A Teacher’s Passing Thoughts

A TEACHER'S PASSING THOUGHTS By Andrew M. Anderson Vacation time is here. Already the grass that was discouraged by the feet at play has commenced a revival of growth. Within the building the dust of a few days has accumulated on the school room desks, and only memories of active yesterdays linger. Invading the silence, I climb the stairs to finish my reports and put away my books. Tomorrow I shall not be here. The unusual quietness compels lines of thought foreign to the tasks at hand. The memories of the past year spent in this room are merged into a general pleasant impression. The discouragements are forgotten. And now I am sitting in the same room, surrounded by the same scarred desks and thumbed books that were here last week. But they are as useless as the city scrap heap, as long as the students are not here to use them. I am as useless here as they are. Tomorrow I shall take a pleasant journey that will lead me to other fields of activity. The children are already happy in their new freedom and experiences. Soon another group and another teacher will fill the place we have vacated. They will remain a while, then they will make room for another group. There will be continual change and progress. Stretched before me are many years, leading to endings of work, and to travels to new fields. Finally this busy life itself will near its end. Many of those who have contributed to my joys and sorrows will be gone, to make room for those who follow. Then I will be as useless as I am here in this building with the closed books and empty seats. When that time comes, may I finish a few tasks, and, with pleasant memories, go elsewhere to commence anew the duties of another life. For "/ think of death as some delightful journey That I shall take when all my tasks are done." Cedar City, Utah. In Tune The day has been dark and dreary, My task has been hard and long, But I am not sad or weary. For deep in my heart, there's a song. A song that springs up like the fountain From depths of an infinite calm. And woes that seemed greater than mountains Are buried in heavenly balm. Raymond, Canada. HELEN KIMBALL ORGILL.