Thursday, April 23, 1925
I dreamed a dream; or was it all a
dream? I thought I had been through
Aycock’s classic halls, and had accom
plished, oh, so much in the realm of
knowledge, of sport, of life; and lo! I
waked to find myself a Lilliputian and
heard with distinctness a group of giants
“Ding dong hell,
Pussy’s in the well;
Ding dong dong,
Freshmen in the barn.”
Kind-faced guardians guided my sud
denly uncertain self along the boardwalk
into a strange new room and then left
me with a group that I had known and
recQgnized as mere babes in knowledge.
Happily I waited for some familiar
task to fill the hour, but a stranger task
than cross-word puzzles was laid before
me. Strange words—I was taught to say
agricola, agricolae, agricolae, agricolam,
agricola, and this they told me meant a
farmer, and if I should learn this and
many more, with Caesar I should conquer
Gaul, and so advance myself in the good
graces of those huge Seniors.
Then awhile I paused and seemed to
find some comfort in English, though
even it had become a matter of “complex
sentences” and “figures” very strange.
At last when my poor brain was very
weary, a welcome period for lunch ar
rived. How good the food, and how kind
the faces of those in charge of it seemed!
But yet that smile which they gave us
seemed to say, “Simple Freshmen!”
On the ground, wise Sophomores, su
per-wise Juniors, and dignified Seniors
lurked here and there, each with the
same smile, until I longed for the hour
to end and to be once again among fa
miliar faces in the proper Nursery, our
After Math, Science, and Civics, the
horizon began to widen and make one
seem so very important. Before the hour
came for release and refuge at home, I
was wide awake. I knew my place in the
nursery of high school, and the high lad
der I must climb.
“The heights by great men reached and
Were not attained by sudden flight;
Btit they, while their companions slept.
Were toiling upward through the night.”
SIR M^ALTER SCOTT
Yesterday vs. Today
Let us imagine ourselves back in the
days of hoop-skirts. The modest young
lady with the curls peeping out from un
derneath the dainty little bonnet comes
walking out into the garden. Look!
The beautiful ruffled hoop-skirt with the
tight waist and the tiny putf sleeves make
her all the more enticing. There, as she
cautiously steps about, she slightly raises
her skirt and shows her ruffled panta
loons; her tiny feet, prettily slippered,
peep out as she steps. Quiet she is, at
all times. Sly and blushing like a rose
she stands if a young gentleman comes
around. She is an example of innocence
But what a change! The modern flap
per and that real old-fashioned girl are
anything but alike. The flapper with
her boyish bob comes laughing down the
street. Her narrow dress, coming scarce
ly below the knees, shows her rolled hose
and rouged knees. Tier lips are skill
fully painted bright red, her cheeks are
rouged a deep pink, and her nose care
fully powdered. The flapper’s eyelashes
and eyebrows are blackened very deli
cately. She is neither quiet, shy, nor
blushing when her counterpart comes
Which would you rather be?
H big red ball of love
Up in the sky,
Sending rays belozv
As clouds float by.
A. little bit of green
Above the ground,
lust because God sent
The sunshine down.
A. tiny bit of beauty
Uor all God’s love.
The amateur writers of the 18th cen
tury were extremely fortunate in living
m Scott’s era, especially if they took the
A him in his home at
Abbotsford. There is nothing I would
enjoy more than to call back two cen
turies or more and drop in for a week’s
visit with this great writer.
I can see his jovial countenance light
up as he greets his visitor and welcomes
me to his home. The kind of conversa
tion he would start and keep up as we
Haverse the long, panelled halls is easily
Llis art was story-telling. Who would
not like to sit at his feet, as his children
did, and drink in some marvelous tale of
the Scottish spirits?
Of course he would have a hunt—may
be through Cambus-Moore, up Loch Ven-
nechar, and around the Trossachs. That
would be wonderful! Here I could see
Scott, the man—the lover of nature, of
beauty, the fearless spirit, the picture of
I, among his other guests, would not
disturb his business in the slightest de
gree. From nine to one in the day he
worked at his desk. The children, free
to roam in and out of his study at will,
took the privilege with innocent gaiety
of interrupting the steady swing of his
pen. This, I think, is efficiency in its
most extreme sense. How we wish we
could cultivate such capability!
Scott considered Sunday the day of
rest for animals and the day of pious
study for him and his children. I do
not believe he meant the long-faced grav
ity we connect with piety, for which he
certainly did not indicate an intention.
Bible in hand, Scott and his family—dogs
included—walked down to a little nook
where they spread their cold lunch, and
^ojoyed a most pleasant three hours in
which he called before their minds’ eyes
the Biblical characters. It would not be
hard to believe the most miraculous of
the Old Testament’s stories with Sir
Walter Scott to picture them. I believe
he showed his children, during these de
lightful hours, the God of Beauty, as he
saw Him. His godliness was further re
vealed in his respect, even worship, of
His life was not destined to run
smoothly and brightly all his years. “Ad
versity is man’s true touchstone.” He
was put to the test, and he came forth
as pure gold. Honorably and persist
ently he worked to pay off his debt.
Death claimed him, though, before he
could complete his task.
His life was a success. He has set
before the world an example of noble
manhood. It is summed up in the words
uttered on his death-bed to his son-in-
law: “My dear Lockhart, be a good man
—be virtuous, be religious—be a good
man. Nothing else will give you any
comfort when you come to lie here.”
The world needs more like Sir Walter
Scott. We cannot all write a “Marmion”
nor a “Lady of the Lake,” but God grant
we may develop our lives to inspire hu
manity as his great life challenges.
The Apostrophe to the Harp
ONLY A DREAM
I see again my fair homeland,—
The oaks a-towering broad and grand.
The rippling stream, a silver band.
It is only a dream!
The piirple mountains towering high.
The verdant valleys stretching by;
Oh, what a scene to greet my eye!
It is only a dream!
I see again the cool woodland.
The waves a-sparkling on the sand,
Two forms in the dark, hand locked in
It is only a dream.!
I press her cheek; ’tis warm with love.
Her words are soft like the cooing dove,
Her eyes more bright than the moon
It is only a dream!
Oh, when can I forget those eyes?
Their sweet, dark image ever lies
Upon this sold that fiercely cries,
It is only a dream!
Only a dream, this nightmare life.
Filled with care and vulgar strife.
O God! give me back her life!
Wake me from this dream!
A spritely sunray caught you in the Oc
He caught you, and he brought you when
the day had ’gun to die.
He brought you through my window and
he gave you filmy wings;
He blew you and he threw you in a globe
of ferns and things.
The globe is silv’ry water and you know
it all by heart;
It’s hallowed, and it’s colored by each
graceful quirk and dart.
You, Solis Occasu, and you, Tia Fa Min,
Why the lurching and the searching
For the place where you got in?
Aren’t you happy in your beauty.
Oh, you restless little fellows?
Start thinking, and stop drinking
With those tiny, gulping bellows.
I’ll tell you what is lacking—you’ve a
heart, one artery.
Two veins, a brain, a liver, but not a
soul like me.
• Zaidee Smith.
“Harq) of the North! that mouldering
long hast hung
On the witch-elm that shades St. Fillan’s
This is the call of Scott, the ballad-
lover, to the long dead minstrels. Scott,
as we know, is a lover of the old Scot
tish ballads as well as an authority on
them. He felt that if the minstrels might
be awakened, for a short time only, the
people would be heartened.
“O wake once more! How rude so’ere
That ventures o’er thy magic maze to
Then the farewell—
“Harp of the North, farewell!
The hills grow dark!”
The harj) has responded to the call,
the dying echoes resound o’er the hills,
and Sir Walter Scott has given us his
beautiful “Lady of the Lake.”
Do you not know that within these walls
Nothing but death yotdll gain?
’Tis only a glittering light that calls
Which can but give you pain.
Be not like us mortals frail.
Who all for pleasure give;
Put not your little life on sale—
’Tis better far to live.
Fhitter farther from the flame,
And never your tiny wings burn;
Life tonight may seem didl and tame.
But your future is my concern.
So, far away from my window fly.
And let me this lesson learn—
If after pleasures vain I hie.
My pretty wings I may burn.
Everything is all aglow
Because summer is here;
In the trees the birds are singing
Notes to us so dear.
“Summer is here,” says every bird
By his loud, clear notes,
They are so very, very happy
It pours from their little throats.
A LUCKY NOISE
We hear that America is importing a
shipment of Italian eggs. We hope they
are not the Lays of Ancient Rome.—
The beautiful flowers are blooming now
In every meadow and tree;
God puts them here to make things bright
As bright as they can be.
Beds of flowers to be seen
Everywhere you look;
Single, graceful, slim ones, too.
Are growing by the brook.
Enjoy the birds while they are here.
And their charming music, too.
And smiling flowers on God’s earth
Are here to brighten you.
Speeder—It is true that I was travel
ing a little fast, but I can explain if you
will give me a little time.
This is a secret—a secret that you
must never tell; for not even the teach
ers believe that the wheezing of the Mt.
Airy train has any peculiar virtues, Nev
ertheless, there is some good in every
thing—especially a roaring locomotive. I
would not have taken this determined
and revolutionary stand were it not for
an especially important incident of a
few days in which my record as a Latin
student was saved from shameful ruin.
Charles was reciting a new Latin vo
cabulary. He was getting along fairly
well until he came to the word lead, and
there the poor boy hung. The bad part
of it was that everyone else she called
on also hung. Zeroes were flying thick
and fast! My time was sure to come,
and I had an uneasy feeling that I also
was doomed to the hanging squad. She
called on me. I stood up, trembled, stut
tered. Summoning all of my courage, I
answered amid the roar of a passing
freight, “I dunno.”
“Duco is right,” she answered. Then
in a very encouraging manner, “Alvin,
you are improving.”
Thus the roaring noise of the generally
annoying train gave a new interpreta
tion to my answer and saved the day by
changing an English sentence into a
My First Evening Dress
A delighted cry escaped my lips as I
opened the lid of an old trunk and found
there an article that I had long ago dis
carded. A dainty pink dress made of
the sheerest materials, drawn up with a
huge rose. I lifted it from the trunk.
This was my first evening dress, and it
had been the pride and joy of my life.
There on the side was the rip that I had
so carelessly torn when jumping out of
some handsome hero’s car. Oh! There
hidden among the soft folds were punch
stains! I thought of how I had spilled
that punch while hurrying across the
gaily bedecked dance hall. A tear fell
down my cheek as I thought of the many
times my silly young heart had fluttered
under that gown. I heaved a sigh. I
let the musty pink cloud fall back into
place. Why, I do not know, unless it
was that the days of the dress were past.
My Favorite Illusion
I have an illusion; regrettable, yet
true, nevertheless. Sometimes I enjoy
playing with that bubble in my mind,
turning it over and over and observing
its excellence from all angles. It is not
a phantom that one can vaunt before the
world with pride, a phantom that one
can wear brazenly like a loud necktie;
but it is'a secret dream, condemned by
reason, by common sense, by conscience.
Yet, when it steals softly into my mind,
I have not the strength of will to cast
it out. No, since it has once been re
ceived with a welcome, it will come
again, and never find the door closed
against it. It is not a vision of fame, of
glory, of heroism. It is—shall I confess
it? Perhaps I had better, though if the
world knew the truth it would condemn
me with its accustomed speed and cru
elty. This phantasy is one of delusion;
it can never be realized; it is^—the per
fect dream of a loafer. There you have
my illusion—a dream of complete cessa
tion from all work, all responsibility.
The whole of my present effort is uncon
sciously bent toward that one end; the
spirit of laziness is deep in my blood,
and will never be separated from my
being. When I am hard at work, as I
occasionally (very occasionally) am, I
tell myself that I will not be for long,
that soon I shall feel the exquisite in
toxication of doing' absolutely nothing.
That time never comes, and I know that
it never will till after the complete ces
sation of consciousness. Then I will not
care. Still, I feed my hope on the vis
ion; very light nourishment, true, but
having a delicious flavor to one who is a
^YHICH WOULD YOU
Hal, a red-headed, freckle-faced, over
grown boy, was hoeing corn on his grand
father’s plantation. The day was hot
and sultry. Mopping his forehead with
a red bandanna, Hal muttered: “Huh,
this sure is some vacation. Yes, it ain’t.
Pop said for me to come down here and
eat all the watermelons that I wanted.
Now, here I am working harder than I
ever did in my life, just ’cause his fussy
old sister blessed that little ole nigger
out, and he got mad and left. I wish
she had bit her ole tongue off!”
“You do, eh? Well now, just for that
you hoe that other row and come to the
house and chop some wood.”
Miss Lyde Plump belied her name. She
was tall and skinny with hair drawn
tightly back from her face; she had a
long, peaked nose, and anything but a
sweet disposition. Some people say she
had been disappointed in love, and others
said that no one would have had her.
But whatever had happened, or never
happened, it did not sweeten her temper
or dull her tongue.
Hal lifted his hot head and blazed out,
“Just you wait till next summer. You
won’t find me here again. I’ll go where
there ain’t no such things as cornfields
and hoes. You make me do what a
nigger wouldn’t. I don’t like it at all.”
“Is that the way your mother taught
you to speak to ladies? If you were my
child, and I heard you speak like that,
I’d wear you out.”
For a moment there was silence, and
then Hal showed that he was a gentle
man, though he did have freckles and a
fiery temper. “I beg your pardon. Ma
didn’t learn me to speak like that, but
my head aches, and I don’t like to dig
around this ole corn. Did your Ma tell
you to make people work like this?”
Miss Lyde stared thoughtfully at the
boy. At last he had touched a soft spot
in her heart. “No,” she said softly, “my
mother taught me to ’Do unto others as
I would have them do unto me’.” And I
think I will. Come on to the house. I
am going to teach you better English.”
“Oh, gosh,” sighed Hal, “Pd rather
hoe this corn.” Kathleen Lashley.
Tears and Their Uses
Tears are little drops of water and
mineral substances that drop from the
eyes to express emotion.
Tears express great joy. Up races a
car and out of it comes the whole family.
“It seems like a dream!” exclaim certain
members of the long-parted families.
Tears trickle down the cheeks of the lov
ing brother and sister as they rush into
Tears are used to exjiress grief. The
world is wrapped in a veil of sorrow.
The spring is not the same beautiful, joy
ous season I have always known. The
hearse ventures to take my dearest
friend from my sight forever on earth.
The third and most important use of
tears is this: A Freshman takes home
a report card. D’s, five of them, seem
to tremble before the eyes. Mother
stares; a far-away look comes into her
eyes. Silence—then the sad eyes fill with
teams. The Freshman’s head is bowed.
Bead-like tears drop, drop. Oh, if some
thing would only happen; Then the pri
vate scene of forgiveness and newly-made
Tears are the most useful little things
in the world. Cry and get it all over
with. Lamentation is best expressed by
tears. The heart of a person who cannot
cry aches harder and the throat is strain
ed until it is sore. Tears—the beautiful
gushing little comforts!
The Vanity Case
’Tis far better to keep silent and be
thought a fool than to speak and remove
The back door to the cafeteria is great
ly patronized since the Glee Club meets
in the basement of the new building.
Ah! The darling, the precious, the
ever-existing object always on display by
members of the fairer sex. 'Whether in
the school room, on the street, or in
church, one can see this shining delicate
ly perfumed object. Its clear mirror re
flects the beauty of her face as she gently
applies the contents of the oval, round,
or oblong case.
This is so essential to that “schoolgirl
complexion” which is much desired not
only by tbe flapper, but also by those
who, if it were not for “Brownatone,”
would have locks as white as snow.
jif. ■ '
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