Bennett High School - Beacon Yearbook (Buffalo, NY)

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The BEACON - ii MOON -LOVE The moon in spring is my only love, He taps at my window with long white fingers. On winter nights when he is gone, The memory of his wooing lingers. Then deep in my heart is a tragic thought, My joy is marred by a single thing-- There are so many moonfsick maidens, And somewhere in the world it's spring. --Elizabeth Winspear 007, 1928 BOGKS FORGOTTEN Down on Fourth Avenue, New York, just off Union Square, dusty book' shops line the streets for about three blocks. These ancient nooks are small and unpretentious. In the summer days, when the lazy New York sun is splashing gold upon the sidewalks, thousands of tattered, musty volumes are set out in semiforderly array in long wooden boxes upon saw horses. No one passes without a short glance at least, at those dogfeared books. There is a lure behind a dirty wornfand'torn cover which cannot be escaped even if one 1S across the street. The casual onflooker finds little to please him. The books are mainly concerned with medicine, law, and the sciences, or are two or three year old novels whose bright stars have faded. There are notso many classics as would be expected there, but once in a while one may turn up a volume of Milton, Macaulay, or Bulwer. Sometimes old books are found. I remember finding an essay published in London in the year 1729 for the magnificent price of ifteen cents. Perhaps the prices are the most fascinating attractions in the mart. They range from five cents to fifty on the stands, while within the shops they progress from fifty cents to really large sums of money. One could assemble a library if he had but ten dollars and plenty of time. It is all great fun, even if you do not buy. But here is the point. Threeflourths of those books were written since 1900, and have been entirely forgotten, during this quarter century. Once they were new. One could not have known then by looking at their covers that they were worthless, that they were different in some way from their shelffneighbors. But they were of little value and the relentless verdict of the years has consigned them to this limbo of oblivion. Instead of retaining their youthful appearance and lasting quality, in the library of a learned man, they are tossed ruthlessly into dirty boxes and left to the careless hands and brains of the casual passerfby. A -Reuel Denney 12061 1928

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The BEACON ON EASTER MORNING Lilies-- Tall white Easter lillies, Candles in their silver holders, Sunlight- Filtering through stained glass windows, Music- The mighty swell of an organ, The hymn of a white robed choirg joy! the Lord is risen On Easter morning! -Elizabeth Spencer 12071 1928 IN MEMORIAM JANE M. BERKWATER EILEEN E. HAMILTON HELEN E. CHERMAZ THE WINDS Oh winds that blow so wild and free, You are a giant symphonyg The great bare branches of the trees Are harps the giants play with ease. But by the fires cheery glow I watch the flames that come and go, And in the coals I see the spring While o'er the hills the wild birds wing. The flowers bloom so fresh and fair Their perfume sweet is in the air. The water dances in the brook While I just sit and dream and look, Oh grand, sublime, in many keys, The broken chords sound through the trees, The joyous notes now louder grow, Then play, you harps, and blow, winds, blow. -Allen H. Weelock 12061 1928

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The BEACON MUD Ivlud--dirty, drab, mud- Black mud, slimy mud- Cozing mud, filthy mud. Filthy say you? Say not so, Black it is But filthy, noe- Say you rather of its beauty, Of the sacrifices made To make it. Say you rather of its stillness 'Neath the woodland shades That break it. On the river bed it lies Soft and gripping, Shifting as the brooklets rise, Shifting, slipping. Know you not what lies beneath Exposed to all who care to see? 'Tis the work of God above, Maker, of both you and me. He that made us made the mucl, just as man. He made the lands. Why, then, do you scorn to know it, This,the work of holy hands? Could they hear you, 'neath the Waters, Souls of trees would whisper low, Hearts of flowers would whisper softly, VVhisper gently, Say not so. For, to make its velvet smoothness Fragrant grasses gave their all, And 'tis o'er the dead pine needles That the rippling rivcrs fall. Sturdy oaks their bark have given just to make that ebon black: Deep within this succulent mire Lies the heart of tamarack. Even in this oozing blackness, In this fen so broad, Even in this sticky drabncss, In this mud, is God! John Hagmann Q224j 1928