A B Davis High School - Maroon and White Yearbook (Mount Vernon, NY)

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Prelude to a Cape Cocl Nor'Easter-- Sand dunes shiTTing, Grey sand driTTing, LighTly blowing here and There. Beach grass rusTling, 5Torm clouds blusTring bea spray hissing Through The air. EasT wind roaring, Sea gulls soaring, Warnings Trom a disTanT Tlare. Sand dunes shiTTing, Grey sand driTTing, DeaTh is paTienT waiTing There. Mary Frances Martin Fascination? The lure in The magic oT Tar away places, The lure oT varied and unknown Taces, All TogeTher seem To blend An irresisTible message To send, Onward beckoning, Never reckoning The ouTcorne oT This pull so sTrong, ThaT seems To say Do come along , BuT once you Tollow ThaT TaTeTul call All else seems unimporTanT and small Compared To The sTrengTh oT This Travel urge And deep inside, a powerTul surge Forces you To Tollow and go. Why noT? you haven'T much Time, you know. And while youTh is yours-and youTh's will is sTrong, WiTh liTTle else To carry along SeT TorTh on one long glorious spree And see all The places you've wanTed To see. IT aT The end oT your Trip you Tind For ordinary liTe you have no mincl, JusT hurry and looard The TirsT sTeamer you see And The man in TronT oT you? . . . why iT's mel Courtney Groeschel 9 l26 0

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People Are Queer I am The soul oT a man. Perhaps you see me someTimes, as I darT ouT Trom behind The opaque specTacles OT my owner. You may noT realize iT, buT ThaT hungry gleam which shows iTselT Tor buT a brieT momenT is The resulT OT my TranTic eTTorTs To escape. The oTher day we were walking down The sTreeT, and l heard a liTTTe boy say To his moTher in a childish Treble, MoTher, ThaT man iooks so queer! ThaT Ii+Tle boy sTarTed me Thinking, and TonighT while my owner was sleeping, l escaped To a nearby sTar Through The open window. The child was only expressing his honesT opinion, buT I wonder if iT would have made any diTTerence To him iT he had known my masTer. l-le was born in a liTTle Scandinavian village in The midsT oT Tolk who earned a meager living as Tishermen. There was never very much money To go around: a neT Tor Tishing had To be replaced: or OiaT, his TaTher, needed a new pair oT booTs. EnTerTainmenT? l-Te scarcely knew The word. l-Tis greaTesT pleasure was To be Taken ouT wiTh The men in The large Tishing boaTs wiTh The saiT spray dashing over The side and The clean Tangy breeze Tugging aT his hair. And so he grew up To be a Tall, blond young man wiTh an inborn iove OT The sea in his blood and The inheriTed Tearlessness oT men who have had To baTTle The eTemenTs Tor cenTuries. BuT hard Times came To ThaT liTTie village. One year The Tishing was poor: anoTher season sTorms wrecked Their boaTs and Tore away Their overloaded neTs. Things grew worse, and one day OiaT suggesTed To his son ThaT he seek his TorTune in anoTher land. Several weeks TaTer The young boy waved goodbye To his loved ones on The shore. T-le was OTT To America, The promised land! New York TrighTened him aT TirsT. The buildings seemed so Tall, The sTreeTs were Tilled wiTh iosTling men and women, The language was sTrange, The people unfriendly To This boy used To The easy TamiliariTy oT a small village. BuT Viking blood was noT in him Tor naughT: he soon Tound a room To sieep in, made Triends, and became a sTevedore on The wharves near To his beloved sea. There was noT much Time Tor homesickness here: buT as he walked home Through The dark sTreeTs and smelied The ciear air, a nosTalgic memory would fill him wiTh a desire To reTurn To his village in Scandinavia. However, he had been in New York only a Tew monThs, when he received The news oT his parenTs' deaTh. He was alone in This sTrange new worid. Luck had been his porTion Tor a Time: buT one day he became embroiled in a dock TighT, and a chance blow senT him crashing down a Tlighf of sTairs. The hospiTal inTerne who sTood by his bed, when he regained his senses, inTormed him ThaT he had suTTered a compound TracTure oT The hip. When my masTer leTT The hospiTal, he knew he could seek acTive employmenT no longer: he was a cripple. As I siT here on This sTar, T look down aT my masTer sleeping TiTTuily in his narrow bed. AT Times his Tace conTorTs and his hands seem To reach ouT Tor someThing. ThaT liTTle boy walking down The sTreeT oT a dusTy, midwesTern Town would noT undersTand, buT his moTher who all her liTe has longed Tor The Teel oT a cool sea-breeze on her Tace would undersTand. A Viking lad, now an old cripple dereiicT and a Tarmer's wiTe-reachf ing Tor someThing? Courtney Groeschel The Storm An angry cloud STamps down The TrighTened sky. Lol IT is raining. Elizabeth Gips 0 I25 9

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0 I27 0 Shooing Morpheus on a Winter Morning O genTIe Sleep-whaT a conTrary-minded individual she is! You crawl inTo bed aTTer a hard day and summon her To obIiTeraTe your cares: insTead, she TIiTs TanTaIizingIy abouT The viciniTy, and no maTTer how much you Toss and Turn, you can'T Iay your hands on her. Comes The dawn, when you'd like To be able To bounce OuT OT bed Tull OT IiTe and enThusiasmg buT now The Tickle wench sees TiT To perch herselT aTop your recumbenT Trame and creaTe The impression ThaT you are supporTing a Thousand pound weighT wiTh your anaTomy. In addiTion, she squeezes a Tew drops oT some sorT OT eITin glue under your eyelids, and aTTer ThaT The blessed Things won'T open iT you pry Them up wiTh a screwdriver. I know whereOT I speak. Such has been my biTTer experience on many a winTer morn. Awakened by my own privaTe alarm clock-The Tamily poodle, who sleeps in The kiTchen direcTly beneaTh my room-I baT my eyes a couple OT Times and realize, aTTer a Tull minuTe or more, ThaT I am now back on earTh, exTradiTed Trom The TanTasTic dream- land in which German verbs chase IogariThms around a magneTic Tield Tor The amuse- menT OT ThaT preTTy girl who siTs nexT To The Teacher's desk in French class. Easy enough To wake up, buT whaT an enTireIy diTTerenT aTTair is geTTing upl Though The bed is warm, I shiver pessimisTicaIly as I observe The window curTains billowing inward like The sails oT a windiammer in The Trigid gale ThaT sweeps in over The snow-covered rooT oT The back porch. IT now occurs To me To wonder if my nose is where I hope iT is: I Timidly bring TorTh a hand Trom beneaTh The quiITs and apply iT in an expIoraTory manner To my Tace. Yes, The proboscis is sTilI There, buT badly in need OT a good Thawing OuT. I plunge The hand hasTiIy beneaTh The covers once more, muTTering murderous imprecaTions againsT a cerTain Tour-TooTed animal. Why couIdn'T The muTT IeT me go on sleeping? IT's so pIeasanT To dream abOuT-IogariThmsI WhaT's This? The curTain Tells Iimpl The breeze has died down: now is my chancel CauTiousIy, I drag boTh arms ouT Trom Their warm sancTuary: Then, always keeping an anxious eye on The curTain, whose sIighTesT TluTTer causes my hearT To TIuTTer Too, I sTeaIThiIy inch my way OuT OT The proTecTing bed and gingerly place my unclad TeeT upon The unwarmed Tloor. Recovering Trom This iniTiaI shock, I now advance hasTiIy upon The open window: buT my hasTe is nOT suTTicienT. There is a WhooshI OT air, The cur- Tains Tly up aImos+ To The ceiling, and a paralyzing bIasT OT cold hiTs me like an ocean wave breaking over an unwary baTher. STrange how wide-awake I Teel nowl VibraTing like a pneumaTic drill, I slam down The window and make a dive Tor The pile OT cIOThes on The chair over in The Tar corner. Ay, sleep has been puT To TIighT, buT aT whaT a price! You may Talk OT your soldiers, your aviaTors, or even your deep-sea divers? buT Tor real bravery, give me The men like Commander Byrd, who dared The wraTh OT The AnT- arcTic. They are The heroes: I knowl ' n Christian Meyer. The Hokku lAn Impressionl Ivory Tracings DelicaTeIy TinTed silk, Tapering Tingers. Elizabeth Gips