Tower Hill School - Evergreen Yearbook (Wilmington, DE)

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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

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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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FLUSH'l-VIRGINIA WOOLF GHERE, Flush, is a lovely chicken bone for you and I do wish you would not put those beautiful golden ears right in front of my letter. It is quite impossible for me to read it. Flush took the chicken bone, carefully jumped to the iioor, and with the very best manners began to enjoy his tid-bit. Elizabeth Barrett lay reclining on her chaise lounge reading as usual one of Robert Brown- ingfs letters. The shades were drawn in her back bedroom in the house on Wimpole Street and it was very cool and comfortable there. This is one of the typical pictures one has while reading this delightful book. It is short and rather unusual in the way it is written. Flush is Miss Barrett's dog and close companion. The story is as though he is telling it. You live with him through all his thoughts. Of course in this process Miss Barrett is almost always present so that you get a picture of her life, too, her attitude toward her pet, and the treatment she gave him. Flush was a descendant of the old roving Spaniels who came from Spain. In his blood was the desire and thrill of racing through fields and moors, chasing rabbits, as his an- cestors had done before him, but after he came into London to live with Miss Barrett on Wimpole Street the used to live in the country with old Miss Mitfordl he never ran or played, but devoted all his time to his mis- tress. He stayed in her room all the time and never went out to race and tear with the other dogs. Whenever he did go walking he always had a leash and had to act very digni- fied and well behaved. It was a great sacri- fice on his part to give up everything for Miss Barrett, but I think he was perfectly happy to do so because of his great love for her. Once he was stolen by some rough men who lived down in White Chapel Lane. It 27llv Tower J'fill School was a business of theirs to steal dogs and then demand huge ransoms for themg if the price was not paid, the head of the dog wrap- ped in a package would be sent to the owner next day. Miss Barrett was frantic and very upset, as you can imagine. Mr. Barrett did not want her to pay the ransom, since if she did, it would only encourage the kidnappers to continue their cruel business. But Miss Barrett would listen to no one and went her- self to the dirty White Chapel Lane. She went through many diiiiculties but finally Flush, very much frightened, but exquisitely happy to be home again, was safely returned. Elizabeth Barrett was very fond of her dog and had many pet names for him. She caressed him and fondled him, told him her troubles, read him her poems and in every way loved him as much as possible. Flush was conscious of this, but after a few years of being with her, he felt a difference. Some- how in some Way things were not just the same between them. Then a new person be- gan coming to see his Mistress a great deal. Flush was terribly jealous and once bit Mr. Browning because of his intrusions. After Miss Barrett had severely punished him for this deed and remonstrated with him, he promised he would never bite Mr. Browning again and would try to like him a little. Here one knows exactly how the dog felt and can sense his feelings keenly. Flush accompanied Miss Barrett and Mr. Browning when they went away to Italy and he lived with them until he became very old. Finally after a beautiful day playing in the streets of Florence he came home to Miss Barrett and lay down at her feet as of old, but this time never to move again. The life of Flush was ended, for the gold silken-col- ored Spaniel had breathed his last. MARY ANN RANKEN. '34.