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

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+ 1936 INK POT Q On Seeing 61 Pzkture and then Reading the Book FTER having seen Alexandre Dumas' The Three Il-Iusketeers portrayed on the screen I came home full of enthusiasm, and immediately sat down to read the book. I was anxious to see how producers could film a story of over seven hundred pages into an entertainment of an hour or an hour and a half. I found out. I eagerly perused the pages endeavoring to find a scene or incident familiar to me, but I could discover only one. This was the scene in which the Queen of France gives the Duke of Buckingham some valuable jewels. From then on producers took matters into their own hands. If I had not seen the names of Athos, Portho, Aramis and d'Artagnan I assuredly would have laid the book aside, thinking that I was mistaken about either the name of the picture I had seen or the book I was reading. This display of imagination on the parts of rewrite men and producers recalls to my mind the story of an author who so aptly replied to the question as to where he had conceived the idea for his second novel. His spontaneous reply was, F rom the picture they made of my first. Producers should not deviate from a story to the extent that a picture cannot be recognized, and there is doubt in my mind as to whether Alexandre Dumas would recognize this film as having come from his own masterpiece. I believe many people would agree with me in advocating some commission or authority to pass on the authenticity of a portrayal of a classic before its presentation in a distorted manner to the public. BETTY BARON, '37. Tool: HEY were made of lead and iron, but to the workman they were silver and shone like a million gems. They chiseled their way into cold stone and transformed it like magic to things of beauty and grace. They were heavy instruments, but tactfully held and controlled by the shifting hands of the workman. They shaped, they formed, and they built the beautiful steel grey structures now looming in the white clouds like swelling castles. These majestic bodies enveloped by the blue sky above were put together by common tools and man's aid. They chopped, they carved, they cornered and cut the pieces of marble into dream- like creatures. They were instruments of manual operations performing laborious tasks and working miracles. Thoughts in Bed I like the window open, Wide open at my head. I like to hear the wind blow, When I'm lying in bed. I like to see the stars shine And watch the moon go by. But, best of all, I like to count, The cloud sheep in the sky. NANCY ERLA Nolan, '41 DOROTHY WEITZNER, '39. A Midget This child, like all children, While young was quite small, But as years rolled along He grew not at all. A midget they called him, And this was quite right, Because, at sixteen, He was four feet in height. CoNs'rANce STERN, '39 Forty-seven

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Q 1936 INK POT + Hope T has often occurred to me what a horrible world this would be if most people were not blessed with that indispensable and highly comforting gift which is usually referred to as imagination. There are many people who choose to look with disdain upon those whom they consider builders of castles in the air, and they immediately stamp these imaginative builders with the terse term, day dreamersf' Yet, if these somewhat callous people who find ready excuses for condemnation would only stop to think, they would realize that if it were not for a spark of imagination there are many people who would most probably find it impossible to live their miserable lives. For example, on a cold snowy day a few winters ago, at the corner of a downtown street sat an ancient, emaciated, white-haired man, with so pale a face and clothes so gray and tattered that passing pedestrians might easily have thought him a huge lump of snow shoveled against a building. However, more than one passerby, attracted by the wavering and decidedly squeaky tones of his violin, stopped either to cast him a pitying glance or to drop a coin into his rusty cup. With his shrew old eyes the violinist noticed the sorrowful glances thrust at him, and after he had finished his piece a few people standing near him heard him mutter in challenging tones, They pity me now, but some day I shall be successful and well known. It is obvious that there was little if any hope for this man's future, but would it have been better for him to be ever conscious of the fact? He found solace in his imagination and therefore was as content as possible. It seems to me that the age-old adage, While there's life there's hope, might prove sound philosophy even when changed around to While there's hope there's life. EVELYN AMPOLSK, '36. Le fair Et La Nui! LE soleil brille sur le monde pendant que les petits enfants jouent ensemble. De beaux arbres se balancent avec le vent, si grands et si spacieux. Les oiseaux chantent de joie. Le monde est plein de musique car il fait jour. La nut si belle et calme vient apres que la journee est partie. Le monde se repose. Le silence est partout. Les fleurs se lentement et dit, C'est la nuit. A Can of Spinach Popeye, the great big sailor man, Kept his spinach in a can. Along came little Mickey Mouse, And walked right into Popeye's house. No one was home, the house was bare, The can of spinach was on a chair. Quick as a flash-it seems quite funny- The can of spinach was in his tummy. Now who came home but our sailor man, And when he saw the empty can We wanted to kill poor Mickey Mouse, But Mickey threw him out of the house. JANE OPPENHEIMER, '40 Forty-six couchent sur la terre. La lune les regarde CONSTANCE MEIROWITZ, '39. Winter Landscape I The western sky was red with winter sunset. A brilliant star much braver than the rest Hung low and beautiful in heavens that met The snow-patched earth in solemn loveliness. II The frozen brook was decked with joyous skaters, Their colored clothes a brilliant panorama, In contrast with the grotesque looking satyrs- Their shadows-in the swiftly gathering dusk. Buznnz Scmoss, '36

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Q 1936 INK POT + Greynerr T was that cold, grey morning last year on my way up to Elmira, New York. I had been lying in my berth trying to sleep, when I decided to look out of my window and see what was happening outside. It was just beginning to get light, and there was a gloomy greyness over the small space I could see through the crack in the window. Hills sloped to the left, covered with bits of snow, and near a group of leafless, ugly trees on the right was a small, miserable worn-looking hut. The shades were drawn and a green light was burning inside. The grey light of the dismal morning and the quiet drizzling on the melting snow made the lonesomeness of this little cabin very apparent and real. From my perch, I could see an old, dusty Ford car parked on the side. A few hundred yards from the house in the middle of a field lay an old tractor all broken in pieces. As the train slowly moved on again and the house, trees, hills, tractor and car passed by, I sank in bed with the everlasting memory of the dreary greyness of a lonesome dawn. Y ARLENE FINE, '38. Short Steps to Secure Sueee.f.f HE assignment was to write a poem, one that was not morbid, monotonous, or monotone, one that was not dull, dreary or showed signs of drudgery. It had to contain serious, studious similes, appealing, appetizing apostrophes, and pert, purposeful personifications. It must abound in meaty, motley metaphors. It should move on with an onward onrush of onomatopoeia, and, last of all, it might include an alluring attempt at alliterations. Dolly's Trouble I am a little doll With long blonde curls, And all the little girls like me. If you could see how beautiful I look, You would think I was a picture in a story book. I don't know who my mother will be, so you see it frightens me To think I have to leave this nice warm store, To go some place I have never seen before. PA'rRrcxA AUERBACH, '41 SHIRLEY LUBELL '39. 3 What Is War.9 What is this thing called war? Poison gas and cannon roar. What fools we mortals be! Killing people just to see, Which country takes most lives, Which makes widows of more wives The victor does not win! Think of those who've lost their kin. Peace is better than a warg Let us hope there'll be no more. CoNsrANcs Memowxrz, 39 Anger ' Anger is like water Floating always to an end, And the soul is what it Hows through, Like waves along a bend That swiftly turn and then are smooth again. Forty-eight BEATRICE Evsrm N, '37