College Bells
By
Sara Hopper
The clock on the table continuously
ticked away the hours. The silence of the
early morning was unbroken; not even
the bright sun rays had awakened those
sleeping. I had slept soundly through the
night; morning always found me still
sleepy. I was in the middle of a pleasant
dream, which vaguely disappeared when I
was awakened by a sudden clanging of
a bell, which resounded through* the build
ings of the college campus.
It was only six-thirty, but the rooms
of the dormitory were noisy, with drowsy
girls only half awake dressing and oc
casionally chatting, accompanied by music
coming from radios turned at full blast. A
few girls were hurrying around trying
to get their friends out of bed before the
seven o’clock bell, but not all met with
success. Seven o’clock came much too
soon, and again I heard the noisy, irritat
ing bell calling all to breakfast. My room
mate and I slowly made our way down
nine flights of steps to the dining hall
and found our places at a table.
After having eaten a little breakfast,
a small sound, seemingly insignificant,
was again heard by the students and the
passages were soon filled with boys and
girls hustling to start the day’s work.
Only a few minutes passed before I heard
the bell. I grabbed my notebook and other
books and dashed out of the door. I
missed half the steps in my rapid descent,
but my long strides ceased when I reached
the front door. I just could not lose my
dignity, if I were to be late for the next
class.
At regular intervals during the entire
afternoon the bell could be heard desig
nating the beginning and ending of
classes. When six o’clock in the evening
came I heard the long awaited sound, an
other day was over. During the day I
had heard the bell many times. Every time
it seemed different. Could it be that
the bell really sounded different every
time?
When I felt gay, the merry bell sound
ed like the music of a joyful song. But
when all the world’s burdens seemed to
fall on my shoulders the dull, haunting
bell resounded like a horrible dream which
terrified me in my restless sleep. I learned
to love the music of the ringing bell re
clining high in the tower of the campus
building. In the years to come I am sure
I shall think of college days when I hear
the ringing of a bell.
The Unconquerable
Continued From Page 6)
is no respecter of persons, thus, destroys
all it may clutch within its claws.
No one dares resist the powers of this
force. A storm is the combination of all
the internal natural powers set forth in
all their capacity. Science has been able
to find the cause of these corruptions.
but science will never be able to alter
the powers of the elements of the uni
verse.
Through the ages when men have at
tempted to resist those cruel and bar
barous forces, they have only met their
fates in death. No human soul can ever
conquer that unchangeable power. Thus,
when the earth is torn with storms, fear
will never bring security. Fear never
conquered anything. Only an inner quiet
ness and humbleness can bring hope and
safety.
The Passing of The Old
Voices In The Wind
(Continued From Page 4)
they are there, still and seemingly time,
and then at a tiny splash of trouble into the
sea of life they vanish. I hurried on, try
ing to evade the shadows made by that
Mistress of the Night, the moon. I hurried
up the hillside, through a clump of trees,
and finally emerged before Treslewood
Castle. For some unknown reason I fell,
exhausted, on the green turf before the
iron-bound doors. I heard those voices
again, laughing through the grass, mur
muring in my ears, and crying all about
me.
I ran up the terrace, and pushing open
the heavy doors I stepped inside. The
pale moonlight lay before me, and dark
shadows lurked in the corners. A musty
odor rose from the heavy curtains, and
in the far corner of the room I saw the
moonlight playing on the intricate laces
of a spider’s web.
Outside I heard the rising of the wind
as though it were following me. I wanted
to cry out. Why must it follow me? This
was what they had driven me to! Higher
and higher it rose. The heavy old door
creaked on its hinges. I saw their faces
there, laughing derisively. Why must they
follow me? Why could they not leave me
alone? Friends! I laughed again. What
was I to them? They need not fear me.
Why could they not let me live my life
in peace? “Oh, God,’’ I cried, “the bitter
disillusions of life, why can I not face
them bravely?”
I caught the old door and leaned heavily
on it. I heard those voices again. Those
gentle tones with treachery behind them,
those frank ones whose cutting words left
their marks, those dictatorial cries that
gave no room for resistance, and those
that I loved turned from me. I turned
and saw behind me the shadow of a cross.
I heard the words of the Son of God as
He cried, “My God, My God, why hast
thou forsaken Me?” .and then, “Father,
forgive them for they know not what
they do.” I wanted to throw myself upon
the cross and beg forgiveness for my
selfish, unforgiving soul. I turned from
the door and looking upward I cried,
“Oh God, help me!” I saw the selfishness
of my own life, the unwillingness to forgive,
and the nurtured hurts in my heart. Sud
denly the wind ceased and the , cool
fragrance of the night surrounded me.
The lapping of the water on the shore
Page Sevex
By
Ralph Proffitt
As my mind travels back over the brief-
span of this life, I am brought face to
face with conditions as they exist today
and as they were in earlier days.
The covered wagon upon the grassy
prairies amid the dense, waving, native
growth, high upon the trails and roads
that the pioneers followed, must have
been a refreshing sight to behold. Search
as we may this latter day, not one prairie
schooner is seen wending its way across
the sunswept plains of the rolling North
west. The only remains of this historic
epoch now repose in museums, or are the
prized private possessions of the fortunate
collectors. Scientists explore nervously
into these former habitats and are able to
find only a very few species of these
native prairie grasses. The epoch has
passed into the pages of history and into
the lore of the oldest settlers.
Often have I wondered just how it
would have been to wander into the
depths of the Great Smokies before they
were threaded by roads and riddled by
lumbering operations. In this sense it
seems easy to understand the love that
the native settler has for these hillside
homesteads when one looks at the situa
tion in this light. No doubt that life
was hard and frugal; but that was what
made such men as were able to win inde
pendence for the American nation.
Slowly nature is relinquishing her hold
upon these areas, and man of a newer
social order is extending his life into the
remoter places. The havoc that this selfish
desire will foster can best be seen only
when the disaster of partial obliteration
has befallen these sectors. Then the cry
will be no more!
More and more the native residents of
these places are being pushed outside
their life-long habitat to seek another
home among those with whom they have
not previously been accustomed to living.
In that way the shadow of gradual
extinction creeps upon the pure strain of
the race. Most assuredly the present gen
eration adds a touch of “human interest”
to the scene of their native land—BUT
—what of the future generations of these
hardy mountain folks? When the harp
of time shall blow to the tune of death
and the roll of eternity is called, what
will be the response?
Almost I wish that the price of prog
ress were not so. exacting!
reached my ears, and, breathing deeply, I
felt a nearness of something higher than
all mankind permeate my soul. Then it
came, that gentle tone, that gentle voice,
and as though a hand had been placed in
mine and an arm had been thrown about
my shoulder. I knew He was there.