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

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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

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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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0 1936 INK POT ' M6 f , IDur-.haf tue,-twnof Paths of Glory By IIIIMPIIRICX Com: Very few books have made such an impression upon me as did Palflx of Glory. I'ntil I read the hook I felt that although war was horrible it was an honor to tight and die for one's country. But there is no such glory, no such honor, and Mr. Cobb seems to believe that there never will be. The book opens with the conversation of two soldiers. The younger is an idealistic recruit who notices with wonder the many medals worn by the other, Langlois. Langlois tells him that winning them is like winning a lottery-luck. The division to which they belong is ordered, by Division Commander Assoland, to take The Pimple , a German fortification situated at the top of zi hill. The task is an impossibility. Machine-gun tire is so steady that those who do leave their trenches are killed. The others are stunned by the bullet riddled bodies which are blown backwards into the trenches. General Afxsli ' . 4 V 11 11' '., ' w' . ' seo ind, furious because the attack is a failure, decides to court martial one man from each company, as an example to the others. The court martial is a gruesome farce. The men are convicted and shot. I.anglois is one of them, In front of the tiring squad he flings his medals to the ground. Ile didn't need them, for he felt that his country's tiring squad was reward for his bravery. Humphrey Cobb knows soldiers, for he enlisted with the Canadian forces in 1914. Ile understands their superstitious and their fears. For this reason the book is a living revelation of what goes on behind the lines, and of those who set out on the Paths of Ulorvf' M ,xoimai rv is -I icons, '36 Fifty