Mary Baldwin College - Bluestocking Yearbook (Staunton, VA)

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Epilogue. OW Time takes wings unto himself and flies — we know not whither ! Swifter than the flight of a homing-bird is the passage of each day ' s experiences. Ever dissolving into each other they forever blend or succeed each other in joy or woe like the shifting lines of a summer sky. Every yeai sees a swifter flight and a speedier evanishing. As the light-hearted child vainly strives with eager, outstretched arms to catch the golden sunbeams ever eluding his grasp, so do we just as vainly strive to detain Time in his flight. Now, the school year is gone with its hard study; gone, with its pleasant hours of recreation; gone, with its petty worries; gone, with its occasional testing times of real trial and trouble. And yet, there is one thing left of which even Time himself cannot rob us, memory. The past, as Wordsworth says, has Deposited upon the silent shore Of Memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die and cannot be destroyed. How kind is Mother Nature, in that she makes our pleasant memories the most lasting, smoothing away those of past worries till they are as if they had never been, save, perhaps, that we are the stro nger for their discipline. On the other hand, she leavee to us the fruits of all our labor and the accompanying happiness of strong, and at least partially successful effort. So it is mainly with satisfaction and pleasure that we thoughtfully turn the pages of this volume, which carry us back over the past school-year. What busy, happy days they were; so busy, that we did not realize how Time was flying ! Ever does this thought recur to us, and with it the melancholy realization that what is past can never more return. Even when we are happiest, this thought of the transiency of pleasure casts a shadow over us. Now, as for our achievements, in what light should we regard them? A story is told of Ole Bull, the great violinist, that, in answer to the high eulogy of a friend, he replied, The years of toil which I have spent for my art serve to show me bu the more clearly that I know nothing. If a genius could make this statement, should we be willing to rest content with our present attainments ' May we never consider our task as accomplished ! It is, then, with mingled gladness and sorrow that we contemplate our work which is finished, but not complete, as we bid farewell to this school-year, with its efforts, its failures, its successes. We want this volume to rest on the book-shelf of every Mary Baldwin girl, as a veritable souvenir, bringing to remem- brance the mingled yarn, good and ill together, ot school days. Now, as we tenderly turn the last leaf of this book, though it be with a sigh that what is past can never more return, let that sigh be succeeded by a smile at the happy memories of the term of ' 98 and ' oy. Edith Emily Holt.