Towson University - Tower Echoes Yearbook (Towson, MD)

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Ee Ziowez' Llqit VOL. VII OCTOBER, 1933. No. 1 Victory in Defeat Defeat may serve as well as victory To shake the soul and let the glory out. When the great oak is straining in the wind, The boughs drink in new beauty, and the trunk Sends down a deeper root on the windward side. Only the soul that knows the mighty grief Can know the mighty rapture. Sorrows come To stretch our spaces in the heart for joy. EDWIN MARKHAM. A Minor Bird I have wished a bird would fly away, And not sing by my house all dayg Have clapped my hands at him from the door When it seemed as if I could bear no more. The fault must partly have been in me. The bird was not to blame for his key. And of course there must be something wrong In wanting to silence any song. ROBERT Fnosr. g 3 CE! ?t3J.35.i55

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CONTENTS PAGE Poetry ..... . 3 The Moldau .....,.......... . 4 A New Job for the Teachers .... . 6 Quo Vaclis ................ . 8 Seasonal Literature ............ . . 10 The American School in Mexico .... . . 15 Try These ................... . . 16 The Storm .,... . . 17 Alumni News .... .. 18 Editorial ..... . . 20 Organizations ......,...... . . 22 Campus School Vagabonding .... . . 24 School News .......... . . . . . 27 Sports ..... . . 34 Jokes ......... . . 37 Advertisements . . . . 39

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THE TOWER LIGHT The Moldau wo springs start their courses in a shady Bohemian forest, one is warm and sparkling, the other cool and tranquil. Their clear ' waters, that run so gayly over stone and pebble, unite and sparkle in the morning sun. The rapid forest brook, rushing on, becomes the River Moldau, which, as it takes its course through the fields and val- leys of Bohemia, grows into a mighty river, flowing through thick forests wherein the joyous clanging sound of the hunter's horn seems to approach the listener. It pursues its way through meadows and farms. A rustic wedding is being joyfully celebrated with music and song and dance. The water nymphs disport themselves by moonlight in the river's glit- tering waters, in which are reflected towers and castles as reminders of the departed glory of chivalry and martial fame. At St. John's Rapids the stream winds its way through the foamy rapids of the cataract and through a deep and narrow, rocky cleft into the broad river-bed, along which it rolls majestically on to the Prague, welcomed on its way by the venerable Vysehrad, and disappears in the distance from the com- poser's vision. . If the author of this vivid word picture had been a painter, with his brush and oils, his skill in drawing and his faculty of pictorial inter- pretation he could have built on his canvas a series of scenes. These scenes would be clear, invoking in us appreciation and admiration. The clear, sparkling water would reflect light and shadow-dark green of bush, light green of grass. The scarlet of the hunter's coat, the glis- tening brown of his mount, darkness suggesting the dense forest-here would be color and form. Peasants would Vie with water nymphs, still quiet pools with foamy rapids. A poet would have employed a different medium. His would have been a glowing and vivid vocabulary, color words but also sound words. Words that sounded like the warm and sparkling brook, words that made the reader hear the music of the peasant wedding, words that echoed the march of feet and the clash of mail. We would have heard the sparkle of the first brook, the cool tranquillity of the second. The rapids of the cataract would have been a dull roar and the disporting of the water nymphs a mere Whisper. A poet would have added charm and beauty by the addition of a new element- rhythm. His words would have sung themselves into a song-now gay and lilting, now rapid. His poem would have had form. A definite meter and a correct rhyming scheme would have made the words a composition. A poet would have written a poem. 4