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THE MAROON TIGER Page Forty-nine from his instrument as soothing reflections of a greater understanding. His jaw as firm as he holds the violin; teeth compressed in a tenacious effort to suppress surging emotions; while in his mind these words appear: “Sometimes in the hush of the evening hour When shadows creep from the West, I think of the twilight songs you sang and the boy you lulled to rest. The wee little boy with tousled head, That long, long ago was thine; I wonder if sometimes you long for that boy— O little Mother of mine!” Here, John, as he bravely goes through the score, breaks off his thoughts. Gray and purple tints loom before him in the sombre atmosphere as his mind is devoid of any sensations; yet, like an automaton, his fingers quiver on the taunt strings and the bow slowly moves up and down as if by its own volition. And now he has finished; but does not go to the bedside to receive the praise and admiration that await his coming. Although he knows his mother is too weak to utter her sentiments, some how he feels the joy that is in her heart; some how the tenseness is broken for a fleeting second; somehow his heart accelerates its ponderous beat, and he is happy to have rendered that tiny bit of comfort and rest to the person he loves most. Then a muffled sound below; it is the noise of the door bell stuffed with clothes to nullify its ringing tones. The telegram has been sent to the missing member of the household; the brother has returned to take his place among those seat ed around the table. The groans cease as the patient dozes off into sleep; while the rest are still awake with the one last thing—Hope. Past incidents are conjured up and sighs of regret stifled in choking throats; de sires to relive certain moments of inconsideration and contempt; longings to bear themselves the pains which their martyr is suffering; soft pray ers offered for forgiveness and promises to do better; bargains made with God for the saving of this most precious life. Again the doctor is among them. With a taci turn demeanor he paces up and down the heavy, thick carpet; then, tiring of this, he goes to the window to look out at the deserted street below, to look out at the silent, gray houses. Twelve o’clock!—far off the dismal chimes are tolling the darkest hour of the night: the noises seem to arouse in him a new sense of his surroundings. Twelve o’clock! New determinations are born in him; a spirit of defiance arises as a challenge. Why should he feel thus? He has passed over this time of night before and had notice no change in himself. A furtive glance in the direc tion of his patient, a clenching of fists and swell ing of the chest. Twelve o’clock! Slowly, how slowly, he relaxes in the chair near him. Minute after minute passes like an eternity, and at the end of sixty of them can be heard! those ghostly chimes—sirens foreboding good and evil; when, at last, the deep black turns into purple, then dull gray tinted with gold. The rat tling of bottles outside and the thudding sounds of morning papers landing on porches stir them from their pensive moods. Heavy eyelids are stimulated with a false vigor; tired limbs awak ened by shakes; arms aroused by a flexing mus cle. But the mind needs no stimulus; it still is active with thoughts centered on the one mam- mouth crisis. When a faint sound comes from the guarded bedside, the physician swiftly goes into the room. A hurried examination; a smile drawn across his restless, worried countenance; the administration of medical attention; the return to the anxiously waiting group. “The danger is over,” he announces quietly. The Lone Survivor Of The Class of ’97 W. Dickerson Donnelly, ’30 It has been the custom for ages among the peo ples of the world to give men their “flowers” af ter death, but at this particular time it is no more than fitting that this custom be broken in telling of the greatness of this character while he yet lives. Out of the three men to finish the first college course offered by Morehouse there is only one of these men alive today. The man to whom refer ence is made is none other than John W. Hubert, principal of Cuyler Public School, Savannah. Ev ery Morehouse man here and abroad should hon or and respect this Lone Suvivor who represents the ideals and cream of Morehouse College men. Professor Hubert, true to form, is doing excel lent work in Savannah in an effort to educate the Negro youth and thus making it possible for him to take his place along side of the other races of the world. His personality and service in the com munity have won for him many friends. He has that Morehouse spirit which permeates the souls of men and women and for that reason makes them want to become as he is. You have heard the true saying “Where there is a Morehouse man there is fire.” One would see the veracity in this statement when he comes in contact with John W. Hubert, for he lives up to every word of that aged traditional statement.