When the Day is Young The tall masculine form enters, shuffles to a vacancy and folds up. by James Osmond It is eight o'clock Friday morning the last day of the school week, and the first hour of the school day. Could one conceive, in the process of higher learning, a more miserable appointment? They file in, these students of English 1, and striking a near resemblance to the mythical zombie, they walk mechanically to the nearest vacant seat and sigh into it. Some of the more ambitious ones make feeble attempts to strike up a conversation; but their chief problem is finding a neighbor of equal ambition. And so they sit, peering over the tops of the bags under their eyes at nothing in particular. The last bell rings, but the class room is only half filled. The English instructor breezes in on a wave of fatigue and turns on the lights. This action has little effect for only one of the four heads that have been resting on the arms of the chairs feel the situation sufficiently urgent to effect such tremendous effort as assuming an upright position. The only eyes that display signs of life are those that require a blink or two to orient themselves to light. "So you're the portion of the group that wish today was Saturday," says our instructor as she assumes her position and shuffles the roll call. Two or three pupils look at her inquiringly. "I'm presuming, of course, that the rest of the class thought it was Saturday, and stayed home." Not a single suggestion of comprehension darkens the density of the group; their slumber is not even moderately aroused. Our instructor picks up the deck, and starts to read off the roll. She reads four names before two almost oblivious students answer in succession. "I know it's eight o'clock in the morning, and you are only half awake," says our instructor, "But would you please try to confine that unfortunate half of you to the near vicinity?" The remaining portion of the roll is bounced through with a response here and there, usually two or three names late. As the discourse begins, the door to the room opens and a tall masculine form enters, shuffles to a vacancy and folds up. "You must be in the wrong class," our instructor says as her gaze follows his feeble procedure. "You didn't bring a pillow." One can never predict the capabilities of human energy or the unbounded industry that accompanies the striving personality of the student of higher education, for from the depth of morbidity and submission, two shining souls find power. And with a mighty effort, they chuckle. Page Fourteen Night and the Sea As you step from the hatch you are greeted by the most soul-stirring sight in the world. by Carl J. Singleton The evening meal is over, the watch has been relieved, and the ship is settling down to the long night which lies ahead. You have shaved and showered and written your daily letter; time lies heavily on your hands. The air in the compartment is stifling and charged with smoke, and, since you are not interested in the "crap" game going on over in the corner, you decide to go topside for a breath of cool, fresh air before turning in. You walk up the ladder and step out of the hatch, momentarily lost in thoughts of home, when you are greeted by the most wondrous and soul-stirring sight in the world. Your wandering mind is catapulted back to reality as you gaze out on the horizon to where the sea and fast-fading sky become one, and see an array of brilliant colors, far beyond the scope of an artist's brush. You are held wholly absorbed while the blending colors twist and shape themselves into many forms. You lower your eyes to the numerous whitecaps laughing and dancing on the sparkling water, and you wonder how anyone could possibly dislike the sea when it abounds in such magnificance. You remind yourself that this is no assimilated moving picture scene. You say, "This is the real thing, the original, and I'm a part of it." You move closer to the rail and feel the caress of wind-swept spray on your face; you taste the saltiness of it on your lips. If you are a real sailor, you will relish that flavor more than ageless champagne. You listen intently, and the whisper of wind and foam falls on your ears melodious notes of music coming from the great unknown. You move farther back toward the stern, and hear the roar of the rushing water, cleft by the proud, sharp bow as it thunders past, angrily sucking at the sides, then reluctantly falls behind to join the wake stirred up by the four churning screws. Even though you are aware of the fact that these same waters have been traveled many times, you are still thrilled by their appearance of infinite power and unvanquished spirit. You become drunk from partaking of so much grandeur. You are affected in much the same way as an actor is affected when he drinks the heady wine of applause, and for a few supreme moments you feel yourself to be sole heir to the universe. Men who roam the seas explain the inexplicable by saying, "It is in my blood, and I can't leave it." What great truth those words enfold. Who can find gracious peace in being home again, cooped-up in a small area when he has held the whole world in his hands? Who can fully describe the attraction that has lured so many men from the safety of land to a violent death at sea? No one can explain it because the pen cannot write and the tongue cannot speak what words cannot utter; because the sea is unfathomable, strange as the mysterious vastness of night, full of charm and intrigue, a body to be taken by many men, to be possessed by none. Page Fifteen