Tower Hill School - Evergreen Yearbook (Wilmington, DE)

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ship, their shiny bodies basking in and out of the cool depths. Overhead baby dirigibles from the nearby training base at Fort Mon- roe will fioat by like more white clouds. As the sun goes down and a breeze comes up, the hollows between the sand dunes fur- nish an excellent fireplace. It is sheltered from the wind, and the drift wood and dried up sea-Weed make splendid fuel. Then the sand gets cold and the moon floats up from the water. You are surrounded by stars in a black blanket and ever-changing Whitecaps rising from an inky pool. The surf rushes in with its thundering roar and rolls up on the beach. JUDITH GRAVELY, '35 LETTERS T O FIND a letter waiting for you when you arrive home is one of the nicest sur- prises I know. For a matter of a few seconds your eyes wander thoughtfully over the post- mark. If this fails to register on the brain, you tear open the letter in a great flurry but instead of starting to read it from the begin- ning you look for the tell-tale signature. After this information is acquired, some- times a groan, sometimes a laugh, sometimes a gladdening sound, and sometimes mere silence is emitted. The same sounds may also be heard after reading the letter. Since you can't see a person and talk to him, the next best thing is to hear from him. It is so much fun to read about a comical incident, a choice bit of news, or almost anything of in- terest. However, when the fatal day arrives for answering this letter, it is often a different story. Sometimes it's just as much fun to write a letter as it was to receive one and then again it's quite a task, all depending on the two correspondents. Very frequently it is mere lack of something interesting or 25191- Tower will ,School amusing to say that causes you to grimace' at the thought of writing a letter. Now and again when you write several letters in one evening, you almost make a carbon copy of the same letter with a few changes to suit each person to whom you are writing. And oh, woe are you if the letters are compared! Then there is always the question of how long you should wait before answering a. let- ter. Very methodical people have certain lengths of time. Sometimes it's the same length of time as the other person waited, sometimes it's twice as long, and sometimes it's half the time. Every once in awhile a person is found who doesn't go by how long the other one waits but always writes his a week or some other set time after the day he receives the letter. Then there is the person who waits three weeks one time and answers it the very next day next time so that his victim remains in suspense and never knows when to expect a letter from him. However, the majority of people merely write letters when they have the inspiration. There are several reasons for waiting a certain length of time before answering a letter. Some people just do it because they do everything like that. Others do it so that they won't have to write so often, while others wait for a certain period so that the one to whom they are writing will not think they are too anxious to hear from him. The main trouble with the last reason is that often you are just dying to get another let- ter from a certain person and if you don't answer his for a couple of weeks, you most likely won't hear from him again for a month. Practically every letter tells or suggests a story. All letters are exciting secrets to those who receive them. BARBARA BONHAM, '34,

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The Tower Clpial to run down the beach noisily and dip their cute little toes in the Water, squeal, and run back up the beach. Every couple of years a lot of sand collects in one place, making a sand bar which gradually fills in, finally turn- ing into extra beach. In the meanwhile the water between the bar and beach is still- water, which means much fun for the kid- dies. After reading this do you wonder why I love the ocean? I hope not. FORTES We come to the earth with the stars in our blood, Tho our greatness be hidden 'neath covering of mud. We find ourselves part of a drama half-done, With wonder and awe then our lives are be- gun. Some fall from the pace of the game that is played, But we carry on till our courage is made. For courage must teach us to live and to die, And they who have lost it must look on and sigh, As brave march to glory in life and in death, And breathe the same pleasure in first and last breath. The fools can hear music and not feel the song, The mad can see beauty and call it a wrong, The brave make their lives and their deaths to be sought, Tho harshness and pain fill their each living thoughtg They live in the sun and they bless its strong heat, Thru beauty they move to the death they will meet. Each chants forth the music of song in his soul, He lives and he dies to its rhythmical roll. J. STUART GOODMAN, '34. CAPE HENRY, VIRGINIA CAPE HENRY, VIRGINIA, where the At- lantic meets the Chesapeake and the James, is a barren stretch of beach orna- mented with two lighthouses. The more pio- turesque of these lighthouses stands inland on a grassy knoll. It was built in 1700 and now the rocks are gradually falling to the ground. The other lighthouse is ultra-mod- ern, shiny and white, but it seems very out of place. The stretch of coast is novel in that at one end, Virginia Beach, automobiles may be driven on the sand with perfect safety and that the beach at Cape Henry is largely ram- bling sand dunes. These sand dunes give Cape Henry a wild and uncivilized appear- ance which makes it seem miles from any- one. Some of them are covered with long waving grasses and waxy-leaved bayberry bushes with a spicy fragrance which blends delightfully with the salty twang from the sea. It is glorious to spend a whole day by yourself at Cape Henry. To lie and bake in the sun for hours, to plunge into the clear green waves which are so powerful that they roll you right up on the beach, then to swim out beyond the breakers, float, and watch the snow-white puffs of clouds floating in the summer sky, to race to shore with the strength you seem to get from the sea, this is my idea of paradise. However, even in this lonely spot, there are indications of life. The beach is covered with tiny sand iiddlers which will crawl all over you if you lie still. It is diiiicult to catch them because they are sand-color and at the slightest motion will quickly scamper off to their holes. From time to time freight- ers will glide slowly by either bringing their goods in to Norfolk or moving out to sea. Usually a school of porpoises will follow the +Qf24

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The Tower CDial ALONENESS I' WAS utterly and completely alone. Up- stairs, to be sure, my family sat talking. From the street I could hear the grinding swish of cars, the whrrr of automobiles. Nevertheless I was in a world apart. I lay prone on the floor in a room lighted only by a dancing fire. Over, around, and thru me was a feeling of such bliss as comes very rarely to a person-entire relaxation. Vague thoughts drifted thru my brain, poking around in long-untouched corners and bring- ing to light forgotten memories-pleasantly dusting them oil' and gently replacing them, like a mother, who looking thru a time-worn chest, finds the baby shoes of her first-born. The shadow of the lamp directly overhead twitched and jumped nervously in contrast to my utter relaxation. The shadow of the piano danced more stolidly as beiitted its shape. It crept slowly up the wall, almost reached the ceiling, then it tumbled all the way down again, only to recommence. I noticed this ef- fort but vaguely, for my mind was detached completely. I remembered how Fire chased shadow 'round the roomg Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom .... Vast l For but a moment my drifting mind caught on to the word, as a leaf drifting downstream may stick momentarily to a stray branch, yes, vast. The ceiling seemed miles awayg so the wallsg I felt as if I were lying at the bottom of a deep cave filled with the roseate mist of forgetfulness and detach- edness. I was relaxed. Somewhere in the distance, oh, so re- motely, a clock was ticking. What difference did time make? The lamp twitched more nervously: the fire sputtered in protest of my ease. A voice, a light, a step on the stair. Well, what in the world are you doing all by yourself like that in the dark? Why, you can't see anything! It's getting late. The spell was broken. The gates of reality were flung ajar, the world of sense, of time, of place and noise, came rushing upon me, beseiging me, helpless. A thousand cares and duties took hold of me, demanded notice and thought. I was no longer alone. EDITH RUNGE, '34, LAST MINUTE THOUGHTS WE HAD practiced for weeks and weeks and the operetta was said to be perfect. The final rehearsal seemed almost a failure, but I was not terribly concerned because I had heard that a wretched rehearsal meant a wonderful show. The following day I went blissfully along without thinking too much about the operet- ta until evening came and we were gathered behind the scenes ready for our entrance. Then I began to grow uneasy. For I was the leader of the right side of the chorus and much depended upon me. Suddenly I found I could not remember any of the numerous instructions. I began to grow cold and to bite my finger nails. Did we go in before or after the other side? Did we walk or skip? What were the words to the song? Was my hat on straight? These and many other things raced through my mind as I waited, waited for the performance to begin. Once I thought I heard our entrance music, but no, I was wrong! But there it was! And we entered! At the right mo- ment, too, if you can imagine such luck! After that every thing Went smoothly, the chorus sailing through the dances without a mistake and the whole performance was so complete that now I honestly believe the old superstition about wretched dress rehearsals. JEANNE LYTLE, Eighth Grade. if 26