Kansas University Weekly.
269
Flight of an Arrow.
The life of a man
Is an arrow's flight
Out of darkness
Into light,
And out of light
Into darkness again-
Perhaps to pleasure.
Perhaps to pain.
There must be something
Above, below.
Something unseen,
A mighty bow,
A hand that tires not,
A sleepless eye
That sees the arrows
Fly and fly;
One who knows
Why we live—and die.
Good from Evil.
Springtime had come again, and the days were slowly expanding in the warmth of the returning sun. Nowhere did the fresh blue sky the warm south winds, and the first born violets and buttercups receive a heartier welcome than in a small university town in one of the prairie states of the West. The students especially took delight in the long pleasant days, and even the prosaic, matter-of-fact professors, notwithstanding their knowledge that classes would be interrupted and work slighted, were glad that spring was at hand, and felt a strong impulse to escape from the monotonous routine of their lives and be boys again. The members of the senior class in the University were counting the weeks that remained before commencement, and looking forward with pleasure to the end of their labors as students.
But not all of them had this feeling in anticipation of leaving school; at least there was one who did not. Henry Rockman had always been a student. From early boyhood he had been in love with books, and he had come to know and feel towards these best embodiments of great minds, as he knew and felt towards nothing else. By nature he was retiring and thoughtful. He endeavored to be agreeable when the occasion
required, but he did not seek the companionship of his fellows. The two things necessary to his happiness were leisure and books, and it was the thought of losing these which cast a veil of melancholy regret over the last few weeks of his college course; for he had no hope of going to any of the great universities. The uncle with whom he had lived until he came to school was poor and not able to support him longer, and Henry was singularly lacking in that energy and ambition which resolves to triumph over all difficulties and attain the goal in spite of every hindrance. His was not a weakness, however, to be harshly criticised for it was more than atoned for by his unusual abilities as a scholar.
It was in the latter part of April, as Henry was approaching his lodging house one day that he met a stranger coming down the narrow cinder path.
There was something about the man that attracted Henry's attention. He appeared to be slightly past middle age, was tall and well proportioned, and very well dressed. But it was the expression of the stranger's face which caused Henry to look at him with more than ordinary interest. Perhaps it was the distinctly foreign style in which his mustache and whiskers were trimmed; perhaps it was the evidence of great suffering which was stamped on the broad, massive brow; or it may have been the searching, anxious look with which the stranger regarded him as he passed.
At any rate Henry took the trouble to ask his landlady who it was that had just called, and he learned that it was a new roomer who had arrived that afternoon and whose name was Mr. Mentz.
For a few days Henry saw little of the foreigner, and had almost ceased to wonder about him, when one evening they met on a lonely country road and finished their walk together. From that time they began to be friends. They spent many evenings together in pleasant conversation, and Sundays took long walks into the country. Mr. Mentz was a good companion, he was kind, sincere, and interesting. Henry told him all about himself, which, indeed, did