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

Page 32 text:

+ 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

Page 31 text:

. 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

Page 33 text:

Q 1936 INK POT + Pufple Grapes THE music rose to a mighty crescendo, filling the small church with glorious sound. A feeling of security surged through Anthony's heart as he knelt there under the folds of Saint Lucia's robes. It seemed as if he were back in sunny Italy, plucking the luscious purple grapes. Ah, those purple grapes! VVhat ecstasy! If only he could crush their sweetness in his mouth once more. But no, here in America people thought only of money, and their sole ambition was to make money, for they knew nothing of spreading vines and fragrant grapes. Somehow here in church his despair had dropped from him, and the thought of having enough money for passage to Italy for his beloved Mario and himself did not seem so impossible any more. As he rounded a corner on his way home, he bumped into a rough looking man who, at first, cursed him, but, when he had looked at him closely, stopped abruptly and motioned to Anthony to follow him. Bewildered, he did so, and soon found himself in a dingy hallway, mounting a flight of rickety stairs. The man in his careless, rough manner said, Hey, buddy, wanna make some easy money ? This brief question seemed heaven-sent to Anthony and he nodded dumbly as in a daze, yet eagerly. His escort rapped three times at a nearby door which was opened by a large burly man. The two men conversed in a whisper for a few minutes and then the leader spoke to Anthony, Well, what about it ? Anthony, perplexed, replied that he did not understand and the leader impatiently explained. They were going to execute a well-planned robbery and needed a small, wiry man like him to climb through a window and open a door for them. For this he would get three hundred dollars, just enough money for passage to Italy, thought Anthony. After his bit he would be free to leave. Anthony's conscience fought a brave battle, but his heart conquered, and he reluctantly agreed. The next night he appeared at the appointed spot, still fearful as to the outcome of all this. All the members of the gang piled into a rattle-trap car, and after riding for some time, stopped in'front of a small store which bore a faded sign, Pietro Vembesco-Fresh Fruits. Getting out of the car, they crept cautiously up an adjacent alley, where Anthony was shoved up onto a window sill. Silently he slid through the open window. All was dim, he could discern nothingg but as he stepped toward the door, where the men were expectantly waiting, he saw barrels of fresh fruit tightly packed. Groping forward blindly, he stumbled over a basket, falling and spilling its contents. As he sat on the Hoor dazed, rubbing a skinned hand, a scent of familiar sweet- ness filled the shop. He sat up abruptly and saw scrambled, far and wide, purple grapes, luscious purple grapes, the earthy and heavenly smell of Italy still upon them. Through Anthony's brain ran one thought. He must escape without accomplish- ing this terrible deed, or, even if he did go back to Italy with this money, how could he truthfully live in peace with God and himself? He never fully remembered how he got out, but he found himself in the old church kneeling before Saint Lucia. And blessed be the good God for delivering me from the cruel and unfaithful, Anthony sobbed out as he kissed the good Saint's robes. LILLIAN FICHTENHOLTZ, '39, Twenty-seven