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

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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

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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 Cupid M zirrer His Mark ISS JANE PERKINS was what is commonly known as a dear old lady. Not only her appearance, but her mannerisms and speech all led to that con- clusion. Her dress was at all times meticulous in a quaint, Victorian way, her fluttery hands and birdlike movements misled many into thinking her a much younger woman than she actually was, and lastly, she spoke in a soft, feminine voice with all the beguiling but unconscious coyness of a girl of eighteen. Everyone in jenkensville knew and loved her. She was one of those persons who is absolutely indispensable at the bedside of a sick person, for her gay, light-hearted chatter with its many Witty comments made the time spent in her company pass quickly. Everyone wondered why she and Harry jones had never married, but no one dared to ask her about it. Some petty quarrel, they supposed, had shattered their romance. It was the constant subject of discussion whenever the local sewing circle had nothing newer to gossip about. jane's unsuccessful romance could always be depended upon to keep the talk going for a good half hour. They would invariably conclude with the opinion that the two still loved each other as much as ever they did twenty, thirty and even forty years ago, for didn't they send each other valentines every February fourteenth? The cards were generally funny, never bordering on the romantic. After thrashing out the Jones-Perkins affair, the ladies laid it aside for future reference upon that day when the news or gossip would again be scarce. This year, as lyliss Perkins set out on the fourteenth of February on her card buying campaign, she was prompted by a daring thought. She wondered if she could actually find the courage to send the type of valentine she was looking for. She made her way slowly down llflarket Street, letting no window escape her scrutiny. She read every verse on every card, and rejected them as unsuitable. She had but three more Windows left, and the prospect of failing to End exactly what she had in mind now loomed up terrifyingly. One more window to go-and there it Was! Sitting right in the middle of the corner drug store window was the object of her quest, a big, red, shiny, heart-shaped card with the perfect verse printed thereon. It expressed a little more than she had ever dared to send before, it expressed, some- how, a desire for a reconciliation. She wondered at her own audacity, but dauntless, entered the store, bought it and mailed it without a signature. Later that afternoon, Harry Jones, ambling along hlarket Street with the same purpose in mind as our heroine had, was attracted by the identical valentine. He likewise bought and mailed it without a signature. His next twenty-four hours were spent in torturing himself with endless queries as to the effect of the card on his one-time sweetheart. When the mail came the following morning, he wondered what sort of valentine jane would send him this year. Opening the envelope, he was startled to discover that his attempt at reconstructing their friendship had met with a complete rebuff. She had merely, he supposed, put his valentine in another envelope and returned it to him immediately. He wondered exactly how angry she was at his boldness. His chagrin was inexpressible, but he consoled himself as best he could by realizing that an old boy of his age should have known better than to indulge in such childish pranks. That was the last year he ever sent jane a valentine. jane was surprised, also, to discover that her erstwhile lover had been so thoughtless and crude. She thought the least he could have done, if he didn't like her valentine, was to throw it out. But to send it back-the indignity of her situation appalled her Victorian modesty. Her chagrin was inexpressible, but she consoled Twenty-four