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THE ELON COLLEGE WEEKLY
VOL. VI—New Series
ELON COLLEGE, N. G., OGTOBER 3, 1913
NO. 2
LAST THINGS.
In every situation in life, in every day’s
work, in every year’s work, and in every life’s
woi-k there are always last things to be done.
Sometimes we do them loyfuUy, as those who
have come to a new lap in the journey are glad
to turn the corner and forget an nnhappy past.
Sometimes we do them hurriedly and nervous
ly, like cramming a few almost foi’gotten neces
sities into a traveling bag, and fret as we do
so over our own negligence in not remember
ing sooner. Sometimps 1here are last tilings
to be done before a marriage. The last liook
is to be slipped into place on the bridal gown,
the last tendril of bright hair confined in plae?
under the wedding veil, the last little maiden
prayer uttered before going down stairs and
becmoing the wife of “the best man on earth.”
Sometimes there are last touches to be given
to the house before company arrives. These,
if given by a neat housewife, will be given with
dainty, caressing fingers, and with a look of
pride in the shining, dustless rooms, and the
absolute immaculateness everywhere. Some
times there are last things to be done for the
dying, sad, tender, inexpressibly solemn things
to be done, for the one who is going out from
us into the Great Unknown. There are last
words to be heard and recorded, the last ad
justment of a pillow to be made, the last caress,
the last kiss, the last pressure of a hand, that
gradually relaxes its accustomed hold and falls
heavily, ;ih, sc heavily dov.-n There are last
things to be done when one’s work is finished
in one place before one may go on into new
fields, untried fields where one does not know
whether Success or Failure awaits. Yet, one
knows it is better so, and with loving fingers
does the old familiar thing lovingly, tenderly,
perhaps with tears falling down and interfer
ing with the task.
Last things! How much depends upon how
the first things and all the things that followed
were done! If done carelessly and with no
love of the work, then the last things will not
count for so much, but when one has tried con
scientiously to do one’s work well, when those
for whom it was done have not read between
the lines, have not taken into account the love
one had for those things he was doing for them,
when they have not appreciated those efforts,
and when they have told you carelessly, impa
tiently, because they are eager to get into touch
with the new workers, and to be rid of you
and your poor little efforts, to get at the last
things quickly, then indeed it is that your
heart breaks within you, and your tears fall
upon the dear and the familiar things with
which you have labored so long, and you
thought, so well. Then it is that you don’t
want to go on. You don’t want to look for
new things to do. You just want to kiss every
thing goodbye, and then go out into the world.
You don’t care where. You don’t care how
long you walk, or how stony the way is. You
don’t care. You have done the last things and
nobody will be any happier for them, you
think; nobody will care that you did them as
conscientiously as you knew how. No one will
inow how your tears fell, or how your heart
ached, or how humiliated you were because the
things you had been doing for so many years
w^re not satisfactory, did not please your em
ployer, or your family, or whoever you did
them for. You walk on and on and on, and by
and by somehow, by mere force of habit, pos
sibly, you realize that you have come home.
You begin to realize too that your feet are
bleeding and that you are very tired. You go
into the house. Possibly there is some one
there who loves you, some one upon whom you
can depend, and you are forced to tell that one,
forced to lay upon that patient heart your own
burden of sorrow, and humiliation and cha
grin. And then, thank God, you find that this
dear one still loves you, that the things you
have been doing for him have been appreciated
from the first to the very last. He binds up
your poor, bleeding feet; he takes you to his
iieart. He tells you that you have by no means
been a failure, because he has noticed your
work from the first, and in doing it for him
you have done a work that can never be estim
ated. You begin to see that your faithful work
was not done alone for the man who didn’t
appreciate it. It was done for those you loved,
and j'our efforts were far-reaching. You begin
to see that after all there is something else to
live for, and you begin to smile. And then
through the tears that still cling to your lashes
there begins to shine a rainbow. You know
what that means! Every one of its seven col
ors spells hope, and ambition, and renewed en
ergy. You are at home, and love is there!
So, when we come to the end of life’s jour
ney, when we have done the last things, and
have laid down to die, may we each and all
come to see just beyond us the portals of the
cvc‘rlasti;;g Hsme, r:.i’ the Face ?f the FH^^id of th- iiino^er+s ■"■av r..r.(.n-p.1 whon o>ip of thn
HOEKIBLE CULMINATION OF A MURDEROUS
CONSPIRACY.
Residents of the trans-Southern Dormitorj'
were horrified last Tuesday morning to discov
er that during the gloomy midnight hours,
while the blackness of the night gently shroud
ed the slumbers of honest men, and the dank
and poisonous vapors of Erebus breathed
their venom into the hearts and minds of
those susceptible to her corrupting influ
ences, some foul fiends of death and desola
tion, be they demons from the regions of the
Lost, ghouls from the gloomy, ghastly, goblin-
infested woodland of Wier, or degenerates of
the human species, had penetrated the obscur
ity of the night and, by some unknown incan
tations or mysterious orgies, fastened their vile
and venemous fangs uj)on the stately and stal
wart forms of our beloved compatriots and
honored fellow-students, Messrs. March and
Harris, and had snuffed out the fair yoking
lives of these most estimable gentlemen, with
out the slightest provocation or note of warn
ing. And, so soft was the tread of these mur
derous monstrosities, and so silent, yet sure,
was the death they dealt, that no man was
roused from his slumbers to apprehend the
'death-dealing demons of destruction, or dis
cover whence they came or whither they
dragged their hideous and slimy hulks to gloat
over the innocent blood they had spilt.
The first intimation of this hienous slaughter
who through all our lives, through death and
in eternity “sticketli closer than a brother,”
and “reads between the lines.”—L. K. W., in
Farm News.
LITE AT EAST DORMITORY.
In the opening issue of the College Weekly
there appeared an article on “Life at West
Dormitory,” giving some interesting particu
lars concerning those dear girls over there.
They are indeed “all-round girls,” and we
have no need to be informed of this by a
newspaper article. After reading the article
mentioned above, I began to think that it
might be interesting to some to know something
of our manner of life over here in this quiet
and sober-looking old building. So I am going to
give just a momentary glimpse to those on the
outside into our homely but delightful domicile.
We are quite as nidustrious, orderly and
h.andsome a crowd of young men as there is
in the whole College, I am sure. We do not
waste our tim eidly lounging about the build
ings, the campus or the post-office, but apply
ourselves diligently to our studies. We are
also, as I said before, very quiet and orderly,
and never have any loud noises or disturb
ances going on, though there is, indeed, a small
number of us who are emulous of cats, dogs,
chickens, ducks and geese, and sometimes keep
up a diverting chorus of mewings, yelps, barks,
cacklings and crowing. However, this is most
ly out of study hours, and so troubles no one.
We regret very much to lose two of our num
ber, Revs. Fuller and Merrit, who have recent
ly moved over to North Dormitory. W’^e are
Pi a loss to account for their pulling out. Per
haps those two grave and sober ministers w'ho
are to be found things too dull here, and so
v.'ished to be where there’s “something doing.”
Whatever their rea.sons may have been, we
wish them all happiness in their new home.
E. J. Walker.
gentlemen who occupy the room adjoining the
chamber of death, being aroused from his slum
bers by the smell of sulphurous fumes strange
ly suggestive of the infernal regions, rushed
forth, to discover that the door leading to the
chamber where these gentlemen were made the
victims of this outrageous butchery, was se
curely fastened with bars of iron of unknown
origin, while above the door was a yawning,
grinning, gaping death’s head, bearing an in
scription in an unknown tongue; which, how
ever, an expert in the languages of the infernal
regions, after many hours of seemingly hope
less effort, finally deciphered, as follows: “In
carcerated herein lie the mortal remains of
Bill March and Hank Harris. Cursed, yea,
thrice cursed, be he that dares to intrude upon
the solemnity of their sepulchre.”
The last that was heard of them while in the
flesh were the sweet and affectionate good-
nights with which they were heard by their
neighbors to address one another as they placed
their shapely heads upon the cushions of their
downy couch. Little did they suspect that at
that very hour the bloody monsters, with glut
tonous talons outstretched in the eagerness of
haste, were waiting in the obscurity of the
outer darkness to seize them in the innocence
of youth.
Surely the horror of this unfathomable out
rage has never had its ef(ual in the history of
the race. The fair residents of West Dormi
tory and ’Possum Avenue have our heart-felt
sympathy in their despair. Obituaries will
follow.
If you see a fault in others, think of two
in yourself, and do not add a third one by
your hasty judgment.—Flamner.
Thanks for the many orders for men’s tail
or-made suits, and I am still taking ’em.—C.
A, Htghes.