T T
Again The Bell
Bells are disrupting devices. I
■wish that some super-genius could
invent an educational system that
Would operate without them. This
is what happens:
We are in our English class (a
delightful and refreshing period
of study) ; the teacher has finally
completed his introductory re
marks and is reading Coleridge’s
Rime of the Ancient Mariner. We
are hypnotized by the Mariner s
eye as he tells us his tale. We have
reached that portion of narrative:
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And is that Woman all her crew?
Is that a Death? and are there
two?
Is Death that Woman’s mate?
when the bell is sounded, shatter
ing our mood of enchantment.
We walk, run, stumble to our
next class, which is trigonometry.
We are jerked out of our world of
the supernatural and plunged into
a world of facts and figures. The
I searched your heart,
And there I found
Truth, deep-rooted and profound.
It gave me help and hope
And buoyed up my sinking soul.
And made me know
That I had found, through you,
God’s greatest gift—a friend.
—Mary Kathryn Seagle.
instructor patiently explains over
and over again the perplexing
problems we have failed to find
a solution for. Ah, the solution is
beginning to come from that maze
of figures—alas, only to be lost
again; the bell is ringing.
Reluctantly, we gather our
books, and with a wistful, board-
ward glance we leave the room
and hurry on to our next class,
sociology. Here we discuss perti
nent facts concerning the gigantic
issues of life. We are on the verge
of grasping a profound truth
when—the bell rudely interrupts
our ratiocination.
Next we carry our bell-befud
dled brains to our creative writing
class. Being in such a disturbed
condition, mentally, we cannot cre
ate; therefore, we think only of
the folly of governing our edu
cation by bells.
“Surely,” you say, “such a sys
tem must have its advantages?”
Yes, that is what we shall discuss
now. One great advantage—
Scattered dandelion seeds!
There goes that bell again!
Just One More
Of late, the desire, the unrelent
ing desire, seems to have a
stronger hold upon me. Time after
time I determine never to taste
it again. Yet, my senses will not
let me rest. The aroma fills my
head. I then have the sensation of
a tingling, burning fluid going
down my throat. I long to retain
this sense of well being, but it
escapes as swiftly as it came leav
ing me shaken and with a want
niore demanding than before.
our room. When I am gone, she
peers under the bed, behind the
radiator, or into my boots hoping
to destroy the bottles she finds.
My friends nod at one another
^hen they see me. I sense the
knowledge in their eyes of my
'"'eakness. A few are more under
standing; they give me gifts of
oranges, apples, and carrots. They
look forw'ard to my reforming. My
roommate discourages me. She
often hides my bottles in places
''’here I cannot find them. Her
eyes follow my movements around
By
Laura Skinner
Often at night when everything
is quiet the gnawing craving re
turns. I wait until my roommate
is asleep; then I slowly sit up in
bed. My feet slide to the floor and
seek for my bedroom slippers. My
head pounds as I move with swift
steps toward the door. A shrilling
ring fills the room. I have kicked
over the alarm clock. My room
mate jumps up in bed. “What’s
wrong?” she asks. Sheepishly I
crawl back under the covers
mumbling about my having a
nightmare.
Between classes I have my hard
est struggle. Alone in the room I
open my books to study. My eyes
glide down the pages, but I do not
understand what I am reading. I
begin to trace through my mind
where I have last concealed that
bottle. Desperately I search
around the room,, under the bed,
in the closet, behind the curtains.
Defeated I sit on the bed and try
to think. My hands are moist with
cold perspiration. Now I remem
ber! In the clothes bag I look. At
last, alone, with the bottle m my
hands! But no, guilt creeps slowly
upon me. I reason with myself that
one more will not hurt me. My de
termination to reform prevails.
Triumphantly I place the Coca-
Cola back in its hiding place. It
is a comfort to know that I have
one near, available for the time
when I simply cannot get along
another second without it.
The trial of the ages for man:
To keep his head in the clouds
and his feet on the ground.
—Betty Sanders.
HILLTOP—PAGE ELEVEN
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