Brooklyn Technical High School - Blueprint Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

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control of johnny's actions just in time to stay his hand. Why should he be the one to bring death to this peaceful spot? He need only keep still, and the bee wouldn't sting, but keep on making honey for an- other man. Can the essence of thought be trans- ferred through space without use of words, sounds or visible signs? Who knows? Wliyf did the pilot think of All In a Day friends, and home? What caused him to reflect that no harm could come to him by leaving the oasis of peace undisturbed? The bee and the pilot simultaneously gained altitude, one to find a fresh flower, the other to return to his base. Once again the sun was shining and a light breeze floated over the tiny bit of earth, which by some unseen force had been dedicated as a sanctuary of peace. by HAL BLOOM, C42 Illustrated by Hector Tomassi, 712 Whew! Am I glad that's over? Never did like shop lecture. Someday I'll quit school and I won't have to go through all this. Oh, well, no time to mope around, with that math test coming. I might as well face the music. Well, here she is, 5W8. May I exit more joyously than I enter. Better be quiet or old Hawkeye will have me taking de- tention on my program the rest of the term. Here come the papers. Hey! Give me a clean one this time. I'm sorry Mr. .l--H---, but you see--. Yes sir, Yes sir, I'm sorry, sir. Someday I'll tell that guy what I think of him. What's today's date? You're crazy- that was yesterday. It must be the fifth 'cause we started school the first. How well I remember that! Wow! Look at that first problem. Hey, Mr. J-, we never had that. Sure I was here Tuesday but --. We did. Yes sir, I'll keep Nun-M quiet. I The tangent is the mean proportional between the-the-theggosh, I don't know what, Psst, hey, Curley, how do you do the first? Don't sit there making believe you don't hear me, you rat, because-. Oops--no that wasn't me, Mr. I-M. Might as well try the others. Ha, this looks easy. This equals that, which equals both of them, making the first similar to the third and the fourth similar to the second, which means-. Hey, what am I getting myself into? Quick, Petey, what's the second? Come on, give me a break. Hold your paper up a little, will you? Xxx S - - iff 7

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Oasis by PETER LAURIDSEN, 713 Illustrated by Hector Tomassi, 712 In the middle of a war-torn, battle-scarred area, raggedly plowed by shot and shell until it presented a picture of utter desolation, there lay a small field, somehow still unscathed by the claws of this mad war-fury of mankind. Here all was serene and quiet. The outside din and devastation did not seem to penetrate this last outpost of nature. It seemed indeed quite another world to the young soldier who weariedly stumbled onto this oasis of life, so surrounded by death. Instinc- tively he felt that here he could get the rest that every fiber of his body seemed to be crying for. Here he could sleep and be in harmony with everything that lived. Here at last was a field where everything 6 lived and was ton- tent to let live in peace and harmony. Private john Doe awoke after a re- freshing sleep. Stretching lazily, his eyes still heavy with sleep, he heard a humming drone. The thought of airplanes flashed through his mind, but it proved to be merely a honey bee angrily buzzing J U43 -alight around. Presently the bee alighted on his hand, which, as he stirred in wakeful- ness, had covered the flower the bee was earnestly draining of nectar. Instinctively he raised the other hand on its errand of destruction in an offensive defense against a potential sting. Meanwhile high over head, returning from a successful flight over enemy terri- tory, a lone plane really was passing. The patch of green, unscarred by shell holes, did not escape the watchful eyes of the young pilot. Its peaceful contrast to sur- rounding evidence of destructiveness caused the pilot to nose down his plane for a closer lookg and then his scrutiny disclosed the helpless enemy. Ha! Another feather in his cap, and an easy one at that! Back on the ground reason had taken

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What? Only live minutes left! We just started. Something funny around here, yesterday's period seemed longer than to- day's. Holy smokes! There's the bell. Hey, Cf Men and Ink Ira, what did you have for the second? Whataya, crazy? Oh, you had that too, Pete? Woe is me! I should have taken a sick pass. by DOMINICK SCOTTO, C65 Illustrated by Hyman Spieler, 7G5 Since the dawn of time men have been writing in one form or another. In the years that have elapsed since the first author chiseled his masterpiece out of stone, they have evolved innumerable forms for their writings. Out of these, the essay stands out as the most charming and versatile of all. If the writers of the various forms of literary composition were a family, the novelist would be the busy mother who tries to regulate a brood of children, his characters, while keeping a plot boiling and inserting his message whenever his many duties allow him a respite. The non- fiction writer would be the hard-working father who must keep his nose to the grindstone of facts and figures never dar- ing to relax. The poet would be the dandy of the family, who never allowed an unnecessary syllable to disturb his well- ordered meter. But the essayist would have the freedom of an old uncle with an inde- pendent income. He'd be beholden to no man, and might speak his mind on any- thing that took his fancy. It is this privilege that makes the essay. The feeling of friendship that one has with the author of a good essay is never quite duplicated in any other kind of writ- ing. The essayist is like an old friend who drops in for an hour's chat and leaves us with a warm glow. However, lest anyone think that an essay has no use except to afford friend- ship, I will say that anyone who reads essays will have a knowledge of knowl- edge. Men in every field have written of their experiences in ways to make others feel some of their joy in their work. Usu- ally this joy makes people wish to experi- ence the pleasures at hrst hand. The greatest reward in reading essays, however, is the experience of meeting people. I know that in my own case, I felt a keen personal grief when Heywood Broun died. I had read so many of his essays that I felt I had lost a friend. But don't just read my essay on essays and let it end there. Rather, go to any library, get a good anthology of essays, and make a few friends yourself. 8