Page 56 - 1933 Hartridge

Jean ran to do her mother’s bidding, wondering, no doubt, what all the excitement was about.
Before an hour had elapsed they had left their home far behind. Jean now knew the reason for their sudden departure. The colored man had brought word that the British were coming.
That night they rested at a tavern, planning to resume their trip on the morrow. It was then that your great'great'grandmother discovered the bag containing her
sampler. She peeped inside, and there it was safe and sound.
“Did they escape to the house of a friend?” asked Virginia.
“I believe so,” said her grandmother; “anyway the sampler was handed down to
me, and when I broke up housekeeping I gave it to your mother who treasures it greatly.”
When her grandmother finished, Virginia got up and looked long and earnestly at the old sampler.
THE ACADEMIC PRIZE ESSAY
A MOOD
OODS—what are they? Evanescent, fleeting things caused by a soft shadow
of spring, the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, or, perhaps, a mind revealing to its heart an unacknowledged truth. I know this, and yet I must write about my mood. It encircles me, engulfs me in such waves of melancholy that unless I try to relieve myself, I shall choke with its potency.
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People have been swept away before by the futility of life—the very phrase is banal—and yet tonight, here in this lovely room, fragrant with the smell of burning pine wood, life has suddenly become weak, tasteless, colorless—life that has always
to me been so rich, so golden, so varied. The future—where is all its glorious ex'
citement? The past—where is its former sweetness? The past seems now just a blind
struggle for a gleaming mountain peak I thought I had seen, but, in reality, had only
dreamed about one foolish night. If only life were dreams and dreams life, there
would be no such thing as the tragedy of fallen ideals. Will this ache in my heart never cease?
But I must wrench myself from depths that are too dark for any eyes to penetrate. So many have faced nothingness, knowing it as such, but yet fought to make each min-
ute somehow matter. . . . Let me share their courage.
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L. E. , ’ 3 8 .
M. T., ’33.