Tower Hill School - Evergreen Yearbook (Wilmington, DE)

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The Tower CDial tering teeth, Shall I let 'im have it ? The old Alaskan guide shook his head, Wait till he reaches fifty. Still he kept com- ing closer and closer. Cold shivers shot up and down my back and my teeth chattered harder every minute. Finally when he was almost on top of me a voice whispered, Bust 'im. Up went the 30.06 Springlield, but to my great horror the barrel shook like a leaf. At that moment the mountain of fur in front of us rose up on his hind legs. At last after what seemed hours of aiming, the barrel steadied and I touched the hair trigger. The huge bear in front of me fell backwards into the stream with blood gushing from a wound in his chest. Before I could think, he was on his feet, a fighting demon, belching out great roars and snapping teeth like fire crackers. The great hole in his chest turned the clear mountain water into a crimson red. Another bullet tore into his bull neck and down he went for the second time, only to get up a raging maniac. At last my sight rested on his giant skull and this time he sank down never to rise. We had to wait ten minutes before approaching my trophy because more people are killed by brown bears playing possum than in any other way. Bon CARPENTER, '34. COLORED WOODS OF FALL WHILE Jack Frost in his little paint vest now carries a small can of deep green paint, the rest of his vest is filled with cans of fall colors, with which he will decorate his many forests. Yesterday when I walked into the Rock- ford Woods I was held spell-bound by the picturesque scene that my eyes beheld. I knew right there and then that old Jackie had lost no time in getting his men to work redressing Mother Nature's peaceful land- scape. All the trees and shrubbery that not long ago were green are now changing to their fall dresses. Here and there we see long out-stretched arms covered with a coat of green leaves spattered with red, and where Mr. Frost has kept his men working overtime the red spottings completely cover the green. In some places Jack is throwing his paintings to the winds. These leaves have long ago turned red, and are now yellow. They come down very slowly, turning this way and that as the winds scatter them to the four points of the compass. Some fall to the ground, to be blown into nearby bushes, where they form warm blankets which will protect the surrounding vegetation that has been tucked away for the winter by Mother Nature. Others fall in the creek that peacefully makes its way toward the river. Here upon the water, which babbles in and out among the rocks, they sail like little boats, following the currents of the stream, while behind, others fall to make a carpet of gold upon God's flowing wine. As the trees shed their wearing apparel they become barer and bar- er, and it will not be long until they are rais- ing their leafless branches to heaven, waiting the descent of the snow which will hide their nakedness for the winter. ELLswoa'rn GENTRY, '35, METROPOLIS This great and gaudy city, This thing of stone and steel, What, pray, does it know now? What, pray, does it feel? Does it know the colors? Does it know the pain? Does it feel the sunlight Warming it again? 12 ,p

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goddess. Now you had better finish your trans- lation or you will hear from your teacher. Saying this with a very earnest stress on the finish , without further advice he vanished. Hin, I thought to myself after the last lines had been done, Jim and Fred won't have a chance to talk in class tomorrow. They can be the listeners for awhile. CATHERINE DILL, '34. THE WANDERLUST I hear a voiceg It comes from afar, and like a hand it bec- kons me From across the silvery sheen of Waters that glisten Like a gem in a jeweler's window: The iiute-like voice callsg ,It calls not once but many times, Urging me with exuberant predications, Telling me of marble cities mounted in emeralds, Of dirty cities obscured by fog and soot, Of open iields, and heaths cut by broad highways, Or perhaps, by dusty, dry lanesg Of byways with inns for travellers' refuge, With their low-raftered rooms and open fires: Of hosts who speak a different language and whose thoughts Are so like, yet so far apart from mine. The sonorous voice rings on: It tells with petitional intonations that all, All las though it may not ever bel is at peace: And now I may cross the twisted waters and see The lands of my imagination in their real- ity. EUGENE PLUMSTEAD, '34, 49111 Tower cJ'fill ,School THRILLS OF THE ALASKAN SALMON STREAM BEAR hunting in Alaska is done mostly on the salmon streams. Mighty hordes of these silver fish come each fall to fresh water streams in order to spawn. The salmon leads a hectic life from the moment he enters the stream until he is finally slaughtered by some voracious eater or dies in ther form of a de- cayed mass of fiesh. The sights to be seen on a salmon stream are very enticing to the nature enthusiast as well as the hunter. Everything imagin- able comes to the salmon stream to satisfy his need of food before winter. Great bold eagles soar over head and perch in trees waiting for some wretched salmon to pas over a shallow bar. Hundreds of sea gulls wander up and down the stream gobbling up salmon eggs and pecking the eyes out of dy- ing salmon. Among the salmon egg consum- ers are the small, bantam-like crows of Alaska, ravens, herons, ducks, and many other species of the bird kingdom. It is hard to imagine the great array of bird-life there is at salmon streams. Here comes too the mighty Alaskan brown bear, known to many as the kadiak bear, his bowed legs carrying him in a lum- bering motion down the bear path worn along the water's edge. The huge bulk, sometimes measuring thirteen feet in length and weigh- ing over eleven hundred pounds, surpasses any other carnivorous animal in size. Most vivid in my memory is an experience we had when encountering one of these ani- mals. Minutes seemed hours to us anxious hunters who sat patiently waiting for the brown monster to come into range. Closer and closer he came, stopping now and then to make a swipe with his giant paw at some careless salmon. As the mammoth reached the hundred yard mark, I said, between chat-

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Does it know the beauty? Does it feel the brave, Surging thru its channels To cheat that distant grave? The brave who are the living, The brave who never die, The, brave who gather stardust From out a darkened sky. Does it smell the richness Of the earth below its feet, And see glory in the future It marches on to meet? Does it hear the rhythm Of sea and earth and time? Does it hear the music, Does it know the rhyme? Can it solve the riddle Of a world that's just begun? Does it know the outcome Of a race that isn't run ? This great and gaudy city, This thing of stone and steel, What, pray, does it know now ? What, pray, does it feel? J. STUART Goonuan, '34, GLIMPSES FRCM A TRAIN WINDOW 'PORTERJ Porter! A red cap strides by. Paper! Paper! Morning Edition! An elderly gentleman has temporarily stop- ped this dirty, ragged boy's calling. Here a family group, evidently, is giving its farewell advice to an aunt or some other relatives. There a crying child is being dragged along, his stocky legs unable to keep up with the long gait of his parent. A rumble of wheels of Q18 Tower c.7'fill ,School a handcar carrying trunks, some shiny, some like a patchwork quilt, is heard on a cement platform. The handcar is seen for a second among the throng of people, each interested in his own affairs. A glare of lights illumi- nates the faces of the people, a few sad, oth- ers intent on the project at hand, and still others laughing or chatting with a friend. Yellows, bright reds or gaudy oranges which belong to a hat in some cases or to a sweater or coat in others, catch my eye and then dis- appear or else another object attracts my at- tention. Across the platform a shiny train comes steaming in like a great monster. Its clanging bell moves intermittently. Its win- dows are a-glow from the light within, and its passengers are bustling to and fro Within it, for it has reached its destination. Puff ! puff ! our train is slowly beginning to move. A few arriving at the last minute have start- ed to run, their coat-tails a-iiying and their bags giving them an occasional bump as they make one last desperate attempt to reach the train. Chug, chug, the train is beginning to move faster and people are waving and then returning to the station room. Now the train has left the platform and set up a steady rhythm. An occasional iiash of blue, red, or yellow light, a glimpse of cold, shiny blue steel rails or a vague post is all that can be seen in this darkness of an underground entrance station. My journey has actually started. I take out my book and commence to read a story, a very interesting one. At intervals iiashes of sunshine cross the page. Why, we are out in the open at last! Above us is blue sky, and on eye-level with us are soot-covered buildings. A flabby pillow hangs out of a window, a dirty woman's face peers out of another. Lines of clothes are blowing glee- fully in the wind. Below us are streets where automobiles, trucks and an occasional wagon are seen for a moment.