New York University School of Education - Education Violet Yearbook (New York, NY)

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Wheels The pollen In the flower, The root In the earth, The bud In the twig, The twig In the branch, The branch In the trunk, The trunk In the ground. The seed In the ovum, The embryo In the womb, The babe In the crib, The youth In his bloom, The girl In her grace, The man In his strength, The woman In her glory. All end In the grave, All end In the ground. Wheels Within Wheels Of Life Ancl of Death, Of Hope and Despair, Eternally spin. G 149 Perpetual motion The mystery of od.

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A Conlrasl IFTH AVENUE is decked out in gala attire. Smart, inviting shops with their vari- colored displays of perfumes, jewelry, shawls, gowns, are filled with eager shoppers. Brisk throngs of happy people crowd the already crowded street. Smiling-all of them-tall, thin men who look like fashion plates, pretty women in luxurious cars, apple- cheeked children clad warmly. Even the sleek, well-groomed dogs in the cars look on the world with a cheerful benevolence. Colorful, laughing, noisy, crowded-that is Fifth Avenue! A few short blocks away, a street is also crowded. But a grim silence hangs over all. Here, too, are all kinds of people-tall, short, old, young-but all are shabby. Not a smile appears. All have faces that are set and pale, eyes that lack luster. Their steps are slow and indifferent. This is not a crowd of happy holiday shoppers. This is only a mere handful of New York's large army of homeless and hungry, waiting to form a bread line! Only a few short blocks away from lively, luxurious Fifth Avenue, in the wealthiest city of the world! Youlh OUTH is not a time of life: it is a state of mind. It is not a matter of red cheeks, red lips, and supple knees, it is a quality of imagination, a temper of the will, a vigor of emotions. It is the freshness of the deep springs of life. Youth means a temperamental predominance of courage over timidity, of the appetite for adventure over the love of ease. This often exists in a man of fifty, more than in a man of twenty. Nobody grows old by merely living a few years. People grow old only by deserting their ideals. ' Years wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul. Worry, doubt, self-distrust, fear, and despair: these are the long, long years that bow the heart and turn the grieving spirit back to dust. Whether sixty or sixteen, there should be in every human being's heart the lure of wonder, the sweet amazement at the stars and star-like things and thoughts, the undaunted challenge of events, the unfailing child-like appetite for what next, and the joy of the game of living. One is as young as his faith, as old as his fears, as young as his hope, as old as his despair. In the central place of one's heart is an evergreen tree, its name is Love. So long as it flourishes, a person is young. When it dies, he is old. In the central place of every heart is a wireless station. So long as it receives messages of beauty, hope, cheer, grandeur, courage, and power from God and from fellowmen, so long is one young. 148

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Washingfon Square Park NTERESTING pictures, beautiful pictures, ugly pictures, pictures-scenes, portraits, caricatures-not in Dresden, Munich, or the Louvre, but in Washington Square Park. The park is a legend of Little Old New York. The barren trees whisper to each other and laugh at the human wrecks who sit on the benches, at the jovial students, at the pensive students, at the nursemaids with their precious charges. They laugh because they know that life is temporary and that time, which we try to overtake, eternal. Three men are sitting on a bench near the Fifth Avenue entrance. One of them is youngish with blond hair and bleary, blue eyes. He attempts to read a newspaper that was left by some more fortunate beingg but he is fretful-he gazes after each passerby -perhaps hunger gnaws at his heart. The other two are too far gone. They are older and age needs reposeg so they sleep-blissfully unaware of the hubbub about them. Two boys are talking about Mr. Blank, their history prof. They imitate him, they mimick him and discuss him mercilessly. Poor man-his ears must be burning red. A uniformed nurse-maid is conversing pleasantly with the policeman. The living bundle in the handsomely arranged carriage begins to cry and the woman bids her friend adieu. Pictures-portraits, scenes, caricatures-not Dresden, Munich, or the Louvre-but Washington Square Park. Ghosfs Mad memories remain like ghostly ghouls To haunt the earthly shell that once was theirs, They lurk and hide in half-forgotten lairs And make of us sad wretches and sick fools. o Spiril' HERE is a certain Hymn that begins: Work for the night is comingg work for the day is done. Our School is slowly emerging from the darkness into the light of day. It has had many struggles, there are struggles to comeg but as it has over- come obstacles of the past, it will overcome them of the present and future. What will aid us in our battles? Money? Yes. An excellent faculty? Of course. All this and more. But most of all, that element which has created nations and then saved them all from annilihation. It was present at the beginning of civilization and will always be present in the years to come. It is heard amid the cheers of football, basketball and base- ball games. It is felt in the heart of every loyal student and lighter. Spirit -the spirit of New York University. From obscurity it has lifted us to light. The night is gone and we must work harder than ever before to keep the mists away, Thus we can show spirit-the spirit which counts in the end. We must put action into every letter of S-P-I-R-I-T. ' 150