Clifton Springs High School - Cliftonian Yearbook (Clifton Springs, NY)

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29 THE CLIFTONIAN BACCHUS AND PROHIBITION “Bacchus, the first from out the purple grape crushed the sweet poison of misused wine.”—Milton. They say that this question of the evil of drink and of Prohibition and the Eighteenth Amendment and the Wickersham Commission is fairly new. The last three things may be quite modern but it certainly looks as if there was at least one Prohibitionist back in Shakespeare’s time. Milton speaks of Bacchus and the “misused wine.” He certainly could have had no great love for liquor. Milton says that Bacchus made the first wine. Why shouldn’t he? He was a God and he had to be God of something; so why not wine? He may have been the first one to make wine but it’s my guess that he didn’t have much trouble getting people to drink St. One nice thing, he didn’t have to “bootleg” it to his best customers J It seems rather a pity that since Bacchus was a God, he couldn’t have had foresight enough to see the harmful qualities that drink could have and to have kept it from mortals. Maybe the present depression should be blamed on liquor and this in turn on Bacchus. Why shouldn’t it? It has to be blamed on someone and Bacchus is dead and probably wouldn’t care, anyhow. On the other hand Bacchus may have just made wines for himself and a few of his personal friends and he may have had no idea of starting an industry. He probably didn’t. Still, Milton may have been right in proclaiming Bacchus as a worthless person. It’s our guess that he probably knew what he was talking about. —P. WRIGHT. “A THREAD OF ENGLISH ROAD” Charles S. Brooks, the author, could bring one no better glimpse of present day England in its connection with its literary and historic past than he does in his casual, off-hand way in this book. The author kept no diary or other written record of his bicycle trip through old England, but, aided by a colored map, he has relived the overland voyage and vivified it with humorous incidents and allusions to characters, cities, abbeys, forests, and other places of historic, world-wide interest. The charm of his travelog seems to lie in the fact that it isn’t written in routine manner, but as the interested passer-by who has an eye for beauty, humor in dull lives and incidents, and a knowing of English history never pathetic; always scholarly. His picturesque allusions often bring back pet thoughts one has unconsciously held in memory of novels, drama, and poetry written in glory of England in the days of Alfred the Dane, Shakespeare, Tennyson, or others. The author often adds his own bits of accompanying poetry and thus one digests or rather assimilates his story to a tune made to fit. One merely has to read words to get the thought of his keen sentences such is his facility of expression. He never uses long, hard sentences, and he explains his reasons for this in a chapter of soliloquy when, as the story goes, the rest were exploring some slot machines. In this mood he deplores the fact that amateur writers use long strings of adjectives profusely, oftentimes carelessly, and sometimes adjectives of restricted, scientific meaning with the primary intent of increasing their vocabularies, unaware that such words make hard, dull reading. On the other hand, common words necessarily have long histories mingled with certain associations which give them added weight as well as being readily understood. The author’s style seems to fit the foregoing ideals of composition well, and, offhand as it seems, it retains authenticity as well as beauty of style. —H. ROTH. THE BROOK As I sat resting in a nook, Beside the restless flowing brook, I could not help but idly wonder What part of the world this brook would enter. Sometimes it would gush up as a threat; And at other times it would silently slip On its way to the wide parts unknown, Where it has gone since it was born. Its hungry mouth is pressed in might To the banks on its sides, left and right; It seems to say in a way that is gay, “Why don’t you come with me and play?” —HAROLD BUNCE, Eng. I.

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23 THE CLIFTONIAN “SOHRAB AND RUSTUM” Sohrab awoke one morning early, To the Tartar leader he fled; He paused by Peran Wisa’s bedside, And whispered to him and said: “I have come to seek my father, Let the armies rest today. I have come to you not to bother I must be on my way. I wish to challenge a mighty Persian, In a duel, man to man; By this I may seek my father. Will you help me if you can?” They chose the mighty Rustum To go to the field unknown; To do this he was not anxious, To fight one man alone. When Rustum gave his war cry, Sohrab dropped his shield at once; He had found his mighty father Whom he had been in search of for months. Too late! Rustum had stabbed him. To the ground Sohrab fell. And the grief this brought to Rustum, Words could not ever tell. Then Sohrab showed to Rustum, The seal he wore on his arm. For this was to mark identification In case of any harm. Before death’s cold grip could take him, He showed his father the seal. The sorrow this caused his father Made his mind within him reel. He sat down by the river, With Ruksh by his side; He prayed that the Almighty Father Would forever be his guide. —GLADYS PARDINGTON, Eng. II. SCIENCE IN VERSE Einstein and I get along pretty well Except when he voices a word I can’t spell. He knows quite a lot, but I’ve got him beat— For I can tell a man’s weight by the size of his feet. When I was a boy, I played quite often with “AL” Not quite a brother, no, only my pal. He knew every star in the sky to be seen; And he could tell me the color—whether red, blue, or green. When youths of eighteen we later had grown, “Al” would gaze at the stars and emit a big groan— And then he would say in a wonderful way, “I’ll make me a theory about ’em some day.” He married and prospered and his hair soon turned gray From the thoughts which he’s pondered since that very day. He is an old man and wise at this present time, But I can still remember a boy called Albert Einstein. —BURTON WEBB, English II.

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30 THE CLIFTONIAN I WONDER Sometimes I sit and wonder. What makes the world go ’round? The thing that makes us blunder, And sputter like a hound? Then, too, again I’m puzzled, When I gaze at distant stars, Sometimes I wish they were muzzled, And pinned to all parked cars. Maybe you think my brain is numb, Of course, I’m not insulted, Because if everyone was glum, How would this world have resulted? —GEORGE RECORD, Eng. III. ------------o------------- PRUNELLA The characters, setting, and action of the three-act play, ‘’Prunella,” are blended together in such a way as to produce the effect of a confused dream. Impossibility, happiness, merriment, sadness, humor, and personification are revealed in this different and enchanting play. The story is of a too well protected young girl who at last finds her ‘‘Prince Charming” or, in this instance he finds her, and carries her away. However, the story only begins here! A beautiful setting, that of an old fashioned Dutch garden, helps to make the play so delightful. —R. BUCHAN. THE BULLETIN BOARD What a strange sight the bulletin board at the head of the High School boys’ stairs is! Yes, indeed, boys, it can be a good excuse for a place to stand and talk while members of the faculty are passing. And what fine opportunities for printing! Many a lad practices his printing on the bulletin board. Let us glance over the news posted on the board. Ah! Here is a notice with a few typographical errors. And beneath this is a list of names which has recently been made more picturesque in print. Some read like this: “Smith’s Cough Drops” “B. Mark, Press Me Pants” “Brown’s Family Loafer” “Hare’s Big Sister” “Mr. Whacky Burgess” “Bloodgood Next Stop—Oaks Corners” “Macomber Heap Big Check” The boys certainly do wonders with a few names. In one corner is a poster for C. M. T. C.—good old C. M. T. C. (or is it Blue Ribbon Malt?) Well, no matter. In the front line of this fearful array of soldiers we have Harold deGraw, veteran, Buster Walters, recruit, “Flan” Fox and George “Cassius” Record, both just good little soldiers trying to get along. My! How fine and manly they all look! —EDWARD O’CONNELL, English III -------------o------------- C. White: “Is that a Jersey cow over there?” E. Smith: “I don’t know. I wasn’t able to see its license.” -------------o------------- Mr. Spencer: “Describe a hippopotamus.” A. Miner: “It’s a rhinoceros without a radiator cap.” -------------o------------- “Brad” Bloodgood: “How’s your new cigarette lighter?” Sam Nairy: “Fine—I can light it with one match.” -------------o------------- G. Cost: “Who wins in a chess game?” R. Haubner: “The one who lives the longest.'