Clemson University - Taps Yearbook (Clemson, SC)

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412 THE CLEMSON COLLEGE CHRONICLE. VOICES. Rage on, ye elements above, While torrents downward pour ; The soul of man undaunted stands And rises grandly oe ' r The fury of thy storm. But in the stillness of the night When peacefulness holds sway The voices multitudinous Then to his thoughts may say What shape they shall assume. Thus in the little lives we lead Within this tear-dimmed vale, ' Tis not the awful, the sublime Which makes our faces pale That influences most. The quiet, still, small voices that May meet us anywhere; They change our living here, and say What we ' ll be over there Where is eternity. J. C. T. ' 99. The Story of the Two Pines. It was one of those pleasant days in early Spring when all nature seems to be inviting man to cease from strife with his fellow-man, that I found myself strolling through one of the oldest country church-yards in upper South Carolina. As I strolled leisurely about, reading epitaphs, I was struck with the age of some of them, many dating back to before the Revolution. The dust of some of South Carolina ' s most illustrious dead repose in this old church-yard. My notice was attracted by the position of two mag- nificent pines, which stand on the southern edge of this

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THE CLEMSON COLLEGE CHRONICLE. 411 I soon become interested in my books. I go to the drawing room for free hand drawing and am given some more numbers. The place to keep my board is on shelf D, and the drawer to keep my paper and pencil is number 107. When I commence mechanical drawing my drawer of instruments is 23 — and the T square is number 372. The next place is the wood-shop. Here I find some more numbers staring me in the face. The tool box is numbered 7. The drawer in which I keep my wood- work is numbered 31, and the combination to open it is 3-15-26, The pattern I am now working on is num- ber 19. When I enter the Forge shop, I am still more be- numbered. My tool box in the Forge is number 7. I will enter the Chemical Laboratory soon, and here my keys will have numbers ; my desk will have another number, and my experiment yet another number. My box at the post-office is number 26, and the let- ters I get cannot be numbered, they are so numerous. My brain is almost worn away, yet numbers still stare at me everywhere I turn — when I get corporal I will be known as 5th corporal or possibly 6th corporal. During foot-ball season, the foot-ball signals are numbers in- numerable, and I will have this list to add to my mental store of numbers. Yet I still live, and feel sure that by the time I graduate my memory will be so gymnastical I will be a living representation of Wentworth ' s Num- bers Applied. Such is college life at Clemson. The department of mathematics is very complete here. W. L. MOISE.

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THE CLEMSON COLLEGE CHRONICLE. 413 City of the Dead. These pines stand about seven feet apart, and are the only trees of their kind within the boundary of the church-yard. I walked over to where they stood, hoping to find some tombstone or other mark which would furnish some clue to the reason why these pines had been left standing while all the rest of their kind had been hewn down. Fortunately, as I neared the trees, I saw an old man walking in the same direction. I quickened my pace and as soon as I drew near him accosted him pleasantly, and asked him if he could tell me anything of the history of those two pines. He replied that some thirty years ago a newly-made grave had been found in the church-yard with a pine stick at each end, and on one of these sticks were carved the words, George Neville. The sticks, he said, had taken root and grown to be the large pines which we now saw. Thinking that there must be something interesting behind all this, I asked him if he knew anything about the pines and the grave which they marked. He said that he knew nothing more, as the whole history of the grave was shrouded in deep mystery, the grave having been dug, and the body buried by night. I was very much disappointed at this, having hoped to hear an interesting story. After return- ing home I thought much about the mysterious grave and the two pines. A few weeks ago, while looking over some old papers I found one with the words, The Story of Two Pines, ' ' written across the top. The paper was yellow with age and the ink so faded that I could scarcely make out the words. However, I managed to make out the follow- ing tale : It is a wild scene on a small island in the Savannah River. The ceaseless roar of the waters may be heard