Above the south turret hung the Sunrise bell, whose resonant voice
filled the whole valley, and what the sight of Sunrise failed
to do for Lagonda Ledge, the sound of the bell accomplished.
The first class to enter the school nicknamed its head
"Dean Funnybone," but this gave him no shock any more.
He had learned the humor of life now, the spirit of the open
land where the view is broad to broadening souls.

And it was to the hand of Dean Fenneben that
Professor Vincent Burgess, A.B., Greek instructor from Boston,
and Vic Burleigh, the big country boy from a claim beyond the Walnut,
came on a September day; albeit, the one had his head in the clouds,
while the other's feet were clogged with the grass roots.



CHAPTER II

POTTER'S CLAY

_This clay, well mixed with marl and sand,
Follows the motion of my hand,
For some must follow and some command,
Though all are made of clay_.
--LONGFELLOW
THE afternoon sunshine was flooding the September landscape
with molten gold, filling the valley with intense heat,
and rippling back in warm waves from the crest of the ridge.
Dean Fenneben's study in the south tower of Sunrise looked
out on the new heaven and the new earth, every day-dawn created