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

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Q 1936 INK POT Q Sumet and T wilzglat in the COUMIUI HAVE you ever stood on a hill gazing at the crest of another, larger hill in the distance to watch the sunset? If you haven't, you've missed one of the wonders and glories of nature. It is no wonder that artists of every period paint sunsets and the twilights which follow them. A sunset always appears to me as if the sun in all its glory and magnificence is saying goodby to the world, and wanting to leave a lasting impression behind it. The sun seems to sink slowly to the crest of the hill, becoming more orange and redder all the time. Finally in one last plunge of glistening color it appears to hit the hill top, and bound off behind it. Then its sparkling rays, thrown up from behind the hill, gradually become dimmer and dimmer until they melt into the onrushing shadows. The many colors of the sky fade into a greyish white and-twilight is here. It seems then that the world stands still for a while contemplating what to do next. The silence is soon broken by the faint twittering of the birds as they settle in their nests, and by the tinkling of the cowbells as the cows are let out to pasture for the night. By this time the greyness has turned to black, and here and there a twingling star may be seen in the sky. -IUDITH FRANK, 36. Der Kleine Karl ER zu Fritzens Haus kommt, bringt immer etwas Gutes fur den kleinen Karl. Karl ist ein ,Iahr alt. Er ist sehr lustig. Er lauft und springt gern. Er ist sehr froh wenn jemand mit ihm spielt. Jeden Tag sagt Fritz zu ihmg Gluten Tag, mein kleiner Karl. Wie geht es heute ? Woof! Woof! bellt Karl. CONSTANCE Mamowrrz, '39. Bellum PAUCIS annis ante bellum in Europa cum familia in pace habitavi. Pater meus et frater fuerunt agricolae et studio et diligentia magna laboraverunt. Agros pulchros coluerunt et copiam cibi frumentique semper habuimus. F riter meus cotidie ductus est solus equis in agr6s. Sed tum bellum miserum incepit et hostes clamantes venerunt in agros nostros et friter meus conspectus a militibus interfectus est. Pater captivus retentus erat itaque mater in fugam se dedit carro parv6 ut auxilium et libertatem pro pitre pararet. Doizorl-xv NVEITZNER, '39. Forty-one

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Q 1936 INK POT ' But Anna had already thrown herself at him pleadingly. Please, she cried, I have a son, my husband is dead and our food is giving out. That's your worry, he replied, but behind those heady eyes, there was perhaps a little sympathy, mixed with admiration for the woman who stood before him, not fiinching, but with steady eyes and an erect body. She walked from the room, shoulders back, head high, but when she emerged all will power had left her. She looked years older and her figure bespoke an air of despondency. Months passed and still she found no work. At last, in desperation, she placed her child upon the cold steps of an elaborate home. Pinning on the warm blanket a note, Take care of my child or place him in a home. He is a Jew, but how can a little child help that? If you keep him tell him his mother loved him, and that he should never forget to fight for his rights, but if in despair he should always remember to have faith and hope, for if one has those two things there's life. She kissed him again and walked slowly away. She did not know how long she had walked, but soon she came to the Temple and halted suddenly. She gazed at it in awe and, finally, mustering all her strength she limped onward. Wearily she climbed the steps and then, as the last time, she was alone. She could not reach the pew, and she sank to her knees on the cold stone floor. With her last breath she prayed, Dear Lord, grant a dying woman one last wish. Take care of my son and guide him and his people to glory and peace. EDITH WILSON, '39. One Rainy October Night MY cab pulled up to the corner and stopped with a short jerk. Upper New York lay black and shining in the rain of October 10, 1935, at six-thirty o'clock. Trolleys groaned along One Hundred and Twentieth street, and here and there a one-time luxurious automobile honked its horn, slammed on its brakes and went screeching around the curb with an alley of water splashing the nearby pedestrians. The red, blue and yellow lights of Loew's Motion Picture House and Keith's R. K. O. lay in the reflection of puddles of the heavy downpour. The Broadway Heights are crowded with people hurrying to and fro along the streets. A man bumps into a lady carrying parcels from Woolworth's, the string comes undone, she scowls and utters something beneath her breath, he begs a quick, meaningless pardon. Then he hurries on into the movie, pausing but for a brief moment to gaze at the picture of Joan Crawford, glamorously gowned and illuminating. He fingers for his change, pays the cashier and enters the show. A young woman emerges hurriedly from the sweet, homey, delightfully smelling Cushman's, a small boy clings to her laden-down arms, she holds her umbrella with difficulty, they rush for the crossing, she bumps umbrellas with another, but is safely across the street. On the corner below the lights of Liggett's drug store stands a young lady, apparently waiting for someone. Her hat is pulled cockney fashion over her right eye, her coat is held tightly about her neck, one button is gone, her flimsy hose are clinging with wetness to her ankles, her shoes are soggy and wet with water. She gazes impatiently up and down, up and down. No one comes. The light has changed, my cab drives on. JULIET F1scHL, '36. Forty

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Q 1936 INK PDT + Game EORGE BRADFORD and Allan Bradford looked each other coldly in the eye. l'll knock it out of you, thundered Mr. Bradford. I'll send you up to the lumber camp, and there you'll learn something useful instead of playing around with a string racket and a ball. Why, anybody can hit a ball over a net. It's a sissy game, and I'll be hanged if l'll let my son waste his time on that. You ought to be in the country chopping wood and learning your father's trade from the bottom up. It,s no use, Dad, Allan replied. You wouldn't talk that way if you knew the gamef' I'll break every racket in this house! he returned, and meant it. It was a perfect day for traveling and the sun shone brilliantly. Before his father was up the next morning, Allan went to say good-bye to all his friends. He was home in time for lunch and then with his father rushed down to the station. One firm handclasp, and he was off for the camp. On arriving at the station in the Adirondacks he jumped from the train to be greeted by a big, brown, burly man. Are you Mr. O'Keith ? Allan asked. Yes, I am,', the man replied. Come along with me and we'll get started. Just a minute sir, Allan said. I have a package waiting for me. And with that he raced into the station and came out with a square, thin bundle. What's that? Nlr. O'Keith asked. A tennis racket, the boy replied. And what do you expect to do with it up here? We've got no such things as tennis courts, the man said. I'll find a place, never fear, and with that the matter was dropped. The men at the camp took an immediate liking to the boy and he to them. He told them all about his ambitions to be an expert tennis player, and asked them if they couldn't Hx him up a court on one of the vacant lots. The men were dubious, however, for explicit instructions came from lVlr. Bradford admonishing the foreman, O'Keith, by telegram, to treat him rough. The boy begged to be allowed to practice and have a court, and finally the men consented. Before long Allan was teaching these clumsy youths how to play tennis, and it actually became a popular sport within the camp. The foreman wrote home to lvlr. Bradford that his son was getting along fine and has turned out to be an excellent sport. He also said that the boy begged to be allowed to have a tennis court and practice and they had granted him that favor. When Bradford read that telegram he was furious. Acting upon impulse he phoned Richard Harding, one of the best professionals. Want to make a thousand ? Bradford asked. What for? Richard Harding replied. Go up to my lumber camp where my boy is staying and make him realize he can't play tennis. He thinks he can, you seef' All right, sir, I'll do it for a thousand, the champion said. The following week a young man came up to the camp and said he was to take the secretary's place and work there permanently. As the days passed, Allan, improving upon his tennis all the time, often played with the new secretary. Harding showed Allan new strokes and gave him practice and conhdence, but Allan could always beat him rather easily. O'Keith asked Allan one day if he would arrange a tournament for the men. Delighted at the chance to show what he could do, Allan said, Why, sure! Forty-two