Textile High School - Loom Yearbook (New York, NY)

Page 18 text:

HAS IT HAPPENED TO YOU? It was a beautiful April morning and the students were pouring into the gates of Textile hHigh School. Conrad Crammer, dragging his unwilling feet towards the gaping portcullis, was awakened from his stupor by the late bell ' s loud and sudden alarum, hie rushed into the building, fled down the long hall, and precipitated himself breathlessly into his section room in time to answer the roll call. After a few blissful minutes of luxurious rest at his desk, he entered the English room with a dream of spring upon his brow and a vision of hope in his eyes. That dream of spring upon his brow turned into a cold sweat. The vision of Mrs. Frost, the English teacher, reminded him of the unpleasant fact that his homework was unprepared. Conrad Crammer was not to be dis- turbed by such a trifle, for was he not a descendant of a long line of dis- tinguished Crammers? Withi a smile not to be outdone by Mona Lisa in mystery, nor by the Poles in Arctic chill, Mrs. Frost ominously rapped upon her desk for the attention of her pupils. The air was electric with apprehension. We shall resume our play by Shakespears , she said. Conrad sat grinning at his place in the rear of the room. That grin was his Water- loo. Crammer , she said, recite the passage I asked you to memorize. Confidently Conrad rose from his seat. He knew his stuff. Yes, sir! Wasn ' t he reviewing it in his mind right now? He knew it up to the very last word. He hemmed and said er-er like a veteran orator. He coughed discreetly into the palm of his hand. He could feel the words crowding his throat, but they wouldn ' t pass his larynx. No words came. Poor Conrad. Alas! All the Crammers, their ghosts lining the wall behind him, were weeping, dumbly entreating. Can you picture it, dear reader? He opened and closed his clenched fists, already wet with clammy perspiration. His left eyebrow twitched involuntarily and noth- ing he could do, would stop it. His mind was a blank. He felt blank and he was wondering why In the blank did he forget the blankety-blank thing? Mrs. Frost ordered him to sit down. He sat down; In fact he collapsed. {ioiuinucd)

Page 17 text:

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THE POWER OF POETRY How many of us have been amazed and gratified upon reading in a poem, a thought expertly and proudly expressed, of which we had thought ourselves the author and sole possessor. Of course, we grant that we had never formed it clearly, or expressed it in so many words, but it was there nevertheless, in a corner of our brain, too lazy to be up and doing. This, I know, is true not only of poetry, but of prose also; but then the idea does not carry the same force, nor does it receive the same emotional reaction and attraction when expressed in cold prose as compared with the charm of poetry. After finding that thought in a poem, an old friend dressed in new clothing, brought out, enhanced, we act upon it, we experiment, we apply it to something. The thought which we imagined to be ours alone has now been bolstered by the agreement with us of a poet. Poetry acts like a beacon for those who love It and permit It to help them. There are people who, familiar in it, can and do think of stanzas and verses of poetry appropriate to many situations and occa- sions which they witness and experience. They see clearly. They know life and people through those little lines which say so little and tell so much. Poetry is more than a friend, it is a world of friends. It is life, some- times lightly coated with sugar to encourage us and make us happy, some- times unsweetened to steady us and help us face tragic realities. JANE MARRETT Well, tomorrow is another day, said Mrs. Frost as she carefully recorded a zero. Conrad clutched his seat. Tomorrow? Yes, that was Itl Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Creeps in this petty pace from day to day Of course; he knew, he knew it! hfe started to rise. Mrs. Frost , he pleaded. Yes? she queried frostily. I know it, I had just forgotten the first word. Be seated, young man. Don ' t offer me that old excuse, said Mrs. Frost; and she reenforced the incriminating cipher. MICHEL DE LAET