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

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. 1936 INK POT ' herself as best she could by realizing that an old lady of her age should have known better than to indulge in such childish pranks. That was the last year she ever sent Harry a valentine. Now, when they pass each other on llflarket Street, they pretend not to see each other. The sewing circle has something new to talk about. SHIRLEY GREENE, '36. The Sock Ifognital YOU have heard of human, dog, cat, shirt and numerous other kinds of hospitals, but I am organizing something new. It will be a delight to the bachelor and I shall call it The Sock Hospital. When the sole is in danger of becoming too holey I shall try to bring it again to its normal condition, also any other part of the sock. Bring all your darning to Sadie Stone john Henry Evans was the recipient of the above circular letter. He read it twice as he sipped his coffee, it gave him something to think about. He was not a confirmed bachelor, neither was he out hunting for eligible wives. Queer thing, a Sock Hospital, he muttered. l've always done my own work since I was a boy. However, he turned and patted Towser, his Newfoundland, however, old boy, we'll go and see this, he glanced at the letter, Sadie Stone. She's new to these parts and might be good copy for a story. John Henry Evans assorted his socks during the entire morning, and, after accumulating a fair-sized pile and eating a meager lunch, he started toward the new Sock Hospital. What he had expected Miss Stone to look like he did not know, but his vague ideas had certainly not included the pretty little woman that met him at the door. He introduced himself, told her his mission, and hastily departed. Sadie Stone had not been brought up in the village. She chose it to win her fame. She kept the population-at least the male portion of it-amused with her very original ideas, At the end of three weeks business began to slacken. The men had worn their socks to shreds in order to take them to her. After Sadie had darned their socks till they could be darned no longer, her customers had to buy new ones. Sadie thought of all sorts of ways to encourage trade, and finally the idea of a tournament suggested itself to her. She posted signs all over the town. A large gold medal, they read, will be awarded to the man who has the most pairs of socks legitimately darned next week. Sadie had thought twice before she inserted the word legitimately g the men had been known to use scissors on their hose in order to see her. After the announcements Sadie found herself head over heels in work. At the end of the week it looked as if the men were all about equal, all except john Evans. He hadn't turned in a single pair by Friday night. Saturday morning, the last day of the contest, John Evans walked into the Hospital with a bundle as big as himself. He nervously began to explain. I had a wonderful story. You were in it. He hesitated. You see I walked to the city, to wear out my socks, and incidentally see the editor of a magazine, but I'm back, and as I have to end my story happily I hope to win the contest and then you. Sadie looked at him and then laughingly asked, You put me in the story? Isn't that rich! I came to Workeiisbtlrg to get copy myself. However, after they heard each other's stories they decided to combine forces. ,IANE POLL, '38. Twenty-five

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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

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+ 1936 INK POT + The Dreaming Sea I have been told there is a wondrous land, Fairer than others in this darker earth. 'Tis girded in by mountains huge that stand Changeless since first the old world saw its birth. Grim giants they, which guard it closely round. Sheer from their heights the precipices fall, Barring it in with adamantine wall, And closing it from outer sight and sound. Save where a cliff lets a bright river through, Seeming to sleep, but flowing onward still, Waving the weeds which slowly rustle, too, And all the shore with slumberous mur- murs fill. The air is very drowsy, and the sun Shines through a veil with soft light dimly shed' Faintly the blue sky glimmers overhead, Faintly the rivers whisper as they run. Stealing along, and flowing to a mere, Blue, bright and calm yet treacherous and deepg No ripple stirs upon its surface clear, It seems as dead, yet doth it only sleep: It sleeps above the icy depth profound, Nor only sleeps, for shapes and forms there seem That it doth fashion. Changing like a dream, They gather, Hit, and pass without a sound. Beneath the wave they Hoat, and you may see Others above it, passing from the gaze- Fair lovely phantoms, in the glimmering E haze. Therefore men call that mere The Dreaming Sea. There are strange people in that land of shadeg They idly watch the visions that they see Vanishing slowly into vacancy, And others follow, and as slowly fade. And if you ask them what they watch so long, So silent, with a fixed and dreamy gaze, They point unto the ever-shifting haze, And answer low, like echoes of a song: Twenty-six These are our dreams. We find them here again. Once they all fied from our impassioned grasp, But here our truant bliss once more we clasp, We hold our joys and leave far off our pain. Here fiits their beauty, and to aching eyes Brings what the world crushed in its iron hand, Here, lovelier than before, for aye they stand, Visions of love and joy to idolize. Here spring again, as with- a fairer birth, Sunset's bright clouds, the warm wind's perfumed breath, The rose's blush untouched by time or death, The grace, the glow, the glory of the earth. Why should we struggle vainly with our lot, When we have gained these shores of calmer joys, Far from the heat, the hurry and the noise Of that stern world by which we are forgot? Enough of care and toil, of wounds and woe, Enough of sobbing out our weary pain, Enough of tears that fall like bitter rain, Enough of wrecks and heartbreaks there below. Trouble us notg our old life fades and falls, It passes, but we care notg let it rest. While we can here gain all that we love best Trouble us not-we care not what befalls. Ah, yes, 'tis sweet Cwe know it but too welll, Ere comes the cold truth, which all too soon arrives, To live once more by memoryls misty spell, To live our dreams, and dream away our lives, To bid awhile the weary labors cease, To let our lives, by many a tempest toss't, Gather in fancy bright things loved and lost, And gently drift to visioned rest and peaceg Calm and' yet happy and forgetfully, Wrapt in the mist of a delicious dream, Floating adown Iife's dark and treacherous stream, Yet gliding onward to a Dreaming Sea. SrMoNE'r'rs LANs, '38