Greenwood School - Tree Yearbook (Ruxton, MD)

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THE VALUE OF TIME , .sv n ii it + I ,H -. . ' - .: X I - --. , , 1 i 'Wif - P Xl. Q j i the numerous gifts of life, you will find none to compare with the ?' golden gift of time. It is said that as Queen Elizabeth died she mur- Q mured, To whomever can give me one more moment 'I will leave my ... .. ingdom. But not even the wisest men in the country could do this. You and I have millions of these moments at our disposal, and per- haps have wasted thousands. There are many who are thrifty with money, but throw away time as if it had no value. You may look around and see two men, one has all the advantages of education, the happiness of prosperity, the knowledge of the world about him, the other is living in a humdrum manner without distinction of any kind, throwing away the precious moments of his life. You may see many such opposite pairs, their situations depending on the way they spend their time. An idle hour may be the best thing you can have now and then, but it is not this idle hour that counts. It is hour after hour, day after day, and week after week that is Spent idly. To such people the time will come when they will try in vain to have those last hours back, but they will be gone forever. Louis Pasteur, a man who spent his life in doing good for the world, is known and respected by everyone. Try to benefit by this fine example and spend your time in doing good for the world. Time's hand scatters treasures generously for us. We may pick them up or leave them according to our choice, and so our life is made. L. CLARK, Class I f' . X i 1 ' . E .Q +L, ' ,y 'fQg,5.1.,ga-ae:s1Q1.f:lftQgas .1 i l A 0 XV . .L fl ' A' --1 xv, f 1 7 gimp N W 1' .if UN. ' n f If 0 c if 1 J' :Ll T . 0 A Page Forty-one

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THE WHAIJER LGUD footsteps and a hardy hail. I knew before the door was flung open that my whaler friend had come home. He was a jolly, kindhearted soul whose rugged, goodnatured face was lined with wrinkles worn there by many stormy voyages. His old pipe, stuck in a rather hard mouth, was sending forth horribly smelly smoke which seemed-for he was always enveloped in it--to be a part of him. His clothes were shabby and had been roughly mended and reeked with that whale smell which never left him. His boots, shabby as they were, still held their own. His yellow oilskins were worn in a careless, rakish manner. Stalking into my shack with his rolling seaman's gait, he bent his huge frame over my fire and held his red, weather-cracked hands to its warmth. What a welcome sight he was to an old man, and how I looked forward to an evening of stirring tales strongly flavored with salt and whale oil. B. CAss1LLY, ,4O OMNIPOTENCE HE roar of the sea was ominous and threatening. The waves mercilessly un- furled themselves, slashing and whipping the barren rocks with a spiteful, fiendish delight. The sky was overcast and heavy with a torrent that would not fall. The scowling heavens seemed to hold the shower a prisoner. The rain drops struggled valiantly in the relentless hand of the firmament, but their liberty was unattainable. Once in a while a tiny drizzle wrenched itself free, yet it was only a pitiful, little mist that plainly showed how crushed and terrified it had been by the stern gaoler. A group of gulls swooped low and dove mysteriously into the tossing billows. They were as one with the atmosphere, spectral, supernatural, and unfathomable. The largest gave vent to a plaintive wail. In reply to the summons the others changed their course, and the phantom-like band was lost in the dim beyond. A somber twi- light began to descend, and Night sent forth a messanger to tell of her approach. The baby star appeared for a moment. Suddenly he saw the turbulent and tempestu- ous world into which he had strayed. His twinkle dimmed, and sobbing in fright he retreated unceremoni- ously into his motherls arms. The waves took up their diabolical play with new vigor. The omnipotent sky veiled its massive brow be- hind the darkness, and the 'heart of the foaming, mighty sea throbbed angrily on. F. JONES, 337 Page Forty

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A DRAMATIC MON OLOGUE fThe scene is on a balcony of the castle of Hohenschvvanstein built high in the Bavarian Alps by King Ludwig II of Bavaria. Richard Wagiiei' is now With Ludwig on one of his frequent visits to the castle. Oh gaze, good Ludwig on that glorious view, The mountains high enclose us all around, That trickling fall runs silvery down the slope, .4 nd forests black do clothe the mountains' sides. Oh, freedom! That is what I crave o'er all- To act, to talk, to write, as one does feel. The solace of this castle high, and you, A way from strife and bitterness and hate. I feel you understand me more than most, My ideas wild, Amy fiery speech, my thoughts, If nd most of all my music, closest to my heart. Opera! My own libretti must I use, ff nd heroes, gods, and dwarfs must live, Each with his leitmotif in music clear, Enriched, alive, unbroken melody. Oh, no one understands nor comprehends! The world turns blindly from my whole life's work. But yet Pll make them love and worship it. They'll learn to cherish the immortal strains F or which Pvc sujered, starved, and lived in exile. Pll stick it out and gain my triumph yet! My music! What inspiration here I glean Hmong these forests black, these mountains high! Wagner speaksj My music must flow on like endless speech ff glow with color, strength, and jire and love. The words, the scenery, plot important too, The theatre dark, the orchestra not seen- A nd poetry will jill the hearts and souls of men The while they hark my operas. I t must be! Oh mad Ludwig you understand, you smile. You give vent to your feelings in your wild midnight rides In carriages pulled by eager prancing steedsg Your heart then pours out in the night, Your soul is lighter when you do return. ffnd so it is with me! I must compose, and this, the way I feel! The bitterness, the strife, the happiness It must jlow out of me into music So I can also breathe again. This is my task! I t must -be done! Perhaps someday my music VV ill, like these that hem us in, remain A solitary mountain peak to which men will Lift up their searching eyes. i What did you say? Forgive my spoken thoughts! You want some music? Miize? Come in-it's late. J.'HOLLAMAN, ,37 Page Forty-two