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

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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

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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 Q Li e IFE is to love and to labor. Life is to feel the thrills of happiness and youth and to grow with your ideals. You walk beneath God's own sky and breathe the pure air. You wake in the morning to find the day more rare and more beautiful than the day before. You know the world stretching out before you, leading to the ways of opportunities, hopes, ambitions, and hardships. Lead frank lives, think pure thoughts: listen and learn. FANNIE MILLER, '39. Sunset in Florida The crimson sun which slowly sank Behind the Indian River bank Cast its sole remaining ray On the water-folk at play. Balmy, palm tree bordered sides Gently touched by flow of tides. Lemon, date and orange trees Lofty branches swayed in breeze While the crimson circle sank Beyond the Indian River bank. Next day the air was mild and warm, The scarlet sun arose at dawn. White-capped breakers on golden sand. Birds sang gayly in this sunfilled land, The river shone like crystal glass, Reflecting mountains clothed with grass. CONSTANCE Msmowirz, '39 Bonjour - Bonsoir Bonjour! Joli mot de fleurs, mot d'amour, Mot de hasard, mot de fortune. Il est de mode, partout, toujours, Le matin comme au clair de lune. Il est de l'enfance, de l':ige murg De la beaute, de la jeunesse, Des idees moroses et d'azur. Et l'on entend ce mot sans cesse- Bonjour! Bonsoir! a dit le bel adolescent A la rayonnante jeunesse, Et les deux mains bien tendrement Se serrent avec la meme ivresse- Un mot est bien pres du coeurg Ils voudraient se dire, mais ils n'osent. Qu'ils s'aiment!-Mais helas ils ont peur, Redisent, ne trouvant autre chose- Bonsoir! RHODA Mmrz, '37 Spring C ornes Crimson sunsets, golden dawns, 13 Daisy-speckled baby fawns Are the signs that spring is here- The spring that to me is so dear. Rivers wending swift their way, The sky above is never gray, The tall grass sways as breezes blow, The flowers bud, their petals show. A deer brushes the grass away, I feel the tall weeds gently sway. And it is never dark at night, For the moon has a silver light, And sunsets then! I try in vain To describe this caroled strain Of gems upon a piece of glass O'er which the artist's brush did pass. And I love to fish by a crystal stream, But more than that I love to dream In evening, when the pine trees stand Like sentinels to guard the land. ELISE Emssskc, '41, Forty-nine