Plymouth High School - Mayflower Yearbook (Plymouth, IN)

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THE STUDENTS' VOICE 23 THE DIGNITY OF SILENCE. Grace Imogene Bussard. Dignity, «is defined in that recognized authority, Century Dictionary, is “the state oi being worthy. It is stated more poetically, but just as truly, by Wordsworth in these words,— “True dignity abides with her alone, Who, in the silent hour of inward thought. Can still respect, can still revere herself, In lowliness of heart. Consider first the silent forces of nature. Have you not wandered in the forest when all was silent? When, not a bird sang, not an insect buzzed, when the little brook flowed on so softly and so noiselessly, you doubted if it really ran at all? When not a leaf stirred, not a breeze blew, and when e'en the owlets had ceased to hoot? Ah! then you would fain have stood mute and lifeless among Mother Nature's other children. While walking along a deserted beach with only the mon- otonous splash, splash, and roar. roar, of the waves as company, have you not longed to open wide your arms and be swallowed up in the depths? Traveling alone through mountain passes, the sun high above, massive stone walls rising on either side, and o'er that precipitous edge, far clown .from the very depths of the chasm you heard a faint gurgle, gurgle, as a mountain stream glided on to the sea. Were you not tempted then to let yourself fall from your lofty ledge and perish in that silencer Was it a tempest in the forest, a fierce storm upon the sea. the screech of eagles in their downward flight, that cast this spell upon you? Ah no. my friend. It was the silence, the dead, ap- palling silence, the dignity of silence in Nature. Observe the influence of silence on mankind. Look around you at the lives of vour companions,—silence in old age. in the prime of life, and in childhood: silence in grief, in anger, and in joy. There is a mother, bent, wrinkled, careworn : with watery eye, withered hand, and weary feet: watching, waiting, listening. When the news comes that her boy is dead, her last son. dead upon the field for his country’s sake, we see her calmly turn and resume her duties, till her Father shall sec fit to call her also. Behold the young man coming from work, tired, vet happy, knoiwng that a warm fire and cherry smile will greet him at his hearth. Rut soon. alas, a shadow casts a gloom across that face. A fe w short days and we find him with bared head and tightly clasped hands, beside a freshly dug grave. He too turns,—face pale, set and determined, to fight on in this cold, wide world alone. The tiny todger seated by a sand box. busily engaged in making mud cakes is disturbed by his mother. She tells him of

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22 THE STUDENTS’ VOICE MY DREAM. Fred Kuhn, ’08. One cold winter night I heard the door bell ring and upon answering the call I found that two of my classmates had come to pay me a visit. At first it was very hard to get the boys interested in the amusements I suggested until I thought of an original game which remains unnamed. Each of the boys was given a plate with eight pieces of cake or dough on it and were asked to stand one on each side of the piano stool. I then sat down and began to play the scales from low do to the corresponding note one octave above, and then told them that when I played do on the piano they should put a piece of the cake in their mouths and sing the note sounded: doing this in the best way they could on up the scale, until all eight pieces of cake were used up. I had announced beforehand that the prize should be awarded to the one who could sing the last note the most clearly with the eight pieces of cake in his mouth. I perceived that when the fifth note of the scale was reached that it sounded more like a growl than sol. the correct tone. It was now time for me to play high C and the boys at once put the eighth piece of cake in their mouths and tried to make the corresponding one: but alas bv this time their mouths were so full that upon singing the last note, all eight pieces of dough flew out of their mouths and struck the piano keys, bouncing around hitting them at the correct intervals and playing that beautiful and most loved of our high school songs entitled: “There's Music in the Air.” I kicked the bedpost and found myself sitting up in bed, going through the motions of playing the piano, but have since decided that I was trying to get out my second lesson in type- writing.

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24 THE STUDENTS’ VOICE tlie death of his shaggy-haired playmate, Gippy. The little man drops his lialf-made cake, looks at his mother with oig, round, incredulous eyes: slowly slips his hand into hers and goes with her to bury his dead doggie. A proud sweet-faced young lady is stopped by a coarse- featured. flashily dressed woman, who cpiestions her honesty and her womanhood. At first the proud face becomes an angry red: but knowing her accuser to be wrong she holds her peace and goes on her way. A Chinese girl in a mission school is given an American doll. She expresses her joy, not in laughing and in dancing, but her almond eyes sparkle and such a happy flush o’erspreads her little yellow face that no other demonstration of her great pleasure need be made. Look back! Was it the broken-hearted sobs of the mother that made you appreciate her grief? Was it the angry retort of the voting lady that made you resoect her? Was it the exclama- tions of ioy from the Chinese girl that told you she was happy? Rather, the inner-feeling written on her face. These are but a few of the numberless instances which exemplify the dignity of silence in human life. Tn the realm of nature we find the silent forces, electricity, sunlight, and frost, to be the most effective. Tn the world of man it has ever been the silent men of all times who have made his- tory. Rut, transcending all other evidence, is the life of the Man of Galilee. At one time putting forth to sea. exceedingly tired. He fell asleep. A great storm arose. The sailors, frightened and dis- mayed ’roused Him with the reproach. “Carcst Thou not that we perish?” TTe arose, stretched forth His hands to the ranging ele- ments. and with—“Peace, be still —all was calm. Only a glimpse of Him in Gethsemane will suffice. Here, after having endured agony beyond the expression of words. He faced the cross. Yet we hear Him sav. “Father. Thv will be done, not mine.” and returning to His slumbering disciples, so gently bid them—“Sleep on.” To His false accusers of the Sanhedrin. He offered not a word,—“He was oppressed, and He was afflicted, yet He opened not His mouth. He was brought as a lamb to the slaughter; and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so He opened not His mouth.” Tn His last hour of suffering there upon the cross, the laugh- ing, mocking, jeering crowd below Him. He lifted up His voice to’rd Heaven and pleaded.—Father, forgive them tor they know not what they do.” Is it because He angrily reproved the sailors for disturbing His sleep; is it because He rebelled against His Father’s will there in the garden; is it because He hurled curses down upon