Northern Illinois University - Norther Yearbook (DeKalb, IL)

Page 23 text:

The Monarch of the Campus Once upon a time a seed fell to the ground, and snugly nestled in covcrlets ct' ehoieest mould. llow small it was! And yet, securely wrapped within its protective coat, was a living, vital something. Quietly, obscure from the curious eyes of man, the coat was torn asunder, a. tiny root appeared through which the food of life was drawn. Upward, mid the glory of the daw11, searching for light and air and sunshine, leaflets were unfolded upon a slender stem. An infant tree had come to take its place in nature's garden. Time passes. The infant has become a youth. .lts rootlets penetrate far into the earth, the slender stem is larger, strengthened to support the swaying head. Beautiful in form, happy in the shadow of the day-l pause in wonder at nature 's delicate handiwork. And yet, there is a struggle for life, for exist- ence, for supremacy, because competition is keen. Other youngsters stand near- by, seeking, striving to live and flourish. lt is the survival of the tittest. Which will dominate JZ Years drift by. The sapling has reached middle age. .It has a six-incl: stem, sturdy, upright, smooth, without a blemish, clean-cut, vigorous, seeming to delight in happy growth. Wide-spreading branches, rustling leaves, delicate in their tint of green, cast a welcome shade. lt is a thing of beauty, the source ot' admiration of the student, teacher, and passer-by--a joy within the garden. Again the drift of years. lt is our friend, the veteran. The springtime ot' youth has ceased, the sun of life is now beyond the meridian, gnarled are the branches, deep-furroyved, the four-foot trunk. Slowly, extremely slowly, he would go into decrepitude-as human beings, but he, in his strength, is majestic, proud, gladly beckoning to all who may pass his way. He exemplilies the spirit ot' the school-the spirit of intelligence, of wisdom, the unceasing search for knowledge. And yet, as with all living thing, destiny is relentless. The suns will rise, rains will fall, men will come, pass on, he forgotten, but the oak, the passionless philosopher of the age, is steadfast, uneomplaiuing, constant, true. Frank K. Balthis. I'17 I

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The Lake A dark night in spring-a waning quarter of a moon peeps over the tops of the trees beside the little lake, and a brisk spring breeze, with no more than a breath of winter in it, chases the vvavelets to the shore, where they make a pretense at breaking. One looks over the somber mystery of the water, the other is surely tar-very far-away. Fd sail the Weird old caravel Of Fancy, till I heard the bell, Afar through purple mists at last, That veils the Portals of the Past- l'd paint it all in words-Ah-well- Am I a fool? The woods behind are deep and dark, there are whispering noises from the wood-creatures stirring there. The frogs are practicing in many-toned soprano quavers. Warm odors from the wood-cool air from the lake-sleepy chirp of birds-where else than here should one daydream ol nights UZ C. B. Carter U91