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The dim, hushed atmosphere of the theater fills me with a quiet calm which
is in sharp contrast with the world l have just left behind me. l settle my-
self in my seat to enjoy the beauty that is to come.
From behind the stage there come weird sounds. The melancholy voice of
the bass, the sweet, vibrant tones of the 'cellos, and the lilting violin stand
out from the bedlam of other sounds. But in a moment they fade and the
cry of the trumpet pierces its way above the others. Then they all engage
in a series of weird noises which reminds one of a zoo before feeding time.
Soon the musicians are coming onto the stage. They take their places and
the adjustment of instruments continues along with a spatter of conversation.
Three minutes before starting time the oboist sounds his A. That A from
the oboe nags at you long after it is gone, like an argument you didn't win.
Two minutes to go. The concertmaster walks in, tunes up his violin, and
proceeds to draw his bow across the A string. This is the final check. The
A has been established, firmly and officially.
Everyone makes the final delicate adjustments. Then in a burst of applause
the conductor makes his appearance and takes his place on the stand. There
is a moment of silence. The conductor raises his arms and the symphony
MARCH 22 FROM A CLASS-ROOM WINDOW
Broad Ripple High School
lA group-written poeml
Through the open class-room windows, we see
The delicately azure sky, a canvas for white-trunked sycamores,
And stately elms, their bows lace-tipped,
Feathery with greening hoods pushed from brown-cloaked buds.
Massive boles and boughs throw black shadows
Across the expansive emerald lawn, where green blades
Carpet the soft, dark earth.
Upon the grass the twigs have cast spider-like lines
Which move to and fro, to and fro as the gentle breeze directs.
Beyond the rain-washed pavement, the muddy river flows,
Brown with silt deposits from the flooded lands upstream.
lt winds its swollen way, pushing high upon restricting banks.
Beyond the strip of green meadow, a low leaf-covered hillside
ls still the bed for bulbous roots
Which feel the warmth of this March day pulling them from their slumber
Upon the white curved walk, beside which bow
Graceful branches of glowing forsythia,
Stroll or hurry glad teen-age boys and girls-
Bare haired, curl tossing, gaily clad in checkered shirts,
Light cords, bright sweaters, white scarfs-
Books tucked under arms,
Hands in pockets or swinging jauntily at sides, they depart--
Carefree, responsible, vivacious, serious,-
America's thoughtless, thinking Youth as sweet in promise
As the spring this day.