Bennett High School - Beacon Yearbook (Buffalo, NY)

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The BEACON 19 IN MEMORIAM Ralph Butts was one of the very best of the many fine boys at Bennett. He served in many conspicuous positions, notably as baseball manager, but he also served in many unpretending ways, notably as typist for the Beacon, telephone operator in the office, and carrier of the morning mail. He seemed possessed of one desire, to do all he possibly could for his school. And he did his best, for he stood among the highest on our honor roll. He seemed to have the respect and affection of all. Now that the Heavenly Father has taken him from us, many realize with a pang how much we loved him, but we think also how fine it is to have lived such a life, to win the victory with shining armor. ' -Oliphant Gibbons THINGS DIVINE CThese verses were found among the papers of Ralph Butts. They were written just a short time before his death, with no idea of publicationj These are the things I hold divine: A trusting child's hand laid in mine, Rich brown earth and windtossed trees, The taste of grapes, the drone of bees, A rhythmic gallop, long June days, A rose-hedged lane, and lover's lays, The welcome smile on neighbor's faces, Cool wide hills and open spaces, Breeze-blown fields of silver rye, The wild sweet note of the plover's cry, Fresh spring flowers, the scent of box, The soft pale tint of the garden phlox, Lilacs blooming, a drowsy noon, A flight of geese, an autumn moon, Rolling meadows, storm-washed heights, A fountain murmur on summer nights, A dappled fawn of the forest hush, Simple words, the song of the thrush, Rose red dawns, a mate to share With comrade soul, my gypsy fare, A waiting fire when the twilight ends, A gallant heart, and the voice of friends.

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is The BIIJ-lXC0N that are called high shoes , both laces are broken and clumsily knotted. As they stand on the busy corner, they are joined by a square, roughly-woven basket that is lined with newspaper and filled with pathetic bunches of drooping bittersweet and Chinese lanterns. There is a dreary finality about these shoes as they continue to stand beside the untouched flowers. Click-click, click-click! High-heeled, absurdly small patent leather pumps pass. They are shiningly new, and move as if in time to some remembered dance tune. They shed an air of assumed sophistication with their gay buckles, but their walk brings a smile of sympathy for the gaiety of youth and beauty. And so one may stand and simply look at shoes. Still, life, in its many phases of joy, heartache, and disillusionment, is passing by. -Doris Call 12233 1930 OLD JIM'S YARN Old Jim, although retired from the seas, was still an active spinner of yarns. Some were true, the others-well, they were very interesting. Wal, he began, when we requested a story one stormy day, the brig Nancy was a good ship. I know, for many's the storm we weathered together. But about the queerest thing that ever happened aboard her was when the news got round that three desperadoes had stolen a ship and were sailing in that part of the sea. A reward was oifered for them, dead or alive. We were well out at sea when we sighted a ship. She was sinking fast. We veered toward her and as we approached saw three men clinging to the mast. 'Ah, lads, here's our would be pirates,' I cried. We took them, none too gently, and locked them in the hold. They foughtg so we had to persuade them with a gun. They told us to put them oif at the next port. 'That we will, my robbers,' I said, 'but in irons! They opposed this, so we put them on bread and water. Three weeks later we sailed into port and turned them over to the police. I'll bet you got a lot 0' credit, interrupted old Bill Jones. Wal, I dunno 'bout that, said Jim slowly, ye see they were the wrong men. -Elizabeth Lindow C1235 1930

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20 The BEACON CONEY ISLAND Coney Island !-the noise and colorful movement of it all. Ever-changing, yet always the same. The rumble and roar of the roller-coaster, the tinny music of the concessions. What a glam- orous picture it makes! We went to Coney Island. For the fifth time in as many years we made the pilgrimage. Somehow you haven't really been to New York unless you have gone to Coney Island. It is a terrible place -noisy, dirty, and overrun with pleasure seekers of every nation- ality. fAmericans are in the minority.J But the lure remains. Chinatown, Harlem, the Village-all these you see once, and go home and tell your friends about them. But Coney Island! If you go once, you go again and againg and yet you never tell your friends-at least, your New York friends, for they will tell you, No real New Yorker ever crosses Brooklyn Bridge unless he is being buried in Greenwood Cemetery. We did the usual thing on our arrivalg that is, we bought bal- loons-red, blue, and silver, they were. Within fifteen minutes they had all burst. Q Coney Island balloons have a way of doing that.J But we didn't care, for already we were munching cotton candy and popcorn balls. fWe were deathly sick that night.J Then, as a matter of course, we squandered our money on that famous concession .which guarantees to give more bruises per square inch than any other in the world. We started down the circular shute with a rush, and with shrieks of merriment landed on the revolving floor. Within a minute's time, we were thrown, still shrieking, into the wide trough at the edge. Then through the revolving barrel-a merry chase, punctuated with tumbles and spills. And so on to the end-when we hurried out a sudden gust of air blew our skirts up around our heads. Frantically we clutched at them-but a merry little clown was paid to drag the hands away-much to the delight of the spectators. fThere are always spectators-many of them, laughing and shouting loudly- for that is the spirit of Coney Island.D Oh, we did other things this summer-just as we have done in other years, but now, as always, that day at Coney Island stands out from all the rest. -Elizabeth Winspear C 207 J 1928 Miss Brettle: When was Rome built? Dummy: At night. First: Who told you that? Second: You did 5 you said that Rome wasn't built in a day.