Calhoun School - Ink Pot Yearbook (New York, NY)

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Q 1936 INK POT ' its frame charred, its walls fallen in, was the house, nothing more than a heap of burned charcoal. A light fell upon his haggard face, a drop of color came into his pale cheeks, and once more Peter looked toward the heavens. This time the words came clearly, unhaltingly, filled with a tremulous ecstasy, By the will of God-yes it was by the will of God I EVELYN AIWPOLSK, '36. Hllf Treamre HE ivory keyboard changed its color to the yellow one often finds on old pianos, but the strong and vibrant tones still lingered when joshua sat down to play. He would enliven with this genius the crude place in which he lived as he poured out difficult and enchanting tunes. When he played the neighbors would stop their daily chores 5 even the housewives would sit by their open windows and listen eagerly, moving their fingers back and forth to the rhythm of the music, so rich and vivid. Upon hearing Joshua play one would think him a young man but he was notg he was an old man whose shining white hair hung gracefully below his ears. His eyes and smiling lips showed friendliness and kindness. His thin, white, blue-veined hands looked sacred and unreal, but when he played they would glide up and down the keyboard, alive and strong. Even the hardest crescendoes he played so smoothly and clear that they rang like a bell. Joshua was, indeed, a very poor man and ashamed of his manner of dressing with his worn coat and his crumpled black felt hat. Many a time he felt downcast and forlorn, but when he sat down on his piano stool and began to play, his face would lighten, his eyes glow, and he would forget all his sorrows. He was rich . . . rich with the most beautiful talent of all, music. He was living once more in a new and different world . . . Buildings stand gleaming, Not a sun's ray avoids them, Not a cool place about them Not a sound issues forth From their dim interiors. A pedestrian approaches, His footsteps lagging, His shoulders stooping, His brow beaded With drops of moisture. H eat DOROTHY WEITZNER, '39. The mist from the pavements Rises about him, Seems to envelop him,' Clings to his clothes With its sticky wetness. A car approaches, Its horn barking, Its body glistening, Its loud color clashing With the heated stillness. Trees stark still, Not a leaf stirring, Not a sound to be heard, Not a cloud to be seen On the hazy horizon. JUDITH FRANK, '36 Twenty-two

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Q 1936 INK POT Q Of Little Fa ith T was the kind of balmy spring day which acts as a spiritual stimulus to most people, filling them with a zest for life, inspiring the most unimaginative, and bringing cheer to the forlorng in short, it was a day when even the humlslcst are made to feel great and the poorest to feel wealthy. Amongst a cluster of ancient tenement houses on the lower East side stood one, older, if possible, than the others, more shabby, its shutters hanging limply from its sides in a despairing manner, its windows thick with the dust of the filthy streets. Out of one of these windows a wretched man beheld the world, a world which for him, even on this day, held no beauty nor inspiration, so filled was he with the heartache and suffering which had been his lot these many years. Peter Rawlin's mouth was drawn in a grim line, his face was sunken and gray, and his thin frame was pathetically bent for one as young as he. The room in which he stood still bore the clammy coldness which those long, heartless winter evenings had left. The ceiling was marred by a jagged crack, and the walls were damp and peeling. Strangely enough, the man and the room were in perfect harmony, creating, it seemed. a solemn picture symbolic of defeat. Yet, in spite of this desolation there had been one thing which had given Peter some solaceg one thing which he had considered somewhat more important than the material comfort which he so sadly lacked, and, as he lifted his eyes towards the sun his face assumed an ethereal splendor and he murmured softly, I could not bear it if I were to lose faith in God, in that belief I have had comfortg without it I should have nothing, absolutely nothing. Yet, even as he uttered these words a gray cloud glided slowly toward the yellow ball and soon obliterated it entirely, and, as it did so, a chill passed through the man at the window. Suddenly his face became twisted with agony, he clasped and unclasped his hands almost convulsively, and it was then that he began to doubt, then that he cried out appalled, Can it be ? Can one suffer as I have suffered-Is not God more merciful than this? Can it all be a mere fantasy ? Tears streamed down his face as he gazed around him fearfully. The room suddenly became unbearable. It seemed to him all at once, an inanimate example of himself, housing all of the fears and doubts too much a part of him to be suffered. He must leave it, if only for an hour. It was urgent that he try to salvage whatever beliefs he had, or else his soul must surely meet an inevitable death. Dusk was settling over the city, and with it came a sharp wind, while in the distance the chimes of a church told him that it was six o'clock. Peter began to think that he had been wandering about aimlessly for too long, and Wearily he turned his steps toward home. His walk had done nothing for him, and he dreaded the thoughts which would besiege him when he reached his roomg yet there was nothing else to do, and he continued on his way, his head down, his feet dragging wearily. It was in this manner that he neared his street, his eyes blinded by tears of anguish. Suddenly he felt somebody tug sharply at his sleeve, and, upon looking up, he beheld a small man, his face aglow with a horrified expression, shouting something to him: Peter, we've been looking for you everywhere-it's a miracle-I'm telling you, it's uncanny! Five minutes after you were seen leaving the house it happened-they're all saying how strange it is-you might have been killed. It was certainly the will of God that you weren't. It's uncanny-uncanny. Slowly Peter's eyes followed the man's finger, and he beheld that which caused him to gasp in amazementg there, Twenty-one

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' 1936 INK POT ' Per.r0nalil:y Submergea' COLD is one of the banes of my existence. I am unceremoniously stuck into bed at the least sign of a snifiile. My opinion is not consulted. lVIy wishes are not gratified. Instead, someone administers a vile brew, consisting of hot water, an overwhelming amount of lemon juice and a stingy portion of sugar. To an uninitiated person this would seem like just a harmless hot lemonade, but far from it, it burns my throat and draws my mouth together in an agony of terrible sourness. According to my family I am very much like one of the soldiers of The Charge of the Light Brigade : Mine not to make reply, lliine not to reason why, lbline but to do and die, - which means that I am supposed to submit silently to the smothering solicitude that disregards my demands and puts me at the mercy Cor is it the mercy?J of my family. My mother pops in to say good-bye and patiently reminds me for the third time that if I have to get up, I must be sure to put my slippers on. In the evening my father lectures me on the fact that my cold isn't so bad, and that the only reason I didn't go to school was because I was lazy, and then triumphantly clinches the matter by saying that when he was young, etc. The combined sufferings I have just narrated serve to give me an expression of anguish, and if the reader looks at me some time, when I'm at school after an absence due to a cold, he will find me looking partly ethereal, which, as you know, means nearer Heaven than Earth! LEE EITINGON, '38. To a Poet What I Do from Day to Day Lo! How mighty he stands, The creator of words! How strong is he whose pen Can write songs for the birds, And lullabies for sunsets, And nocturnes for the nights- Sweet lyrics for all mankind Of Nature's fair delights! How great is he, the painter Of scenes we're made to see, Whose gently flowing language Brings worlds to you and me! Soft melodies and love songs, And ballads light and gay- Such works are of his making, Such mastery is his sway. And you and I but wonder At stories told in song. In awe we dwell in memories, In dreamlands drift along. For the singer, lo! immortal! Over all casts a spellg And you and I but wonder At tales he has to tell. JOAN Hokwrrz, '36 All that I do from day to day Is much the same in every way. From Monday to Friday at seven o'clock, I jump out of bed when I hear the maid knock. Then I dress, eat breakfast, and again as a ru e, I go over my homework before going to school. At one, school is over and we're through for the day, But for meetings, gym, or rehearsing a play. A walk with a friend usually follows all this, For a little fresh air I don't want to miss. By then it is Eve and my homework I do, Sometimes it just seems that I'll never get through. At nine I'm in bed and a good book I read, Till I turn out the light for the sleep that I need, But Saturdays and Sundays are different you know, And to luncheons, movies, and dancing I go. And now you have read in this little poem All that I do at school and at home. JANE OPPENHEIMER, '40 Twenty-three