Buffalo Seminary - Seminaria Yearbook (Buffalo, NY)

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SEMINARIA 1944 Hurry! Quickly up the hallway, Swiftly down the street On to work at new tasks Other friends to meet. Haste is waste, I vainly cry. And yet I still can hear her sigh. Hurry, hurry, hurry! Oh yes, I waste my time, that's sure And leisure has for me a lure. I cannot lie. I must confess That slowness is my happiness. And when I saunter down the street I stop to talk to friends I meet. I watch the cars go speeding by. I window shop yet seldom buy. I love to wonder and to see The vibrant life outside of me. Though she dashes blindly, I will take my time, Watching all the wild world With a calm sublime. And when she's old, about to die, Shall I then still hear her sigh, Hurry, hurry, hurry ?11 -PATRICIA KENDALL, '45 o THE JOKE She laughed her heartiest laugh, Her eyes became blue blurs, Her body shook intensely, The joke was hers. Virginia Brock, '46

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24 SEMINARIA 1944 when that news came. I would not believe it. The man who had shouted that we must fear japan was dead because no one would listen to him. They said that he was mad. He was mad as a genius was mad. War came into my life completely then. The movies were war, the papers were war, the comic strips were war, the latest books were war and I was just fifteen. The boys I knew went into the Army. Many of my friends' fathers were going back too. There were uniforms more frequently on the streets. In the next year almost all of my friends were in uni' form. Some of them were over seas fighting, and lighting well. One of them is still over there somewhere, missing in action. And so the war goes on in its horrible way and I am one of its children. Born and raised in its scream of terror, I have never known a world of peace. People say that I am too young, that I do not really understand, that I cannot feel it because I am too gay..I say that I do know. I have seen my friends go, I have seen refugees from warfravaged countries, I have played tennis for soldiers who cannot play again themselves, I have danced with boys who have horrible stories to tell. Yes, I understand, for I am a child of war. '-'FRANCES Puomz, '44 RECESSIONAL He sits in the muddy road, He watches a bee go by, He looks at the trucks and tanks and guns Roar on against the sky. He sits by the side of the road, And he holds his hunger there. He hears them say, Old man, move on, But the old man does not care. The old man's mind is not there, It is gone with the pride he knew, So he sits and dreams and the voices call, Move on, you stupid fool. So the trucks move on, and the tanks, For the answer is only a stare, They leave a twisted, broken form, And the old man does not care. -'FLORENCE LARKIN, '45

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26 SEMINARIA 1944 Space What is space? Really nothing at all-yet to live without it would be imposf sible. For while so full of nothing it fills the mind with many things. And it serves a material purpose as often as does the earth. Thus everyone must have some claim on space and 6nd it useful in one way or another. One way is by flying. Man is not by nature a winged creature, but given the desire and the ingenuity he has made wings for himself. Flying may be his attempt to free himself from the world that holds him, or it may be the outcome of his curiosity about space, for space is a curious thing. It can be blue, gray, white, or black. It holds the moon and the stars at night-the sun by day. And it has no beginning or ending. Perhaps by flying we people of earth are hoping to reach the moon and the stars and to see if there is an ending. Another way is gazing. Windows in houses have come to do more than just let in the light, they are a gateway open wide for wandering thoughts. It is easier to think clearly when one's gaze is Hxed on the sky, for the sky is clear--a vast surface on which ideas come and go, like winds on still water. We love the sky because it shows us what is in our own minds-like reflections in still water. And we find there glimpses of truth-like shadows . . . Even the most practical person has a use for space. He must make buildings that tower into itg he must make fires whose smoke rises and disappears in the sky. To children and to unsophisticated grownfups, the sky is Heaven. Thru the clouds a child can see fthe face of God, complete with a white beard and a kindly twinkle in his eyes. Perhaps the child looks too far, is too romantic, for nothing in childhood is quite real. And space is really nothing at all. -MARGARET NICHOLS, '44 AGE TO YOUTH I gathered the pearls of wisdom from my heavyfladen braing And recalling the years of life and love they had taken me to gain, I showed her these pearls of wisdom sewn on experience's thread, But she preferred the shiny beads and shook her foolish head. '-'PRISCILLA BAssn'r1', '44