Southside High School - Edsonian Yearbook (Elmira, NY)

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L'EcoLE DRAMATIQUE Hellzapoppin . . . Cafeteria at Noon The Boys from Syracuse C. B. A. football team On Borrowed Time . . Friday afternoons You Can't Take It With You Notes during exams What A Life! ...... Mr. Lane You Never Know . What's going to happen in Chem. Lab. Sing Out the News . . . . EI-So-Hi Bachelor Born . Drums .... Pins and Needles . Leave lt To Me . . Here Come the Clowns Jack Murphy-Francis Russell Primrose Path ..... Corridors at noon , Blake McCoach . Jack Raplee Regents week . Miss Hoffman Hamlet . . . Ham barbeque Our Town . . . Good old Elmira Of Mice and Men . . Bachelor's Club The Gentle People . . Our Faculty Tobacco Road . . . . . Pitt's I Married An Angel . . . Mr. George The American Way . . Homeroom 210 G WAIT FOR ME! Once, about that time when I had reached the advanced age of twelve, I lay on a couch watch- ing a cloudy sky pour forth bucketsful of silver rain, watching a delicate green branch sway to and fro, making an arch against the angry heav- ens. I was listening to a radio program. As I listened, before me opened vistas of beauty and within my heart stirred the beginnings of a life- long resolution. I knew then that the world was full of beauty wrought by man and God, and that I should find it, see it, hear it, feel it, or die with a craving unsatisfied. The desire that was born then has grown. It has been fed on vivid pictures and glowing descrip- tion, it has been nourished on music and drama that whispered of strange and fascinating things, it has been whipped to a consuming flame by the tantalizing fear that Destiny may snatch away the wonders of which I have dreamed. I am afraid of war-are the treasures of the ages to be lost because men quarrel? I am afraid of the blustering egotism of one man-will he dare to say the word that would shatter the rose win- dow or the statue of Moses into a million pre- cious fragments, each to be thrice wept over? I am afraid of automatons that used to be men- will their tramping feet defile the places where beauty is held sacred, will their brute hands tear asunder canvas and parchment alike? Men's souls are greater than these, you say, but I reply: They were fashioned, bit by bit, from the overflow of men's souls and are, therefore, price- less. Nations fall into ruin, crowns crumble' into dust, but the music which knows no boundaries lives on. The delicate lines of a statue, the living features of a bust, the proud colors of a portrait are a joy in the eyes of all men. The skill of a surgeon, the perseverance of a scientist, the genius of a poet are admired the world over. Yet war would destroy knowledge and skill, genius and art. Who possesses, then, the con- summate audacity that would plunge the world into darkness more profound than that of the Middle Ages? No one but a madman, or one who knows that he has already passed that point beyond which it no longer matters, would. Please, dear World, do not sacrifice your beauty on the altar of pride, or power, or in- sanity. I long to see all you have to offer. Wait for mel -Eugenia Van Buskirk O WINTER RHAPSODY Ghost fingers of the barren trees Creep out across the sky, The night's gray blanket settles down, Pinned by one star on high. The whistling of the winter wind Sings out a sharp refrain And freezing ice on bending hedge Gives beauty that brings pain. -Barbara Kerlin