St Josephs College - Footprints Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

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Fatl ier SLOWLY, almost imperceptibly, there has been developing within us an understanding of one to whom we arc- immeasurably indebted; but even yet we do not fully know him, our Father. That knowledge with its accompanying joys awaits future years. lie is like some golden hunk, some rare, great lunik whose pages breathe of noble sentiments, whose every chapter speak- some tale of unselfish denial, some valiant deed. In childhood the cover attracted us, its pictures fascinated our beauty-loving eyes. Dumbly we felt their sympathy, their kindliness. Somehow, in an incomplete way we knew that he comforted us. We sensed that his was a protecting influence, but the reason for our eon- tented feeling of security within his loving arms we could not know, we could not understand, we did not even suspect. With the later years we learned to read intelligently this golden volume. We supplemented our childhood impressions with the storj its pages told. We read between the lines and stood amazed at the revelations made to us. The sun of understanding shed its gleam over the hidden mysteries, and under its guiding light we came to an appreciation of the magnanimity of his character. For the first time we realized the extent of his wisdom. For the first time we forgave him for his seeming severity. We now knew that he did all things that our happiness might not know the shadows of youthful error. Stirred by the heroism unsung, yes, even concealed by the modest hero, we found his life the more beautiful because- of its seeming mediocricity. And we see with each succeeding year some new work, some deeper meaning in this hook, this man whom we call Father. We how our heads in awe as we discover his calm mastery of stupendous problems, his quiet acceptance of mighty responsibilities, ami his brave renunciation of what he holds most dear. Our minds applaud his competence, our heart- worship his courageous dauntlessness. Never despite his grave cares or serious worries, do we find him lacking in sympathy, lie is always read) with a comforting smile, overlooking our weaknesses, soothing our petty troubles with consoling optimism. Nothing that we cherish is too trivial for his careful attention. lie it is who walks cheerily into the bustling throng to withstand the affronts, the snubs, the coldness of associates. All these does he endure gladly that those most dear to him may enjoy the comfort which such sacrifices purchase. He faces the world and builds therein a name — the name by which the woman whom he loves is called; the name that for his chil- dren ' s sake must remain untarnished. He is always the valiant protector, tin- steadfast tower of love, ever seeking that which may increase the happiness of his loved ones. The filial love between father and daughter is a world-wide theme in soiiy and story. Were it never recorded, it is written deep in the hearts oi the daughters whose expression of filial devotion is feebly uttered in the dedication of this volume. Father — what tender memories that word evokes! What strength, what sacrifice, what pride, that word connotes! And as it is expressed now in heartfelt gratitude and filial devotion, it stirs the heart with a love that is all its own. Father. May that name ever be filled with the memories oi tin tenderness of the years that have gone — and may it be glorified with the inexpressive yearnings of the years to come. P.I RN DKTTK GARVEY, ' 26. « q t

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The winter of 1923 brought us again into the darkness of death. Sister Celestine, one of the founders of the College and its Dean for almost seven years, went to her reward in January of that year. Once again the College was faced with the serious problem of finding a successor to fill a gap. Shortly after. Sister Sacred Heart was chosen as Dean. How delighted we were, when we returned in tin- fall of 1923, to find that the long-promised annex in the rear of 245 was actually under construction ! Delight was augmented by pride in the growth and progress which had made the new building absolutely necessary for the College. A Greater St. Joseph ' s was the goal toward which we were all working, and this was the first definite step in that direction. Of course. ' 26 then in Sophomore Year, felt all the thrill of active co-operators in the great work. On St. Joseph ' s Day, 1924, the College Chapel, made possible by the larger quarters, was dedicated by Bishop Molloy, and the room where once we had danced and made merry became the Shrine of the Divine Presence. We were grateful indeed for this blessing and privilege which was to be a source of solace and inspiration to us all. The growing numbers in the student body now made it imperative that the Faculty be correspondingly increased. Heretofore, some provision had been made but it was inadequate for the demand and so the situation had not been greatly relieved. It was not until the fall of 1925, when the teaching staff was practically trebled that conditions were bettered. Sister Sacred Heart ' s position as Dean was taken over by Sister Angeline. Numerous additions throughout the various departments made possible the carrying on of the work of education in a suitable manner. On this, its tenth birthday, the College can rightfully boast of many things accomplished. It has triumphantly passed the formative stage and is now functioning as a recognized Catholic College. Expansion in every direction has taken place. Gradually but definitely, student government is superseding faculty management, while the students themselves are proving worthy of this great trust. Besides, the purchase of our newest building on Clinton Avenue gives evidence of still further growth and betterment. Its occupation by the students at the beginning of the new semester was indeed a milestone in our history. In that mass of stone and wood lie the fulfillment of dreams, the consummation of hopes, the inspiration for future glory and achievement. In addition, the student register now numbers two hundred and forty-live, despite the fact that many applicants have been denied admission. The standard of scholarship has also been raised so that under the new regulations, admission to and graduation from St. Joseph ' s College have come to mean more than mediocre ability and earnestness. Beyond a doubt, much has been accomplished. St. Joseph ' s girls are representing her in almost every field, as the religious, the mothers, doctors, teachers and lawyers of the race. This speaks well indeed for the past. But the task does not end there; much still remains to be done. What the future will bring rests, to a great extent, in the hands of us of the present. The road is still long and wearisome, but, spurred on by the accomplishments of our predecessors, we cannot fail. We must continue onward toward the realization of the ideal which gave birth to St. Joseph ' s, our Alma Mater. GENEVIEVE D ' ALBORA, ' 26. ■4 8 } -

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The Witching Hour IT all came about in my endeavor to do some supplementary English work. At eleven o ' clock one evening I began dutifully to read a volume of Poe ' s short stories. Quite unconscious of the terrors it contained, I opened the tiny hook and started cheerfully upon the Gold-Bug. This story was not horrible in the extreme, but 1 thought it unpleasant enough and made a mental Deo Gratias for my sister ' s companionable presence in the room. How fortunate for me that I had insisted upon not being left alone in the house that night. Ligeia came next. I am not superstitious, but rather easily impressed, and this story made its impression (quite thoroughly) upon me. It intensi- fied the creepiness brought on by the Gold-Bug. ] was experiencing queer little nervous jerks, and when my sister suddenly rose to announce her intention of retiring, I fairly jumped. This was hardly a strange reaction, since I had just reached the point in the story where Lady Ligeia slowly rose and sat erect on her funeral couch, t requested my sister to stav a little longer, but to no avail. Therefore, too proud to confess my fears. 1 bade her a brave good-night; then alone perused to the end the strange story of the uncanny Ligeia. By this time I was well on toward a state of mental paralysis. The noises in the bedroom upstairs had ceased and a steady tick-tock from the shelf nearby was the only other noise in the room, except, of course, the many supplied by my own imagination. 1 began my next story. It was the Fall of the House of Usher. I read straight through to its terrible end. How depressing this tale seemed to me — and how very real. ' Sickly, old. spectre-like Usher himself might have been sitting on the chair my sister had just vacated, or worse still, on the one directly behind me; I did not know; 1 dared not look: vet I fancied I could hear him breathing. My thoughts scampered wildly about my mind. My heart pounded. I was too afraid almost to blink an eye, lest in that brief instant somebody, or something, might slip into the room unnoticed. Hardly conscious now of what I was doing, I forged ahead into another of these terrors — The Pit and the Pendulum. It was a tale of the Inquisition, teeming with atmosphere of the chilling sort. The black dungeon, the condemned man. the bottomless pit of a thousand rats and dank odors — all these oppressed me so that I despaired of ever again reach- ing the comfortable world in which I had spent so many happy years. Rut somehow, when the captive noticed the pendulum hanging far above his head, I was remotely reminded of the timepiece in the room. This (if memory served me right) was accustomed to tell the correct hour. I glanced up timidly at the familiar old clock and noted that it was fifteen minutes to one. I went on with my story. The huge pendulum in the tale began to swing to and fro and to descend proportionately. I began sub- consciously to associate the clock-ticks with my story. Each one served to accentuate the ominous and relentless descent of the pendulum. I looked again at the clock and. could it be true, it was now only twenty minutes to one. But perhaps I had not remembered the hour correctly. I continued reading. Down, down came the pendulum. Soon it would swing low enough to slash the serge above the captive ' s heart — and on the next stroke to graze the flesh beneath! The helpless man grew delirious at the thought of his impending fate. I read on for two more pages and still the pendulum had not reached its mark. I looked again at the clock. It was now only twelve-thirty! 4 t 10};