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

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+ 1936 INK POT ' Any man who wanted to volunteer could enter the tournament, but only four, including the new secretary, did. Allan disposed of these men easily enough, and finally he was matched with Lockwood, the secretary. Everybody came out to see the match. The balls flipped to and fro, skimming the net by an inch, and soon Allan had the first three games. Lockwood's service! O'Keith yelled. The first service had a cut to it and was over in a Hash of lightning. Allan stood dumbfounded at this show of playing from a man from whom he could always win a love set. Millions of thoughts raced through his mind, but by sheer will power he pulled himself together. The second serve went over exactly like the first and in no time at all the games were three up. No one noticed a stocky, well-dressed man who was eyeing the match with satisfaction and excitement. The score was now 4-3 in favor of Lockwood. Allan now was disappointed, sorrowful to think that either this man or his father had deceived him, and sorrier yet that perhaps he wouldn't be able to show his parent that he could beat this man. A grim determination crept over him and he then decided he would try his utmost to win. It was Allan's service and he sent over a steaming ball, but it was returned as quickly. He returned it, placing the ball in the back court, for his opponent was playing net. The score was now 5-4 in Allan's favor and the group watching cheered for joy. Allan knew that at least they were backing him. Suddenly a stout figure got up and shouted at him, Come on, son! You can beat him. Go to it. VVith a sound between a sob and laugh of joy Allan played an incredible game. Point, set! O'Keith yelled, and Lockwood sent over a ball that was on Allan's backhand. This was his weakest stroke, but by a superhuman effort he returned it so it just dropped over the net. Game, set ! O'Keith yelled, and the camp went wild. A little later father and son were sitting together outside the bungalow. l'm sorry, Allan, he said. You deserved to win, and it's not a sissy game . l'm glad you showed me that. By the way, Allan, when are you going to teach me how to play this new-fangled stunt ?', EDITH WILSON, '39. '24 llitewzlzbn fr Urqtuf' T HE sun smilingly sealded the sandy shore. A cry was clearly heard in the distance crisply cutting the quiet air. A swimmer noiselessly neared the water. The sun smiled serenely. The screams soared through the sky: Help! help! help! The ceaseless splashes of the swimmer disturbed the solemnity of the sea: stroke, stroke, stroke. The sun laughed. Again came the fearful, futile, fervent cries: Help! help! help! faster! faster! fasterlv The swimmer, with the superhuman strength of his strong, sinewy arms, quickened his speed. Suddenly the sun saddened. The waters became angry. The rescuer reached the victim. The tears were dripping as crystal dew drops from the saddened face of the sun. Two heads simultaneously submerged under the sea. No pleading cries were heard: Help! help! help! No splashing from the swimmer's strong, sinewy arms disturbed the solemnity of the silent sea: stroke. stroke, stroke. An array of light, beautiful colors formed an arc in the heavens. The sun sadly scalded the sandy shore. N BARBARA SELVERNE, '38, Forty-th ree

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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

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f 1936 INK POT + Fzkb and Firbermen IT had rained the night before, and now the shores of Long Island Sound were crowded with eager fishermen. From the little lad with a long branch of a tree, a piece of cord and a bent pin to serve as a hook, to the professional angler with the most durable and practical equipment that money could buy, they were all busy before the sun had ever risen, and now as its golden beams were cast on many a brown and white- haired lad, they seemed to form a halo about the head of a delicate boy perched precariously upon a small rock which sloped down toward the green waters. Again and again the lad drew up his stick, only to find that his eagerly awaited prey had escaped. Finally he heaved a sigh of discouragement and threw his line into the water for the last time. Perhaps if he had had a real fishing rod--but that was too impossible to even dream about. Near the lad, an older man sat, also fishing. But the long rod drooped in his hand and his mind wandered away from the Sound. Back many months the rushing breezes of time blew him. Back to gay Paris, to the Academy of Arts, where after the exhibition of his picture, Elizabeth, the world had proclaimed John Chambers, at the age of twenty-seven, the greatest living artist. The weeks that followed were filled with mocking idleness and vain attempts to work. And as time went on the world forgot John Chambers, and he slipped back into obscurity. Now he earned but a few cents a day by teaching his landlady's stupid and fat daughter the rudiments of drawing. He who had been the world's greatest artist had barely enough money for his food. A bitter laugh escaped from his lips, a laugh of sorrow and pain, a laugh of mingled wisdom and cynicism. For some unknown reason he looked up and saw the little black-haired lad sitting on the rock, sunbeams forming a beautiful halo around his head. john wanted to try and sketch him, but he was afraid, afraid of failing. He was a coward, not a man enough to face the truth. If he could only succeed he would once more be able to go among his old friends, and become the John Chambers of fifteen years ago. If he failed, however, what then? Would there be anything to live for in this world of landladies and fish? Still he could not resist the urge of his chosen work, even though it might bring disaster, and, taking an old pencil out of his fish basket and the blood- spotted paper lining, he quickly forgot that fish had ever existed. And the rod which had fallen from his hand floated down the Sound. As John put the final details on the picture, he felt someone touch his shoulder, and he looked up to see Robert Devoe, who had been one of his fellow students in the art academy. Robert, he said, I thought you were in France painting a portrait of Mon- seigneur Alacarf' Well, the other man admitted, I was supposed to be in France, but I needed a vacation, so I came back to the United States. But, John, what have you been doing with yourself all these months ? John was ashamed to admit that he had done really nothing, and he did not reply. His friend caught sight of the little sketch and exclaimed with genuine feeling that the picture was a gem. John, you'll make your fortune on that drawing, some day, he said almost enviously. And john Chambers, once more his old self, rose to have tea with his friend, his drawing carefully placed in his coat pocket. And as he turned to leave the Sound, he saw the little black-haired lad, with a radiant face gently draw up a shining rod. Dangling on the hook was a beautiful large porgy! SIMONETTE LANs, '38. Forty-four