Battin High School - Red and White Yearbook (Elizabeth, NJ)

Text from Pages 1 - 52 of the 1950 volume:

V0 ,W .I-dau lf D 1 A Z..,f,..,f,.,Z1f,1'ff-Cf if ,Llflf ' ,CuLQ rg, x N X ii , 3 5 f N N' N v lim' Q 3 A W N N '3 X. Y a N' e 9 VY Q , 5 V .. P - 06665456016 I M k BATTIN HIGH SCHGOL, ELIZABETH, NEVV IERSEY l HELEN G. PAULMENN, Principal Y . in TABLE OF CONTENTS Page COVER ,w,,,.,L,,,,,,,,, ,,.,,, L-...-, Charlotte Curtis, '50 TITLE PAGE ILLUSTRATION ....--- Ruth Cahill, '50 TABLE OF CONTENTS ..--.----v-------M FOREWQRD ,QL-.,L,L,-,,,.-,,,- Marion Quin Dix ILLUSTRATION ..-.-........---.,..a. Helen I-ink,'S0 ILLUSTRATION ,M-,..-,.--.-.. Charlotte Curtis, '50 MIN RESA TILL SVERIGED .-.......- Vera Schedin, '50 ILLUSTRATIONS L-,-.,.L-..-.- Caroline Zachau,'50 THE TORTURE HOUR L.-L.-,-.--- Leona Goldblarr, '50 ILLUSTRATIONS -........ Ann Donnelly, Ruth Cahill,'S0 ATOM BOMB -,,,.,,,...,,.-.,,,,.,,...- Doris Blackman, '50 HIS MAJESTY ,.,,.,.,,..,,...n......... Anita Mazzarella, '50 THE PAINTER .....,.....-........ Anne Marie Ehrhardt, '50 ILLUSTRATION L.-.-.-..-..-...-.-.- Ruth R0CC0,'50 STREET SCENE ,v,-...,-.-..-..L.,.-. Clara Scalzo,'S2 A PICTURE ,,,,,M,-,-,,,..,,,,...--.--,, Mildred Florczak,'S0 ADAGIO ,L-,,.,,,,,,,,,,,....--..-L.--- Janer Gnld, 'SI THE BALLET! mv., ,,,,. ,,,.,,.,....,...,., Nancy HoEacker, 'SO ILLUSTRATION -.-..--..-..--n......- Janet G01d,'5l LAKE HOPATCONG, HERE WE COME Leona Goldblatt, '50 ILLUSTRATION -.M ......,..... .......,,.. Doris Blackman, '50 OUR HEARTS . . . ...........-..... Connie Wrigley, '50 IT ,,,,, ,,,,,,-,,e.,,, L ,,,, ,,,,,,,.....--....-,. Angela Verlengeri, '50 NOW COMES THE TIME ....,.......- Connie Wrigley, '50 NO MORE I'LL DANCE ....-.......... Clare Kallio, 'Sl GROWING PAINS .-....,---------- .Judy Feldman, '50 ILLUSTRATION ..-..-L............ Connie Wrig1ey,'50 BUT BEAUTIFUL -.-.,.-............... .... .. Ruth Taub, '51 CYCLE ww,--,..,,.L,.-.L.....- ..,. ... Theresa Netcel, 'Sl HOKKU ,,,,-,,-,,,,,,.LL..-.,.,.L......-- Helen Schiller, '50 OH, FAN ,,-.,,.,,,,-,.......L.... Anita Mazzarella, '50 ILLUSTRATION ,,.........,.......-.,...- Caroline Zachau, '50 THE POT OF SOUP .........-..... Carol Chanenson,'50 Suzanne Hoffman, MY CANADA ....-...-..-na..--..- ILLUSTRATION ..........--.-..--- '50 Barbara Sinclair, 'SO DARK NIGHT ,,..,,,,,,,................. Nancy Winter, '51 THE TREASURE ..........-........ Beatrice Bollinger, 'SI DANCE -,..,,..,................... Mildred Fl0I'CZ3li, '50 A DULL GRAY DAY ...Q......L.,.. Mildred Florczak,'50 BLACK TREES -.,-..,.,..-..-....-- Barbara Levenberg,'S2 ILLUSTRATION ......-...-......... Barbara Glick,'Sl ILLUSTRATIONS Elizabeth Byrnes, 'S0g Charlotte Curtis,'S0g Ruth Rocco, 'S THE DAY ..-..L..--L..-........-...... ILLUSTRATION ...-.....-...-..---.. MUSING L.-- .... -..-w....-..-..-... ILLUSTRATION --.-..-L..-.,-..n..-L PLIE' .-..,-...-..-..-, Og Ann Donnelly, Nancy Holfacker, Caroline Zac han, ... Joan Anderson, Caroline Zachau, .. Helen Schiller, ILLUSTRATION ........-...L.....-..... Helen Link, 'SO '50 'SO '50 '50 '50 '50 OVER THE IVORY KEYS ILLUSTRATION ...-..---..-..-..... LOVE'S LABOUR LOST CADILLAC -..-.....--.....,.......... rife ' .QR .L Merrill Skramovsky, Caroline Zachau, Marie Angello, Jennie Scrofani, THEY SAY .--,..--.,.-,.-............. Jane Osuch, JANE ---.----.-..-.............L-..-.....- Vera Shedin, CROWN OF GLORY n.....-....-........ Jean Gruen, MISERY ..........-............--....--..... Jean Gruen, CONSIDER .......n- ...., ...-.....,.... Suzanne Hoffman, A DRIVEIVS DILEMMAS .........-...-- Nancy Ernst, AWAKENING ... ...... .. ,... -....-..........-...... Lyda Jeney, PERHAPS - .... - ,,....,... - ,... .ALM Shirley Ann Jackson, WHERE IS SPRING? -..n.-..-.........L. Helen Kopko, ILLUSTRATION -.... ..... ...,-.-,....--... THE LONELY HEART -- ..., .. ILLUSTRATION .-........,...-,..,..,--, A SCHOOLGIRIJS LAMENT OPTIMISM ...vm ,... ..-...,.tL., REALISM .......L......--.........--.. ILLUSTRATION ....--....-,-.........L THAT'S MY GRANDMOTHER .., ILLUSTRATION ,...........L.........., THIS WEATHER! --...--..---.....L SOMETHING'S WRONG -.-r-.-..... RUGGED INDIVIDUALIST 102 ..--,-....- ..,.., -.....-L....,-..-..-L... IN HOMEWORK ...... .... -..... CAFETERIA ..-- .... M.- .... ---.....,.., Helen Link, Anne Marie Ehrhardt, Helen Link, ........ Barbara Stefek, Marion Gabriel, Isabel Martinson, Marilyn Rubel, '50 '50 '50 'SO '50 'so '52 '52 '50 '50 '50 '50 '50 '50 '50 '50 '50 '50 Mary McLevy, '50 51 a Doris Blackman, 'SO Ruth Zuman,'52 Renee Morgan, '50 Barbara Bracker, 'S 2 Abby Weltchek, '50 '52 Helen Schiller, ' S 0 Doris Blackman, '50 THE CLOCK TICKS .i.,,,...... ..... .- Avalyn Cook, '50 OF ALL THE PUPILS ..--.- .e.. ---.. Jennie Scrofani, '50 IN LATIN -..L--..L-.......-.- .... -..... Abby Weltchek, LOOK TO THE FUTURE ..n-.-r.-..-.. ILLUSTRATION ..L,..-.--- .,.. -LLL FATAL DAY .... - ...... ...W ..... ...... Linda Arline Buden, CHAMP FOR A DAY -..-..... L..L .,...... Nancy Ernst, THERE'S NO FRIGATE LIKE A BOOK Theresa Netcel, 'S I ILLUSTRATION -.. ..... -....n........--... ELIA ...,,...--..n-..-,-.....,L,-,, MEDITATIONS --------....- WALKING .... -..,........-............ LIFE IS LIKE A LEAF ,----..---.....,-- ILLUSTRATION .-.--.----.....-...... OUR OLD STOVE ...,................... Irene Florczak, Roseann Yacullo, Charlotte Fiechter, Mildred Florczak, Ruth Johnson, Gloria Israel, CATCH!! - .......... .. ..... .....-,-.i........ Barbara Reid, A SONNET: MUSIC ..--.-........-. Suzanne Hofman, ILLUSTRATION -.,...L--..........., Ruth Zuman, A SONNETI THE CITY .,... ..-L JOHN ..-,.--I,.-.---,..e.-..a--,, Renee Morgan, ILLUSTRATION -..LL ...... ..n......... Caroline Adams, EASTER ..,.........- ....., --......-....., MY AMERICAN HOME ILLUSTRATION .... ......... --.........-. Alison Harris, Joan Babish, Dorothy Olim, '50 'Sl Barbara Glick, Muriel Engesser, '50 '50 '50 '52 '50 '52 '50 'S0 Ann Donnelly, 'SO 'Sl '52 '50 '51 '50 51 '50 '50 'I 0 Caroline Adams, 'so STAFF .,.-.-- ..... -.r............-.......,.....-..--,..,... ILLUSTRATION ..... Ann Donnelly, '50 Page 29 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 2 lF0lPilEWOlPRDi We hear so many people say democracy can thrive and grow only in a creative society. What does this mean for the girls at Battin? I think it means, among many other things, that Touchstone will always go to press. Then each girl at Battin will know that the creative expressions of her own and those of her classmates are symbols of democracy in action. As each of us learns to share his own expressions and ideas, he grows , in the ability to appreciate and recog- nize the unique contributions of others. This respect for uniqueness and indi- vidual expression, when shared, builds a unity which is basic to the structure of our democracy. May the Touchstones all over our land long continue! MARION QUIN Dix, Supervisor of Art Education 8 TOUCHSTONE in mineralogy is basanite, so-called because it is used to test the purity of gold and silver by the streak left on the stone when rubbed by the metal. In 1937 we chose this title as a name for our magazine by which we test the literary and art achievements of Battin students. lg x rl 4 L i - W in erm, ,Sludge QMY TRIP TO SWEDEN, Whistles sounded, horns blew, multi-colored streamers and confetti floated about the M. S. Gripsholm. The liner of the White Viking Fleet moved slowly out of New York harbor. ' I was on my way to Sweden! How happy I was at the prospect of seeing a new land and new people. VVell, not entirely new to me, for many of the people I know are Swedes, including my father. I was happy until the moment when my eyes could no longer see the crowd of yelling, pushing, crying people on the dock. Then I felt quite empty and alone. Some of the passengers wandered into the salon, some to their cabins to unpack, and others remained at the rail to take a last look at the fast- fading New York skyline. I imagined that a few fmaybe the little old man in the gray suit?l were trying to engrave that picture deep in their mempries, for they would never return. I stood on deck with my parents, with tears in my eyes, feeling so lonely. A ' However, the trip was Elled with so many things to do and people to meet, I didn't have time to miss my old friends too much. Though there were many things to keep me occupied, I always managed to End time to watch the continually changing colors of the sky and ocean. It was fascinating to see the ocean a dark blue one minute andan icy green the next. I I remember one night very distinctly. The ocean was rough. The moon was almost covered by a cloud, making the night dismal. In the distance were the tiny red and white lights of a freighter. I stood on deck, breathing the salt air and feeling strange at watching a scene I had always thought of as being strictly Hollywood. Then a shower of shooting stars fell in the West! ' My first sight of Sweden was at nightfall. Little red lights were on the bobbing buoys. The water was black and the tiny islands and fishing boats were silhouetted against the deep rose horizon. The sky above the horizon was a vivid blue. I could barely distinguish the cottages on the islands except for the warm yellow lights coming from the windows. We docked at the city of Goteborg the next morning. We went through customs and said good-bye to our new friends who were, by now, our old friends. My parents and I walked around C-oteborg, stopping at quaint little shops until it was time to take the three o'clock train to Stockholm. VVhile my parents studied the shops, the fishermen and lisherboys held my interest. Their red caps and their knickers seemed more quaint to me. f- -if f 4 In Stockholm we stayed at the Hotel Eden on Sturegatan for a few daysg then we traveled by train about ninety miles north to the little town of Soderfors, my grandfather's home. Soderfors, a steel-producing town, situated on an island, is very old and picturesque. It has no paved streets, but the earth of the roads has been ground as hard as rock through hun- dreds of years of travel. My grandfather lives in one of the oldest houses. It has one floor and an attic, and one entrance door at the back. First constructed of wood, painted red, and with a thatched roof, it was later covered over with stucco and painted yellow. The thatched roof was replaced by one of tile, and still later, the stucco was painted white and remains so to this day. Strangers are impressed by the Swedes' remarkable physical fitness and quiet manners. They have been trained from childhood in scientific gymnastics, indoor and outdoor sports, and dances. I was particularly impressed by the respect the young people had for adults. Upon meeting an older person, the girls would curtsey slightly, the young men would bow, and they would shake hands if the hand were offered. This courtesy is taught to the little child as soon as he is able to walk. In summer, at the season of the midnight sun, they hold the Mid- summer Festival. Newly-cut birch trees frame every doorway. The May Pole is bound with fresh birch boughs and decorated with wreaths. From midnight until morning brightly-costumed figures dance and sing the songs of their ancestors. The Swedish people wear these costumes only for special occasions, at other times their dress is modern. The customs are continued with the same sincerity the ancients used, although few remember the original pagan meanings. Tourists crowd to see these festivals, but their coming has fortunately not com- mercialized such occasions. St. Lucia Day, December 13th, begins the Christmas season. On that day, early in the morning, one daughter of the family represents Lucia. She is dressed in white with five candles in a crown of evergreen on her head. In this costume she serves coffee and buns to the family. In Stockholm a National Lucia is chosen for her beauty, personality, poise, and kindness. At four o'clock on Christmas morning the church service, Iulotta, is held. People go by sleds, by skis, by snowshoes, or on foot, carrying torches. The famous Swedish Smorgasbord is now really enjoyed. It sometimes consists of as many as forty dishes, after three or four helpings, one may then have dinner and dessert. While visiting my aunt in Bergvik, I toured a paper factory and saw the various processes, from the cleaning of the whole log as it came from the lake, straight through to the finished product. L 4 One of the things I appreciated very much was the absence of crowded factory areas. All factories are well placed to keep conditions healthful as well as beautiful. The people try to keep their country in tip-top condition, and their love of nature is shown in the many gardens and well-kept property, public or private. I did not see one railroad station without flower boxes or well-trimmed shrubs and trees. It was a pleasure to walk down the streets, for everything had a freshly scrubbed look about it. In Stockholm, I especially enjoyed the Nordiska Museet fNordic Museumj. It was a beautifully designed building of stone, resembling a castle. Ancient and battle-scarred Hags hung from the balcony. I was awed by a huge statue of a king on his throne. Here there were royal chariots, sleds, jewel-studded riding equipment, weapons, queenly cos- metic cases, and jewel Caskets. Favorite horses of the kings had been stuffed and put on display, together with royal armor and clothing. Some of the clothing was blood-stained. On the other floors, Swedish progress was illustrated by furnishings, implements, costumes, uniforms, and works of art. In the courtyard of the Army Museum, row upon row of ancient and decrepit canons stood on lonely guard under chestnut trees. Inside were weapons and equipment from the Efteenth century to the present day. The Biologiska Museet fBiology Museumj near the gates of Skan- sen, the outdoor museum of Stockholm, was also interesting. Behind glass partitions, stuffed animals, birds and reptiles were placed in a setting of Iceland, Greenland, and Sweden. In Skansen we found ancient peasant homes, a Lapland village, and a boat, that was about seventy-Eve feet long. This recalled the days when boats were used to transport families across the lakes to church. There was, and still is, much opportunity for the use of boats in Sweden, for the country has 94,000 lakes, a reminder of the ice age. If we became tired following Skansen's many paths, we stopped at small restaurants, shaded by towering trees, where we were served by charming waitresses in color- ful costumes. We took many boat rides and now I know why they call Stockholm the Venice of the North. One trip by boat took us to an island in Lake Malaren that holds Drottningholm castle. It was erected toward the end of the seventeenth century and is now the country residence of His Majesty the King. The castle contains large collections of objects of art. The celebrated theatre of Drottningholm, housed in a special pa- vilion, dates from the time of Gustavus III and is, except for the theatre of Gripsholm Castle, the only palace theatre in the world with stage decorations and machinery from the eighteenth century. In the lovely garden of the park that surrounds the castle, we saw fountains and grace- ful statues and an interesting pavilion called China Palace. Stockholm, the beautiful City between the Bridges, is proud of its unusual Town Hall. The building is placed east from the old district of Stockholm across the outlet of Lake Malaren, where the narrow wind- ing streets are lined with the mansions of merchant princes and nobles of days gone by. It is the most magnificent example of modern Swedish architecture. William Butler Yeats said, after viewing the building, It is the most important, modern building in Europe .... No work com- parable in method or achievement has been accomplished since the Italian cities felt the excitement of the Renaissance. In the university city of Uppsala we visited Uppsala castle and the huge, lovely cathedral built in the thirteenth century which is the resting- place of many of Sweden's kings and queens. In this city we saw the gardens and orchards set out by the celebrated Uppsala professor, Carl Linnaeus, father of modern botany. Filipstad in the province of Varmland was one of the last places we visited. There we were able to stop at the tomb of john Ericsson, the famous inventor. A friend of my father's opened the iron door with a large key. There was an odor of silver polish and cedar in the tomb. The propeller of the Monitor lay at the foot of the casket, and a letter from the United States government, with withered wreaths, hung on the wall. The tomb was on a hill in the center of the graveyard. A small white church peeped through bright-colored leaves across the lake. It was now autumn, October in fact, and time to return home. My parents and I were once again standing on deck, this time in the harbor of Goteborg. How could I leave my new-found friends? I might never be able to return. Tears were once again in my eyes. ' . VERA SCHEDIN, 'go A 'rrm Tonirunn HOUR H. , Q '. :Y fa R QWith apologies to Mr. Longfellow, X ,X I Q. - 4' Between the dark and the daylight When the day rs beginning to glower Comes a pause then a stop in my sleep That is known as the torture hour. 7 I hear from beneath my covers The flapping of little wings, The sound ofa buzzing that circles And in my ear drum rings. From my bed I see in the dim light, Descending from the air for the kill, A fly, that is black and ugly, 'Round my head starting to mill. A buzzing and then a silence, Yet I know from his many-celled eyes, He is plotting and planning within him To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from my bedpost! A sudden raid from the Wall! Through my mouth that is left unguarded, He enters my cavernous hall. He annoys me so much for he tickles As he climbs about on my face, If I try to catch him, he eludes me And leads me a merry chase. Do you think, oh, black-eyed nuisance, Because you have flown from me once, Such a sleepy young girl as I am Is not a match for you, dunce! I have you fast in my hands now And will not let you depart, But put you out of the window Where I hope you'll stay if you're smart. N ow I think I could sleep forever, I Yes, forever and a day . . . I But alas, once again under covers, I find my sleep, too, has flown away. LEONA GOLDBLATT, 750 ATOM BOMIB Faster and faster, From the sky it falls, Carrying itself in deadly potency To the unsuspecting earth below. A blinding flame Rises high and widef A Hame red with the blood of people And yellow with the grain from their fields. A great roar 5 Echoes through the sky- i A roar whose force tears homes from their foundations 3 And crumbles them to the ground. A terrified scream Dies silently away- A scream meaning death to thousands of people And portents to those far away. - Horrible, .murderous death, Quickly replacing life- The lethal column of annihilation Stretches forth in dismal review. ' Donrs BLACKIVIAN, 'go His MAJESTY Aloof, With regal mien, the monarch stands, Tall and imposing. His deep purple robes, Hecked With patches of ermine, Radiate magnificence. Crowned By a Hashing, sparkling Diadem of snow and ice, A majestic mountain Surveys his domain. ANITA MAZZARELLA, 'go 10 THE PAIN TER He was a tired, bent old man. His work was finished for the day. His paint can hung from one worn hand. He sighed and put his brush away. He drew a cotton square from his pocket And with a slow gesture wiped his forehead His eyes grew bright with pleasure When he thought of the leisure Of the soft easy chair That awaited him. ANNE MARIE EHRHARDT, '50 .jd .gifeet .Saville It is an ordinary street. The houses are neat, even though they aren't the best in the city. A few cars parked along the curbs are mainly jalopies. The sidewalks are marked and remarked with hopscotch blocks, and a pair of roller skates lies forgotten near a railing. Overloaded garbage cans line the street, and a cat atop one is busily investigating the fish bones from last night's supper. On the corner is Gray's candy store. Mrs. Gray stands outside, a big woman with a heart as big as herself. Bob Dara and Sally Maretti come walking slowly down the street with stars in their eyes, not seeing or hearing anything, lost in each other. And all the neighborhood kids! There seem to be a million of them! Billy Thompson is fighting with his sister lane for is it Susie?j over a toy. A car comes speeding down the road. That Mason boyin his bright yellow hot-rod! There he goes! Right through a red light! On the porches of adjacent houses stand three women, discussing the weather, new styles, and how much weight Mrs. Racowski is putting on. In the street below Mrs. Harrigan is having a friendly argument with Mrs. O'Riley as to which one did the larger wash- ing. Gloria Fallon and Kathleen Tampler are trying awfully hard to be be grown up as they discuss new hair-dos and their favorite movie -stars. It is a street in any city in the United States. CLARA SCALZO, '52 lqclfure The old man was sitting on the park bench with his eyes closed. Everything around him was as peaceful as he was. He came to the park frequently to hear the birds sing and to smell the fragrance of the earth and flowers. I was compelled to stop and watch him for a while. The sun glistened on his white hair, making it like a halo around his head. His work-wom hands clasped his cane loosely. His head began to nod. He paid no attention to the squirrels scampering around his feet, eating the peanuts he had given them. Suddenly he was brought into the life of today by a tiny, blonde- haired girl who came skipping toward him. The dreamy look in his eyes changed to a lively twinkle as he smiled at her, then put her on his knees. The child put her arms around his neck and said, Please tell me a story, Grand-daddy. A sudden warmth came over me as I watched the two sitting there on the bench. I walked away silently, feeling at peace with all the world. MILDRED FLORCZAK, '50 Y l .fdcfagio Applause filled the air. Excitement reigned. I was making as grace- ful a curtsey as I could manage with a pair of very wobbly knees. Happi- ness mingled with weariness surged through me as the curtain descended slowly. I Hitted off the stage with my net skirts bouncing about my legs. My mother greeted me with open arms. Doting relatives and friends, puffing with pride, emitted exclamations of joy: Success! You were wonderful! But a nagging worry lay at the pit of my stomach. I won- dered how Well I had really done, but I let my worry be turned aside to join the glitter and excitement of being a dancer. From the moment I had seen the sparkling sequins and the stiff skirts that made powder puffs of the beautiful slender ballerinas, I had wanted to join their clan. Nothing seemed more glamorous and exciting to me than to go through life, twirling on shimmering pink satin toes. fl have since learned, unhappily, that those stiff perky suits become sag- ging strips of limp cheesecloth, that sparkling sequins soon lose their sparkle and fall off, one by one, and that the whole costume droops in a state of utter dejection. But there are always new costumes and new glitterj One sight of those enchanting ballerinas and I was on a ra.mpage. I imitated the dancers constantly. I kept exclaiming resolutely to my mother that I was going to become a famous dancer. With a knowing smile, she condescendingly said, Yes, dear. 1 Dear passed through her childhood, prancing mercilessly on the polished Hoors of her home. My mother's patience finally wore out and I was sent to dancing school to do my prancing. I had embarked on my career! . I started twirling on my pink satin toe shoes that turned into a sullen gray after the first few wearings. I said, twirling, but more than once I found myself not on my toes, but on the floor. I soon discovered that there is more to dancing than a fluffy costume. I had many a chance to dance for admiring audiences of my long-suffering relatives and schoolmates. With confident heart and deter- mined eye, I exclaimed to my mother that I was ready to conquer New York. . I am now attending an institution for dancing in the big city. There is a sure-iire method for singling out ballerinas. They spring down 57th Street with elastic steps. Their ebony hair streams dramatically behind them. They stare sophisticatedly through long lashes, literally dripping with mascara, and their scarlet lips are painted into an expression of boredom. Being a member of the Arteestes, I do some pretty unconventional things, although at one time I was a slave to convention and if anyone dared to do anything the least bit shocking in public, I would stare in horror. Convention is now a word that is slowly being eliminated from my vocabulary. I have been rejuvenated. You can see me wandering down 57th Street in a black leotard underneath a gray coat, with a huge black poclcetbook clasped in my gloved hands. A glance downward reveals my feet clad in socks and ballet-slippers. And often the wind mischiev- ously tugs at the hem of my coat, suddenly whipping it away to reveal a pair of bare legs. People's eyes bulge and I have the greatest desire to tap them on the shoulder and say, Pardon me, your eyeballs are showing! If you see me pirouetting through the halls of Battin, think nothing of it, for I merely have delusions of grandeur. I hope to pirouette some day in the halls of fame. For the present, however, let's leave this dancer posed in as graceful an arabesque as she can execute. IANET GOLD, '51 The ballet! The orchestra! On with the show! Be quiet! The footlights Are starting to glow. NANCY HOFFACKER, '50 Jade .J47Ql96lfC0l'Lg, efe 0 GW!! ! It ,was an impossibility for a family of our size ftwelve childrenj to be ready for a trip any earlier than ten-thirty in the morning, but inevit- ably Marc and David, my younger brothers, would shake me at eight, whispering, Hurry and put on our bathing suits. We'll be late. Oh, but kids, it's so early! We're not going swimming for a long time yet, would come my annoyed reply. But they always had their way and with their bathing suits on, they would keep crying, Momma, aren't you ready yet? The preparations for our trip to Lake Hopatcong were varied. I really dreaded walking into the kitchen. It was in such turmoil, with Momma running everywhere at once. She told Lee to wash the jug for lemonade, but when she was finally ready for it, we discovered he had gonewith Daddy. One could hardly blame Mom for being upset. Leona, where are the lemons? There are not enough ice cubes. Where is the wax paper? I had it here just a minute ago. ' lt's under the funnies, Ma. Why can't you have things ready for me when I need them? Soon the time came to awaken the three sleeping beauties, my older sisters. This was not so easy as it sounds! The kids would do almost everything but throw cold water into their faces. Finally, the three would stumble down' the steps, half-asleep, complaining about those bad kids: They were getting up right away and there was no need to rush them. When we heard the chugging of the big Buick, we knewthat the rest of the food had arrived. It wouldn't be too long now. Then we heard that dreaded sound just as Marc, David, Diane, Iudy, and Lee were emerging from the car: S-s-s-s-s-s-s-s! A FLAT! Amid the Ohs and Goshes came the calm statement of Daddy: It's better that we have it now than when we get started. Then we had to listen for live minutes to Carole's dramatics as she insisted she wouldn't go swimming if she had to wear that ugly suit. fAt eight Carole wants to be a bathing beautyj. A large family must economize and new bathing suits cannot be bought each year for every- one. The suits were handed down and were often far from being a perfect fit. Last-minute orders were being given by Momma. Diane was carry- ing a bag of food out to the car when she stopped, aghast. uludy! My pants fell! We had our embarrassing moments. Now all that was left for Momma to do was check the kids and miscellaneous items. I Is the food in the trunk? Bring the papers for me to read. Abe, did all the children use the bathroom? I'm not going to stop on the way. Yes, yes, Ma, hurry now! came the chorus of the kids' voices. The car had two folding-chairs in the back, still it was quite a prob- lem to seat fourteen people. We must have looked a lot like the family in Cheaper by the Dozen, only more absurd riding down the streets in our bathing suits. I think I have the seating right. Let's see: Daddy up front, with Momma holding Marc, and Iudy in the middle. The back seat was always a more serious problem. The big girls would not sit on the folding-chairs and the little ones objected because they had sat on them the last time. Lee said grumpily, Daddy, you said we could sit on the big seats this time. Let Estelle and Lucille sit there. It became bedlam with the screaming and yelling until a superior voice rang out: Be quiet, or I'll send all of you back into the house! I'll have my head examined if I take you anywhere again! Momma said, Please, Abe, sh, don't get excited. I'm not excited, he cried indignantly. We younger ones would be subdued for a while, angrily taking our assigned seats while the four haughty older girls looked on. As the saying might go, In summer a child's fancy turns to food. Iudy was eating a plum and Diane grappled with her for a bite. Lee was bothering a bee and a moment later it stung him. Marc was climbing back and forth, undecided as to whether to stay up front or go in the back, being coaxed from both sides. It was like a three-ring circus. Finally, we got started, with some of us crying, others laughing, some contented, some angry, but all going swimming at Lake Hopatcong. LEONA GOLDBLATT, '50 XJQJ ll I I M W1 I N l A531 hsffmg ntl? IT X5 It was ultra, ultra, ultra! It was gorgeous, it was fine. It was Clara Bow in ermine, It was Swanson sipping wine, I t was llappers, It was fringes, It was pearls and furs and hinges, It was college tunes and coats of coon, and shingled bobs and gangster mobs. It was fabulous, glorious, stupendous and dee-vine. I t came fast and it lived fast- - It passed away in time! . ' ANGELA VERLENGERI, 'go No more I 'll dance from man to man. I-Ie's mine to keep . . . hm-m-m . . . if I can. CLARE KALLIO, '51 Now comes the time for the Senior Hop. Now to End someone who's got a jalop. CONNIE Wrucmay, 'go 16 Umar Hearts . . . I wish I was a Happer With a 1920 air, Then I could wear a frizzled mop, And hats that hide my hair. I 'd wear my stocking to my lcnee And tie it in a knot. My face would be all painted, With a heart-shaped beauty dot. Around my hips there'd be a belt , Of bright fringed orange satin. At night I'd study how to woo, And never learn my Latin. I 'd smolce ten packs of cigs a day And live on whisky sours- Dancing to a Charleston tune, I 'd while away the hours. She must be crazy, you may say, And wonder why I act this way. lt's 'cause I've gone to see today The play, Our Hearts Were Young and Gay. CONNIE WRIGLEY, 'go GROWING PAINS or YOUNG GIRLS' LAMENT We heard the sound of dancing feet, We felt the rhythm of their beat. The flashing whirl of sillcs and lace, The breathless, fascinating pace. Our eyes reflected many hues, Enchanted pictures loathe to lose. . In later days will come our chance, Then we will join the carefree dance. JUDY F ELDMAN, '50 L ut, l Exit Edblftlffflffv He came strolling down the street, arm in arm with my brother. He was slightly shorter than Iacky, but the carriage of his head and his broad shoulders made him appear taller. The two came up the walk and blew into the house. He stood there surveying his surroundings. I felt that his blue eyes took everything in, the piano, the radio, which was at that moment playing my favorite tune, Mel 'I'orme's But Beautiful. I felt sure this was significant as I looked into his eyes. Oh, Remi, this is my bratty kid sister. You can call her Tubbie. Everybody does. I'll never forgive jackie for that introduction. Hate blazed from my eyes, but Iacky calmly turned, grinned, and walked into the kitchen to tell Mama he was back from the train station. Hello, I said, hoping desperately my hair was still curly. Hi, Tubbief' Remi said and he too left for the kitchen. I dashed for the phone, slamming all doors behind me, mechanically dialed the familiar number, then sobbed into the phone: Kathy, he's here! I'm not crying but, golly, he hardly noticed me, and Iacky's so hateful. If you had heard the perfectly awful way he introduced me, you wouldn't even consider going to the Prom with him. I'm sure lack won't let me spend more than two minutes alone with Remi if he can help it and he's so-o-o cute. Well, he's about Eve feet ten - Yes, he is, I'm sure .... I.know lack said it was live feet six, but I'm sure it's ten and he has black curly hair . . . no, it is curly. I don't care what Iacky said, it is! And his eyes are the clearest blue .... Well, if you know so much about it, why ask me? . . . Can you come over? Swell! So long. , Remi stayed for days, but I was with him alone only for a few minutes at a time. QThank you so-o-o much, Iacky!j Golly, even Cleopatra couIdn't get anywhere in ten minutes! On my birthday, how- ever, I did have a glimpse of Heaven. I promised Iacky I'd do the dishes for three weeks if he'd see that Remi stayed for the party. After a whole evening of wishful thinking, some kind soul prompted him into asking me to dance. The tune we danced to was, by some strange coincidence and the puckishness of Kathy, But Beautiful. ' His visit was almost over!! Maybe I could persuade Iacky to let me send him the pictures we had taken, then he could answer me, and I'd answer him and --- Oh, you're leaving, Remi? Well, good-bye. If I wrote to you, not saying I will, but if I did, would you answer? You would? Well - good- bye. Sk 101 Ik if Ik A week later while I was playing But Beautiful for the hundredth consecutive time, I thought, Now it's ended. Yes, ended! I'm through with him. I'm through with all boys - I -.' VVhat, Ma? What do you want? A letter for me? Golly! After reading the letter, I dashed for the phone, slamming all doors behind me, mechanically dialed the familiar number, then bubbled into the phone: Kathy, Remi wrote to me! Yes, he did! He wrote to me and before I even wrote to him! CYCLE IN FALL I like to walk through the leaves And hear them crackle. I like the color of the sky, The little white clouds That move slowly across it, And the smell of smoke. IN WINTER I plow through the snow, And a thousand diamonds wink at me And dazzle my eyes. IN SPRING my feet barely touch the ground, The air is intoxicating, All the world seems newly washed. A bird calls, and I, overjoyed, Try to answer. ' IN SUMMER I walk slowly For it is a lazy time. All the world is in a golden haze. The bees hover slowly over the Howers, Enthralled by their fragrance. I revel in the blue sky, And the green world of summer. THERESA NETCEL, '51 18 RUTH TAUB, '51 HOKKU To the bright lamplight The Hies come to celebrate - This is their night-club. HELEN SCHILLER, 'go 7' 14 iw OH, FAN It reposes on its red plush bed- A delicate fan, Contrived from line lace web. Oh, lovely, lonely thing, Who were the coquettes Who Hicked and Huttered you? ANITA MAZZARELLA, ' 50 7 UA.. Rf 0 Sap When I reached my thirteenth birthday, I felt important. I tried to dress in a more sophisticated manner by wearing dresses only half an inch above my knees instead of two, by eliminating those dreadfully big child- ish hair ribbons, and by wearing a bit of make-up on special occasions. I also thought that learning to cook was a must Mother agreed to let me prepare an entire meal for our family and we set the big date for the next Friday evening. I chose the following menu: vegetable soup, weenies, sauerkraut, baked beans, salad, jello and cookies, milk for my sister and me, and coffee for Mother and Dad. On Thursday, I learned that Mother couldn't be home for my din- ner. At first I felt a little dejected, but soon a fine feeling of independence overwhelmed my fears. . , To make up for her absence, Mother had helped me with the prepa- rations, so when I came rushing into the house Friday aftemoon, I found practically everything I needed right in the middle of the kitchen table, including a long list of suggestions. It was 3: 35. I took the weenies out of the refrigerator, and started to set the table. In less than live minutes the once-crowded table was completely empty except for the suggestion list. Mother had written that she had put the soup into the pot in which it was to be heated, so I turned on a low Hame under the only pot I saw. Everything was going according to plan. In fact, I had twenty minutes to spare before serving time. Thus I elaborated with flowers for a centerpiece, and made place cards for my family guests. VVhen Dad walked through the front door, I started to dish out the simmering soup. There were crackers to go with it and also freshly made croutons. Dad, my sister, and I sat down to a meal which was to be long remembered in our home. Before I took my Erst mouthful, I was mentally double-checking everything for the next course. While I was meditating, my Dad ejacu- lated, What in heaven's name did you do to the soup?. It's the most vile-tasting stuff I've ever put into my mouth. While he was storming, my sister ran to the refrigerator, opened it, and fell into paroxyms of laughter. Between convulsions, she managed to bring out a pot of good-tasting soup from the refrigerator. I barely heard the conversation that ensued, but I comprehended that what I 'had served so elaborately was dish water from the pot that mother had put to soak! CAROL CHANENSON, ' go f. I B l wgn b- 1 4-1.1 6 S 1151-susan! - 1 - , i . . x my Kanacla I have always been proud of my Canada. It is the country of my mother's people, and I have been going there every summer of my life, so I feel it is really a part of me. Each time I cross the border, I think I am in the Old World, because French is spoken there at all times. After I cross the Saint Lawrence River by ferry from Quebec, I am surrounded by the typical Canadian countryside: rolling hills, furrowed fields, and old dirt roads dotted by an occasional wooden farmhouse, or small villages with tall church spires reaching heavenwards from cozy green valleys. By the side of each dirt road worn by wagon wheels, stands the Crucifix, a symbol of the Quebec faith. For centuries, peasant women with baskets of blueberries picked from the fields, or farmers going to their work, have knelt beside the humble wooden Cross. The village of Sainte Claire has always been especially mine, for La Flammes have lived there for centuries. It is typical of all small Canadian villages, with its elaborate church, small brown schoolhouse, and little brook which passes right through the main street. Our house, like the others, is small. It is all one story, with large French windows, and a low-hanging roof. Its wooden walls have withstood the heavy snows for many years. Throughout the year, the kitchen is the center of all activity, for it houses the only means of warmth: the woodstove. Water is obtained through a pump, which is inside the village house, but outside the farm house. The oil lamp is yet the only means of light, and it gives off a warm glow upon the plain wooden walls. The kitchen cupboards are usually furnished with immense loaves of homemade bread, fresh butter, bottles of rich, red wine. Fresh Gaspe fish, pea soup, and potatoes are standard fare at a Canadian meal. Most of the clothing and linens are made by hand, and the beds are always covered by thick patchwork quilts with splashes of green, blue, and red carefully stitched in. The daily family gathering takes place after supper, when the women work on their sewing, and the men smoke their long pipes. It is here that the happenings of the day are gone over, while the children tend to the woodstove. Each time I visit my Canada, I gain a greater sense of belonging to both our great United States and her friendly neighbor, Canada. SUZANNE HOFFMAN, '50 lard Wglif , It's dark out here on the steps, yet I can feel movement all around me. The day has been warm and now an evening breeze is gliding among the overcrowded houses to bring relief to the thousands who sleep. In the apartment house next door, the remainder of a breath of air pushes against a stubbom shade in an effort to let a breeze whisper through the room and cover the restless sleeper with a sheet of cool comfort. A I like to sit here on the porch and feel the darkness of night close in about me. In the distance, I can hear a shrill train whistle. The sound is abrupt and sudden, disturbing the stillness. Then, in a moment, peace has drifted back, and the night is again the same. It's nice to sit here and think: just over the railroad track, the sun is coming up for daybreak. Life is just beginning to stir among the deserted streets in a distant town. The rising sun spreads its fingers through the slits of Venetian blinds and prods the eyelashes to open slowly. The insistent jingle of an alarm clock keeps rhythm with the clanging of milk bottles being set on the steps by a sleepy milkman. The steady clip-clop of horse's hoofs walks toward the rising sun and a busy day. ' NANCY WINTER, '51 A2 j'86l5lfLP8 The time was Christmas, 1Q42Q in the air was the smell of pine and snow. I remember hurrying about my morning tasks, happy with Christ- mas joy. Today was the day of magic, the day Grandfather baked pies and bread, the day Grandmother made the Christmas pudding, and, most important of all, the day Mother and I got the tree. It was that glorious day before Christmas! I All my presents were stored away in my closet and I remember running to look at them as they lay in all their shining glory, just to make sure the day was real and not a dream. They looked to me like a group of sparkling stars lost from the heavens and fallen to earth to nestle in my closet. But the thing that I remember best was getting the tree. Mother walked ahead of me down the snowy street and I had to run to keep up with her. I would catch on to her hand and skip along by her side. Then we were in the fairyland of pine trees. Row on row of trees stretched underneath the string of naked colored bulbs - big giants of trees, little baby trees, and some just as tall as Mother. The man kept. stamping his feet from the cold, and I stared at his ruddy cheeks and the little puffs of smoke that came from his mouth when he talked. He led us down the forest of pines and stopped to tell us the names of the trees and how Ene they were and how the pine needles wouldn't fall on the carpet. Atlast we found a tree which seemed to be just what we wanted. The man put it on the ground, then, pulling as he did so, he tied the green branches tightly together. Merry Christmas! he sang to us as we started homeward. I remember the glow I felt as my arms surrounded my end of the tree. We had no car, so Mother and I had to it home. The pine needles bit into my arms and it was hard to manage but I didn't care. It was our tree, our beautiful tree! Soon it would be covered with bubbles of colored lights and silvery tinsel. Soon all the lovely presents would lie under its branches. When we got it home, we put it into a corner of the side porch and hunried inside the warm house. The savory smells of spicy raisin cookies, paper-thin sugar cookies, rich plum puddings, roasted nuts, and many other good things greeted us as we shook the snow from our boots. I remember the snow lying in little heaps on the linoleum floor and then its life melted away as it ran in small streams to form puddles on the floor. Mother made some hot chocolate for us to drink before supper to shake 0E the chill of the December weather. The wind takes each Hake- They dance to the merry tune That silver sleigh bells make- They whirl in the light of the moon! A dull, grey day . . . Dressed in a cape of fog, Wearing her hat of darkness And gloves of gloom. I look around the happy kitchen now: Mother looking down on a small girl with pigtails, who holds in her small thin hands a cup of bub- bling hot chocolateg Grandmother smiling as she closes the oven door on the rich fruit cake, Grandfather, his big frame bent over the board, rolling dough as he sings a lively Welsh hymn. I cannot help the tears which come into my eyes or the hard lump which forms in my throat. Grandfather and Grandmother are dead now and Christmas is very lonely without them. But all things must pass away and though the moments themselves are lost, the memories are kept in the heart where they grow golden with age and lovelier with each year that passes. The world would be a lonely place without memories. The world can no more do without memories than it can do without the rose, or the birds, or the laugh of a small child. All your life the happy moments are yours simply for the asking - a treasure within your reach. BEATRICE BOLLINGER, '51 SNOW DANCE MILDRED FLORCZAK, '5o MILDRED FLORCZAK, ' 50 Black trees swirling, Swooping, twisting, Scolding, threatening, Shaking their fingers At the strong March wind. BARBARA LEVENBERG, '52 xuuuig N ,WWW , , ,W ,,, A T 3: go P. M. QW-, 15.M. SENIOR 1:00 A.M. 8:00 P. M. f 1 r ' 4: 30 P.M. Pao 5: 30 4P.M. 7:00 P.M. ln 6:00 PM 1. Qs., It was the day we had all been waiting for and working for. We would have our chance. One chance, that was all. It was the day of the try-outs for the All-State Band. I made my way through the crowds of anxious high school students to the desk with the neatly printed sign saying: Flutes, Oboesg Bass, Alto, and E flat Clarinets. I received my score sheet and number. I would be the fourteenth Hutist to try out. Oh, how could I wait that long? In the warm-up room, I saw many familiar faces. Dot, Carol, Iohnny, and I had been the flute section in the 1949 All-State Orchestra. I shall never forget Iohnny's piccolo solo and his expert flute playing. I had often wondered how I had captured third seat, while he was only fourth. Now we were each trying for a place again in the All-State Band. I could scarcely hear myself play, let alone think, in the warm-up room. All candidates, as we were impersonally called, were nervously replaying the scales and solos that we had practiced daily for the past months in preparation for this momentous day. Iohnny looked at me. I smiled, but he was intent on his music. I saw in his pocket the same solo that I was to play and knew then that he had made the same selection. A few scales later, I crossed the room and aslgd, Are you playing Mozart's Second Concerto, too? His mouth widened into a grin as he said he was. ' I waited outside in the hall. An atmosphere of anxiety enveloped us all. We experienced nervous giggles, icy Engers, and depressing feelings. I drew closer to the door to listen. johnny was inside, playing our concerto as I had never heard it played before. I felt good for him, but doubtful of myself. I wandered aimlessly down the corridor. At the corner, a boy with a stern, freckled face ordered me to my portion of the hall. He was obvi- ously proud of his responsible duty. I took my time in returning as the sparkling fountain was a temptation. I found Iohnny closing the door to the try-out room. His whole being, limp with fatigue, told his story. I saw the deep hurt in his eyes and drawn look on his face. He said only four words: I didn't make it. I stood there, saying nothing, thinking of nothing I could say. He began to relate to me the events of his try-out. Twice they had made him play everything and then they said, You certainly need a lot more work on that instrument. He raised his eyes to mine, searching for the reason. My mouth was dry and all I could say was, Oh, Iohnny, I don't understand at all! He smiled a weak smile and walked stiffly down the hall. As I entered THAT ROOM, I looked from one judge to another. I cannot remember much about my try-out. I stood there, struggling my way through the solo. At least it was over! I came out, feeling defeated. Four hours later, they started to post the numbers of the flutes that had made it. Suddenly I somehow knew that mine would be there but Iohnny's would not. As mine was being written, I felt that his should be taking its place. A sense of great relief swept over me and I rushed to the registration desk to pay my membership fee. The man smiled at me, as if he knew how much I, and all of us, had gone through. I still couldn't believe I had made it! ' As I turned to leave, I saw Iohnny across the room, aimlessly watch- ing a bass-player packing his bull fiddle into its giant canvas cover. He came over to me. He smiled faintly. Congratulations! I'll have to be just the moral support of the flute section this time. I could not think of the right thing to say. I opened my mouth, closed hit, and then mumbled, Well, I'll be seeing you. I gathered up my belongings and headed hastily for the door. NANCY HOFFACKER, 'go ' MUSING Into a stream of water that was running down the drain, I just now pushed a small bug, no bigger than a fruit Hy. And then my thoughts went whirling, round and round like the water: If I were that bug, and my hand the hand of- fate, what then? How cruel we mortals be! JOAN ANDERSON, ' 50 27 PLIEE Oh, dancers, dance on 'Neath the glaring spot. Express my feelings For I can dance not. HELEN SCHILLER, '5 Over fda jUOPg .jcgff When I was fourteen, I started singing in the church choir. I was the youngest of the twenty members. We wore straight black robes and dazzling white cottas that flared out in every direction land flattered no onej . Our procession inched down the middle aisle, singing the opening hymn. At three different intervals in our progress, our voluminous frocks puffed out like sails, from the hot air that rose from the iron-laced grates in the Hoor. VVhen we reached the rear door, we dashed through it into the marble foyer and passed through a doorway on the left that gaveadmit- tance to the spiral staircase and balcony above. Bits of decrepit plaster always sprinkled down, dislodged from old, old moldings as a result of our clattering feet and the powerful vibrations from the great pipe organ. After stepping across a short passageway and down a step or two, we found ourselves in the balcony. Once there, we seated ourselves on the chairs clustered about the organ console. We peered down at the unsus- pecting parishioners and criticized their hats. We waved to the restless tots who turned their faces up, apparently amazed that we were suddenly upstairs. The church interior was somber. Thick fluted columns supported the arched Gothic roof. Lantern-like lamps hung from the high ceiling, each supported by a sturdy iron chain. The church was tragically in need of repairs and the beautiful decorations were peeling off the wall in ma- roon Hakes. The altar seemedto possess a rainbow aura, especially when the sun streamed purple, green, and red through the kaleidoscopic windows. The rear wall consisted entirely of glass panels. The most appealing sight to me was the intricate pattern made by the moving feet of the organist. They always seemed to know exactly where to go. The pedals themselves were arranged like immense piano keys. I couldn't see the keyboards from my position, but once I leaned over and counted one, two, three, four of them. The piano has only one keyboard. I'd like to play upon the organ, I thought. I'd love to produce a booming that would cause loose plaster to rain, or to whisper a sound so still it would make the very air listen. After three years of wishing, my desire was fulfilled. Since I was then taking piano lessons, I reasoned that there wouldn't be time for both pi- ano and organ instruction. The piano lessons were regretfully dropped. No more would someone be standing over me, counting and tapping, noting all the sour notes, telling me to stop watching the clock, or remarking that surely I couldn't need another glass of water. I chose to study in the familiar church with the organist who played there. The first time I came for a lesson, Mr. Brown asked me to play a piano solo. I whizzed through my masterpiece, a polonaise by Franz Liszt. That's quite pianistic, he remarked. You'll find the organ quite different. There couldn't be that much difference, I assured myself as I followed him up the middle aisle of the church. Spectres seemed to come from each cheerless pew. The clip-clop of our steps sounded through- out the dark interior. When we reached the door on the left side of the foyer, Mr. Brown produced the key and creak! the door swung open. The click of the light switch echoed dismally up to the belfry. When we reached the loft, nothing but the sun-lit altar could be distinguished by a glance down- ward. No bright lighting, no silly hats, no tired children-nothing but darkness. The empty choir seats formed a U-shaped border on three sides of the console. The low balcony railing and the organ bench completed the rectangle. I seated myself on the long narrow board, my back to the enormous auditorium and my face to the four rows of keys. Little plastic tabs shaped like Hat lady-lingers protruded in neat rows of twelve. Each of these had printed upon it a name and number. The organist knocked down a few tabs here and there, after first pushing a button on the side to start the motor. He then sounded a few notes. These WERE quite different from the simple 88 pianoforte keys. A completely new method had to be mastered. Keyboards couldn't be called keyboards, they were manuals Tabs were not tabs, but stops The initial lesson was all technique. I was accustomed to the piano on which you can strike a note and continue to sound that note by put- ting the sustaining pedal down. Not so on this instrument, because there is no sustaining pedal. Now I had to keep my linger on a key till it was time to let it up and, in the meantime, awkwardly exchange my fingers so the next note could be reached without difliculty. Learning to use two feet in conjunction with two hands was quite a task. When probing the strange wooden slats with both feet, a safe balance was hard to maintain. And because I was a novice at this odd form of equilibrium, I fell into the organ three times. I wastglad I hadn't fallen backwards, for the balcony railing was no higher than the organ bench. I was given a key to the door of the spiral steps and thus had access to the church at any time that I could muster the courage to enter the silent darkness and not feel frightened by echoes of my own footsteps upon the tiled floor. I brought a Hashlight to disprove my ghost theories. I l Each day as soon as school was done, I hurried to the organ loft and practiced my dreary exercises. As I absorbed technique upon technique, a melody crept into my repertoire. I cherished this tune and repeated its simple strain, using different pipes every time. Once it was a mellow love song, in an instant, it was transformed to a plaintive lament, then to a triumphant bursting of joy. Eight weeks flew by, and Mr. Brown left on a two-month tour of Europe about the same time that summer vacation began. He gave me many, many pages from a big gray book to work on during the summer months. I practiced during the noon hours and again toward night time. The thick walls of the old structure barred the season's heat waves. A number of friends came inside with me to listen, they said, but really, I suspect, to escape the summer weather. Came September and I knew the assigned pages to perfection. No more would I teeter and totter back and forth, searching for the pedal notes. No more did the chords seem choppy and disconnected. All the phrases seemed smooth and polished to me. I saw Mr. Brown on a September Saturday and arranged to begin lessons Friday afternoon. I practiced now with fervor. The hour came at last. Cheeks aglow, I made the ascent up the stairs, good-naturedly scuifed oif my loafers and slipped into the black, old-ladyish oxfords whose raised heel gave my anklet-clad leg a slightly rakish appearance. The last minute practicing almost made, me forget the time. He's Eve minutes late. Perhaps his dinner was delayed. Ten minutes slipped by. My enthusiasm waned. VVhen a quarter of an hour had gone, I descended into the center way. Footsteps were clearly audible. Why are you so late? I asked. W'hatza matter here? cackled a gruff voice. It was the sexton. Have you seen Mr. Brown? Didn't ya hear? He was walkin' on Main Street, when smack! a cab knocks him down Hat as flat can be. He's laid up for at least six weeks with a broken kneecap - may never be able to play again. Slowly I went upstairs. I turned off the powerful motor, slid once more into my loafers, put out the lights, and walked home, with my sedate, black oxfords dangling by their laces at my side. fP.S. - Mr. Brown did recover and did feel that my summer's work had not been in vain.j . MERRILL SKRAMOVSKY, ' 50 ullluq LO'V!E'S LABOUR LOST Now is the problem: What to cook for lunch? A bowl of soup for my Honeybunch? A lookin the pantry. What does it reveal? Not even soup for a decent meal! So I put on my coat to run to the store, The place is crowded with shoppers galore. Maybe I need some pepper or salt? If things are tasteless, it'll be my fault. I guess I really don't need tea, In spite of our dear Arthur Godfrey. Do need coffee or is it bread? I This is driving me out of my head!j Do I need peas or a pint of milk? Or is it flour, as Soft-As-Silk? Here I wander, trying to think: Maybe it's cider or something to drink? If I keep this up, I 'll never get started! A fool and her money, they say, are soon parted. l start down the aisle and go through the store Buy everything in sight, and a little bit more. Then I stop for a chat, while I put out the cash, Pick up my change, must be home in a Hash. My steps are lagging, and how my arms sag Under the weight of this huge shopping-bag. lk wk lk I The phone rings - it's my dear Honeybunch, Saying l1e's taking The Boss out to lunch!!! MARIE ANGELLO, '50 Consider how fortunate is the SHE Wh0's always sure of getting a HE! 5 SUZANNE HOFFMAN, '50 Cadillac? Mink? There's nothing I'd like better Than that longexpected letter! IENNIE SCROFANI, ' 50 They say that walking is good for the figure- It gives me an appetite that makes me bigger. JANE OsUcH, '50 32 CROWN OF GLORY Comb it and brush it And set it every night, Take it out next morning- Still it looks a fright! IEAN GRUEN, ' S2 MI SERY Have a salad - no more candy. Books on calories come in handy. No potatoes, no more pie. When I think, I just sigh. Protein bread! Why not try it? Oh, what misery! Darn this diet! IEAN GRUEN, ' S2 lane, while dashing through the wood, Had felt so very lively. But glum she was that Wednesday next With a case of poison ivy. VERA SCHEDIN, '50 A !D!RIV!E!R'S DIILEMNIAS fWith apologies to Ioyce Kilmerj I thought that I would never learn To shift a gear, or make a turn, Or learn the way to work the clutch, And not to press the gas too much. I thought that everyone was mean To beep at me 'cause I was green. I couldn't understand just why They hung the trallic lights so high, Or why, although I steered quite fine, The wheels went over that white line. I 'll get my license-if and when- Hope I'll stay alive till then. NANCY ERNST, '50 , ,,. L AWAIKIENIHNIG Is that a robin's voice I hear, Telling me that Spring is near? Spring, With her beautiful woodland noolcs, Spring, with her rhythmic dancing brooks, Spring, with her sweet lyrical breeze, Spring, with her green singing trees, Sends raindrops with their radiant gleams To awaken the Howers from their dreams. PIERHAPS? The rain has ceased to fall. It is a misty afternoon. I can hear the birds chirping Happily in their own little World. Perhaps, Perhaps Spring has silently Stolen her Way Home again! LYDA IENEY, '50 SHIRLEY ANN IACKSON, 'go WHERE IS SPRING? Where is Spring with her scented breezes? Witlr her wand that changes all to a green young hue? I feel nothing but the winter wind that freezes - I see nothing but a dreary sky of gray, not blue. HELEN Koprco, ' go 55 , 'F' 1. oc... , JW There were still nine shirts for Molly to iron, and it was three o'clock. Bill was going back to college tomorrow, and she probably would not see him for two weeks. He would be gone when she got home from work to- morrow. ' The mother plugged in the iron cord again with a weary sigh, I'll never get these shirts ironed at this rate. She was tall and thin. Her hair was tightly drawn back and made into braids which were wound around her head. One could tell by look- ing at her hands that she had always worked hard. They were large hands with the veins showing through the shiny thin skin. Hi, Mom, did Adelaide call? It was Bill. Yes, she wants you to call her. She frowned a little when she said this. When she was young, girls did not call boys. Bill went into the living room and turned on the radio. Oh! There's the Dugan man. I guess we'll get a loaf of rye bread, she thought as she looked into the bread box. It was Saturday and she would need some for Linda's lunch Monday. So the afternoon passed and evening found her still ironing. Bill had gone now. I'll have to stop now to start supper. I'll do the other shirts afterward, she thought. Her hands quickly smoothed and folded the material. Molly went to the ice box and took out the clam chowder. She would make a salad with lettuce, tomatoes, and shredded carrots. Linda would like that. She heard her daughter at the front door. Oh, Mom, did you iron my white blouse? live got to wear it to- night. Ben is picking me up after work and we're going out, Linda said, as she threw off her coat and gloves' and went into the bedroom to set her hair. No, I didn't, but l'll do it while you eat. I don't know where Bill is. He should be home by this time. It's six o'clock. She started to iron Linda's blouse but the iron was not quite hot enough. She sat down, waiting for it to heat. I never seem to see my children any more. Of course, with my working live days a week and Linda working too, and Bill going to college and living at the dormitory, there isn't much opportunity. She tried to force the lonesomeness back into a corner of her mind, but it refused to remain there. They could stay home with me just once in a while and we could be all together-still, I know how it is. They're young and want to go out, she kept arguing with herself. - The feeling of loneliness persisted after dinner. The house seemed so quiet. She began to wash the dishes. A tear escaped, but she quickly brushed it away with a determined gesture. Maybe Edith would come over tonight or Helen would call, she thought to herself. But no one called, and no one came. ' ANNE MARIE EHRHARDT, 'go A SCHOOLGIRUS LAMEN T The morning's cold, the alarm clock rings. Who invented those awful things? OPTIMISM 'Tis cold and I am freezing- And soon I shall be sneezing. The room is chillyg in fact, it's cold. My hinges creak - I 'm getting old! I jump out of bed and quickly dress, MARIAN GABRIEL ' o I e I 1 7 One look in the mirror: my harris a mess. No time for worry, I 've a deadline to meet. My breakfast is ready, and I still have to eat. REALISM The tiny snow Hakes flutter- Al tthlk:'t'l t'h! g ance 8 C C Oc I S 3 mos elg t I shiver and close the shutter. I 'll have to hurry or I 'm sure to be late. MARY MCLEVEY, 'go We're off to school, my pals and I . A few more months, the three of us sigh. The wind is bitter, it feels like snow. Why don't we go and see a show? X When we're almost convinced that we should turn back, .Z . . -l x We look in our purses, find our money is slack. We finally agree, as we tread up the hill, Of more education, we sure need our fill. Xi! i . of i BARBARA STEFEK, '50 ' , I 'K - ' g lab g Q'6Ifl L6!l'l'L0fA8I' I Some people might say my grandmother is a funny little old woman, and they would be right. Lottie Nieburg was born in Lebeau, Latvia, about eighty-four years ago and, as she herself often tells us, she was pretty, and had long dark curly hair. It grew lighter as she aged and now one might think she had been a blonde. My grandfather was a dashing, handsome soldier. Soon after they met, they fell in love and married. fShe had only a small dowry, so it must have been love.j They remained in Lebeau and had nine children, two of whom died. My grandmother cooked all sorts of different dishes from potatoes and bread, since these were their main foods. She kept a goat which she milked herself. After all the other work was done, she would sew late into the night, making clothes for her own family and other families as well. The trip to America was, as she expresses it, a terrible thing. Everyone got seasick, including my grandmother, for the storms were bad. The first thing I remember about my grandmother was her telling me stories. I remember best the one about the wolf and the seven kids, which she told so vividly. It went something like this: A mother goat always was tormented by an old wolf. On going shopping one day, she warned her seven kids to beware of the wolf. The wolf tricked them into thinking he was their mother. He ate them all except the youngest who had hidden in the clock. The kid told his mother what had happened when she came home. She quickly ran to the wolf's hiding-place, cut open his stomach while he was sleeping, and out jumped all the kids. The mother goat refilled his stomach with rocks and when the wolf awoke and went to get a drink, he drowned from the weight of the stones. How many times I listened entranced to this tale she told so dramatically! VVhen my grandfather died about Eve years ago, my grandmother came to live with us. I had to do a lot of brushing up on my Jewish in order that I might carry on conversations with her. We got our television set last year. At first my grandmother did not like the programs, especially the Western Elms. Now just let anyone try to change the program while the riders are on. She is completely sure of the heroes and heroines and is able to tell every little detail incorrectly. L 1 One day the hero will be tall and thin, the next day he will be short and fat, but she will always call me and say, Look, Doris, the same one as yesterday. Two weeks ago all the family had gone out but my grandmother. She had started the water in the kitchen to wash her dishes when she decided that one little look at the television could harm no one. She was overjoyed to find there was a Western film on. Ten, fifteen minutes passed. The water was still running and my grandmother was still watching the Western film. Twenty-live minutes passed and the picture was finished. She walked innocently back into the kitchen and almost had to swim to the stove. We arrived home soon afterwards and found her sitting on the floor with a rag in her hand, trying to dry up some of the Hood. The water had run down the cellar stairs and washed away the village my brother had so laboriously constructed inside the circle of his electric train. The walls and some of the cellar furniture were soaked through. The thing that struck me so funny was that this little accident occurred in the midst of the water shortage when all the radios were continually blasting: Save water! Save water! I stood there and laughed and everyone wondered why. In spite of her few idiosyncrasies, my grandmother is a lovable woman. She always worries about us and wants to help out in every way possible. The other night my sister was going out to a nearby movie with one of her boy friends. Since it was raining, she put on slacks and a blouse. My grandmother gave her a good talking to, telling her we should always look our best. If it were up to her, we would wear high heels and silk dresses to a hen party. If you are ever around my neighborhood, stop in at my house, and if you hear someone explaining last night's Western feature down to the minutest detail, you may be sure that that's my grandmother. Donrs BLACKMAN, 'go THIS WEATHER! One day the wind will howl and cry, The next the rain Will fall, The third will be both warm and dry, The fourth, snow covers all. The fifth again is warm and bright, The sixth I 'll spend in bed- For all this freakish weather has Given me a cold in my head. RENEE MORGAN, 'go Pep and spirit less and less, Really lazy all day long, l'm not feeling very strong. Gee! I guess it must be Spring! BARBARA BRACKER, '52 57 Something's wrong with me, I guess. Nothing worth while, not a thing! - ,H 102 The cell is dark and dreary, The warden stern, though weary, I sit here with a wrought and angry face. For if I'd paid attention, I'd not been told, Detention! I 'd never been in this forsaken place: MARILYN RUBEL, '52 In homework to my neck I'm sunk - Yet I'm afraid that I will Hunk. HELEN SCHILLER, '50 CAFETERIA At last you get in line, With patience await your share. The girls ahead took all the best- And only beans are there! Donrs BLACKMAN, '50 58 The clock ticks and time passes, But it sure stands still when I'm in classes. AVALYN Coorc, '50 Of all the pupils for teacher to see- Why, oh why must it always be me? , IENNIE SCROFANI, '50 In Latin and in Spanish, too, I find my brains are all too few! ABBY WELTCHEK, ' 50 RUGGED INDIVIDUALIST The conductor, a master of music, Produces tones pleasing to hear, But alas, in the midst of the music, My sour notes often appear. ABBY WELTCHEK, ' 50 Look to the future, What do you see? Men in Battin - That can't be! A pool for gym, An elevator for all, Soda in fountains, Carpets in the hall. I I leave this poem To all of you, Who still think dreams Can ever come true. BARBARA CLICK, '51 jafa! may Marking Day! Dire images weigh heavily on my mind. I remember that zo on the last test. Did SHE really mind that time when I forgot my report? I don't think SHE cared too much when I handed my note- book in late. That school dance. VVhy didn't I introduce Bob to Her? There's a frown on Her face! Now She must be marking my card. Maybe I should look nonchalant? No, I must look interested. How will I ever show the card to Mom and Dad? Poor dears, they have worked so hard just so I'd be able to go to college and have all the opportunities they missed. Oh, well! I'll get work. Let's see: live feet eight, tall and sturdy. Yes, I'll get work. Oh, teacher, you are so stingy, stern, and severe. If you only knew how much I've dreamed of going to college. Right this second my college transcripts are sitting on the principal's desk, waiting for my personality ratings! I hope you're happy. It's your fault. It is! It is! If it wasn't for you, I would practically be on my way to college. Here's my card. Should I look? I will. I'll be brave. Oh! She gave me an 85 and a 2 in citizenship! What a doll! She is without doubt the most scintillating, scholarly, stupendous woman! LINDA ARLINE BUDIN, 'go KAGWLIQ 07' d 61? I got up at 6: go as usual that morning to End that it had snowed the night before. Of course, it was the first real snow' we'd had, even though it was the beginning of February, but that certainly wasn't of any great importance. I got dressed, ate breakfast, and by 7:15 was wide- awake enough to leave for school. The morning rehearsal went along as smoothly as usual. All my classes before lunch were just as dull as they always were. I do recall now that something happened after lunch which may have influenced my frame of mind. My English mark did not drop as I had expected it to. But that still wasn't earth-shaking. At three o'clock a strange feeling came over me. I really can't des- cribe it except to say that I felt a slight anticipation. After school a kind soul gave us a ride downtown, for which we were very happy, because the snow was extremely packable and the boys were extremely juvenile. When we reached our destination, I climbed the stairs eagerly. But little did I then know, or hope, that I would walk out victoriously an hour later, having bowled the tremendous score of 109. NANCY ERNST, 'go ciwaereb W0 jrigaalfe clue a, E0 U Five library books stand before me, pleading mutely, yet eloquently, to be returned to their snug, dark homes on the shelves after their four- teen-day vacation. I don't know why I got Eve books out- at times I strongly suspect my line money is one of the main sources of income for the Elizabeth Library. Each library has a character all its own. The big downtown library is made of dignified white stone, with Pax Vobiscum on the front. When I was small, I used to struggle up a narrow Hight of steps ficy in Winter and bestrewn with spiders at their work in summerj -up, up, ever so high, to the spacious, airy Children's Room. When I close my eyes, I can still see the cream-colored wall, the pictures over the desk, which were changed every month or so. I was particularly interested at this time in the series of Twin Books and avidly read the stories of the Stone Age Twins, The French Twins, The Colonial Twins, et cetera, until the wonder is that I did not begin to see double. How proud I was when I was permitted to enter that large gloomy hall labeled For Adults Only ! Now I walk sedately up the front steps and, entering the library proper, eye the latest best-sellers with what I hope is a properly sophisticated air. My favorite haunt is the Battin library. Here, in the early morning, the golden sun streams in on the plants, changing their dusky leaves to purest emerald. The light is reflected from the tiny delicate goldiish swimming in their crystalline palace. Here in this busy place, I End a quiet corner to which I come ostensibly to study, but also to drink in the quiet beauty and peace I End here. I like libraries. I like their aura of greatness. When I think of all the wisdom, the laughter, the heartache, the longing of centuries that these shelves hold, I am deferential and humble. Outside in the world, I may be unhappy, hurt, or angry, but here, among the dim, quiet, musty rows of books, I amalways happy. My troubles flee unheeded and unmourned while I dance a stately minuet with Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy and all Miss Austen's wonderful people. A Polish patriot asks, Quo Vadis? And I answer that I am going to the Roman Forum, to the banquets of Nero, accompanied by the people of this decaying empire - some wise, some foolish, some idealistic, some degenerate, but all fascinating. The Bronte sisters whisk me away on a magic carpet to nineteenth century England, where I pursue the fortunes of small jane Eyre, unwanted, not beautiful, yet courageous and in- dependent in the face of a class-conscious society. Here I roam the moors of England with Heathcliff and Catherine, those ill-starred, half-earthly lovers. And so if I browse a bit and read a little of four books before I decide to take out one, it is because time, for me, stands still when I enter these doors. As Emily Dickinson said, There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away. THERESA NETCEL, '51 ZZ.. Now, what book do I have to look up? Oh, yes, Essays of Elia. I wonder if I should look it up under Essays or Elia Well, I'll try Elia. What a nice name! E-li-a. So romantic. Oh, gosh, why am I day- dreaming when I should be looking up the book? Now where was I? Oh, yes, here is the drawer for HE. Ecuador, Eden, Egypt, Electricity, Elizabethan Plays. VVhere, O where, can Elia be? Where, O where, has my little dog gone? There I go oif the track again. NVhy I can't keep my mind on some- thing long enough to get it finished I'll never know. Oh, I skipped poor Elia. But here's just the book I want, Eliza's Love Affairs. Seems very interesting. Oh, did you want to use this drawer? I'm sony! I was just looking for a book on Elia's essays. fMy goodness, what an old grouch! She never even said a word. You'd think I had stood here an hour.j My goodness, it's after 5:oo. If I hurry, I'll get home just in time for supper. Well, I'll try to find Elia tomorrow ........... ROSEANN YACULLO, 'go morbfalfiona The first clouds of evening streak the sky, and the sun has said its farewell and is hidden beyond the horizon. I gaze at the heavenly pageant before me, and I wonder: What is Cod? The sky is alive with the fiery red of the sunset and the deep ethereal blue of day. I feel a peace descending upon me that is strange and ab- stract, yet sweet and beautiful, and I wonder: Is this God? The water is calm and clear and an occasional wave laps against the shore. I think of all the other waters in the world and of their tumult as they clash and fight and finally dash high against rocky cliffs. I sense a feeling, not of peace, not of tumult, but a feeling of majesty, and I won- der: Is this Cod? i The wind is rustling through the trees and singing a melody, ex- quisite in its simplicity and magnificent in its grandeur. I see the trees swaying and the water rippling, and I feel the wind against my body, and I am content, and I wonder: Is this God? I see the first faint outline of a silver moon as it makes its way through the resisting clouds in the now darkened sky. I look at its beauty and symmetry, its magic that is there for me to see and feel, a magic that my senses cannot comprehend, and I wonder: Is this God? I see a distant light, shining like a beacon to the weary and forlorn, a comfort to the sorrowing, a proof to all mankind of the living reality of an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-present Supreme Intelligence. Then I know! This is the first star, shining brightly, beautiful and gracious, mirrored in the shimmering water, and I know: This is God! This is God! The sky, and the wind, and the rain, and the trees, and the mountains, and the sunset, the stars, and the water, all this-all this. The laughter of the young, the crying of the aged, the prayer of the worshipper, and the thankfulness of the blessed. Now I am sure, surer than I have ever been of anything before, and the feeling is stranger than any I have ever had. I can comprehend its beauty and magnificence and meaning, for I have seen God in' this pageant and am communing with Him in my heart. CHARLOTTE FTECHTER, '52 Life is like a leaf, Walking among the willow trees, Beautiful and fresh, when new, I felt a cool and gentle breeze: Soon apt to wither. Whispering softly, it seemed to sing, RUTH JOHNSON, 'go I love to blow at everything. MILDRED FLORCZAK, ' 50 V '! 1 1 .l ,,,,,,, , ,Y ,7 i W, 7 , , 7 OMF .9008 Our old coal-and-gas cook stove dominated the kitchen, and reigned like a queen over her loyal, admiring subjects. The plump, expressionless ice box stood humbly in the corner, while the dour-faced sink stared ahead of her. The stove was one of those old-fashioned pieces, complete with an assortment of angular pipes protruding from her body like a spider's legs. Her burners were dark with age and her oven protested vehemently at the slightest contact with Ere. It was diflicult to believe that she could be persuaded to make the delicious pies and cakes my mother is famous for. Unlike Miss McDonald, and her celebrated hostile stove of The Egg and I, I felt a 'warm affection for our ancient oven. Though I did not doubt my mother's talents, I had always harbored a suspicion that without our old stove, the desserts could not have been quite so mouth-wateringg but when a shiny, modern gas range replaced our old stove, I nursed my disappointment in silence. The other mem- bers of my family expressed great enthusiasm and profound love for the cold, unfriendly, streamlined porcelain body that stood where my beloved, homely oven had once been., I waited, feeling in my heart that the new range could never produce the same magnificent delicacies as the one before it. ' At first, when my Mother's baking dropped from the rating of excellent to just good, nothing was said. It was not until the choco- late cake was almost as Hat as the dish beneath it, that the slightest doubt was voiced. Well, said my sister, in- a defensive tone, it must be hard for Mom to get used to the new stove. Before long, the cakes will be better than they've ever been. After three more Hat cakes, two leaden pies, and a batch of burned cookies, the family admitted defeat. They could no longer conceal the fact that they had made a mistake. An old and faithful friend had been dropped by the wayside for the glitter of a streamlined modern model. GLORIA ISRAEL, '51 CATCH! He. looks at her, his deep brown eyes pleading, pitiful. His mistress reaches for a piece of meat. His eyes fill with gladness as she holds it in the air. He jumps for it, barking with excitement. Then he sits on his hind legs, his tongue hanging out, his mouth watering hungrily, anxiously waiting. Suddenly his eyes fill with disappointment. He drops to the floor in dismay as the bit of meat sails past him to the cat, sitting smirking behind him. BARBARA REID, '52 'Two Sonnets A SONNET: MUSIC What is this force that tears my heart in two? That makes me laugh, that makes me weep and si ng. The sound of rose leaves touched by morning dew: A melody upon a 'cello string? Or can it be the strong harmonic chords That echo from a mighty choir of brass? The clashing and the clinking of bright swords, As melody of woodwinds lightly pass? What is there in the mighty symphonies, Or what is there behind the power of strings That carries me through life's sad reveries And leaves me all enthralled by what it sings? The music that my life is patterned by Will live within me always till I die. SUZANNE HOFFMAN, 'go A SONNET: THE CITY There stands a lonesome tree, its roots down Its weary branches hanging cold and bare, Its trunk is heavy old, and drugged in sleep, So bent and twisted from its years of wear. ' deep, Some hungry children in the gutters play, They shiver in their dirty clothes so torn, Their parents work from morn till dusk each day, And hate the very day that they were born. The leaden s is often gray from smoke, The sun half hidden sends a wintry gleam. The thought of bright green grass is just a joke, The fragrance of the flowers but a dream. In cities all these thmgs you're sure to End, So stay and live there, fool, if you don't mind. RENEE MORGAN, ' go 45 John QWith many apologies to Carl Sandburgj Owner of the World, Money-earner, money-waster. Player with girls' hearts, And his parents' headache ! Stormy, husky, brawling, Boy with the Big Shoulders: They tell me you are conceited and I believe them, for I have seen your strutting Walk and off-hand manner. And they tell me you are selfish and I ansvver: Yes, it is true you care more for your own comfort than for others'. And they tell me you are jealous and my reply is: On the streets I have watched your possessiveness with a girl. And having answered so, I turn once more to those who sneer at him, my ideal, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another boy with a blue convertible and a ten-dollar- a-week allowance. A boy with lifted head, singing, so proud to be alive and strong and pop- ular, F linging witty sayings to the group of girls clustered about him, here is an Adonis set vivid against the little soft females. Admired by his sex for his sense of dress: never a crease, spot, or wrinkle on his immaculate person. Bareheaded, Eating, Playing, Boasting, I Dancing, resting, dancing again. Under the long eyelashes the deep blue eyes sparkling the compliments every girl cares to hear, Under the natty fitting suit the suggestion of a perfect physique. And even as destiny advances, he is laughing, Laughing, as one hand runs through his black, curly hair. Laughing and bragging that under his wrist is pulse and under his ribs is the heart that makes the pulse. ' Laughing the husky, hearty laughter of youth, proud to be Gwner of the VVorld, Money-earner, Money-waster, Player With Girls' Hearts, and His Parents' Headache Proud to be the Boy with the Big Shoulders! DOROTHY OLIM, '51 .a.vY-...-,.,, H, gaafer As I sat in the cool, holy quietness of the church Sunday morning, and listened to the low voice of the minister, a feeling of peace and security came to me. I listened intently to the sermon, but two words that the minister spoke seemed to tug at my heart. He lives, the minister said. He lives. The words echoed louder and louder in my heart. Oh, what a world of meaning in those two small words! I could see Him as a rock in the wilderness, a shelter in the time of a raging storm, a friend when there are no friends. He lives. Yes, He lives in every song of the birds, the perfume of the flowers, the fertility of the soil, the cool- ness of the trees, the warmth of the sunshine, the height of the moun- tains, the depth of the valleys, in the heavens above us and the sweet earth beneath us, and in the minds and hearts of men. He lives. No wonder this feeling of peace and security came to me as I realized that, as long as I live, He will live in me and I will be secure. AL1soN HARRIS, 'go my American ome America: my happy, secure, and prosperous home. Democracy is the foundation of my home, built on the cooperation, determination, and sacrifices of those devoted to that cause. This founda- tion is strengthened by our Constitution. The main beams consist of the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The windows of this house are for visionaries, scientists, and all those willing to work and see a future of achievement. America is painted with all the colors, vivid and dull, that the Creator's palette holds. I love its green fields, grassy plains, dense forests, crystal lakes, purple mountains, muddy rivers, marshlands, rocky and sandy shorelines pounded by white-capped oceans. I There is no mortgage on this house for it has been paid for in lives, lives of men and women who willingly died to preserve and safeguard its principles. Our home, like any other, needs repairsg but fortunately we have the privileges and means for repairing and improving our Amer- ican Home. Inside, the heart of America pulsates, beating strong and loud enough to be heard around the world. , For this, I thank God that I am an American and can call America my home! JOAN BABISH, 'go N. N., I r .1 J Editor:-in-chief . Arrixtant Editor: Faculty Advirefr Elaine Brown Anna Carras Norma Chemris Edythe Cohen Cathy Coyne Mary Feehan Charlotte Fiechter Christine Fritsch Barbara Glick Jean Gruen . Elaine Hamm Beverly Hignett Gloria Israel Shirley Ann Jackson Toby Jacobs ...... .,.. . .....,.... .. ,,.. .......... .A ...,.... TGUCHSTONE LITERARY STAFF Lois Kopr, CATHERINE Zsmnouus ..,.. FRANCES Faiuzsu., HELEN KoPKo, Lucius TRIOLA : Henrietta Hoinowski, Alfhild Peterson, Ruth Stebbins Joyce Jamison Elinor Kahn Clare Kallio Helen Keselica Dolores Keys Rita Lopez Evelyn Marlmnas Raffaela Nufrio Jean Otto Joan Reagan Barbara Reid Marilyn Rubel A Evelyn Schafer Lillian Schneider Harriet Simberloil TOUCHSTONE ART STAFF Edizorr-in-rlaief ...... ANN DONNELLY, CAROLINE Zac!-:Au Caroline Adams Joan Adams Doris Blackman Beatrice Bollinger Ruth Cahill Margaret Cooper Vinnie Costanza Charlotte Curtis Onzelle Ellis Muriel Engesser Irene Florczak Barbara Glick Janet Gold Mary Jensen Joan Laughinghouse Helen Link Isabel Martinson Betty Morrison Leona Myszka Carole Newman Pat O'Leary Marcella Petroif Ruth Rocco Leonore Schutzer Barbara Sinclair Sara Gay Stetson Nancy Walker Janice Wandall Connie Wrigley Ruth Zuman TOUCHSTONE STAFF wishes to express appreciation to Miss Ayer, Mr. Ames, and many members of the Secre- tarial Training groups for their assistance in typing. Also thanks to our mailman, Leocadia Zimny. Donna Stock ' Mary Ann Suske Ruth Taub Doris Teller Diane Toker Nancy Winter Vivian Winter 1 'HL .v .fn , ' 1 -F T . Q 5, l ' ,Q L ' 14.1, - v fi- . A 1 ',, 2 ' I , . 1 ' x v Q K V A ln' lv . 1 I , V . ' K , X, ,. B Vee I X A rx 'V l','f , W.. , I X 1. w,,. ,, , A ,, . . x, fm- f ' 4 . 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