Towson University - Tower Echoes Yearbook (Towson, MD)

Page 29 text:

Time Ever Changing gc IME and tide wait for no man, -how often we have heard that,-lightly, Hippantly said, perhaps,-gravely, sorrow- fully uttered. I have had little experience with tide, but the elusiveness of time is my particular bete noir. How often I have acted, how more than often I have heard recited,-in a dull monoto- nous voice, like the very ticking of a clock: 60 seconds one minute 60 minutes one hour it never varies, and yet it never seems the same. In the rapid tick- ing of a clock I hear it when I am late, H60 seconds, hurry, hurry. In the slow moving hand I hear it repeated when I am tired and dull. Always the same ?-No, never to me. There is all the difference in the world in the gait of time when my occupation is pleasant and when it is not. A lovely morning,-Old Sol beaming his very brightest, a pleasant breeze, the dream of a greenwood and a deep stream in which to swim,-I myself am ready,-does the time until the apopinted hour of departure seem long? A hundred glances at my wristwatch,-a dozen trips to compare it to the parlor clock,- a number of sighs and groans,- why doesn't the time hurry and come P What a difference there can be! An engagement that must be met,-a dinner engagement. Since early childhood I have heard how very rude it is to be late for a dinner engagement,-and yet- one hour,-sixty seconds,-to dress and get there. The old clock seems to grin,-faster the ticks sound, hurry,-sixty seconds! Dress, shoes, hat,-evasive, elusive, never to be found when I am rushing,- a second to place each ear ring-one dropped and faster fly the min- utes! What? Only twenty minutes left-the clock must be wrong -a hurried comparison with my wrist watch,- Oh, why does the time hurry so ? Yet sometimes time and occupation meet and mingle. There is a long afternoon ahead of me. Lessons are worked and forgotten,- a plate of apples is at hand, a p-ile of new and favorite books stands near,-and the room is dulled to a gray by the heavy rain outside my windows. Curled in a large armchair, drawing and reading, the sound' of the persistent clock holds no charms and no terrors. Sixty seconds-one minute. Sixty minutes-one hour. And it seems per- fectly correct, neither too fast nor too slow, for by supper time I shall have finished my apples and my books, and be off to the movies where time is completely forgotten! Always the same and yet never the same! The span of human 21

Page 28 text:

20 THE TOWER LIGHT Out of theiMouths of Babes The sentence on the board read: He was taller than his fellows by a cubit. I did' not expect the children to tell me that a cubit was twenty inches, but I did at least expect them to say that it was a unit of measure. I got-neither! There was a blank silence. Very blank! At last, after an eternity, little Cameron raised his hand. Yes, Cameron, I said, greatly relieved, What is a cubit P With seemly blushes and an agitated, wing-like fluttering of his hands the innocent ejaculated, It's .... it's .... one of those things that fly around in fairy stories making people fall in love with each other ! E. L. B., '28. 'QWQ' Chimneys For Our Alma Mater ' I built a chimney for a comrade old, I did the service not for hope or hire- And then I traveled on in wintefs cold, Yet all the day I glowed before the fire. . A HEN I read-these lines by Edwin Markham, I am reminded of the countless nooks the world over, waiting to be filled by just such chimneys. We pass them by every day-dark, shadowy corners needing only to have kindled in them the fire of unseliish love. The winter's cold can never chill the spirit of one who has paved' his life's path with honest words of cheer and hum- ble deeds of service. The reward for such acts comes not in silver and gold but in a more priceless, lasting form throughout all time. Can we not find a place in which to build a chimney for our Alma Mater? No regret comes from pausing long enough to seek. Strengthened is thehand that has labored to build 3 happy the heart that has loved enough to give. e V '- ' BESSIE M. ARTERBURN, 1925.

Page 30 text:

22 THE TOWER LIGHT life is short ,-hundreds of times we have heard,-and yet is it short? .Vast rich experiences grip us,-moments when the hours seem minutes,-too rich in life to be judged in formal terms. Too short, these times, with the clock still grinning at us. But there,-- drab moments of despair,-life seems hardly worth the effort and the minutes seem as years. Life stretches out like an endless road. Sixty seconds-one minute. Always the same and yet always different. The clock never varies and never changes-it ticks away its measured stride. Must the difference,-the pain, the pleasure, the grief, the joy, the keenness of living hasten and lessen time for us? CHARLOTTE HARN. 'VSZWX ,Q 'Pais 5551 I 5': J 'iwtfdbfd 5-3, fgbaf