Mississippi College - Tribesman Yearbook (Clinton, MS)

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Senior History Seeking to partake of the fountain of learning the class of ’18 made its appear- ance on the campus of Mississippi College in September, 1914. At first we could boast of our number, but as the years passed circumstances depleted our ranks and scattered our forces. Yet thirty heroes have emerged from the conflict, trained and better prepared to fight life’s battles. The news of the catastrophe at last arrived: war had been declared. Though the strife be waged in a distant land with the mightiest despotism, our boys of ’18 did not shrink in the hour of need and peril, but answered to duty’s call — a score or more strong. One of the bravest and noblest of this number has already made the supreme sacrifice — in giving up his life for his country. He, a true patriot, died a hero just the same as those that meet death in the smoke of battle. Intermingled with our victories have been defeats. But we must not boast of our victories, nor lament our defeats for through them we have been encouraged to greater and more earnest effort and spurred on to seek higher and nobler things. And now we have reached the goal of our past ambition, “We are finishing”, only to “Begin”. We will soon go out on the firing line. Some shall succeed and others fail, but the ideal which has been implanted within our hearts during the past four years will explain our success or failure which ever it may be. In leaving behind the joys and sorrows of our college life we can look back with a feeling of regret, not that we fear the future, or dread responsibilities of the coming years, but that looking back we must remember college freedom is ours no more. With a purpose high and noble, and their faces toward the future, their hearts devoted to right and duty — these are the men of ’18. — Historian. Page Twenty-four

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Pres. Lane Miss Tower y SPONSOR — • Senior Class Officers L. P. LANE PRESIDENT A. B. RUSSEL VICE-PRESIDENT D. P. DUNN SECY. AND TREASURER J. 0. GORDON PROPHET MISS MARGARET SHARP HISTORIAN ROSEWELL LOWREY POET Page Twenty-three

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Senior Prophecy J was walking through a woodland wav where happy Spring ruled in its wonted season. Birds trilled lyric music in the leafy palaces of the trees and busy bees and insects of a thousand names kept wonderful accompaniment. ] mused upon the scene in glee with ruddy glow of face and marveled at a wood so gay with life. “Why is this wood so gay ” I asked of a wood nymph who was attentively listening to a myth-throated bird lilting rapturous melodies. “Sir, it was not always so,” she said. “Our good Spring came once and drove the Winter away. When Spring first came there was a great war waged. “I remember well the contest and the line of battle. Winter enlisted on his side all pessimists and grumblers. Every cloud and frown. Every wrinkle and shadow of disappointment. His training camps were dark valleys where the mid-day sun shone palely and in vain tried to beat back the great dark and gloom. He trained his soldiers in dismal tactics where no justice prevailed; where the crippled God of despair blew the bugle calls and beat time. “But, Spring did not so. In the ranks of Spring crept every optimist in the whole land. The man who would rather see the eagle soaring in the heavens than see the serpent wending his slimy way along a damp marsh found a ready commission waiting for him in the army of Spring. In this army also was found the patient man ; the sober man ; the sane, considerate man. He was there who, tried by the afflictions of years, looked up to God in hope and waited for His good will in all things as one waits for a lily to unfold its white petals in fragrant purity and unity of beauty. He was there whose briny grief shows only through ever recurring wreathes of smiles. They all were there for the emancipation of men from the tyranny of wrong.” The wood nymph paused and a gentle tear dropped. “1 can show you better than I can tell you in words,” she said. She lead the way to a small picture play house and motioned for me to enter. Inside was the living scene being re-enacted. Words carry not enough of human tears, human blood, and purpose for me to describe the battle. Only this and it merely a glimpse: A patient man dying and his last words through frothing blood — “One more thrust for the cause of humanity”. Then the picture play house was quiet when the reel was through. Then another reel and I was spellbound. “The M. C. Call of 18, fighting the battles of life.” I sat and saw the familiar stride of manly fellows 1 had known elsewhere — not going to Zeus or Zed or Lit. or Lab., but the way of the few — the way of honor, worth, and sure success. — Class Prophet. Page Twenty -five