON NEAL.
Toya.
The dreamy haze of Indian summer floated and curled and quivered above the brown expanse of meadowland, and at last massed itself in the purple distance. Brown as the meadow was the face of the Cherokee maiden, and as unfathomable as the purple distance were her eyes.
"Fair as the sumac is the Cherokee maiden,
Lithe as the willow is the Cherokee maiden,
Fleet as the wind is the Cherokee maiden,
Oh come, come, come!"
sang the west wind in Toya's ears, and the sumac bushes and the red willows, growing along the little stream which trickled its way through the meadow, beckoned to her to join them.
Toya looked at the huge, stone buildings, around the quadrangle, one after the other, and then at the sumacs and the willows.
"Fair as the sumac is the Cherokee maiden; Lithe as the willow is the Cherokee maiden. Fleet as the wind is the Cherokee maiden; Oh! Come, come, come ! " still sang the west wind.
"I hate you," said Toya, addressing the buildings, "I hate you! You are unfree !"
A man who bore himself with an air of authority, approached the girl. "Toya," he said, "I have just received word that the Cherokees are not to be allowed the privileges of education at the expense of the government, any longer. You are a Cherokee, and you—"
Toya arose, straight as an arrow, her breast heaving with suppressed emotion, and her hands tightly clasped together. "If I must, I must," she said simply.
A year passed away, and the Indian summer had again come with its dreamy haze and sunbrowned prairie land. The first frosts of autumn had painted the leaves of the sumacs and the willows all brilliant red and orange. The last breath of summer yet lingered and gave life and warmth to the golden rod which still flaunted its downy plumes in the breeze.
The man went away, and Toya sank down by the window. The tears which education had engrafted into her nature, gathered to her eyes. "Home," she faltered, "home such as I have—I can not stand it! Why did God, this just, kind God they are always telling us about, make me an Indian? It isn't fair." She stretched her arms out toward the buildings, "I love you," she sobbed, "I love you--you are life and the world to me."
In a rude, miserable "shack" behind the sumacs and the willows, was a young Indian woman with dark, unfathomable eyes. It was Toya, but not the Toya of a year before; not the bright, quaint girl who had always been pointed out as an example of the fact that Indian education is not a failure. Browner than the prairie grass was her face, and her hands were hard and calloused. No longer the west wind sang in praise of her beauty, no longer the sumacs and the red willows beckoned to her to join them.