Page TWO
THE PILOT—Southern Pines, North Carolina
THURSDAY, MARCH 26, 1964
Southern Pines
i
ILOT
North Carolina
“In taking over The Pilot no changes are contemplated. We will try to keep this a goo
paper. We will try to make a little money for all concerned. Wherever there seems to be
an occasion to use our influence for the public good we will try to do it. And we wi
treat everybody alike.” — James Boyd, May 23, 1941.
A Force Beyond Spring
BY HAL BORLAND
In "Sundial of the Seasons"
Ever since the first Spring that ever
was, man has stood at this season with
awe in his eyes and wonder in his heart,
seeing the magnificence of life returning
and life renewed. And something deep
within him has responded, whatever his
religion or spiritual belief. It is as inevit
able as sunrise that man should see the
substance of faith and hope in the tangi
ble world so obviously responding to
forces beyond himself or his accumulated
knowledge.
For all his learning and sophistication,
man still instinctively reaches toward
that force beyond, and thus approaches
humility. Only arrogance can deny its
existence, and the denial falters in the
face of evidence on every hand. In every
tuft of grass, in every bird, in every
opening bud, there it is. We can reach so
far with our explanations, and there still
remains a force beyond, which touches
not only the leaf, the seed, the opening
petal, but man himself.
Spring is a result, not a cause. The
cause lies beyond, ktill beyond, and it ^
the instinctive knowledge of this which
insoires our festivals of faith and life and
belief renewed. Resurrection is there for
us to witness and participate in; but the
resurrection around us still remains the
symbol, not the ultimate truth; and men
of goodwill instinctively reach for the
truth—beyond the substance of Spring,
of a greening and revivifying earth, of
nesting and mating and birth, of life
renewed. Thus we come to Easter and
all the other festivals of faith, celebrat
ing life and hope and the ultimate sub
stance of belief, reachng like the leaf
itself for something beyond, ever beyond.
All Things Must Live in Such A Light...
BY HENRY DAVID THOREAU
From "Walden or. Life in Ihe Woods"
As I was fishing from the bank of the river near the Nine-Acre-Corner
bridge, standing on the quaking grass and willow roots, where the muskrats
lurk, I heard a singular rattling sound, somewhat like that of the sticks
which boys play with their fingers, when, looking up, I observed a very
slight and graceful hawk, like a nighthawk, alternately soaring like a
ripple and tumbling a rod or two over and over, showing the under side
of his wings, which gleamed like a satin ribbon in the sun, or like the
pearly inside of a shell . . .
It was the most ethereal flight I had ever witnessed. It did not
simply flutter like a butterfly, nor soar like the larger hawks, but it sported
with proud reliance in the fields of air; mounting again and again with
its strange chuckle, it repeated its free and beautiful fall, turning over and
over like a kite, and then recovering from its lofty tumbling, as if it had
never set its foot on terra firma. It appeared to have no companion in
the universe—sporting there alone—and to need none but the morning
and the ether with which it played. It was not lonely but made all the
earth lonely beneath it . . .
Ah! I have penetrated to those meadows on the morning of many
a fine spring day, jumping from hummock to hummock, from willow root
to willow root, when the wild river valley and the woods were bathed
in so pure and bright a light as would have waked the dead, if they had
been slumbering in their graves, as some suppose. There needs no stronger
proof of immortality. All things must live in such a light. O Death, where
was thy sting? O Grave, where was thy victory, then? . . .
Easter Flowers Are Blooming Bright
Easter flowers are blooming bright,
Easter skies pour radiant light,
Christ our Lord is risen in might.
Glory in the highest.
Angels caroled this sweet lay,
When in manger rude He lay;
Now once more cast grief away.
Glory in the highest.
He, then born to grief and pain.
Now to glory born again,
Calleth forth our gladdest strain.
Glory in the highest.
As He riseth, rise we too.
Tune we heart and voice anew.
Offering homage glad and true.
Glory in the highest.
—Old Hynrn
“EASTER FLOWERS” this year in the
Sandhills are not the snowy dogwood and
brilliant azaleas of seasons when Easter
falls later in the Spring, but the early-
flowering trees and shrubs like this
clump of forsythia sending its golden
sprays skyward, radiant in afternoon sun-
Symbol of New Life and Resurrection
standing as a symbol of new life
and resurrection, this gnarled old tree
in a Sandhills garden is clothed, in
early Spring, with cascades of pink-
and-white blossoms that trail nearly
to the earth. Again, as in past Easter
seasons, The Pilot on this page brings
Two Poems Children of My Blood, Be Hardy!
readers a variety of reactions—not
all of them simply joyeous—to the
ancient phenomenon of Spring and to
the Christian Easter season memoria
lizing the death and resurrection of
Jesus Christ.
r
light. Camellia, spirea, quince, tulip mag
nolia and fruit trees — pear, peach and
crab apple—form the flowery background
for the current Easter scene — and, of
course, the daffodils. Early-flowering
trees and shrubs seem particularly beaut
iful this year.
For Spring
By EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
THE GOOSE-GIRL
Spring rides no horses down the
hill.
But comes on foot, a goose-girl
still.
And all the loveliest things there
be
Come simply, so it seems to me.
THE LITTLE HILL
Oh, here the air is sweet and still.
And soft’s the grass to lie on;
And far away’s the little hill
They took, for Christ to die on.
The moon that saw Gethsemane,
I watch it rise and set;
It has so many things to see.
They help it to forget.
But little hills that sit at home
So many hundred' years.
Remember Greece, remember
Rome,
Remember Mary’s tears.
Dedication
Haws when they blossom in
the front of siunmer.
Snow-breasted to the sun,
and odorous
Of wind-dissolved honey,
flaunt their bodies.
Secret and quick, to eyes in
curious.
Their fertile golden dust the
wind shall scatter.
Surfeited bees maul yet one
feast the more.
And all their dainty-stepping
petals flutter
At last and publicly to grassy
floor.
Still through their roots runs
the most secret liquor
No wind shall tamper, no
hurrying bee shall sip;
Let the haws blossom, let
their petals scatter.
In covert earth wine gathers
to their lip.
—RUTH BENEDICT
(From "An Anthropologist at
Work"—Houghton Mifflin)
SONG OF COURAGE
The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in His heaven—
Ail’s right with the world!
—BROWNING
Green Grass Above, Lie Light!
Warm summer sun, shine kindly here;
Soft summer wind, blow gently here;
Green grass above, lie light, lie light;
Good night, dear heart, good night.
And if there be no meeting past the grave.
If all is silence, darkness, it is rest;
For God still giveth his beloved sleep.
And if an endless sleep, so best.
Anon.
What kind of grandmother will I make?
I, who hate lace and daintiness?
I, who care nothing at all
For a dooryard garden of homesick flowers?
I have had hills and open plains
And long untraveled trails!
Children of my blood ....
When I dream by the fire.
Twitching in remembrance
Like an old dog;
When my eyes are dimmed for distance
And my ears no longer hear
The first bird-calls of Spring;
And I eat your food ....
Children of my blood, be hardy!
Take me and put me to sit under a cedar tree
Where I can see some fearless peaks
Pointing the way;
Set some bread and a jug of water beside me,
Leave me
And forget the place!
Children of my blood, be hardy!
Do this for me!
And I shall not be alone,
lie sun will love me
fading light begins to set;
stand round and weep
Grains of Sand
GOD'S GIFT
Close to my heart I fold each
lovely thing
The sweet day yields and, not
disconsolate.
With the calm patience of the
woods I wait,
For leaf and blossom when
God gives us Spring.
(Bonar)
Hard Talk
Big talk, and more of it, is:
what this column likes. Them
that talks out big and strong may
get in a peck of trouble but how
refreshing they are to everybody
—except maybe the ones they’re
talking to.
In the row being carried on
these days by the Tobacco Indus
try on the one hand and WIe the
People on the other, some fine
exchanges are being passed. Said
one on the side of regulation,
commenting on his opponents:
“In its advertising, the Tobacco
Industry has shown the morals of
a barracuda.”
And Gerald Johnson’s father,
a clergyman, once wrote in his
journal: “The average legislator
has the intelligence of a fence
post.”
Attaboys!
False Currency
Out in Los Angeles last week
a lady got called into court on a
charge of stealing her boy friend’s
teeth. (Never mind about how
she got ahold of them.)
She said she had only taken
them as security for a loan of
$50.00 she had made him. She
claimed certain rights but the
Judge said No, said there was no
such thing as joint ownership of
teeth.
The Public
Speaking
to its O'
ob at nlS
Changes mean no sadness here.
Dying must be like this for
Ah, some day you will say.
With a sweep of the hand
Across the wind-washed land,
Children of my blood.
You will say:
This is my' grandmother's grave!
How beautiful! How silent and serene!
—EDITH HART DUNNE
(Read at a service near Taos, N. M., on a hillside
looking toward the peaks of the Sangre de Cristo
Mountains.)
Charleston
Easter
In the quiet of a spring morning
The old towers of Charleston
Listen to their cardinal chorus
From the trees.
Inside St. Michael’s, wide
Arched 'winjorws open to
The garden of the dead.
There, under robes of violets
And perriwinkle they sleep;
Sunlight and music
Flow over them.
One has sent a cluster of
White iris up from his heart.
The yellow Banksia sheds
Its fragrance over all.
“In the midst of life
We are in death” —
Such is the blending here
And here the long-sought peace.
—HELEN POTEAT MARSHALL
Cautions Drivers Protected
By Trees On Midland Road
To the Editor:
In regdrd to yoi^ editorial,
“Midland Road Wrecks,” I woxdd
like to express an opinion con
trary to that of Mr. Ferris whose
letter was published in The Pilot
of March 12.
I feel that the trees on Midland
Road are a menace to the reckless,,
“hot rod” driver, but a definite
protection for the cautious driver,
driving within the prescribed
local speed limit.
A recent afternoon, a friend and
I were driving East, toward
Southern Pines, when a car com
ing West, toward Pinehurst, hit
a tree dividing the two lanes, then
veered north across the road and
slithered broadside for about
three car lengths before it came
to a stop. The car was badly
wrecked, the driver seriously in
jured, but it stayed in that lane.
If it had not hit the tree, it would
have crossed the median and
could not possibly have avoided
hitting our car head-on. Result:
two wrecked cars, three people
seriously injured or killed.
It is true that the road remains
icy longer than other roads in this
vicinity, but if you do skid, there
are no ditches to slip into, no
banks to go over, and it is far bet
ter to skid into a stationary pine
tree than into another car.
No matter where you are driv
ing, if you have a blow-out or
front-end failure, you are apt to
run into some object, probably
another car, thereby causing two
wrecks instead of one and injur
ing or killing more people.
MARY LOUISE WYCHE
Pinehurst
(The Pilot’s editorial had
urged caution in Midland
Road driving and minimized
importance of the trees 2is a
traffic hazard.—Editor)
THE PILOT
Published Every Thursday by
THE PILOT, Incorporated
Southern Pines, North Carolina
1941—JAMES BOYD—1944
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